note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) we ten or the story of the roses by barbara yechton author of "ingleside," "a matter of honor," "gentle-heart stories," "two knights-errant," "little saint hilary," "christine's inspiration" with illustrations by minna brown [illustration: "'oh, papa! _papa_! surely you are not going to _burn_ the _fetich_!'"] new york dodd, mead and company copyright, , by dodd, mead and co. all rights reserved. university press: john wilson and son, cambridge, u.s.a. to my dear ones. _"thou hast done well thy part, if thou hast done thy best; as sure as i am god, i answer for the rest."_ contents. chapter page i. roses and roses ii. in the study iii. concerning a performance iv. and a fetich v. a fracas and an arrival vi. disposing of a fetich vii. new friends viii. a resolution ix. max's ward x. in the schoolroom xi. an afternoon reception xii. in the shadow xiii. through the shadow xiv. a mission of three xv. some minors xvi. and a major xvii. nora's secret xviii. experiences at endicott beach xix. his brother's keeper xx. a solemn promise xxi. through the slough of despond xxii. auf wiedersehen we ten, or the story of the roses. i. roses and roses. told by jack. when papa said positively that only phil could go to college, we all felt so badly for felix that we held a council in the schoolroom that very afternoon. at least, six of us did; the other four had been ruled out by felix, who declared that "kids were not allowed in council." paul and mädel didn't mind so much,--they're the twins, they're only seven years old; nor did alan,--he's the baby; but kathie was awfully mad: you see, she's nearly ten, and she does love to hear all that's going on. when she gets crying, there's no stopping her, and i tell you she made things pretty lively round that schoolroom for a little while. how she did howl! we were so afraid she'd start alan, and that the noise would reach papa's study; good-bye then to our council. we got provoked with kathie; it was so silly of her to stand there crying like a big baby, and keeping us back that way. first phil called out, "you just stop, this minute, kathie!" and then, when she kept right on, he threw the old sofa pillow at her, and told her to go smother herself; nora said, "horrid child!" in her most disgusted tone, and nannie and betty coaxed and coaxed, trying to quiet her. [illustration: "the schoolroom vixen."] but nothing had any effect until felix limped over to his easel. felix is lame,--dear old fee!--but my! isn't he clever! greek and latin are just as easy as--as--anything to him, and he writes stories and poems,--though nobody knows this 'cept us children and miss marston, and we wouldn't tell for the world,--and he paints the most _beautiful_ pictures you ever saw. well, as i was telling you, he limped over to his easel, and took up his brush. "just keep that charming expression on your face a few minutes longer, kathie," he said, "until i get it on canvas; and i'll paint your picture as the 'schoolroom vixen,' and send it to the academy. that's right, open your mouth _just_ a little wider--what a wonderful cavern!--hullo! why'd you stop crying? i'm not half through." that quieted my lady! you see she was afraid he was in earnest; and after nannie had wiped her eyes for her, and given her the last piece of chocolate in her box, off she went to the other end of the room, and began playing house with the twins and alan under the schoolroom table, as nicely as you please. then the council began. nannie said it was called to discuss "ways and means." i suppose by that she meant to see if there was any way that felix could go to college too; but, as usual, in a very little while everybody began to take "sides," and then, the first thing we knew, we were all talking at the same time, and just as loud as ever we could. that's a way we have,--all talking and nobody listening. what a din there was, until felix scrambled up on a chair and pounded on the floor with his cane, and shouted out louder than anybody else: "who _am_ i talking to? i _will_ be heard!" that made everybody laugh, and brought us back to business; but in a few minutes we were just as bad again. we're the greatest family for taking sides that you ever heard of, and we do get so excited over things! anybody that didn't know would surely think we were quarrelling, when really we'd just be having a discussion. i can't see where we got it from, for dear mamma was always just as sweet and gentle, and goodness knows papa doesn't say ten words in a day, and those in the very quietest voice. i can't explain it, but it's a fact all the same that we are a noisy family,--even nora. miss marston--she's our governess--says it's very vulgar to be noisy, and that we ought to be ashamed to be so boisterous; but nurse declares--and i think she's right--that the reason is 'cause "the whole kit an' crew" (she means us) "come just like steps, one after the other, an' one ain't got any more right to rule than the other." you see phil is seventeen and alan is five, and between them we eight come in; so we are "just like steps," as she says. [illustration: "playing house with the twins and alan under the schoolroom table."] perhaps i'd better tell you a little about each of us, so you'll understand as i go on: well, to begin, phil is a big strong fellow, and just as full of fun and mischief as he can stick; he just _loves_ to play practical jokes, but he isn't so fond of study, i can tell you, and that vexes papa, 'cause he's got it all laid out that phil's to be a lawyer. being the eldest, he seems to think he can order us children round as he pleases, and of course we won't stand it, and that makes trouble sometimes. but phil's generous; he'd give us anything he's got, particularly to felix, he thinks so much of him,--though of course he wouldn't say so,--so we get along pretty well with him. next come felix and nannie; they're twins too. i've told you 'most everything about fee already. he's awfully cross sometimes, when he isn't well, and, as nora says, he really orders us about more than phil does; but somehow we don't mind it, 'cause, with all his queerness, he's the life of the house, and he's got some ways that just make us love him dearly: mamma used to call him her "lovable crank." nannie is devoted to felix; they're always together. they're trying to teach themselves the violin, and she reads the same books and studies the same lessons as he does, to keep up with him; she's clever, too, now i tell you,--- i'd never get my greek and latin perfect if she didn't help me,--though she doesn't make any fuss over it. nannie is an awfully nice girl,--i don't know what we'd do without her; since mamma died, she's all the time looking after us children, and making things go smoothly. she doesn't "boss" us a bit, and yet, somehow, she gets us to do lots of things. she is real pretty, too,--her eyes are so brown and shiny. it's queer, but we don't any of us mind telling nannie when we get into scrapes; she talks to us at the time, and makes us feel sorry and ashamed, but she never makes us feel small while she's doing it, and we never hear of it again. but you wouldn't catch us doing that to nora! she comes next, you know, and she's really _very_ pretty, though we never tell her so, 'cause she's so stuck up already. felix puts her into lots of his pictures, and i heard max derwent say once that she was beautiful. max is papa's friend; he is a grown-up man, though he isn't as old as papa. he used to come here a lot, and we children like him first-rate; but now he's in europe. well, to come back to nora: she likes to be called eleanor, but we don't do it; she is so fussy and so very proper that felix has nick-named her miss prim, and we _do_ call her that. miss marston thinks nora is the best behaved of us all; and sometimes, when nannie is in papa's study, she lets her go in the drawing-room and entertain people that call. you should see the airs that nora puts on when she comes upstairs after these occasions; it's too killing for anything! we boys make lots of fun of her, but she doesn't care a jot. and yet, isn't it queer! with all her primness and fine airs, of us all, nora cares most for phil, and he's so untidy and rough; she almost runs her legs off waiting on him, and half the time he doesn't even say thank you! the next after nora is betty, our "long-legged tomboy," as felix calls her, 'cause she is so tall and so full of mischief. just to look at her you'd think she was as mild as a lamb; but in reality she's wilder than all of us boys put together. i've seen her slide down the banisters of three flights of stairs, one flight after the other, balancing papa's breakfast tray on one palm; and for warwhoops and the ability to make the most hideous faces, she goes ahead of anything i've ever heard or seen. she is as bad as phil for playing jokes, and when she gets in one of her wild moods, the only way miss marston can manage her is to threaten to take her to papa's study; that brings her to terms every time. for that matter, we none of us like to go there, though i'm sure papa never scolds, as some people's fathers do,--i almost wish he would sometimes; he just looks at us; but, all the same, we don't like to go to the study. i hope you won't think from what i've said that betty is a disagreeable girl, for she isn't at all; i'm really very fond of her, and we're together a great deal, because i am the next in age to her. she's awfully quick-tempered, and flies into a rage for almost nothing; but she's very honest, and she'll own up to a fault like a soldier. once in a while we have a falling out, but not often, 'cause i won't quarrel. nannie says that i give in sometimes when i oughtn't to,--she means when it isn't right to; i guess that's my fault, but i do hate to squabble with any one,--it's such a bother. i don't know what to tell you about myself, except that i'm not very bright at my books, though i love to read stories. it does seem so strange that we shouldn't all be smart, when papa, as everybody knows, is such a wonderfully clever man. i'm jack, or, rather,--to give my full name,--john minot rose. i think that's rather a nice name, but you can't think what fun the whole family make of it; they call me "a jack rose," and "jacqueminot," and "rosebud," and a "sweet-scented flower," and all sorts of absurd names. of course it's very silly of them. betty gets furious over it; but i don't really care, so what's the use of being angry. kathie comes next to me; she is a nice little girl, only she does love to tattle things, and that makes trouble sometimes. she's very gentle, and just as pretty as a picture, with her long light curls and pretty, big blue eyes; but my! isn't she obstinate! she doesn't fly into rages, like betty, but she keeps persisting and persisting till she carries her point, and when she once starts in crying, you may make up your mind she isn't going to stop in a hurry. but she doesn't mean to be naughty, i'm sure; and she's the most polite child, and so willing to do things for people! then come the other twins, paul and mädel. paul is a standing joke with us, he's so solemn; and yet he says such bright, funny things, in his slow way, that we have to laugh: we call him the "judge." mädel is a little darling, just as jolly and round and sweet as she can be; nurse says she's going to be a second nannie. we all make a great deal of her,--much more than we do of alan; for though he's the baby, he's so independent that he doesn't like to be petted. so now you know all about the roses; it does seem as if i'd been a long time telling about them, but you see there are such a lot of us. well, to go back to the council. fee was awfully cut up over his disappointment, and cranky too; but nobody minded what he said, until, all at once, nora got in a tantrum, and declared he was "acting _very_ mean to phil," that he needn't always expect to have things his own way, and that papa was perfectly right to give phil the first chance. that set fee off, and in about two minutes we were all mixed up in the fuss,--taking "sides," you know; that is, all but phil,--he just sat hunched up on the arm of the old sofa, swinging one of his long legs, and scowling, and chewing away on a piece of straw he'd pulled out of the whisk-broom, and he didn't say a word until nora turned on him, and asked him, very indignantly, how he could sit there and let felix bully her in that way. then all at once he seemed to get very mad and just pitched into fee. i don't remember what he said, and i'm glad that i don't, 'cause i _know_ phil didn't mean a word of it; but felix felt awfully hurt. he got two bright red spots on his cheeks, and he set his lips tight together, and when phil stopped to catch his breath, after an unusually long speech, he got up and pushed his chair back. "it is so pleasant to hear one's family's honest opinion of one's self," he remarked, in that sarcastic way he has. "i shall try to remember all that you've said," bowing to phil and nora, "and i shall endeavour to profit by it. and as long as i'm such a contemptible and useless member of the community, i'll relieve you of my company." his voice shook so he could hardly say the last words, and he started for the door, stumbling over the furniture as he went. between you and me, i think his eyes were full of tears, and that they blurred his glasses so he couldn't see,--did i tell you that felix is near-sighted? well, he is. "oh, phil, how _could_ you say such mean things to your own brother!" cried out nannie; and with that she flew after felix. that cooled phil down, and if he didn't turn on nora! "it's all your fault," he said angrily; "you just nagged me on to it. you're never happy unless you're quarrelling." this was pretty true, but i don't think it was at all nice of phil to say so, and i felt very sorry for nonie when she burst out crying. betty and i were trying to quiet her, when in walked miss marston, to know what all that loud noise and banging of doors meant. we didn't tell her about the _fracas_, 'cause, though she's pretty good in a way, she isn't at all the person one would want to tell things to. she carried the little ones off for their early dinner, and nora and betty too,--"to help," she said. but i stayed in the schoolroom. i knew if i went down stairs they'd just keep me trotting about waiting on them all, and that's such a nuisance! so i curled up on the sofa and read for a while. the fire was so bright, and everything was so cozy, that i did wish some of the others would come in and enjoy it. i was really pleased when major and whiskers came walking in and settled down near me. they're our dog and cat, and they're good playfellows with us; but they will fight with each other now and then. at first i enjoyed my story immensely; it was about a boy who was having the wildest kind of adventures among the indians. i wouldn't go through such exciting times for anything; but i enjoy reading about 'em, when i'm all safe and comfortable at home. well, when it grew too dark to read, i laid my book down and began to think, and presently it seemed as if a whole pack of indians were dancing like wild round me, in full war-paint and feathers, and nipping little pieces out of my arms and legs. i stood it as long as i could, and then i began to hit out at 'em. all at once one of the creatures commenced flourishing his tomahawk at me, getting nearer and nearer all the time. "i _have_ tried, but i can't get in," he said, grinning horribly, and the voice sounded just like phil's; "he's locked his door, and he won't even answer me,--he's madder than hornets." [illustration: "'why, _jack_!' said nannie."] "i'm sure you can't blame him: what you said was very unkind, phil; i didn't think it of you!" the voice was certainly nannie's; and yet there was that horrid old indian still nipping me. "i know it, nan; you needn't rub it in," groaned phil,--the indian. "but really, i didn't mean one word of it, and he ought to have known that. why, fee's got more brains than the whole crowd of us put together, and if only one of us can go to college, he ought to be that one. i've screwed up my courage, and i'm going to speak to father about it." "oh, phil, don't, please don't; it'll be no use. you know there is no changing papa when his mind is made up. better let things stand as they are until max gets home; it won't be very long, you know. and besides, i'm sure felix wouldn't let you give up college for him. but you're a dear, generous boy, to propose it." "no, i'm not; i'm a great clumsy, cantankerous animal. now if i could only talk as felix can, i wouldn't mind interviewing the _pater_ to-morrow; but just as sure as i undertake to say anything to him, i get so nervous and confused that i act like a fool, and that provokes him. he seems to paralyse me. but, all the same, i'm going to talk to him about this matter to-morrow, nannie,"--the indian's voice sank so low that i could hardly hear it; "i have a feeling that mother would want fee to go to college." i sat up and rubbed my arms that had gone to sleep, and looked around; i was still on the old sofa, and just a few feet away from me sat phil, on the edge of the schoolroom table, and nannie in a chair beside him. confused and only half awake as i was, my one idea was to slip away quietly and not let 'em know i'd heard what they had been saying, for i was sure they wouldn't like that. nannie says i ought to have spoken right out; but i do hate to make people feel uncomfortable. so i swung myself softly to my feet, and--landed hard on whiskers's tail! of course, after that, there was no hiding that i was there. poor whiskers gave a howl of pain, and, flying at major, boxed the solemn old doggie's ears, much to his surprise and wrath, and they had a free fight on the spot. "why, _jack_!" said nannie; and i got hot all over, for i just felt by her tone that she thought i'd been listening. "our jacqueminot, i declare!" cried phil. "you are a nice young rosebud, i must say, to be snooping around this way! come here, sir!" he made a dive for me, but i drew back. "i _didn't_ listen!" i called out. and then i remembered that i really had, only i thought it was the indians talking; and, dipping under his arm, i rushed out of the room as hard as i could go, before he could catch me. ii. in the study. told by jack. i thought very often of what phil had said, i couldn't help it; but i don't suppose i would ever have really understood what he meant if i hadn't heard something more the next day. poor me! it just seemed for those two days as if i did nothing but get into people's way and keep hearing things that they didn't want me to. this time it was partly betty's fault,--at least, she was what phil calls the "primary cause." i suppose it was because it was such a lovely day out-of-doors, that i couldn't seem to put my mind on my books at all, and when betty pulled two feather-tops out of her pocket, and offered me one, i took it very willingly, and we began to play on the sly. of course we got caught: my feather-top must needs fly away from the leg of the table, which was our mark, and stick itself into kathie's leg. i don't think it hurt her so very much, but she was startled, and didn't she howl! miss marston was all out of patience with me already, and when, soon after that, i made a mess of my latin, she got very angry, and walked me right down to the study. papa listened in dead silence to all she told him; then he just lifted his eyes from his writing, and pointed to a chair a good way from him: "sit there," he said, "and study your lesson, and don't disturb me." so i took my seat, and miss marston shut the door and went away. my! how quiet it was in that room! not a sound except a faint scrabbling noise now and then from the l behind the portière,--where some very old reference books are kept,--and papa's pen scratching across the paper, and even that stopped presently, and he began to read a book that lay open beside him. as he sat there reading, with sheets upon sheets of the fetich scattered all round him, i looked and looked at him; i don't know why it is, but somehow, when i'm anywhere alone with papa, i just have to keep looking at him instead of anything else. he's a tall man, and thin, and he stoops round his shoulders; he wears glasses, too, like felix, and he always looks as if he were thinking of something 'way off in his mind. nurse says she's sure he'd forget to eat, if the things weren't put right under his nose; you see that's because he's all the time thinking of books. oh, papa's awfully clever! [illustration: "playing feathertop."] after a while i found a lollipop in my pocket, and i began to suck it,--just for company, you know; and truly the room was so quiet i was afraid papa'd hear me swallow. every now and then there was that little scrabble behind the portière; i made up my mind papa must have some one there making references for him, and i wondered who. but just then came a quite loud knock at the study door, and before papa had finished saying "come!"--he never does say it right away,--the door flew open, and in bounced phil, as if he were in an awful hurry. he marched straight to papa's desk, and began, very quickly, "father, i'd like--" but papa just waved his hand at him, without looking up: "in a few minutes," he said, and went right on reading. you should have seen phil fidget: he stood on one foot, then on the other; he put his hands in his pockets and jingled the things he had there, till he remembered that papa doesn't like us to do that, then he took his hands out. he straightened up, and shook his coat collar into place, and he cleared his throat; but nothing had any effect until he accidentally knocked a book off the desk. then papa started, and peered up at him in the near-sighted way that felix does sometimes: "h'm, too bad!" he said, taking the book from phil; then he sighed, put his finger on the page of his book to mark the place, and said, in a resigned sort of way, "well, what is it you want?" and i tell you, phil didn't take long to come to the point; he pitched right in, in that quick, headlong way he has when he's awfully in earnest. "i want to ask you, father, please to let felix go to college in my place. as long as we can't both go, i think he ought to be the one. you know, sir, he's a thousand times cleverer than i am, and he'll be sure to do you twice the credit that i shall. i do wish you'd consider the change." "and what do _you_ propose to do in that case?" papa asked, peering up at him again. "go into business,--lots of fellows do at my age,--if i can get anything at all," answered phil, squaring his shoulders. papa sat and thought and thought for several minutes, without a word; then he said, in that quiet tone of voice that we children know always settles a question, "no, i prefer that the present arrangement should be carried out." then he began reading again. i thought phil would have gone, after that; but no, he got quite excited: "it isn't fair to felix," he cried, thumping his hand down on the desk with such force that the pages of the fetich just danced,--you'll hear more about the fetich by and by,--"indeed it isn't! he's got the most brains of the whole lot of us put together, and he _ought_ to have some advantages. and besides, sir, you know he was mother's boy." phil's voice shook so that a big lump came in my throat. "i'm sure she would want him to go to college; for her sake, let us change places." papa put up his hand quickly, and shielded his eyes from the light, and he didn't answer right away. "it was--her wish--that you should go," he said presently, stopping between the words. "because she expected there'd be money enough for us both," phil began eagerly; but all of a sudden the portière that hung over the l was pushed aside, and who should come limping up to them but felix! his eyes were shining, even through his glasses, and he didn't seem to mind papa one bit. "so that's what you're up to, is it?" he said to phil, "trying to give me your birthright!" by this time he'd reached phil's side, and he threw his arm right across phil's shoulders. "_dear_ old lion-heart!" he said,--how his voice did ring out! "and i thought you didn't care!" and papa just sat there and looked at them, without a word, from under his hand. now i suppose you think i was a very mean sort of a boy to sit there and take in all this that wasn't intended for me to hear; but really it wasn't my fault. you see, i was so surprised when phil walked in and began to talk like that, that i never thought of saying anything; but pretty soon i remembered, and i felt very uncomfortable. i got up then, and walked a few steps forward, but nobody noticed me. and when phil got so excited, i _couldn't_ get a word out. then felix came out, and i really got desperate,--i felt i _must_ let 'em know i was there; so i just called out twice, quite loud, "please, i'm here!" they all jumped, they were so surprised, and phil wheeled round on me in a minute. "that ubiquitous 'jack rose' _again_!" he exclaimed; and taking me by the collar,--that was really _very_ mean of phil,--he walked me very fast over to the door. then he opened the door, and said, "_skip!_" and gave me quite a hard shove into the hall, and shut the door again. i tell you what now, my feelings were awfully hurt; i just wished betty were there; i know she'd have given it to phil! "jack!" somebody called just then, and there was nannie seated in the niche at the head of the stairs. i ran up and squeezed in alongside of her, and she snuggled me up to her, and made me feel ever so much better. i told her the whole story, and somehow, by the time i got through, instead of being angry any more, i really felt sorry for the boys. "oh, nannie," i said, "i do wish fee _could_ go to college!" nannie caught my hand tight between her two palms. "jack," she said softly, "say our verse for the day, will you?" so i repeated it: "'i say unto you, that if two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my father which is in heaven. for where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am i in the midst of them.'" "that has comforted me all day," whispered nannie. "that's what we can do for felix: we can pray--you and i--that god will make a way for him to go to college. will you, jackie-boy?" "yes," i said presently; "but--but--perhaps, nannie, you'd better not say anything to betty about it, 'cause--well, you know she _might_ make fun of me." "oh, no, she won't," said nannie, "because you and i are the 'two,' jack, and she's the 'three'; she's praying for felix, too." well, i _was_ dumfounded,--betty, of all people! just then the study door opened, and phil and felix came out; phil had his arm over fee's shoulder, and he began helping him up the steps. i felt they'd want nannie to themselves,--and, besides, phil might just have said something to tease me again; so i ran up stairs alone, and left them to talk together. all this happened some weeks ago, and though phil has commenced college, no way has come yet for felix to go; but we "three" still keep on praying for it. iii. concerning a performance. told by nannie. so many and such unexpected things have happened lately that i scarcely know where to begin, or how to tell everything. the very first surprise was two letters that came for felix and me from our godmother, aunt lindsay. she is not really our aunt, though we call her so, and i'm named nancy after her; but she knew dear mamma when she was a girl, and she is the only person except mamma that we ever heard call papa "jack." aunt lindsay is quite an old lady, and she's very eccentric. she lives in a big old house in boston, and very seldom comes to new york; but twice a year, on our birthday and at christmas, she sends us a letter and a present,--generally a book,--and fee and i have to write and thank her. how we dread those letters! it was hard enough when we had mamma to talk them over with before we began them; but now it's a great deal worse, for miss marston does not help us in the least. she says we are quite old enough now to do them alone, and i suppose we are. but we can't express ourselves in the same way time after time, and it is so difficult to think of new things to say that are interesting and not frivolous,--for aunt lindsay wouldn't permit that. sometimes we really get low-spirited over our efforts, and i'd be ashamed to tell how many sheets of paper and envelopes are spoilt in the undertaking. once, in a fit of desperation, felix bought a "complete letter-writer," and we hunted through it; but there seemed to be nothing in it suitable for an occasion such as ours, and besides, the language used in the "letter-writer" was so very fine and unlike our former efforts that we were afraid aunt lindsay would, as phil vulgarly puts it, "smell a mice." so that had to be given up, and finally, after many and great struggles, with the help of the whole family, we would manage to write something that miss marston allowed us to send. on the principle that brevity is wit, some of these productions of ours are really remarkable. and now, though it was neither christmas nor our birthday, here came two letters from our godmother which would have to be answered. we groaned as we received them, and the family, even to kathie, gave us their sympathy,--phil suggesting that perhaps "the old lady" had sent us a whole library this time, which would of course call for a special expression of gratitude. think, then, how we felt when we opened the letters and found that our godmother wrote to tell us she had made arrangements for felix to take painting lessons for one term, and for me, violin lessons for the same length of time! to say we were astonished doesn't at all express our state of mind. the questions that occurred to us when we got over the first shock were, how could aunt lindsay have known just what would best please each of us, and why had she remembered us at this time of the year, which was no particular occasion? and then we thought of her kindness, and were _so_ ashamed! fee and i looked at each other, and though we didn't say it, the same thought came to us both,--that we would write her the nicest letter of thanks that we could compose, if it took every sheet of note-paper we owned. of course we read aunt lindsay's letter aloud,--that and talking them over is the best part of receiving letters,--and of course we all got very much excited over our unexpected good fortune. felix said right away that he would give nora lessons in drawing two afternoons in the week,--she really draws very nicely, and is so anxious to get on,--provided she'd promise not to "put on any airs or frills;" and i told fee i'd help him--in the same way--with his violin playing. then phil proposed, and the whole family approved, that we should on the following evening--which was papa's night at the archæological society--celebrate the happy event by what we call "a musical performance." though we are very fond of these "performances," we have not had one for quite a while, because some of us older ones haven't felt up to it; for, as fee truly says, "it really requires very good spirits indeed to make a festive occasion go off successfully." since that day in papa's study that jack has told about, nothing more has been said of fee's going to college,--though we all want it just as much as ever, and jack and i feel that it _will_ come,--and felix himself seems to have quite given up the idea. he laughs and jokes again in his old merry way, particularly when phil is at home; nora and he have made friends, and betty and jack have got over staring at fee with big round eyes of sympathy, and dear old phil no longer skulks in and out of the house as if he were ashamed of himself; now he tells us bits of his college experience, and--as of old--gets felix to help him with his studies. things look as if everybody was satisfied; but, though he never alludes to it, i know fee's heart is sore over his disappointment,--you see, he is my own twin, and, while i love all my brothers and sisters, felix is more dear to me than any one else in the whole wide world, and i understand him better than anybody else does. fee is not like the rest of us; in the first place, he is more delicate, and his lameness makes him very sensitive. then, too, though we all, from phil to alan, confide in him our troubles and pleasures, he rarely, if ever, opens his heart to any of us. and when we talk things over among ourselves, and so in a way help one another along, fee keeps his deepest feelings to himself. very often we children talk of dear mamma, particularly when we're together in the firelight sunday afternoons and evenings,--it's a comfort to us; but felix simply listens,--he never speaks of her, though he was mother's boy. but i know, all the same, that he misses her every day of his life, and that as long as he lives he'll never forget one tone of her voice, or one word she has said to him. fee used to have a dreadful temper; he'd say such cutting, sarcastic things! and when mamma would speak to him about it, he'd declare that he _couldn't_ help it, and that the sharp ugly words _would_ come. but now, since she's gone, he is so much better, and i'm sure that he's trying to control himself, because he remembers how grieved she used to be when he got into a rage. i don't mean to say that he has entirely gotten over it,--i don't suppose that will ever be; but he doesn't flash out as he used to, and sometimes when he is very angry, he sets his lips tight together, and limps out of the room just as fast as ever he can go, to keep the ugly words from being spoken. once in a great while, if i am alone in the schoolroom, he'll come and throw himself down on the old sofa beside me, and, putting his head in my lap, lay my hand over his eyes. i know then, as well as if he had told me, that he is thinking of dear mamma and longing for her; and such a rush of love comes into my heart for him that i think he must feel it in my very finger-tips as they touch him. he was more with mamma at the last than any of us, because he is so gentle and helpful in a sick-room; but when the end had come, and we children were standing about the bed, crying bitterly, with our arms around one another, i missed felix. from room to room i hunted, and at last i found him, huddled up in a heap on the floor of the old store-room at the top of the house. and never shall i forget the white, utterly wretched face that he turned on me, as i knelt down by him and put my arms round his neck. he held my shoulders with his two thin hands so tight that i could feel his finger-nails through my sleeves. "oh, nannie!" he said, in such a hoarse whisper i'd never have known it for fee's sweet voice, "if i could only _die_ this very night!" then he sank down, and lay there trembling from head to foot, and sobbing, sobbing! i pulled a quilt down from one of the shelves and threw it over him; then i sat on the floor and drew his head into my lap and just smoothed his forehead and hair for the longest while, without a word, until he quieted down. i felt, somehow, that he would rather not have me say anything. don't imagine, from what i've said, that fee is a dismal sort of person, for indeed he isn't; he's the merriest of us all, and the prime leader in all the mischief and fun that goes on; and just as soon as it was settled that we should have a performance, he began to plan what each person should do, and to arrange the programme. we always have a programme: it saves confusion and people's feelings getting hurt; for, of course, then one can only go on in one's turn and for the special part set down; otherwise, everybody would be on the stage at once, and there'd be no audience. the large closet in the schoolroom is our dressing-room on these occasions, and as we have no way of making a stage, the younger children, paul and mädel and alan,--kathie is too big for that now,--stand on a table near the closet and deliver their parts. felix makes up the funniest names for us on the programme, and we answer to them as readily as if we were in the habit of doing so every day. we were all very busy that afternoon and evening and the next afternoon preparing our parts for the performance; but, with all that, fee and i got our letters off to our godmother. i felt so truly grateful both for him and for myself, that i didn't have nearly as much trouble composing it as i had expected. but all day i was in a perfect fever to get up to the conservatory, where aunt lindsay had entered my name, and to make arrangements for taking my violin lessons. miss marston and i talked the matter over, and found that when all the little home duties and my regular studies were finished, there was but one hour that i could set aside regularly for my new work. for though i should only take two lessons a week, i should have to have time to practise, or i'd be able to make no progress at all. she said i might go up that afternoon; so right after school nora and i started out to the conservatory. i was very nervous, and my violin is not a very good one; phil says it's nothing but a fiddle, and that the old second-hand dealer from whom we bought them--fee has one, too,--cheated us. they certainly do squeak dreadfully, at times, when you least expect it; but then we didn't pay much for them,--you may know that, when we saved for them out of our allowance!--and, as nurse says, "if you want a good article, you've got to pay for it;" still, they're a great deal better than nothing. but to go back to my story: nora says that, considering how very nervous i was, and the poor instrument i had, she thinks i did fairly well. i love violin music! i can't express what a delight it is to me to play; and the prospect of being able to improve myself in it made me very happy. the professor that aunt lindsay wanted to be my teacher told us his classes were very full, and that the hour i named for wednesday and saturday afternoons was the only time he could give me; then he said something kind about my playing, that gave me a little confidence, and sent me home quite radiant. as i came out of the room which betty and i share, after putting away my things, nurse opened the nursery door and beckoned me in: "miss nannie," she said impressively, "i'm kinder worried 'bout your pa. he's never had no appetite to brag of; but for a week past he's been eatin' like a bird. mornin' after mornin' he ain't touched nothin' but his tea, an' i'm afraid something's wrong. i don't want to frighten you, my dear, but i thought by tellin' you, maybe you could find out if anything ails him, and get him to send for the doctor. i think he looks kinder bad, and--lors! child, if anything happened to him, what _would_ become o' you all!" i got very nervous, until i remembered how easily nurse gets alarmed; if the children feel the least under the weather, she is apt to imagine that they are going to be seriously ill. "no," i said, "i haven't noticed that he looks badly; but thank you, nursie, for telling me. i'll look closely at him this evening at dinner, and i'll try my best to find out if he isn't well." papa always has his breakfast and lunch in the study, and dines with us. we older ones think that he does this as a duty, for we are pretty sure that he doesn't enjoy it; you see, papa does not really care for children, and there is no grown person now for him to talk to,--except miss marston, and she is not very interesting. poor papa! he sits at the head of the table, but phil does the carving; and though very often he does not say a dozen words throughout the entire meal, yet even our daring betty is subdued into good behaviour by his presence. there is no reason for it that we know of,--papa has never forbidden our talking at table,--but somehow, since dear mamma has gone, we have very little conversation at dinner; though we make up for it at other meals, i assure you. i sit in mamma's place now, and this evening, as i looked carefully at papa across the long table, i could see that he did look thinner: there was a tired expression on his face, too, that troubled me. as i passed through the hall, about half an hour later, he stood there in overcoat and hat, putting on his gloves before starting out for a meeting of the archæological society; and when i asked, "papa, are you feeling well? really quite well?" he put on that bored expression that always makes me feel miles away from him. "well? oh, yes!" then he added, with more animation, "nannie, i wish you would get me that pamphlet that is lying on my desk. i nearly forgot it." [illustration: "alan made his bow."] he took the pamphlet when i brought it, and began fingering it aimlessly, giving me a disagreeable feeling of being in the way; and as i turned and ran up the stairs, he went into the drawing-room. he wasn't there but a minute or two,--before i reached the second floor i heard the front door close behind him,--and the next morning, when nora and i were dusting the drawing-room, we found the pamphlet on the floor before mamma's picture. after all, he had forgotten it. i ran on up to the schoolroom, and there everybody was in a great state of excitement, preparing for the performance, which was to begin and end early on account of the younger children. there was no attempt at costume, but we girls wore a ribbon--they belong to our "stage property"--tied from shoulder to waist, the boys carried a paper rose in their button-holes, and kathie and the twins and alan were decorated with huge paper-muslin sashes and fancy caps, so that we all presented quite a festive and unusual appearance. the chairs were ranged in rows; the invited guests--murray unsworth, and his cousin, helen vassah (they always come to our "festive occasions")--arrived; nurse, and hannah, our maid, came in and took their places at the back, cook stealing in a little later; a bell tinkled; alan walked out of the closet, was assisted to the table by felix,--who was master of ceremonies,--and made his bow to the audience with one hand on his heart and a trumpet in the other, and the performance began. [illustration: "violin duo, rendered by the world-renowned violinists, mlle. nanina and mons. felix."] the programme was elaborately printed in two or three colours, on heavy light-brown paper, and it was tacked up on the schoolroom wall in full view of all, so that each person would know when his or her turn had come, and could disappear in the dark closet,--no lights were allowed there for fear of fire,--to reappear immediately before the audience, amid a storm of applause. this is the way the programme read:-- "yankibus doodlum," trumpet solo by the infant prodigy, master alano enrico rosie. "eight white sheep," vocal duet, rendered with appropriate finger-play by the celebrated twin singers, fräulein mädel and herr paulus. "little white lily," charming vocal solo by the famous prima donna, mlle. kathé. "charge of the six hundred," favourite recitation by the distinguished elocutionist, prof. jacqueminot. extraordinary exhibition with indian clubs by the remarkable strong girl, signorina bettina, with piano accompaniment by signorina eleanora nonie. "serenade," gounod, violin duo, rendered by the world-renowned violinists, mlle. nanina and mons. felix. "le soupir," piano solo by the brilliant pianist, signorina eleanora nonie. { "swanee river." { "feniculi." { "good-night, ladies," college songs, with banjo accompaniment, by the wonderful tenor singer and banjoist, prof. philipo. curtain down! lights out! everything went off beautifully, from alan's opening bow to phil's parting obeisance, with two exceptions,--the small boy fell off the table and scraped his shin, and so had to be comforted, and kathie got so excited when she knew her turn was coming that she jumped up from her chair and raced round and round the schoolroom table, scuffing her feet on the floor and making her hand squeak on the wooden surface of the table, thereby interfering with the effect of fräulein mädel and herr paulus's vocal efforts. she was captured, however, and brought to reason and good behaviour by the threat of having her name crossed off the programme. with these two trifling exceptions, the performance was most creditable, the _artistes_ were warmly received and enthusiastically applauded,--in one or two instances they even applauded themselves. hastily manufactured bouquets of newspaper and paper-muslin were showered upon the stage, and when all was over nurse and cook surprised us by refreshments of cookies and lemonade, served on the schoolroom table. how we enjoyed it! not a cake was left, nor a drop of lemonade. nora was shocked, and i was so glad miss marston had not accepted our invitation to be present! when it was all over, and we were putting away the things, i told felix what nurse had said, and asked him if he had noticed that papa wasn't well. fee looked at me with reflective eyes for a moment or two. "yes," he said slowly, "come to think of it, the _pater_ _has_ looked rather seedy lately. and another thing," he added, "he hasn't let me make a single reference for him this whole week; and yesterday, when i went in somewhat abruptly, he was sitting at his desk with pages of the fetich before him, but not writing or reading, just resting his head on his hand. i don't think i've ever seen him do that before." again that horrid apprehension came over me. "oh, fee," i said nervously, "do you suppose he is ill,--that anything is going to happen to him? _do_ tell me frankly what you think!" felix bent over the stage property he was doing up, as he answered: "i've thought for some time past that he misses--mother--more than ever." then he walked off with his bundle. how utterly ashamed i felt! nurse had noticed how badly he looked; felix had, too,--and perhaps he had guessed the trouble truly; phil, even, might have seen it, and i, papa's eldest daughter, who had promised mamma to take care of him, had been too selfishly absorbed in my own affairs to even think of him! it was no comfort to tell myself that papa was hard to get at; i felt i had neglected him. "don't worry, twinnie," felix said, kindly, coming back to me. "you know care once killed a feline, in spite of his nine lives; so don't you go in for that sort of thing, or you'll get the worst of it. go to bed now, and have a good sleep; by daylight things will look very much brighter; and at any rate you have your violin lessons ahead of you, and the performance behind you,--two good things. good-night." iv. and a fetich. told by nannie. but my first thought in the morning was of papa, and i wondered what i ought to do for him; how i longed for dear mamma! if even max were home!--for he was a great favourite with papa, and might be able to persuade him to see dr. archard. though papa is so quiet and gentle, he is really a very difficult person to get to do things that he doesn't want to; and he never wants to have a physician for himself. i was feeling very blue, when something betty said reminded me of my violin lessons, and then the very thought made me more cheerful. betty and i room together, and nora and kathie have the next apartment; and what did nora and betty do but put their heads together while we were dressing to think of a place in the house where i might go to practise every afternoon without disturbing papa. one or the other of the girls practises every afternoon, and the combination of violin squeaks and piano exercises would, we knew, disturb papa very much. miss marston, we were sure, would not permit them to neglect their music,--nora is a fine musician, and betty would be if she'd only put the same interest into that that she does into some other things, such as indian clubs, and sliding down banisters, and playing practical jokes,--and we couldn't plan where my violin hour could best come in, when nora thought of the old store-room at the top of the house. that was a good idea, because, by closing the door and hanging a thick quilt over it, not much of my scraping would escape to mingle with the piano scale-running, and so annoy papa. the girls' arranging for me in this way quite cheered me up,--the question of practising having troubled me a good deal, for i knew a noise of that kind would seriously interfere with papa's writing, and delay still longer the completion of the fetich. years and years ago, before phil was born,--indeed, before mamma and papa were ever married,--papa began to write a book, and it is not yet finished, though there are pages and pages of it. of course it is _very_ deep and _very_ clever, for papa is a great scholar. max derwent says that if papa would only finish the book he thinks he knows of a publisher who would accept it at once; and that would be a great help to us, for papa has lost a lot of money this year, and we have to be _very_ economical. that is the reason fee can't go to college as well as phil; papa explained this to the boys that day in the study, after jack had been put out. dear jack! he is such a gentle, old-fashioned little fellow, it really seems as if he ought to have been the girl, and betty the boy. but, for all that max said, papa can't seem to get to the end of his work; he writes and re-writes, and keeps making changes all the time. sometimes i have wondered if he has worked over it so long that he hates to part with it. the title of this great piece of work is "the history of some ancient peoples," or something very like that,--it's about the egyptians and phoenicians and chaldeans; but among ourselves we children call it the fetich. long ago fee gave it that name, because he says it rules the house, and everything and everybody has to give way to it; and he isn't very far wrong, i'm sorry to say. ever since we older ones can remember, the fetich has engrossed papa's entire attention, and kept him so occupied that he has had no time for anything else,--not even for his children. in our own home we have to go quietly and soberly about as if in a stranger's house,--to creep softly through the halls and steal up the back stairs, and to subdue our voices when the natural childish impulse is to run gaily and speak out merrily. it has kept our father apart from us and made him almost a stranger to his children; and, as we look back, some of us grudge the hours of dear mamma's time that were spent each day in the study,--away from us,--reading and copying off the fetich, and helping and encouraging papa. dear, blessed mother! what a brave, loving spirit hers was! even to the last, when she was almost too weak to speak, she would have papa carry her to the study, and, lying there in the invalid-chair, she'd smile at him as he kept looking up at her from his writing. the very last talk we had together,--after she had been taken back to her room,--when we had spoken about the children and she had told me different little points about their dispositions, and some ways in which i might be able to help them after she had gone, she said very earnestly, "and always be very good to your father, nannie; he will be in sore need of comfort, for he will miss me more than any one else." "oh, mamma, mamma!" i cried, choking, "no one _could_ miss you more than we shall!" mamma stroked my hand softly as it lay on the bed beside her. "dear," she said presently, "i know my boys and girls will _never_ forget me, not even the very youngest, for they will hear of me from you older ones. oh, if it had been my father's will, how gladly would i have remained with you all! but you are all young; life and hope are strong within you, and you love one another. he--your father--is so different; he will grieve--alone--and grow farther and farther from human love and sympathy. nannie, dear little daughter, remember how very, _very_ happy he has made me all these years, and oh, be good to him, and very patient and loving when i am gone!" her very last look was given to papa; her last word was "jack!" [illustration: "i gave a very faint knock."] for a good while i did try to do things for him, and to let him see that i loved him; but i had a feeling all the time--as in the hall that night--that he didn't want me near him, and would rather not have me in the study: so gradually i gave up going there, except for a few minutes each morning to ask if he needed anything. but this morning dear mamma's words came back to me, and i felt very guilty as i ran up to the study after breakfast; i had tried faithfully to look after the brothers and sisters, but i had neglected papa; and i am afraid, in the lowness of my spirits, that i gave a very faint knock on the door. after waiting a minute or two, i opened the door, as no answer came, and stepped into the study. papa's breakfast, which had been sent up more than half an hour before, lay cold and untasted on his desk, and papa himself knelt on the hearth; there was no fire, and in the empty grate, laid criss-cross, were pages and pages of closely written manuscript. on the chair beside him, and on the floor, were more pages of manuscript in bundles. in my father's hand was a match, which he had just drawn and was about to apply to the papers. my heart gave a tremendous throb that seemed to send it right into my throat, and i sprang forward, crying out, "oh, papa! _papa!_ surely you are not going to _burn_ the _fetich_!" the match fell from papa's fingers, and he looked up at me with an expression that was half bewilderment, half relief. "eh! burn _what_?" he said. "i--i--mean--were you going to burn--your book?" i remembered in time that he did not know we called it the fetich. "oh, papa," i pleaded, "_why_ are you doing this? your wonderful book, that mamma was so proud of!" papa got up and sat in his chair, and the sadness of his face made me think of fee's that awful night; the tears came rushing to my eyes, and i knelt down and took his hand in my two and held it fast. he let me keep it, and peered earnestly at me for a few minutes in his near-sighted way. "it might as well be destroyed; i shall never finish it--_now_" he said presently, in a low voice, as if he were speaking to himself, and looking beyond me at the fetich in the grate. "she is no longer here to praise and encourage--my lifelong work,--a failure!" then, all at once, a daring idea came to me; and, without giving my courage time to cool, i said quickly: "papa! dear, dear papa,"--how my voice shook!--"_please_ let me help you with your work of an afternoon, something as mamma used to do!" i thought i saw a refusal in his face, and went on hastily: "i know quite a good deal of latin and greek, and i write a plain hand; i could copy for you, anyway, and i would be _very_ careful. will you? ah, _please_! i know she would like me to do it. and perhaps"--the words faltered--"perhaps she can see and hear us now; and if she can, i _know_ she will be glad to have me do this for you." papa gave an eager, startled glance around the room; then he drooped his head, and covered his face with the hand i wasn't holding, and for several minutes we didn't speak. presently he said slowly,--and the unsteadiness of his voice told me more than his words did,--"i suppose i could let you try; for i do need--some one. you might be useful to me, my dear, if you could come regularly to help me--every day; on that condition i will accept your offer, and thank you for it--" "i can--i will; _indeed_ i will!" i broke in. a look of relief came over papa's face, a faint little smile stirred his lips, and he gently patted my shoulder. "you are like your mother," he said; and turning up my chin he kissed me,--a light little kiss that just brushed my face, but i knew what it meant from him. then, as he stooped over and began to gather up the fetich, he added, in his usual voice: "these are some chapters that i've written lately, and become somewhat discouraged over. help me put them back in their place on my desk, nannie; and be careful to keep every page in its regular order." i did so, and listened attentively while he explained, with great care and insistence, what i should have to do, and how much time he would require me to spend in the study. it was not until i had left him, and was on my way to the schoolroom, that i remembered that the hours i had promised papa were those i had set aside for my violin lessons and practice. and then--i am sorry and ashamed, but i _couldn't_ help it--i ran swiftly away and hid in a corner by myself, and cried bitterly. it wasn't that i wished i hadn't made papa that offer, for i would have done it over again, even while i felt so badly; but, oh, how hard it was to give up my dear music! and i really didn't know what to do about my teacher and aunt lindsay. [illustration: "'i can--i will; _indeed_ i will!'"] but it all came right after a while; dear old felix came to the rescue, as he generally does, and offered to go to the conservatory and take the lessons for me, and then give them to me in the evenings in the old store-room,--that is, if aunt lindsay didn't object. of course i was thankful; for while fee does not love violin music as i do, he is very thorough, and would, i know, do his best for me. so i wrote and explained to aunt lindsay, and she did not object in the least; in fact, her letter was the nicest she has written us yet. and this is the way that things stand at present: papa is still writing the fetich, and i am helping him; evenings, fee and i have great times in the store-room, with the door closed and heavily muffled, giving and receiving music lessons, and practising with our squeaky violins,--we really do have lots of fun! and now to-day comes the good news from max that he will soon be home; he writes that he has a "surprise" for us, and of course we are all very curious. dear old fellow! it will be such a comfort to have him among us again! v. a fracas and an arrival. told by betty. of all people in the world, _jack_ has been in a fight! phil brought him in, and such a sight as he was! his nose bleeding, his coat torn, and a lump on his forehead as big as a hen's egg! "why," said phil, "i couldn't believe my eyes at first; but true it was, all the same,--there was our gentle 'rosebud' pommelling away at a fellow nearly twice his size! and what's more, when i pulled him off, and separated them, if my young man didn't fly at the other fellow again like a little cock sparrow! i could hardly get him home." "yes, and i'd do it again!" cried jack, ferociously, mopping his wounded nose with his handkerchief, while nannie rushed to get water and court-plaster. "what'd he do?" asked phil and fee and i, all together. we knew it must have been something very dreadful to rouse jack to such a pitch; for, as nurse says, he is one of the "most peaceablest children that ever lived." but he wouldn't tell. "never you mind," was all he'd say. by this time nannie had brought a basin of water and the other things, and when fee waved his arm and called out tragically, "gather round, gather round, fellow-citizens, and witness the dressing of this bleeding hero's wounds," we crowded so near that nannie declared we made her nervous. jack did look so funny, with a big bath-towel pinned round his shoulders, and the basin right up under his chin, so the water shouldn't get over his clothes! and of course, as we looked on, everybody had something to say. "tell you what, jack," said phil, "you could paint the town red now, and no mistake, just from your nose; _what_ an opportunity lost!" "and i shouldn't wonder if the bridge of that classic member were broken. oh the pity of it!" put in fee, in mock sympathy. "you'll be a sight to-morrow,--all black and blue," remarked nora, eyeing him critically. "i thought you were too much of a gentleman to fight on the street, jack,--just like a common rowdy!" "i'm glad you didn't get beaten," i said; "but my! won't miss marston give it to you to-morrow!" she was out this afternoon. "your nose is all swelling up!" announced judge, solemnly, and kathie murmured sympathetically, "_poor_ jack!" [illustration: "'gather round, gather round, fellow-citizens, and witness the dressing of this bleeding hero's wounds.'"] even nannie--and she isn't one bit a nagger--said, "oh, jackie, i'm _so_ ashamed of you! mamma wouldn't want her gentle boy to become a fighter." "yes, she _would_ so, if she knew what this fellow did," asserted jack, as positively as he could with the water pouring down over his mouth. "_what_ did he do?" we all shouted. "tell us, what _did_ he do, jack?" but jack got furious. "none of your business!" he roared; and twisting himself away from us, he dashed out of the room, nannie following after him, basin in hand, imploring him to let her finish dressing his nose. we really didn't mean to make him angry,--it's just a way we have of speaking out our minds to one another; but nannie felt very sorry,--she said we had teased jack. i felt sorry, too, when he told me all about it,--jack generally does tell me things,--after making me promise "truly and faithfully" that i would not say "one word about it to any single person we know." many a time since i've wished that i hadn't promised,--it isn't fair to jack himself; but he won't let me off. jack is really a _very_ odd boy. well, it seems that as felix passed along the street where jack and some of his friends were playing, one of the boys caught up a piece of straw, and twisting it across his nose like a pair of spectacles, limped after fee, mimicking his walk, and singing, "h'm-ha! hipperty hop!" jack clinched his hands tight while he was telling me. "betty," he said, "i got such a queer feeling inside; i just _swelled_ up, and if he'd been _three_ times as big, i'd have tackled him. i waited for fee to turn the corner,--you see i didn't want him to know what henderson was doing behind his back,--and _then_ didn't i just _go_ for him! i _tell_ you, i whacked him!" my blood fairly boiled to think that anybody could have been so contemptibly mean as to mock our dear old fee,--as if he didn't feel badly enough about being near-sighted and lame! i would like to have gone right out and thrashed henderson all over again; but, as jack very truly said, "that would only make a grand row, and then the whole thing'd be sure to get to fee's ears, and that's what we don't want." so i had to cool down. this was the reason jack wouldn't tell the others what the trouble was--and there felix himself had been teasing him! nor has he said one word to anybody but me about it, though he has been blamed and punished for fighting on the street, when, if he had only told, or let me tell for him, the true reason for his acting so, i'm sure everybody would have changed their mind at once; but he will not. this was very nice of jack,--he has some ways that really make me very fond of him; but he is also a very queer and provoking boy sometimes, as you will hear. the worst was to get through dinner that evening without papa's noticing. of course miss marston would be sure to tell him as soon as she knew, and of course jack would be punished; but he did want to put off the evil hour as long as possible. his seat at table is quite near to papa, but i come between, and i promised i'd lean as far forward as i could, all through the meal, so as to shield him. we got downstairs and settled in our places safely; but jack was as nervous as a cat. i really think he wouldn't have minded taking his dinner _under_ the table for that one occasion; and no wonder, for everybody, even to hannah, kept looking at him, and phil and felix kept passing him all sorts of things, with such unusual politeness as was enough to fluster anybody. still, everything went well until we came to dessert; it was cottage pudding,--jack's favourite,--and i suppose he got reckless, or forgot, in his enjoyment of it, and leaned a little too far forward, for presently papa said, very quietly, "betty, sit properly in your chair." of course i had to obey, and that brought poor jack into full view. a broad strip of white court-plaster across one's nose, and a big bruised lump on one's forehead _are_ rather conspicuous things, and, i tell you, papa did stare! but he didn't say a word. neither did jack speak, though he knew papa was looking at him; he just kept right on eating very fast. he said afterward he'd have eaten the whole pudding, had it been before him, for he was so nervous he didn't really know what he was doing; but he got redder and redder in the face, and presently he choked,--a regular snort! i immediately flew up and pounded him on the back; but papa made me sit down again, and as soon as jack had stopped coughing violently, he said, "leave the table, sir, and come to my study to-morrow morning at nine o'clock." i think, had we dared, we could all have roared with laughter as jack got up and walked out of the room; not because we didn't feel sorry for him, for we did,--i especially, knowing how it was he got into this scrape,--but he did look _so_ funny! i don't know why it is, but jack is a person that makes one laugh without his intending in the least to be funny; it's the way he does things. i can't begin to tell you how i urged jack to tell papa why it was he had gotten into that fight. i scolded, and coaxed, and talked, _and_ talked, but i _couldn't_ get him to say he would, nor to let me tell; in his way, i do believe he is as obstinate as kathie. even the next morning, when he stood at the study door, ready to knock, though his hands were as cold as ice, and he looked awfully scared, all he'd say to my repeated, "_do_ speak out like a man, and tell it, jack," was, "_perhaps_." i would like to have gone right in and told papa the whole matter myself, but you see i had promised; and besides, we are none of us very fond of going into the study,--though nannie is in there pretty often lately,--i'm sure i can't say why it is, for papa never scolds us violently: whatever he says is very quietly spoken, but i tell you every word goes home! the schoolroom bell rang while i was talking to jack; so of course i had to go, and it was fully half an hour before he walked in and took his place. his face was very red, even his ears, and he didn't look happy; but it wasn't until after school that i had a chance to ask him anything, and he wasn't very amiable then. he had a book,--some story of wild adventure and hair-breadth escape, and he hated to be interrupted. for all that jack is such a quiet, gentle sort of a boy, he likes to read the most exciting books, about fighting and shipwrecks and savages,--though i'm _sure_ if an indian should walk into the room, he'd fly into the remotest corner of the closet and hide,--and the hymns he loves the best are the ones that bring in about war and soldiers. you should hear him sing, "the son of god goes forth to war," in church! he positively shouts. so when i said, "well, jack, how'd you get along this morning?" he went right on turning over the leaves to find his place, and answered shortly:-- "oh, no play out-of-doors for a week, and a double dose of that vile latin, and a sound rating for getting into a row on the street,--that's all." "but didn't you tell him--" i began indignantly, but jack interrupted. "he didn't ask why i did it, and i didn't tell him," he said. "what a _silly_ you are!" i cried, i was _so_ mad! "that henderson ought to be told about and punished--now!" "henderson is a beast!" jack said severely; then, having come to his place in the story, he added: "now please go away, and don't bother me, betty; i want to read." he settled himself on the schoolroom sofa in his favourite position, with his back against the arm of the sofa, and his legs straight out along the seat, and began to read. i knew he'd get cranky if i said any more, so i went away. but for all that he called henderson names, what did jack do but go and make _friends_ with him just a day or two after he was allowed to go out! i was so provoked when i heard of it, that i fairly stormed at jack; he took it all in the meekest way, and when i finished up,--with a fine attempt at sarcasm,--"if _i'd_ been you, i would have snubbed such a mean boy for at least a _week_ longer," he grinned and said, "if you'd been i, you'd have done just as i did." then he added, in that old-fashioned, confidential way he has, "i couldn't help it, betty; you see the boys wouldn't have a thing to do with him, or let him join in any of the games, until i had forgiven him, and i just _couldn't_ stand seeing him hanging around and being snubbed." "oh, yes, you're very considerate for him; but _he_ will make fun of _your_ brother again to-morrow, if he feels like it," i said, still angry. "no, he _won't_" asserted jack, positively; "'cause i told him--not disagreeably, you know, but so he'd feel i was in earnest--that if he ever did, i'd just have to thrash him again. and he said, 'a-a-h, what d'you take me for? d'you s'pose i knew 'twas _your_ brother?' and that's a good deal from henderson, for he's an awfully rough boy. you know, betty, you've _got_ to make allowances for people, or you'd never get along with 'em. and, besides, he looks worse than i do," went on jack, feeling of his nose and forehead. "i really felt ashamed to think i'd hit him so hard, and,"--shuffling his feet, and looking very sheepish,--"well, you know, the golden rule is my motto for this year, and, as i thought to myself, what's the use of a motto, if you don't act up to it? so i just made friends with henderson. i knew you'd say i was silly to do it, but i don't care,--i feel better; i do hate to be mad with people!" and with that he walked off, before i could think of anything to say. a lot of things happened that week. to begin with, some new people moved into the house opposite us, that has been empty for so long. it's a small house,--nurse says it used to be a stable, and was turned into a dwelling-house since she has lived here,--set quite a good way back from the street, and with a low stoop to one side and a piazza off that. a tall iron railing, with an ornamental gate, encloses a front yard in which are some forlorn-looking shrubs, a rosebush or two, and a couple of scraggy altheas. workmen had been about the place for some time, putting everything in order, and of course we took the liveliest interest in all that went on, from the pruning of the shrubs to the carrying in of the furniture; and the day the new people moved in, miss marston could hardly keep us younger ones from the windows: indeed, for that matter, nora was just as curious as we were, for all she talks about "vulgar curiosity." they came in a carriage, and there were three of them,--a tall, black-bearded man, a little, fragile-looking lady, and a tall, lanky boy, perhaps as old as felix, with a rather nice face, who shouldered a satchel and the travelling-rugs, and brought up the rear of the procession to the house, with the end of a shawl trailing on the ground behind him. jack heard from henderson--who has become his shadow--that the gentleman has something to do with a newspaper, and that the boy goes to college, and phil saw him there the other day; but it wasn't until the following sunday, nearly a week after, that we heard their name and who they were,--and that came by way of a grand surprise. we were sitting round the schoolroom fire, talking and singing hymns, when the door opened, and who should come walking in but--max derwent! we _were_ surprised; for though he'd written to say he was coming, we didn't expect it would be so soon. dear old max! we were delighted to see him, and i do believe he was just as glad to see us. but just at first we couldn't any of us say very much; dear mamma was with us when max was here last! after a while, though, that feeling wore away, and i tell you our tongues did fly! max measured us all by the closet door, where he took our measurements before he went away, and he says we have grown wonderfully,--particularly nannie. he was so surprised when he first saw her, that he just held her hands and looked at her, until nannie said, "why, max, you haven't kissed me; aren't you glad to see me?" i think she felt a little hurt, for he'd kissed the rest of us,--even to phil and felix,--and nannie and he used to be such good friends. "why, nancy lee," max said, "you have grown such a tall young lady since i've been away, that i didn't know whether you'd still allow me the dear old privilege; indeed i will kiss you;" and with that he stooped,--max is tall,--and kissed her on her forehead, just where the parting of her hair begins. but max couldn't get over her being so grown, for he kept on gazing and gazing at nannie, and she did look sweet, sitting there in the firelight. nora is very pretty,--her features are so regular; but nannie has a _dear_ face: her brown eyes are big and shining, and her hair is so thick and pretty; it's light brown, and little locks of it get loose and curl up round her forehead and ears, and when she talks and laughs i think she's every bit as pretty as nora. somehow there's a look about nannie's face that makes you know you can trust her through and through; i tell you i'm awfully glad she's in the family; in fact, i don't know what we'd any of us do without her, from papa to alan. well, we told max every single thing that had happened--good, bad, and indifferent--since he went away, including, of course, about phil's going to college, and fee's not going, and about aunt lindsay's present to fee and nannie,--all talking together, and as loud as we pleased (we always do with max) until we came to the new people that had moved in across the way--and what do you suppose? max knows them! "they are the ervengs," he said, "and the boy's name is hilliard,--hilliard erveng. the father is a partner in a large boston publishing house that has just opened an agency here, and i shouldn't wonder if erveng were in charge of the agency by his taking a house in new york. that's the firm i thought would buy your father's book, if he'd only finish it; but from what he told me this afternoon, it's still a long way from completion." he glanced at nannie as he spoke, and she nodded her head sadly. "i used to know erveng; he was a classmate of mine," went on max, thoughtfully, wrinkling up his eyebrows at the fire. "i wonder how it would do to rake up the acquaintance again, and bring him over unexpectedly to call on the professor,"--papa's friends all call him professor rose,--"and surprise him into showing erveng the manuscript!" [illustration: "'the boy's name is hilliard erveng.'"] "oh, max, that would never, never do," cried nannie, quickly. "you know how averse papa is to showing his work to any one; he couldn't do it, i'm sure, and it might make him very angry." "and yet, if he _did_ show it, think what a benefit to you all it might be; for i am convinced the work is one that would be an acquisition to the reading public; and erveng would recognise that at once. think of what it means for all of you, nancy lee," urged max,--"college for felix, drawing lessons for nora, a fine violin for you, gymnasium for betty, a splendid military school for jack,"--here jack broke in rudely with, "_don't_ want any military school, this one's bad enough," and was silenced by phil's hand being laid suddenly and firmly over his mouth,--"and all sorts of good things for everybody, if only erveng sees the manuscript of the fetich" (max knows what we call it). nannie still looked dubious, but nora exclaimed: "i say, do it, max! it does seem a shame to have us suffering for things, and that manuscript just lying down there; and perhaps then papa would stir himself a little and finish it. i declare i would like to take some of the pages over and show them to mr. erveng myself!" we all knew that she wouldn't; but as she said the words, an idea popped into my head, such a splendid idea--at least i thought it was then--that i nearly giggled outright with delight, and i had positively to hold myself in to keep from telling it. happening to look up suddenly at phil, i caught him with a broad grin on _his_ face, and winking violently at felix, who winked back. that did not surprise me,--those two are always signalling to each other in that way; but when they both straightened their faces the instant i saw them, and assumed a very innocent expression, then i began to suspect that they were up to some mischief: little did i dream what it was, though! phil is a _fearful_ practical joker; you never know where he's going to break out. i'm pretty bad, but he is ever so much worse; and felix helps him every time. "what sort of a man _is_ mr. erveng?" asked felix, with an appearance of great interest. max laughed. "well, he used to be considered rather eccentric," he said. "i remember the fellows at college nick-named him 'old-woman erveng,' because--so they said--he had a large picture in his room of a fat old woman in a poke bonnet; and at the social gatherings to which he could be induced to go, he always devoted himself to the oldest and fattest ladies in the room, without noticing the young and pretty girls. _i_ thought he was rather a nice sort of fellow; what's the matter, betty, want any assistance?" what max said fitted in so well with the plan i had in my mind that--though i tried to keep it back--i had chuckled, and now they were all looking at me. "when elizabeth 'chortles' in that fashion you may be sure there's mischief in her mind," felix remarked, eyeing me severely. "out with it, miss." "or i'll have to garote you," put in phil, leaning over toward me with extended thumb and finger; but i skipped away and got beside max. "indeed, it's you and felix that are up to something," i retorted. "i can see it in your faces." "oh, tell us what your 'surprise' is, max," put in nannie, quickly. i think she wanted to turn the conversation, and so keep us from wrangling, this very first evening that max was with us. "why, i've brought back a ward," answered max. "his name is chadwick whitcombe. he went to-day from the steamer to stay a week or two with an old friend of his father's; then i shall bring him to see you, and i'm going to ask you _all_"--here max looked at each one of us--"to be nice and friendly to him, for poor chad is singularly alone: he has not a relative in the world. though he will come into a good deal of money by and by, the poor fellow has knocked about from place to place with his former guardian, who has just died, and he has had no home training at all. may i count on your being kind to him?" of course we all said yes,--couldn't help ourselves,--but i heard fee sing, under his breath, so it shouldn't reach max's ears:-- "here comes shad, looking very sad; we'll hit him with a pad, and make him glad!" and when i laughed, phil scowled at me, and muttered something about "giving him to betty to lick into shape." i couldn't say anything, for i was right close to max; but i made one of my worst faces at phil. soon after this, max went down to the study to spend the rest of the evening with papa. vi. disposing of a fetich. told by betty. i might as well tell you that my plan was to dress up, some afternoon that week, in one of nurse's gowns, and her bonnet and veil,--if i could possibly induce her to lend them all to me without having to tell why i wanted them,--and to go and call on mr. erveng in regard to the fetich. what i should say when i met him didn't trouble me; you see there was really only to tell him about the book, so he might make papa an offer for it; but what _did_ weigh upon me was how to get dressed up and out of the house without being caught: there are such a lot of us that somebody or other's sure to be hanging around all the time. for several days i couldn't get a chance: monday it rained; tuesday afternoon phil took paul to the dentist, and nurse went along,--judge is one of her pets; wednesday afternoon jack and a whole lot of boys played close to the house, and of course i couldn't walk right out before them,--it would have been just like jack to run up and say something, perhaps offer to assist my tottering steps down the stoop. but at last, on thursday, the coast seemed clear: nannie was in the study with papa, nora was practising, jack was on the schoolroom sofa reading, the children in the nursery, and phil and felix up in fee's room; i could hear a murmur of voices from there, and every now and then a burst of laughter. this was my opportunity. the door of nurse's room, which was next to the nursery, was open, and as i stole in, hoping she was there, that i might ask her, i saw her wardrobe door open, and hanging within easy reach a dress and shawl that would just serve my purpose. but her bonnet and veil were not in their usual place, which rather surprised me, for nurse is very particular with us about those things, and i had to hunt before i found even her oldest ones, in deadly fear all the time that i'd be caught in the act. you see, i made up my mind i'd borrow the things, and then tell her about it when i brought them back. flying into my room, i locked the door, and just "jumped" into those clothes, as the boys would say; and i did look so funny when i was dressed, that i had to laugh. in the first place, max had said mr. erveng liked fat old women; so i stuffed myself out to fill nurse's capacious gown to the best of my ability, with pillows and anything else i could lay my hands on; i think i must have measured yards and yards round when i was all finished. then i pinned my braid on the top of my head, put on nurse's bonnet, and dividing the veil so that one part hung down my back and the other part over my face, i was ready to start. i had slipped on a pair of old black woollen gloves that i found in the pocket of my new skirt, and, stealing cautiously down the stairs, i got out of the house without meeting any one. but i can't tell you how queer i felt in the street,--it seemed as if everybody looked at me, and as if they must suspect what i was up to. i forgot all about walking slowly, like an old woman, and fairly flew up the flagged path to the ervengs' stoop; and the ring i gave to the bell brought a small boy in buttons very quickly to the door. "i wish to see mr. erveng on business," i said, disguising my voice as well as i could. then, as he murmured something about "card,"--i had entirely forgotten that,--i pushed my way past him, saying, "it is something _very_ important, that i _know_ your master will be glad to hear." this seemed to satisfy him, and he ushered me into a room which looked to be half drawing-room, half study: there were in it a sofa, some fancy chairs, a set of well-filled eastlake book-shelves, and a desk almost as big as papa's. portières hung at the end of the room. i took a seat near one of the long windows opening on the balcony, and began to arrange in my mind what i would say to mr. erveng, when suddenly, glancing toward the gate, i saw some one open it and come slowly up the walk,--a stout, elderly female, dressed in a black gown, a black shawl, and a bonnet and veil, _precisely_ like the ones i had on! her veil was drawn closely over her face, she wore black woollen gloves, and held in one hand a black reticule--which i would have declared was nurse's--and in the other a clumsily folded umbrella. as i sat and stared at the advancing figure, i wondered if i were dreaming, and actually gave myself a pinch to assure myself i was awake. but who _could_ she be,--this double of mine? i wouldn't like to tell jack or any of the others, you know, but i would really not have been sorry to have been at home just then. at this moment the old lady entered the room. buttons closed the door, and we were left alone facing each other,--for i had got up when she came in,--and i must say the unknown seemed as much surprised as i was. then all at once she began to walk round and round me; and as i didn't want her to get behind me, i kept turning too,--just as if i'd been on a pivot; i believe i was fascinated by those big eyes glaring at me through the thick black veil. "betty! 'by all that's abominable!'" suddenly exclaimed my double; and _then_ i knew who it was. "_phil!_ you _mean_ thing!" i cried, intensely relieved; and darting forward i caught hold of his bonnet and veil. "hands off!" he called out, wriggling away; "an ye love me, spare me 'bunnit.'" then, as he got to a safe distance, and threw back his veil: "look here, old lady, if you lay violent hands on me again, i'll yell for help, and bring the house about your ears. _then_ you'll rue it." this provoked me. "you're the one will rue it," i said. "you've just spoilt the whole thing by spying on me and following me here--" "well, i like that!" phil interrupted. "it seems to me the shoe's on the other foot. what are _you_ doing here, in that outrageous costume, and in a stranger's house? whew! wouldn't there be a small circus if the _pater_ should see you! i'd feel sorry for you, i tell you. and what excuse do you propose to offer mr. erveng when he makes his appearance here, as he will in a few minutes?" sidling up to me, he nudged my elbow, and added persuasively: "'there _is_ a time for _dis_-appearing.' say, betty, my infant, one of us has _got_ to go, so i'd advise you to fly at once. buttons is out of the way, and in an excess of brotherly affection i'll escort you to the door myself. come--fly!" and he nudged me again. "no," i said obstinately, "i won't go; i was here first. i'm here, and here i'll remain." "oh, very well," said phil, in a resigned sort of tone, seating himself in a most unladylike attitude on a three-cornered chair. "then come sit on the edge of my chair, you little fairy, and we'll pose for the siamese twins." [illustration: "'come sit on the edge of my chair, you little fairy.'"] but i was so disappointed i was afraid i'd cry. i had hoped _so_ much from this interview with mr. erveng, and here was phil spoiling everything by his silliness. "i think you are simply _horrid_," i broke out, very crossly. "i just wish mr. erveng would come in and beat you, or turn you out, or _something_." "if the old man shows fight, i'll have his blood," cried phil, tragically, springing from his chair. "gore, _gore_! i _will_ have gore!" he did look _very_ funny, striding up and down the room and scraping his toes along the floor in our most approved "high tragedy" style, with nurse's shawl hanging over one shoulder, his bonnet crooked and almost off his head, and shaking the umbrella, held tight in a black-woollen-gloved fist, at an imaginary foe. angry as i was, i _had_ to laugh, and i don't know what next he mightn't have done--for phil never knows when to stop--had we not just then caught the sound of a distant footstep. phil didn't seem to mind, but i got so nervous that i didn't know what to do. "oh, _won't_ you go?" i cried in despair. "he'll think we are crazy! oh, where _am_ i to go?" "goodness only knows!" answered phil, trying to straighten his bonnet; then, glancing around the room, "there isn't a piece of furniture here large enough to hide your corpulent form," he said. "there he comes! _now_, i hope you're satisfied; you _wouldn't_ go when you could." sure enough, the footsteps were almost at the door. i looked frantically about. i would gladly have escaped through the window, and climbed over the balcony to the ground; but to put aside the delicate lace curtains and unlatch the sash would have taken more time than we had to spare. suddenly phil cried, "the _portières_, you dunce!" giving me a push in that direction, and like a flash i got behind them. i heard phil say "bother!" under his breath, as he stumbled over a footstool in his haste to get seated, then the door opened, and some one entered the room. provoked as i was with phil, i couldn't help hoping that his bonnet was straight, and that he had on his shawl, for his figure wasn't as good as mine. i heard a strange voice--mr. erveng's--say: "i'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long, but i am extremely busy. will you be kind enough to state your business as briefly as possible?" then phil began, imitating an old lady's voice to a nicety: "having heard that you publish a great many books, i thought you would like to know of a very clever--really _re_markable--work which is being written by a well-known scholar who lives in this street, and that perhaps you would call on him and make him an offer for it." i knew the moment i heard this speech that felix had made it up, and just coached phil; it was certainly better than what i had thought of. the portières behind which i had hid only covered a door, and, though i squeezed up as tight as i could, i was awfully afraid they would part and show me underneath. but, all the same, i couldn't resist peeping to see what was going on. phil had his back to me, but mr. erveng sat facing me in the swing-chair that was by his desk, and i noticed at once that he was the black-bearded man we'd seen the day the family moved in. i listened eagerly for mr. erveng's answer. he said very coolly: "it is not our custom to make an offer for a work of which we know nothing. manuscripts are generally submitted to us. what is the title of this 'remarkable work'?" i didn't like the way he said this, and i thought he looked very suspiciously at phil; but phil didn't seem to notice it, for he answered eagerly: "it's called the fe--'history of some ancient peoples,' and i've brought you a chapter or two to look at." here i heard a rustling, and peeping between the portières, what should i see but phil handing mr. erveng some _pages of the fetich_! i was so perfectly amazed that i had to stuff the portière into my mouth to keep from calling out; how _had_ phil ever got hold of those chapters without papa's knowledge? i knew nannie would never have helped him after what she had said on sunday to max, and how had phil _dared_ to bring them here! what would papa say if he should know what he had done,--indeed, what we had both done! oh, how sorry i was that i hadn't gone when phil urged me to. when i got over my surprise a little, and again looked through the portières, mr. erveng stood holding the fetich in his hands, and looking over the pages with a frown on his face. "this is curious," i heard him say. and then, suddenly, before i could guess what he was going to do, he crossed the room and drew my portières aside! at first i held on to them, with a desperate desire to lose myself in the scanty folds; but they were firmly withdrawn, and there i stood,--a fac-simile of the fat, black-robed, black-veiled person who sat on the three-cornered chair by mr. erveng's desk! "_whew!_" whistled phil, then tried to look as if he hadn't uttered a sound, while mr. erveng took hold of my arm and walked me over to where phil stood. "now," he said sternly, "i should like an explanation of this extraordinary behaviour." but not a word said either of us,--i couldn't, i was so frightened; i assure you i wished myself home! and while we stood there--mr. erveng waiting for an answer--the door opened, and the boy that max had said was hilliard erveng came into the room. "oh, i beg your pardon," he exclaimed, turning back, "i didn't know any one was with you." but his father called out to him, "stay here, hilliard!" then turning to us he said _very_ sternly, "i have reason to think that this manuscript"--he still held the fetich in his hand--"has been stolen from its rightful owner, of whom i have heard, and to whom i shall take pleasure in restoring his property. unless you both at once take off what i am convinced is a disguise, and offer a full and satisfactory explanation, i shall be under the painful necessity of calling in a policeman and giving you in charge." "oh, no! no! _no!_" i cried out. "we _didn't_ steal it--at least, it belongs to our father, and--" [illustration: "there we stood; a fine pair we must have looked!"] but phil strode over to my side. "hush, betty," he whispered; "i'll explain." sweeping off his bonnet and veil, he threw them--nurse's best sunday hat!--on a chair, and faced mr. erveng. you can't think how comical he looked, with his handsome boy's face and rumpled hair above that fat old woman's figure. and in a moment or two, i think, i must have looked almost as comical too; for before phil could begin, mr. erveng said, "i insist upon that person removing her bonnet and veil as well." so off went mine, and there we stood; a fine pair we must have looked! that boy hilliard gave a little giggle,--phil said afterwards he'd like to have "punched" him for it, and i felt awfully foolish,--but mr. erveng frowned. then phil began and told who we were, and how something that had been said by a friend of ours had given him, and me,--though neither knew about the other,--the idea of coming over and asking him, mr. erveng, to buy the fetich (of course phil called the fetich by its proper name), and thinking he might like to see some of the manuscript, he had got hold of two chapters and brought them along to show. "but why this absurd disguise, if all this is true?" asked mr. erveng of us, looking from one to the other. i began: "because ma--" but phil gave me a hard nudge of the elbow: "max mightn't like us to tell that," he mumbled, which ended my explanation. but i was determined to get in a few remarks: "papa doesn't know a thing about our doing this," i said very fast, for fear phil would interrupt again, "and we don't want him to. we just came here and told you about the fe--his book, because we were sure he'd never tell you, or let you see it, himself, and we thought if you knew of it, you would want to buy it from him, and that would make him finish it up,--papa's been _years_ writing that book,--and then felix could go to college and--" "_betty!_" broke in phil, in such a sharp, angry tone, and with such a red face, that i moved away from him. "that's where i've seen you,--at college," exclaimed the boy; he talks in a slow, deliberate way, something like judge. "they _do_ live across the way, father; i've seen him"--with a nod of his head at phil--"going in there." "ah, really, how kind of you to remember me!" cried phil, with sarcasm. "please let me have that manuscript, mr. erveng, and we will go home." "no," remarked mr. erveng, very decidedly. "there is something about the affair that i don't understand, and i shall not feel satisfied until i have restored this manuscript, which i know is valuable, to its owner, and found for myself that the story you have told me is true." "all right, then," phil cried recklessly. "come, betty, let's put on our 'bunnits' and go face the music." deeply mortified, we "dressed up" again, and went home under the escort of mr. erveng and his son. hannah opened the door, and how she did stare at the two fat, black-robed, closely veiled ladies who waddled past her into the drawing-room! hilliard did not come in with us, and when mr. erveng found that neither phil nor i would answer hannah's "please, what name shall i say?" he took a card out and gave it to her, saying, "ask mr. rose if he will be kind enough to let me see him for a few minutes." while we sat waiting, fee came limping down the stairs and looked in on us. "hullo!" he exclaimed in astonishment; "_two_ here? what's up?" then he saw the stranger and stopped. "oh, we've had a dandy time!" said phil, throwing back his veil, "and it isn't over yet. mr. erveng, allow me to introduce to you my brother, felix rose." while the introduction was going on, papa came into the room, and the expression of his face was something that can't be described when he found that the two ladies to whom he had bowed when he entered were indeed phil and i. mr. erveng stated the case as briefly as possible, making much more light of it than we had expected, and handed to papa the pages of the fetich that phil had brought to him. papa said very little, but his face grew quite pale, and he accompanied mr. erveng to the door, where they stood talking for a few minutes; then mr. erveng went away. fee had disappeared with our bonnets and veils,--we would willingly have divested ourselves of the other garments as well, but we knew he was not equal to the accumulation of pillows, shawls, and gowns which that would involve,--and we were sitting in dead silence when papa returned, and, opening the folding doors, motioned us to go into the study. nannie sat there writing; but the merry little laugh with which she greeted our entrance died quickly away as she guessed what we had been doing, and her low, "oh, phil, oh, betty, how _could_ you!" made me feel more ashamed than a scolding would have. papa put the two chapters of the fetich carefully away; then he took his seat at his desk and said, "now i wish to hear the meaning of this most extraordinary and unwarrantable behaviour." for an instant neither of us spoke; then, just as i opened my mouth, phil began. he made a very short story of it,--how, through max, we had heard of mr. erveng's being a publisher, and how the story about his liking fat old ladies had put the idea into our heads to dress up and call on him, and interest him in papa's book. papa frowned at us over his glasses. "what has mr. erveng to do with my book?" he asked, sternly. "and why did my son put my most cherished work into a stranger's hands without my knowledge?" "because--" began phil; then he got as red as a beet, and stood plucking at the skirt of nurse's gown without another word. i felt sorry for phil. i knew that, like me, he had done it in the interest of the whole family; so when papa said a little sharply, "i am waiting for an answer, philip," i said very quickly, "please don't be angry with phil, papa; we did it because we thought if mr. erveng knew of the fet--book, he'd want to buy it, and then perhaps you would finish it, and sell it for a lot of money, and then fee--um--eh--we could do lots of things." just then the study door opened, and in came felix, quite out of breath from hurrying up and down stairs. he saw phil's downcast face, and hastening forward, laid his hand on phil's shoulder, saying, "i deserve a full share of phil's scolding, father. betty evidently carried out her scheme without assistance, but i dressed phil, and helped him to get off without being seen. so i know, sir, that i ought to share his punishment." "i see; then this was a conspiracy to force me to finish my work and sell it," said papa, slowly, with a grieved, shocked look in his eyes; then, turning to nannie, he asked unsteadily: "are _you_ in it, too? margaret--your mother--used to urge me to--write slowly--but--perhaps i have lingered too long over it. i thank you," with a look at us, "for recalling me to my duty, though i think it would have been kinder to have spoken to me, rather than to have gone to a stranger in this way. i will finish the history--as soon--as i can." there was no anger in papa's voice, but a hurt tone that went right to my heart, and made me horribly ashamed, while nannie flew to his side and threw her arms around his neck. "don't take it to heart, dear papa," she pleaded, pressing her cheek against his face. "it was only thoughtlessness on their part; they _didn't_ mean to grieve you, i know they didn't. oh, boys, betty, speak up and assure papa of this." i began to cry out loud. i _despise_ crying, and i know papa hates it, but i simply _had_ to sob, or i would have choked. the boys felt badly, too. fee leaned on the desk and said, low and very earnestly, "i am _so_ ashamed of myself, father. and i know phil is, too." "i've made a great ass of myself," growled poor phil. "i wish, sir, that you'd give me a thrashing, as if i were a little shaver,--a sound one; i know i deserve it." but papa loosed nannie's arms from about his neck, and put her gently from him. "my dear," he said wearily, "i--i--wish you would make them all go; i want to be alone." * * * * * papa did not come down to dinner that evening, and we were a very subdued party, though nora tried to cheer phil up by telling him that she knew he had done what he had for the benefit of the whole family,--she didn't tell _me_ that! "yes," answered our eldest brother, gloomily, "it was my first attempt at that sort of philanthropy, and it'll be my last--stop staring at me, jack, or i'll throw a bread-pill at you." "is that what you call it, philip?" said miss marston, lifting her eyebrows. "it seems to me more like that love of practical joking and the self-will that your mother was so constantly warning you and betty against." "indeed, then, you're right, ma'am," put in nurse, who happened to be in the room, adding, with a pointed glance at me, "i wonder what the dear lady would 'a' said to this day's conductions!" and not one of us had a word to say in reply, for we well knew how grieved she would have been. vii. new friends. told by betty. "betty! _bet-ty!_" called nannie from the foot of the stairs, "tell jack that he's got just about three minutes more, as papa has started to put on his overcoat, and he does so dislike to have us late for church. do make him hurry!" but that, as i knew very well, was easier said than done, for jack hates to hurry. almost at the last minute, when we had gathered in the schoolroom to let miss marston see us before we started out with papa for church, it was discovered that jack's boots needed cleaning. so now he was up in the attic, brushing away at them, and singing with all his might,-- "thy gardens and thy goodly walks continually are green, where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers as nowhere else are seen. right through thy streets, with pleasing sound, the living waters flow; and on the banks on either side, the trees of life do grow." jack was just beginning the last line of this verse when nannie called to me; so i let him finish, then i shouted up the attic stairs, "jack, you've just got about two minutes and a half; papa has started to put on his overcoat. are you ready?" "most," jack answered; "i've got one more heel to do,"--as if he'd had a dozen or so! and he actually started on another verse of the hymn. i flew up the attic steps and gazed indignantly at him through the railings: "you are the most provoking boy i ever knew," i said, "and the biggest poke! i do believe you _love_ to be late. there's everybody down in the hall ready to start, and here you are loitering as if you had hours to spare." [illustration: "'betty! _bet-ty!_' called nannie."] "are you two coming, or are you not?" cried phil from the hall below. "the procession is ready to start, and woe to stragglers! if service began at twelve instead of eleven o'clock, jack, you'd still be late. come on, betty." "i declare, if you aren't all the greatest pack of naggers!" exclaimed jack, impatiently, throwing down the blacking brushes and snatching up his hat; then he raced after us down the stairs and brought up the rear as we filed out of the front door. there are always so many of us to go to church--all of us children (except alan, who goes to the children's service in the afternoon), and miss marston and papa--that we do make, as phil says, a regular procession as we walk down the avenue and across the park to the old brown church every sunday. i don't mind going in the procession, nor does jack,--unless he's _very_ late; but nora thinks it's horrid, and phil and felix always hang back for the very last, and try to look as if they didn't belong to us at all. nannie and mädel go with papa, kathie and paul with miss marston, and the rest of us straggle along as we like until we get to the church. it's brown and very large, and has a good deal of ivy growing all over it. it's the church where murray unsworth and helen vassah stood sponsors for their little cousin paul; they go there and their grandfather and grandmother. papa likes to sit away up front; so up the middle aisle we go,--oh, how the boys and nora hate this part!--and file into the first two pews. we are always early, and sometimes it does seem so long before service begins. jack and i sit at the upper end of the first pew, and i couldn't tell you how many times we have read the creed and commandments that are printed back of the chancel, and the memorials on each side. then we look out the hymns for the day, and read them all through. jack likes to do this; he has all sorts of odd ideas about them; for instance, he says that when he sings, "christian! dost thou see them on the holy ground, how the powers of darkness rage thy steps around? christian! up and smite them, counting gain but loss; in the strength that cometh by the holy cross," he somehow always thinks of the picture in papa's study of st. michael and the angel. he says he can see, right in his mind, the great beautiful angel of light triumphant in the strength of god, and under his feet the stormy evil face of the conquered lucifer. i've got so now that i too think of the picture when i sing the hymn, and of the hymn when i look at the picture. then in the other hymn, where it says, "finding, following, keeping, struggling, is he sure to bless? 'saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs, answer, yes,'" jack says he sees--just like a picture--a steep hill up which a whole lot of people are striving, with all their might, to climb; they're poor and tired and sick and lame, but they struggle bravely on; and by the beautiful gates at the top of the hill stands one grand and white and shining, wearing a golden crown. he bends forward and takes hold of each tired traveller as soon as he is within reach, and helps him safe within the gates; and in the hands that do this are "wound-prints." jack always shuts his eyes and lowers his voice when he tells us about this thought of his; only nannie and i know of it, and while i am hearing about it i always feel quiet. how he _does_ enjoy singing! his little body seems to expand, and you'd be astonished at the noise that he can make. this particular sunday that i am telling you about my ears were fairly ringing as jack joined in the chorus of "onward, christian soldiers," and i wasn't sorry when phil leaned over from behind and whispered, "say, rosebud, you're not detailed to lead the choir, you know." even the choir-master looked at him; but, perfectly regardless of everything and everybody, jack sang through the five long verses, and sat down with the air of having thoroughly enjoyed himself. i made up my mind, though, that i'd say something about it on our way home; but just as we were coming down the church steps jack gave my arm a nudge. "there are your friends," he said, with a grin,--"the two of 'em; just see phil and felix scoot!" and when i turned quickly to see, who should it be but mr. erveng and hilliard! mr. erveng has been over to call on papa since that horrid afternoon that he escorted phil and me home; but hilliard didn't come with him, and we weren't sorry,--i mean phil and i,--for we both felt foolish about meeting him; we hadn't forgotten that giggle of his when we took off our bonnets and veils that day in his father's library, and i think we both felt that we didn't want to know him any better. mr. erveng and papa walked across the park together, talking, and as we all followed behind,--felix and phil were out of sight,--who should come up beside me and lift his hat but that hilliard! "may i walk with you part way home?" he asked, "i want to say something to you." he speaks slowly, deliberately, and has a way of half-closing his eyes when he's talking, that gives him a sleepy look,--though he can open them very wide too, sometimes; and he's sallow, and has lots of freckles. altogether, he isn't nearly as good-looking as our boys, or murray unsworth; still he has rather a nice face, and we've found out that he is just as gentle and nice as a girl to his mother,--i mean in waiting on her and doing things for her. but all the same, i don't know whether i like him or not; you see he's never had a sister, never been much with girls, and he's got such silly, prim ideas about them. well, to go back: when he asked that, i said, "oh, yes, i suppose so;" but jack says my tone wasn't very polite. i didn't mean to be impolite, but seeing him brought that horrid afternoon right to my mind, and i could just hear him giggle all over again; i assure you phil and i'll not try that sort of thing again,--not if the fetich never gets sold. and evidently that was in his mind, too; for he said, "i want to apologise for being so rude as to laugh that day in my father's office,"--that's the way he talks, so formal, as if he were as old as papa,--"and for guarding--" "we didn't think it was at all polite, i must say," i broke in. but he went right on; that's another of his ways,--if one interrupts him fifty times in a remark, he'll listen, but make no reply until he's finished what he started out to say. now i think that's provoking,--i wonder how he'd get on if he lived in our family!--and it makes the person that interrupts feel very small and nettled, too. "and for guarding you and your brother home, as if i doubted your word," he finished. well, now, do you know, i hadn't ever thought about that part,--his going along to guard us,--until he said this; and then, all at once, i felt very angry. "i think it _was_ very, _very_ rude of you," i said decidedly, "and i really wish you would go away and walk with your father, or by yourself--" "why, _betty_!" exclaimed jack, in surprise; then, leaning across me, he said politely, "_please_ don't think that betty is a rude girl, for indeed she isn't; but she is awfully quick-tempered, and when she gets mad she is apt to say lots of things that she doesn't mean. she is really quite a nice girl. i'm jack rose, her brother; so you see i ought to know." "so you should; i'm glad to meet you," hilliard said, shaking hands with jack. then he added to me: "i _do_ hope you and your brother will let us be friendly. i've told my mother about you both, and she wants so much to know you and your sisters. perhaps some of you would come over and see her? she is very much of an invalid, and is not able to go out, except for a drive now and then; but when she is well enough to see them, she enjoys having visitors." i was ashamed of having spoken so sharply, but i _didn't_ want to go and see mrs. erveng; so all i could say was, in a lame sort of way, "thank you; perhaps--if papa says we may." instead of letting the matter drop there, he must needs go on: "i have tried several times to speak to your brother,--at college, and once on the street,--but he seems to avoid me," he said. "i wanted to explain to him; i was afraid you might think my father was severe, but he really didn't beli--he didn't suppose--that is, the young people we've known--" he stopped, looking awfully red and embarrassed, then ended up with, "i'm afraid i'm making an awful muddle of it, but i'm really very sorry; i hope you and your brother will understand that." by "brother" i think he meant phil, but jack took it to himself. "of course, oh, certainly," he said, nudging my elbow to say likewise, and bobbing his head round my shoulder. but i wouldn't, for i understood, just as well as if hilliard'd said it, that he--they all--thought our coming over to his house, as we had done, to sell the fetich, was a very queer proceeding. miss marston had said that they must think me very unladylike. she so often tells me people think that of me that i've got used to it and don't mind; but i felt _very_ uncomfortable when it occurred to me that perhaps this boy and his father and mother thought so too. "why didn't you say right out that you thought my dressing up and coming over to your house that way was very queer and unladylike?" i demanded. "i know it's what you think." he opened his mouth to speak, but i went on quickly: "pooh! that's _nothing_ to what i _can_ do. i can slide down three flights of banisters without one swerve, and make worse faces than any one we know, and whistle, and brandish indian clubs, and fence and climb besides, and, oh! lots of other things that only boys do; why, i'm strong enough to be able to thrash jack--there _now_!" "i'd just like to see you try it!" put in jack, hastily, ruffling up; then, in an undertone, with a nudge of his elbow, "oh, come now, betty, _do_ behave yourself." but hilliard just looked at me--his eyes were wide enough open now--as if i were some strange kind of animal; he really looked shocked. i wondered what he would think of some of my performances at home, and i couldn't resist saying, "i suppose the girls that you know never do such things?" "not when they are as old or as tall as you are," he answered quietly. just then miss marston and the little ones and nannie and nora came up to us, so i introduced hilliard to them, and as soon as we saw that nora was talking to him, jack and i dropped behind and kept there. "betty," said jack, severely, as we turned away, "you are really a most provoking girl! i told that boy that you were nice, and you turned right round and acted _abominably_. what possessed you? i didn't hear him say one thing to make you angry." "jack," i answered, "sometimes you're as dense as a london fog. that boy is a conceited poke because he has no sister; and you'd be just like him if i weren't here to train you." "well, i declare!" exclaimed jack, indignantly. "talking about conceit,--where do you put yourself?" two hands came suddenly between us; a pleasant voice said, "let's talk about the sermon, and see which of us remembers most of it;" and there was max. he had been in church, he said, but stopping to speak to some one had detained him, and he was now going home to have dinner with us,--which meant a visit with papa after dinner, and then a nice long talk with us in the schoolroom. max is so nice about that; he never slights us. in fact, i think he spends more and more time with us, for he and nannie have started in to play violin and piano duets together, and he comes one week-evening to practise. he has lent her his violin,--a beauty!--and he takes the piano part. his ward--"the great shad," as phil and felix call him--has not yet arrived; but max told us this sunday, as we walked along, that he expected him to be in the city very soon, "and then," he said, "i shall bring him round to be introduced to you young people." when we reached our house, hilliard said good-bye, and ran across to his own gate; but max, mr. erveng,--max has been to call on the ervengs, and has renewed acquaintance with his college-mate,--and papa stood talking for a few minutes before they separated. as we entered our door, nannie was right behind me, and i heard her say to felix in a low voice, "look at papa as he stands between those two men; don't you think he looks _very_ old and worn?" "well, he's years older than they, isn't he?" asked fee, turning to look. i too craned my neck for a glimpse, but barely caught sight of the top of papa's hat over phil's shoulder. "not so many," nannie said; "he is eight years older than mr. erveng, and ten years older than max. not enough to show such a difference." "why, he looks twenty years older than either of them;" then, lowering his voice,--but i heard him,--felix added, "poor old _pater_! he seems to enjoy talking to mr. erveng; but do you know, nannie, i'm _awfully_ sorry we played that joke about the fetich. i fancy he hasn't been quite the same since." "no, he hasn't, and he's working desperately to get the book finished; he even works in the evening, when he used to read as a recreation. i hope he won't get ill." then the front door closed, and there was a general rush upstairs to take off coats and hats. i wasn't very happy the rest of that day; nannie's remark about papa, and what that disagreeable boy across the way had said, kept coming back and coming back to me, so that i really got quite unhappy over it, until i told nannie the whole thing that night, and then i began to feel better. though nannie always tells you right out if you've been wrong, she is also sure to say something to comfort you. i was in the schoolroom the next afternoon, practising, when suddenly the door flew open, and in bounced jack, in a state of wild excitement. "oh, think of it! _think_ of it, betty!" he exclaimed joyously, "i'm going to sing--to _sing_! just think of it!" "why, you've been doing that for a long time, haven't you?" i asked, with a lively recollection of what i had endured only yesterday. "oh, but this is different; it's to be in church,--i mean in the _choir_,--and i'm to be _paid_ for it!" "what! really?" i gasped in astonishment. "why, jack! _do_ tell me all about it!" [illustration: "'why, you've been doing that for a long time, haven't you?' i asked."] this he was only too delighted to do; but he was so excited that he could not sit still, and he kept walking backward and forward before me while he was speaking. "well, it was this way," he said; "just now, while i was playing in the yard, hannah said papa wanted to see me. of course i thought right away that something must be wrong, and i didn't feel very happy over it, i can tell you; but when i got to the study, there was papa with a big piece of news for me. mr. hawkins from our church had come to see him to ask if he would let me sing in the choir, and was waiting in the drawing-room for my answer! why, i'd have been glad to sing there for nothing, you know; but when papa went on, and said i would get fifty cents for each sunday that i sang, i was so delighted, betty, that i really couldn't say a word. but i guess papa knew by my face how overjoyed i was, for he patted my shoulder and said, 'well, then, you can go in the drawing-room and tell mr. hawkins that you will accept his offer, and be at rehearsal on friday evening;' and then he spoke about what an honour it was to be chosen to sing god's praises in his own house. i tell you what, betty, i'm going to try to be a very, _very_ good boy; now aren't you glad for me?" indeed i _was_ glad, and i told him so; and then what do you think he said? why, he came close to me, with his clasped hands behind his back, and rocked himself to and fro on his heels and toes; his eyes were shining with delight. "betty," he said, "i'm to get fifty cents a week at first, and more, mr. hawkins says, just as soon as i can read music readily. now i'm not going to spend one cent of it,--not a single penny. i'm going to save it up until i get a lot, and then,--what d'you think? i'm going to _send felix to college_! isn't that a splendid scheme? now isn't it? you see," he went on eagerly, "i've been praying for a way for fee to go,--you have, too, haven't you? and nannie,--and i think god has just answered our prayers by letting me get this." "yes; but won't it take an awfully long time at that rate to save enough to send fee?" i asked. "oh, not so _very_ long," jack replied cheerfully. in the exuberance of his joy he took hold of the schoolroom table and threw his heels in the air; he looked so funny that i could have roared with laughter,--jack is as clumsy as a cow! then all at once he remembered something, and coming over to me said, very impressively, "now, remember, betty, you're not to say one word about this to fee,--not a word; i sha'n't mention it to any one beside you, but nannie, and she wouldn't tell; and then, when we've got enough, we'll give it to fee, and tell him what it's for. hoopla!" and again he embraced the table and threw his heels in the air. viii. a resolution. told by betty. two or three days after this--after school hours--nannie came flying into the schoolroom, where we all were, and announced that some of us had been invited to take tea with the ervengs that afternoon. while we sat in surprised silence, she went rapidly on to explain: "such a nice little note to papa, written by mrs. erveng: this is one of her 'good days,' and she would like so much to make our acquaintance; would four of us come over and take tea, etc. hilliard brought the note just now, and papa told him that some of us would be happy to accept." she paused and looked mischievous as a groan broke from us. "i know you are all dying to hear who are to go," she said, "so i'll put you out of your suspense at once; phil--" "no, you don't! i haven't any 'bunnit,'" broke in phil. "you don't catch me going over there again in a hurry, i can tell you." "but you ought to go, phil, really you ought," nannie said. "you and betty ought to go over and apologise to mr. and mrs. erveng for the way in which you two goths invaded their house. fee, papa says you are to go, too," she added to her twin. "oh, but this is too bad of the _pater_!" exclaimed felix, colouring up; "he knows how i hate to go among strange people. i declare, i _won't_ go!" "go tell the governor so--go _now_, while you're in the humour for it," urged phil, with suspicious eagerness; "and--um--while you're about it, you know, just mention incidentally that those are my sentiments, too, will you?" "nonie, you're to lend grace to the entertainment," went on nannie, with twinkling eyes. "who, me? i?" exclaimed nora, quickly. "oh!" then, recovering herself the next minute, she said coolly, "well, i'm perfectly willing to go; for that matter" (with that superior air that does so provoke us), "some of us ought to have gone long ago, and called on the ervengs,--miss marston says so, too,--to apologise for and explain the, to say the least very peculiar, conduct of some other members of our family." and here she looked at me,--just as if phil were not more to blame than i in that horrid affair of the fetich! i made a face, and phil said: "oh, come, now, nora, we've heard that before; so do spare us the rest. who else is to be a victim, nancy?" "betty fills up the sum of the 'some,'" answered nannie; "papa thinks she certainly ought--" "i _won't_ go, i won't, i will not," i interrupted. "that boy is too conceited for anything, and i'm not going over there to be criticised,--so now! i don't want any of their old tea, and i'd just like to be ill or to hide away or something, so's not to go." "let's you and i run away," suggested phil, in a stage whisper behind his hand; then, striking an attitude, he extended his long arms: "come, fair damsel, come, we'll fly to other climes,--the attic or the cellar, _anywhere_, so it be not to the ervengs'." he made a sudden snatch at me, but i was prepared,--i know him of old!--and, dodging under his arm, darted round the table and soon put a wide distance between us. "then nobody's going," asserted jack; he sat on the edge of the schoolroom table, grinning and hugging his knees, which were drawn up to his chin. "not a one!" "no, _sir_!" "no, _indeed_!" answered phil, felix, and i, in one breath. "i do think you are all the rudest, most unmannerly creatures!" exclaimed nora, indignantly. "these people have been polite enough to invite us to their house, have taken the trouble to prepare for us, when really the attention should have come from us to them, and here you all act as if they had insulted us. positively, you are a most uncouth set. _i_ am very much pleased with mrs. erveng's invitation, and i am going, if no one else does. rude things!" she started for the door; but phil got before her, and salaamed to the floor. "what _would_ we do without you, o most noble and elegant eleanora!" he cried, as he bobbed up and down; and limping over, fee stared at her through and under and over his glasses. "friends," he exclaimed, turning to us and putting on an expression of intense astonishment, "allow me to call your attention to this remarkably healthy variety of a well-known plant, miss"--with a wave of his hand toward nora--"miss prim rose." "you think that's very smart, don't you?" nora said, getting red, and tossing her head. jack flew down from the table, and over to nora's side, calling out, "now you just stop teasing her, felix!" and phil threw an arm round her, and pulled her down on his lap, saying, "don't ruffle yourself over such trifles, old lady; keep cool!" i laughed, and nannie put in quickly, "nora is quite right: it _was_ our place, as old residents, to call first on the ervengs,--particularly under the fetich circumstances; and when they are kind enough to overlook our remissness, and invite us to visit them, we ought at least to appreciate the attention, not rail at it. anyway, it was papa who decided which of us should go. i would certainly have been included in the number had i not something to do for him this afternoon and evening; i would have liked to go. so do behave yourselves!" "nancy lee on etiquette," said felix, with a grimace, while nora struggled away from phil's encircling arm with a sharp, "of _course_ i am right!" and stalked out of the room, her nose in the air. now perhaps you think because we said all this that we didn't go to the ervengs'; well, we did, the whole four of us, and that very afternoon. though we fret and fume over things beforehand, we generally end by doing just as papa says about them. one reason for this is that, when it comes to the point, none of us are willing to tell him that we won't obey. papa's very gentle, but he expects us to do as he says, and dear mamma always made us mind; so, as i said, it generally ends by our following orders. still, sometimes it is a great satisfaction to "spunk up" beforehand, as phil calls it, and just speak out our minds in the bosom of our family. and after that,--it's the funniest thing! but do you know, we'll almost always turn right round and do just what we said we wouldn't do, as meek as lambs. i don't know if all large families are like this, but it's our way. well, to go back to the tea. nora was very glum on the way over,--she usually is when she's on her high horse,--but the boys seemed to be in great spirits, for they just giggled to the ervengs' very door, and barely had a straight face when buttons appeared. i fancied that he looked curiously at me, and i wondered uncomfortably if he knew that phil and i were the two fat old black-robed ladies he had admitted the other day. mr. erveng was out, for which phil and i weren't sorry; but hilliard met us in the hall and took us upstairs to his mother's sitting-room, where she was lying in an invalid's chair with a white shawl round her shoulders. she's very pretty,--hilliard isn't a bit like her,--but she looks very delicate and fragile; why, her hands are like _mites_, and she's very, _very_ gentle, and speaks in a low voice. she welcomed us very cordially, and said she thought it was so kind of us to come,--here i thought of our remarks at home, and didn't dare look at phil and fee,--and she and nora seemed to get on nicely. [illustration: "hilliard showing his microscope and his 'specimens.'"] very soon hilliard carried the boys off to show them his microscope and his "specimens," and what he called his home-gymnasium. i should have loved dearly to go, too, but nobody asked me; so there i had to sit primly on a chair and listen while mrs. erveng and nora talked of books and pictures and music and all sorts of things. and while they talked i looked around the room; nora said afterward that i stared at everything, until she was ashamed,--but what else was there for me to do? and it was such a pretty room! furnished in light blue, with touches of yellow here and there; some lovely pictures hung on the walls, a graceful bronze mercury stood on a pedestal between the curtains of one of the windows, growing plants were scattered about, and everywhere were books and flowers. it was all very sweet and lovely: it matched well with mrs. erveng, who looked daintiness itself lying back on her silken cushions, and i ought to have enjoyed it; but in some way or other it made me feel uncomfortably big and clumsy and overgrown, and i couldn't get over the feeling. nora, however, didn't seem to be troubled in this way; i couldn't but notice how pretty she looked, and how well she talked. you mustn't think that mrs. erveng slighted me, for she didn't,--she was very polite; but i had a feeling all the time that she just looked upon me as a great rough tomboy,--thinking of that horrid fetich affair! for she certainly didn't treat me as she did nora, and there are only fourteen months between us, if nora _is_ so tall, and acts so grown up. at home we make great fun of nora's airs and graces, and even that night phil nudged me, when no one was looking, and whispered, "do see the frills nonie's putting on!" but all the same i think both felix and he were very glad that she could carry off things so well. we had tea in the cosiest little room on the same floor, and we couldn't but notice how hilliard waited on his mother,--just like a girl would have done; indeed, he was very much more gentle and helpful than i could have been, i am afraid,--though fee used to be like that with mamma. after tea nora played; i was asked, too, but i could no more have got through a piece without breaking down than i could have flown. she didn't feel so, though, and did splendidly; she is really a fine pianist, miss marston says. after that we sang college songs, and about nine o'clock, or a little after, we four went home. "unfortunately, i am not able to return any visits," mrs. erveng said, when we were leaving, "but if you or your sisters will take pity on my loneliness, and come over to see me whenever you can spare an afternoon or evening, i shall consider it very friendly, and i shall be very glad to see you." she looked at nora, and nora answered very sweetly, "thank you for our pleasant evening, mrs. erveng; we shall be glad to come again." now i never would have thought of saying that! then we all bade good-night and went home. hilliard walked to our door with us, and as he shook hands for good-night he said to me, "i'm very glad you came over; mother and i enjoyed it. i hope you'll come again; you see we get very quiet sometimes, just she and father and i." i was surprised that he didn't say this to nora, for he had talked almost entirely to her,--very little to me during the evening; but i suppose he did it so i shouldn't feel slighted,--as if i cared! phil admits that he likes hilliard better than he did, and felix, who had a long talk with him, says "he's bright, and 'way up in the classics." well, he may be all that, but all the same i think he's a poke. i don't like him very much. i have a feeling that he went home and told his mother what i said about making faces and sliding down banisters, and that--with the fetich affair--she thinks i'm a great rough girl. i don't really care, you know, for i have other friends who like me and think i am nice,--murray and hope unsworth and helen vassah are always glad to have my company,--but still it _isn't_ comfortable, now that i'm growing older, to be treated as if i were a child. i didn't say much while nora and the boys were giving nannie an account of our evening,--they had enjoyed it; but later, when we were alone up in our room, it all came out. she said: "what's wrong, miss elizabeth?"--that's one of her pet names for me. "you look as sober as a judge; didn't you enjoy yourself this evening?" and then i told her all about it, though really there wasn't much to tell when we came to it, for mrs. erveng had been very polite and nice, and the boy had treated me politely, too. i was afraid nannie would think i was making a mountain out of a molehill, as nurse says. but that's one of the lovely things about nannie,--she understands just how things are, and so quickly. she came over and sat on the edge of the bed, and taking one of my hands in hers, kept smoothing it while she talked. "it means this, dear," she said, "that you are getting to be quite grown up, and that the time has come for you to put away rough, hoidenish ways, and to begin to be gentle and dignified, like the true lady that we all know you are at heart. you see we are accustomed to your ways, and while we may tease and scold one another here at home, we also make allowances for the different ones as an outsider would never do, because we love one another--see? mrs. erveng and hilliard simply know you as a tall girl who looks quite a young lady, and naturally they are surprised when you act like a tomboy. you know, betty, you are nearly as tall as nora; now just imagine her sliding down the banisters, wrestling with the boys, climbing the fence in the yard, hanging to the tops of the doors, and making the horrible faces that you do!" but my imagination couldn't picture such an impossibility as nora and i acting alike. "i couldn't--i _couldn't_ be like nora," i declared, sitting up in bed. "i know she's got nice manners and all that,"--i had never really thought so till that evening,--"but, oh! i _couldn't_ be as prim and--and--proper as she is--" here my voice began to shake, and i got so sorry for myself that the tears came. then nannie put her arms round me, and gave me a hug. "you needn't be like anybody but yourself," she said,--"the nicest, gentlest, and best part of yourself. give up one hoidenish way at a time; that will be easier than trying to do all at once, you know. suppose you begin by walking down the stairs to-morrow morning to breakfast, instead of sliding down on the banisters, as you usually do." "oh, but you don't _know_ how awfully hard that'll be to do," i said tearfully; "our banisters are so broad and smooth, and one goes so swiftly down them,--almost like flying--" "i don't suppose it will be easy to give up the habit," broke in nannie, wiping my eyes with her handkerchief; "but all the same, miss elizabeth, i am confident that if you really make up your mind to stop sliding, you'll do it. you can't keep up such a tomboyish trick all your life, and now is a good time to begin, _i_ think. dear mamma used to say that everybody had to have some responsibility or other; why not begin to take up yours now? helen vassah is only about six months older than you are, and here she has the responsibility of being little paul's godmother. and there's hope unsworth a little younger than you; you know how she helps her grandmother in her charitable work. they are certainly not 'prim or proper;' they are full of fun, yet they wouldn't either of them ever think of doing the rough things that you do,--now would they?" i had to admit that i knew they wouldn't. "then," said nannie, "don't you do them either. take yourself as your responsibility, and show us what you can accomplish in that line. will you, dearie?" she snuggled her head close up to mine on the pillow as she said this. "oh, _dear_!" i sighed, "i do wish jack had been i, and i'd been jack!" "even then you would have had to stop such childish tricks some time or other before you grew up. with all his larks, phil doesn't do them; and think of papa's coming down to breakfast on the banisters!" nannie and i had to laugh at the very thought. "well," i said presently, "perhaps i'll try; but that conceited boy'll think he's made me do it." "oh, no, he won't!" nannie said, in a tone of conviction that was very comforting. "if he does think now that you're inclined to be a hoiden, why, he'll soon change his mind, when he finds what a nice, sweet little lady you are from day to day. _don't_ look so dismal, miss elizabeth; there's lots of fun left for you!" "i'll try; but i _know_ i'll forget, time and again," i said, sighing heavily. "i don't think there'll be so very many slips," nannie answered cheerfully; "but if there should be, we'll just do as rip van winkle did,--'we won't count' them." "and will you promise not to tell anybody that i'm trying--not a single creature--not even felix or jack?" i asked anxiously. "i _will_ promise not to tell anybody--not a single creature--not even felix or jack," nannie replied, laughing. "does that satisfy you? now," she added, "i'm going to say my prayers here beside you, and i'm going to ask our lord to help you keep your word; you'll ask, too, won't you?" i nodded, and as she knelt down slipped my hand into hers; a few minutes after i was asleep. ix. max's ward. told by betty. no less than three birthdays in our family fell in the next week: first fee's and nannie's,--which i suppose i ought really to count as one, as they are twins,--and then nora's. as these birthdays _will_ always come together, and to avoid hurting people's feelings, as jack would say, we celebrate them alternately,--fee's and nannie's one year, and nora's the next; and this was nora's year. we had had several performances lately, so fee said he'd try to think of something else, if we'd all promise to do just as we were told. of course we promised; then he and phil invited the unsworths and helen vassah and that boy across the way,--i didn't want _him_, but all the others did, so he was asked. hope was at her grandma's, so she couldn't come; but murray and helen did, and, _of course_, hilliard. the birthday fell on a friday, and as papa is always at home on that evening, we were afraid he wouldn't allow us to celebrate it; but to our great joy he told nannie to tell us that we might have all the fun we wanted, as long as we behaved ourselves and kept the doors closed, so the noise would not escape. so right after school hours phil and felix took possession of the schoolroom, and after having got us to give them all our presents for nora, they locked themselves in. "we're going to have a bang-up entertainment, now, you'll see," felix said, just before he closed the door,--"something unique, unprecedented, etc.; and no one is to put even a nose into the banqueting hall"--with a wave of his hand over his shoulder--"until the doors are thrown open and the music strikes up. now remember--" "yes, and no snooping or hanging around either!" put in phil, standing on tip-toe to rest his chin on fee's crown and glare at us. then the door was locked. such a hammering and dragging about of furniture you never heard; and when every now and then phil would come out for something or other, fee would open the door very cautiously, as if afraid somebody'd see something, and shut and lock it with a bang when he re-entered. as you may imagine, our curiosity was excited to the highest pitch to know what we were going to have. then just before dinner jack came running in, in a great state of excitement; he had been to rehearsal, and had done so well in the piece he had to sing that mr. hawkins had really engaged him, at fifty cents a week, with the promise of more as he improved. jack was almost wild with delight. "isn't it fine! isn't it just jolly! you should have heard me sing; really, it didn't sound bad!" he exclaimed about twenty times; and the knowing looks and nudges and winks that he bestowed on me couldn't be counted. no amount of snubbing could repress him. it seemed to us as if dinner would never be over; but at last it came to an end, and jack and i and the younger children flew upstairs and stood waiting for the signal to enter the "banqueting hall." in a few minutes more up came nora, with helen and murray and hilliard. i was sure murray and helen would enjoy the "festive occasion," for they like the things that we do; but i didn't know how that boy would take it. he was very smiling, however; and i heard him tell nora, as he presented her with a lovely bunch of roses, that it was "very kind of her to allow him to be of the party." just then the schoolroom doors were thrown open, and the strains of the wedding march from lohengrin floated sweetly out to us from violin and piano. at the same moment phil appeared with a paper flower in his buttonhole, and arranged us in couples,--nora and he going first,--and so we marched into the schoolroom. i think perhaps i ought to describe the schoolroom to you, for it is playroom, sitting-room, schoolroom, and everything to us. it's on the top floor,--so that our noise sha'n't disturb papa,--and takes in the whole width of the house and half its length, making an immense room. there are some back rooms on this floor, and the large open space on each side of the stairs is what we call the attic. though almost everything in it is old and shabby, we do have royal times in the schoolroom, for it is our own, and out of study hours we can do there as we please. here are phil's banjo and his boxing-gloves, and a lot of what nurse calls his "rubbish"; fee's easel is in this corner, and a couple of forlorn, dirty old plaster casts which--unless he has a painting-fit on him--generally serve as hat-rests for phil and himself. pictures in various stages of completion stand about. here, too, are nannie's and fee's violins, resting against a pile of old music that max gave them before he went away. in the next corner, the other side of the low, deep-silled windows, hangs nora's china-shelf, on which are ranged what the boys call her lares and penates,--vases and pretty cups and saucers that have been given to her. here, too, are her plants, conspicuous among which is a graceful fan-leaved palm, known in the family as lady jane. these are the front corners; and between the windows stand our book-shelves,--they are in a clumsy, unsteady old case, that rocks from side to side if you touch it, and is only held together by the wall against which it leans. the shelves are rather short,--now and then a shelf slips off its notches and spills our library,--and they are so narrow that books constantly fall down behind, and lie there until house-cleaning or a sudden desire for one of those volumes brings them all to light, and they are restored to their places. one of the other--back--corners is mine; and here i have my "gymnasium,"--my indian clubs and dumb-bells; here, too, are my tennis racket (i love to play!) and two old walking-canes with which (when i can get him to do it) jack and i fence,--dear me! i wonder if i shall have to give _that_ up too, now that i have given that promise to nannie! then comes our sofa: it's an old-fashioned, chintz-covered affair, with a high back and high arms that stick straight out at each end, and it's dreadfully shabby now; but all the same there isn't one of us--except, perhaps, nora--that would be willing to exchange it for the handsomest piece of furniture that could be offered us. the times we've played house and shipwreck, and gone journeys on it, and romped and pranced all over it, can't be counted! this is jack's favourite place to sit and read; and under it, concealed from public view by the deep chintz flounce that runs around the front and sides of the sofa, are stored his treasures,--his books and stamp album, a queer-looking boat that he has been building for ages, and a toy steam engine with which he is always experimenting, but which, so far, absolutely refuses to "go." i have frequently offered to share my corner with jack, and i couldn't understand why he always refused, until one day i accidentally over-heard him speaking about it to nannie. "you see, nannie, betty means well," he said, "but she does hit out so with those clubs! i'd be sure to get hurt some time or other; and then, besides, she'd just own my things more than i would myself." of course this last part isn't really so, for he hasn't a thing that i'd care for; but still he sticks to the sofa. [illustration: "the 'queen of the revels.'"] kathie and the twins and alan have the other corner with their doll's house, a tail-less hobby horse, known both as the "palfrey" and the "charger," and blocks and toys without number. we've a piano in the schoolroom for practising, and in the middle of the floor is a large table, round which we sit in and out of school hours. this table has no cover; it is liberally besprinkled with ink stains, and adorned in many places with our initials, and with circles done in red ink,--goals for feather-top playing,--and pieces have been hacked out of the edges, trying the sharpness of sundry new knives. the old table is not at all ornamental, but we couldn't get on without it, and we older ones have quite an affection for our old jumbo. some pictures--three or four of them by felix--are hung up on the walls. and now you know how our schoolroom looks. but a grand transformation had taken place: all our stage property had been utilised; the pictures were draped with red, white, and blue paper muslin; the "statuary" and plants were arranged about the room with an eye to a fine effect; great bunches of paper flowers bloomed in every available place,--even on the gas fixtures! the large table was too heavy to be pushed aside, but it was covered with murray unsworth's big flag, which gave it quite a festive appearance; while the smaller table over in the corner, though partially concealed by the dining-room screen, gave tempting glimpses of "refreshments." nannie was at the piano, and beside her was fee, playing away on his violin with all his might. at the farther end of the room, on a dais, was miss marston's chair, covered with red paper muslin, and here, after we had promenaded several times round the room, phil seated nora, announcing her the "queen of the revels," which so struck jack's fancy that he gave his hand a little upward jerk, and shouted, "hurray for we!" and then, though of course we oughtn't to have done it, being for ourselves, you know, we every one joined in a "three times three" hurrah! kathie and the little ones got so excited that they fairly yelled, and we had some difficulty in quieting them. when order was restored, phil and felix brought from the closet a large clothes-basket, piled full of neatly tied-up parcels of all sizes, which they placed beside nora. fee then made a sign to phil. "begin!" he whispered. phil struck an attitude, with his hand on his heart, and began, "fair queen!" then stopped, looked astonished, put his hand to his forehead, gazed at the floor and the ceiling, then burst out with:-- "when these you see, fair maid, remember we; as we've remembered you, and given you your due." "_that_ isn't what you were to say, you goose!" exclaimed felix, wrathfully. "that isn't your speech!" "don't talk to me about your old set speeches, when a man can rise to an occasion like _that!_" remarked phil, loftily, straightening up and throwing back the lapels of his coat with a great air. "_poetry!_--d'ye mind that, mr. wegge? the genuine article, and at a moment's notice! at last i've struck my vocation." of course we laughed uproariously; we were in the mood for it, and would have laughed if some one had held up a finger at us. felix then made his speech, expressing our love and wishes for many, many (i believe there were six manys) happy returns of nora's birthday, and he began to hand her her presents, reading out the inscription on each as he did so, she opening them. the first was "nora, with love and birthday wishes from max," and when the wrapper was off, it proved to be a lovely print of von bodenhauser's madonna. max had given nannie a picture on her birthday, and nora was delighted to get one as well. next came smaller gifts from helen vassah, jack, felix, and nannie, and then felix fished up a large, rather bulky parcel, the inscription on which he read very distinctly: "dearest nora, with love from the 'twinsies,'"--that's the name we give to felix and nannie to distinguish them from the younger twins. "why!" exclaimed nora, in surprise, as she took the parcel on her lap, "you have both already given me something, you dear, generous creatures; i'm afraid you've been extravagant. and so nicely done up, too; thank you, thank you very much!" and she kissed them warmly. "oh, that's all right; don't speak of it," said felix, modestly, while nannie began wonderingly, "why, i didn't--" "ought to be something very fine," hastily interrupted phil, "_four_ wrappers!" the next minute there was a shout of laughter from us all as, after carefully unfolding the last paper, nora drew out nurse's work-basket, piled high with innumerable pairs of our stockings and socks which were waiting to be darned! i expected nora would have been provoked, but she only laughed as heartily as the rest of us. it was a fortunate thing she was in such a good humour, for three more times the boys played that joke on her before the basket was emptied. one was her own choicest cup and saucer, "with love from papa;" the next, the drawing-room feather-duster, "a token of appreciation from the family,"--nora _hates_ to dust! and the third, an unfinished sketch which she began months ago, and which was for phil when completed; this was "from her affectionate brother, philip." and they were so cleverly sandwiched in between the real birthday gifts that nora got caught each time, to our great enjoyment. after this we had games, and refreshments were served early on account of the little ones. as soon as they had said good-night we played more games, and then the boys began to get noisy; that's the worst with boys,--at least our boys,--just as soon as they begin to enjoy themselves, it seems as if they _must_ make a noise and get rough. ever since nannie and i had that talk, i've been trying my best to act like a young lady, and this evening i was particularly on my good behaviour; but, oh, it was tiresome! and i could see that the boys didn't know what to make of it,--murray unsworth asked if i didn't feel well, and fee looked very quizzically at me, though i pretended i didn't see him. i was so afraid he'd say something right before that boy! well, as it happened, all my pains went for nothing,--and just through fee's nonsense. murray and i were looking at phil's boxing-gloves,--phil was out of the room,--and as we talked, i slipped on one of the gloves, when felix came up behind me and took hold of my arm. "that's phil opening the door," he said quickly; "let's play a joke on him." and before i had the least idea of what he was going to do, fee had raised my arm and given the person who was entering such a whack on the shoulder with the boxing-glove as whirled him completely round, so that he got in the way of another person who was behind him, and nearly knocked him over. in a moment more we saw that the two persons were papa and a stranger,--a young man! there was an instant's awful pause, broken by a nervous little giggle from jack at the sight of phil--behind papa--with his hands clasped, his knees bent as if in abject terror, and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling. then, settling his glasses--which had been nearly knocked off--straight on his nose, papa looked around at us and asked, "is this the way you welcome your guests, nora?" adding, to me, "take off that glove, betty!" i got awfully red, i know; but before i could say anything felix stepped forward and explained, and nora advanced with a smile, saying, "we are very glad to see you, papa." then papa introduced the young man, and who should he be but max's ward, "the great shad," or, to give him his proper name, chadwick whitcombe! he had expected to meet max at our house, and had waited some time downstairs for him; then, as the evening wore on and max did not appear, papa had thought it best to himself bring him up and introduce him to us. of course we all looked at him,--and the more so that he isn't at all like what we had any of us expected. in the first place, though max says he's just nineteen, he acts as if he were years older than that, and altogether he is different to any of the boys we've ever known. he's not quite so tall as fee, though he wears very high heels on his boots; and his features are so delicate, his complexion so pink and white, that in spite of a tiny moustache, which he's very fond of caressing, he looks a great deal more like a girl than a boy. his hair is as yellow as mädel's; it's wavy like a girl's, and he wears it long and parted in the middle; and his eyes are large and very blue,--phil says they are "languishing," and he and felix have given him another nick-name of "lydia languish." he wore evening clothes, with a white flower in his buttonhole, and there were diamond studs in the bosom of his shirt, and a diamond ring on one of his fingers. when papa introduced him, he put his heels together and made us three very low and graceful bows, saying, in a voice just like a girl's, and with a smile that showed his white teeth, "i am _very_ happy to--aw--meet you!" [illustration: "'aw!'"] after looking at the presents, which, minus the jokes, were ranged on a table, and saying a few words, papa went away. i have an idea that he noticed the difference between this delicate dresden-china young man and our own fun-loving boys, and rather dreaded leaving the stranger to our devices; for at the door he laid his hand on phil's shoulder and said, "remember, no more jokes to-night, phil." and with a look of injured innocence that almost upset felix and me, phil answered, "why, no, sir, _certainly_ not." we were rather quiet at first after papa went away; then phil nudged nannie, with the whisper: "go talk to him; i don't know what to say to such a dude;" while felix chimed in, in the same low voice, "ask him if he puts his hair up in papers, nights,--or get betty to ask him." but i edged away quickly, and joined murray and helen at the other side of the room. i was determined i would get into no more mischief. but they needn't have troubled themselves,--chad didn't seem one bit embarrassed: he just drew a chair to nora's side and began talking to her as easily as if he had known her all his life; and in a little while nannie got the boys over to the piano and singing songs with rousing choruses, which they always enjoy. i think she did it this time, though, to divert their attention from the new-comer, for they were just ready to bubble over at the way he talked; even hilliard's sleepy eyes were twinkling with sly merriment. when chad talks he is, as murray puts it, "too awfully english, you know, for anything," though he was born and has lived most of his life in america; and he pronounces his words in the most affected way. altogether, he is awfully affected; you should see the air with which he flirts his handkerchief out of his pocket, his mincing steps, and the bored, you-can't-teach-me-anything expression of his face. "i've--aw--really been very busy since my return," he told nora, in that high-pitched, affected voice of his. "i've--aw--moved into bachelor quarters, and been--aw--having my apartments decorated and furnished. have my own ideahs, you know, and--aw--'m having 'em carried out--all in blue--effect will be--aw--really very fine. i've--aw--brought back pictures and bric-à-brac and--aw--curios of all descriptions, and now--aw--'ll turn 'em to good account. awful job, you know--expect to work like a slave--these--aw--so-called decorators over here have such abominable taste! but the effect will be unique--of that--aw--'m sure." "why, aren't you going to school--i mean college?" phil turned round in the middle of a chorus to ask bluntly. "i--aw--have no intention of it," answered chad, lounging off in his chair and stroking his baby moustache. "oh, i see: your education's finished," said phil, with that innocent expression on his face that we know means mischief; but before he could say another word, helen vassah cried out, "oh, phil, here's our favourite duet; you must sing it with me," and nannie struck up an unusually loud accompaniment. before the evening was over, we made up our minds that chad was the silliest, most conceited creature; he did nothing but talk of himself and his possessions, and in the most lordly way imaginable. no matter what subject was introduced, he'd go right back to the one thing that seemed to interest him,--himself. he lounged back in his chair and made not the slightest effort to join in the entertainment. in fact, nora was the only person he honoured with any notice; and while we all think him very unmannerly, she--would you believe it!--likes him. coming over later in the evening to the corner of the room where helen, fee, jack and i were, she said to helen, "isn't he nice? did you see the way he offered me his arm to the piano? so polite, and different from the generality of boys,--don't you think so?" "yes," helen said, with a smile, "he is quite unlike any of the boys we know; who _does_ he look like, nora? we all see a likeness, but can't think to whom." "oh, i know, i've got it, i know," cried jack, excitedly; "he looks (except that he hasn't got on knee-breeches and lace ruffles) just like that picture max gave you, felix,--don't you remember?--with a lace handkerchief in one hand and a snuff-box in the other. oh, you _know_,--the french marquis--" "you're right, jack,--so it is; he does look like 'monsieur le marquis,'" nora said, glancing at chad. "he _has_ an aristocratic face,--'monsieur le marquis.'" [illustration: "here is the sketch."] "monsieur le don_key_ would be a more suitable name," exclaimed fee, while helen, jack, and i laughed. "if you'd seen how absurd he looked when he clicked his heels together and offered you his arm, you would know mine is the title that best suits him. i declare i'll make a sketch of you both from memory; it was too rich to be lost." catching up a blank book, he began to sketch rapidly. nora turned away, laughing; but we three remained, looking over fee's shoulder, criticising and offering suggestions, until it was finished. here is the sketch: it's pretty good of nora, but of course it's a caricature of chad. about a quarter to ten the "party" broke up. chad was the first to go; as he rose to say good-night, i heard nannie whisper to phil: "phil, you'll have to see him out. fee can't go all the way downstairs and then up again,--it's too much for him,--and jack is too young; anyway, it is your place as the eldest." "little snob!" said phil, savagely. "i'd like to take him down by way of the banisters,--just give him one shove, and let him fly." "he _is_ a snob," admitted nannie, "but he is also max's ward, and that entitles him to some consideration from us; and remember, too, what max said,--that he has knocked about the world ever since he was a little fellow: that would account for much. you know, phil, we've had our home and one another and dear mamma; and besides, you wouldn't want to spoil nonie's birthday. do treat him civilly! will you?" "well, i'll try," phil answered, making a wry face; "but if he begins any of his 'aw--aw,' on the way down, i'll not answer for the consequences." bending low over nora's hand, chad murmured something of which we only heard "chawming evening--pleasure of meeting you--max again," then, bowing twice to the rest of the company, he took his departure. "i've enjoyed myself immensely," hilliard said, as he bade good-night; then he added to me, "i never knew before how interesting a large family could be,--you have such fun among yourselves; and i think it is so kind of you all to let me come over and share your good times." then murray and helen made their adieux, and all went away together. phil came racing back to the schoolroom after seeing them out. "well," he said breathlessly, taking a seat on the edge of the big table, "well, everything went off all right; quite a success, wasn't it? barring the great shad,--he was no addition to our party. i'm awfully sorry he's such a cad; for max's sake i'd have liked to be nice to him." "you are hard on him, phil," nora said. "he may be a little conceited, but i think he's not at all a bad fellow; now see if you don't like him better after you get to know him." "not at all a bad fellow!" repeated felix, sharply. "well, you may think so, but i don't. i agree with phil,--he _is_ a cad! did you see the expression of his face as he looked around our shabby old schoolroom, and took in the simple birthday refreshments? he didn't even take the trouble to hide his contempt for our poverty and childishness. you may think that's like a gentleman, but i do not." "he wouldn't touch the cake, and only took a glass of water," i volunteered at this point. "you here?" cried nora, wheeling round on me, "and jack? it's high time you two were in bed." then she went on: "our appetites are equal to anything; but not everybody dotes on home-made cookies and tough sponge cake. _i_ found max's ward a very polite young gentleman, a pleasant change from the rough, unmannerly boys one usually has to put up with. betty and jack, _are_ you going to bed, or not? why don't you speak to them, nannie?" "don't be cross to them," whispered nannie to her; "it's your birthday, you know. come, betty; come, jack, let's go off together. i'm tired and sleepy, too." rather unwillingly we bade good-night and went downstairs with nannie. as the schoolroom door closed behind us, i heard felix say, with a sharp insistence unusual to him, and bringing his hand down on the table to emphasise his words, "i _don't_ like that fellow! i _don't_ like him, and i wish he hadn't come here!" x. in the schoolroom. told by felix. "felix," said the _pater_, "your two elder sisters are to go with me on thursday afternoon to mrs. blackwood's reception, and i should like you to accompany us; phil went the last time--" he stopped abruptly, with a stifled sigh, and began hastily turning over the leaves of the book which lay open before him on his desk. i knew why he sighed; i remembered well who had been with him the last time he attended a reception at mrs. blackwood's; the awful, aching longing that i have so often to fight down has taught me something of what my father must suffer. if i could only have expressed what was in my heart! but all i could manage to get out was, "very well, sir," and my voice sounded so cold and indifferent that i was ashamed. i'm not afraid of the _pater_,--i can talk easily enough to him on ordinary subjects; but when it comes to anything about which i feel very deeply, nannie is the only person to whom i can bear to speak, now that _she_ is gone. and even to nannie i can't say much; i wish i could,--it would be a relief sometimes. i envy the others that they can talk of--mother; it is a comfort to me to listen, but it cuts me to the heart to even say her name. so this afternoon i sat quietly at nannie's table, and went on sorting the references i had been making for the fetich, until my father got up from his desk and began pacing up and down the study floor, with his hands clasped behind his back. his head was bent forward, and he had evidently entirely forgotten that i was in the room; for he sighed heavily several times, and then, with a sudden straightening of his whole body, as if in acute physical pain, he threw back his head, and a low, quivering "_a-a-h!_" that was like a groan, broke from his lips. an iron hand seemed clutching my throat, and i could hardly see for the blur across my eyes, as i crept out of the room and closed the door softly. i sat on the steps for a few moments, then--for i had forgotten my cane in the study--went slowly upstairs, and that gave me a chance to recover myself before i reached the schoolroom; though perhaps nannie noticed something unusual,--my twinnie's eyes are so sharp, and her heart is so tender,--for it seemed to me that her voice was very loving as she said, pushing forward our big old rocker as soon as i entered the room: "you naughty fee! you've come up without your cane; you must be tired. sit here and get rested." [illustration: "alan, on his fiery steed."] i _was_ tired,--unusually so,--and was glad to get into the chair. it was after school hours, and the clan was in full force. nora was seated at my easel, humming "a media noche," and trying to copy her birthday picture; betty and jack were fencing,--at least, betty was making furious lunges at jack, which he was mainly occupied in dodging, while every now and then a vehement protest was heard, such as, "now, betty, look out! that was my head," or, "that came within an inch of my nose--i _do_ wish you'd be careful!" kathie and the twins were playing house, holding lively conversations in a high key, while alan paid them repeated visits, prancing around the room, and to their door, on a broomstick, which was his fiery steed, and to control which required both voice and whip; nannie was hunting through our pile of violin music for a certain duet to play with max when he got home; and in the midst of all the noise phil lay on the sofa, his head nearly level with the seat, and his long legs extended over the arm, reading virgil aloud. that's his way of studying,--a most annoying one to a nervous person!--and, as the noise around him increases or decreases, so he raises or lowers his voice. as may be easily understood, there are times when he fairly roars. the news of the reception had preceded me, and as i came in phil reared his head in such a comical way to speak to me that betty instantly declared that he looked like a turtle. "so you're booked for the blackwood tea-fight," he said. "well, old man, my sympathy for you is only equalled by my thankfulness that i am not the victim. take my advice,--i've been there several times, you know, and you haven't,--fortify the inner man before you go. it's a very mild orgy,--a thimbleful of chocolate and one macaroon are all you'll get,--and coming between luncheon and dinner, i'm afraid you'll feel--as i did--as if you'd like to fall on the table and eat up all that's on it." his head fell back, and he resumed his reading, the book resting upright on his chest. "people are not supposed to gorge themselves at an afternoon reception," remarked nora, before i could get a word in. "it is--" "'a feast of reason and a flow of soul,'" finished nannie, smiling, "though i'm sure dear old mrs. blackwood would willingly have given you a pound or two of macaroons and a whole pitcher full of chocolate, had she known you were hungry." "oh, i'm not saying a word against her in particular; she's a first-rate old party," commenced phil, but he was instantly interrupted. "phil, you are positively vulgar," cried nora, in a tone of disgust. "don't speak of our dear old friend in that way, phil; it isn't nice," said nannie. "well, now, here's a queer thing," remarked phil, in an argumentative tone. "if i'd said mrs. blackwood was 'a host in herself,' it would have been considered a delicate compliment; and yet when i call her a 'party,' which certainly means a host, you two jump on me. there's no accounting for the eccentricities of the feminine character." then, as his head sank back, "i do believe somebody's been pulling the feathers out of this sofa pillow; there can't be two dozen left in it. i suppose betty's been making an indian head-dress for herself. just poke that history under my head, will you, jack? or i'll certainly get rush of blood to the brain. there, that's better! why so silent, most noble felix?" with a sidelong glance at me after settling himself. "art filled with fears for thursday's function?" usually i enjoy phil's nonsense, and talk as much of it as he does; but somehow i didn't feel in the mood for it this afternoon. one reason may have been because of the dreadfully tired feeling that had come over me since entering the schoolroom: it was really an effort for me to answer him; i felt as if i wanted only to be let alone, and i realised, without being able to control it, that my voice was very irritable as i said briefly, "one has got to be silent when you begin to gabble." phil reared his head again, and looked at me. "whew!" he whistled, "aren't we spicy this afternoon!" nannie immediately rushed into conversation. "mrs. blackwood wrote papa that she and mr. blackwood had just received some very rare old books from europe," she said, "among them a chaucer,--and beside that, a charming corot; so, fee, both you and papa will have something to enjoy, while nora and i are exchanging small-talk." "oh, that's why papa was so willing to go to the reception," nora remarked, with her usual brilliancy. "i might have known there was something like that about it." [illustration: "'fee, dear,' she said in an undertone, 'don't you feel well? tell me.'"] willing! i thought of what had happened in the study that afternoon--poor old _pater_! i felt like saying something sharp to miss nora, but it was actually too much trouble to speak; i was so tired, and the chair was so comfortable, that i did not want even to think of any exertion. by this time nannie had found her duet, and she came and stood by my chair, looking anxiously at me. "fee, dear," she said in an undertone, "don't you feel well? tell me." her fingers stole up and gently stroked the hair behind my ear. "tell me, fee," she pleaded. "i only want--to be let alone," i said, but not unkindly. i didn't mean to be disagreeable to her, and i think she understood,--she is so quick of comprehension! at this moment there was an outcry from one of the fencers. "if you aren't the meanest girl i know!" cried jack. "you don't seem to care how much you hurt a person. i won't play another minute, now, then!" and his stick rattled on the floor. "she's given me a horrid poke in the ribs," he said, coming over to nannie, with his hand pressed to his side. "i tell you now, it hurts; and she doesn't care a rap,--rough thing!" betty was laughing immoderately. "poor wounded warrior!" she mocked; "he's taken his 'death of danger' ever since we began. what a baby you are, jack! i'd just like to give you something to make a fuss about. ho, there! defend thyself, sir knight." she bore down on him with upraised stick, but jack dodged behind nannie. "now stop, i tell you, betty!" he cried sharply. "go away! i'm not playing; you're too disagreeable." "oh, come, miss elizabeth, do behave yourself," said nannie. but betty kept dancing around jack, and making thrusts at him. "hie thee hither, my squires," she called to the younger boys. "come on, sir paul, come on, sir alan, and we'll capture this recreant knight." "you ought to be sent to boarding-school, where you'd be _made_ to behave yourself!" "fair play, elizabeth; don't hurt our rosebud;" and "i'd just like to see 'em try it," came simultaneously from nora, phil, and jack. but the "squires" had no intention of interfering; they had pressing affairs of their own to look after. one of the dolls having suddenly developed a complication of diseases,--measles, scarlet fever, and whooping cough,--the heads of the household were after the doctor in hot haste. sir paul had mounted the "charger," and was urging him on at his highest speed, while sir alan came dashing toward us on his broomstick, thrashing his steed without mercy, and shouting, "gee up, horsie, _g-e-e_ up!" at the top of his voice. at this juncture the door opened, and in stepped nurse. "lors-a-me! bedlam let loose!" she exclaimed, putting up her hands and looking as surprised as if this noisy state of things were not of daily occurrence. "master felix, your pa'd like to see you 'bout some referumces,--or something like that. come, children, it's time to get ready for your dinner. oh, come now,--i ain't got no time to waste; to-morrow you c'n get the doctor--come!" as i sat up and took hold of the arms of the rocker, as a preliminary to rising, nannie said, coaxingly: "mayn't i go down and explain to papa about those references? you could tell me, you know, fee. then you could go to your room and lie down for a little while before dinner,--you look so tired." "i _am_ tired," i answered slowly, "awfully tired. and i really don't know why i should feel so. i've not done any more or as much as usual to-day. no, nan, i think i'll go down; but first i'll get ready for dinner, and that will spare another trip up and down the stairs. i'll go to bed early to-night, and that'll make me all right to-morrow." so saying, i stood up and took a step forward; just then alan, who had escaped from nurse and taken another gallop around the room, came kicking and prancing up on his restive steed. he rushed by with a great flourish, whirling the end of the broomstick as he got near me; nurse made a dive at him, and the next moment i was in a heap on the floor! i wasn't hurt, except for a sharp rap on one elbow, and my first impulse was to call out and reassure the family, for they were frightened; but though i could hear all that went on,--in a far-off way, as if i were in a dream,--to my great surprise i found that i could neither move nor speak, nor even open my eyes! like a flash, nannie was beside me on the floor, crying, "oh, _fee!_ are you hurt?" and trying to slip her little hands under my shoulder. nora and betty immediately began scolding alan, who protested vehemently, "i _didn't_ hit him; no, i _didn't_, truly i didn't." i heard jack's nervous demand, "oh, do, somebody, tell me what to do for him!" and phil's startled exclamation, "great cæsar's ghost!" and the thud with which his virgil fell on the floor. then i felt his strong arms under me, and i was lifted and laid on the sofa. "are you hurt, old fellow? are you, fee?" phil asked anxiously, bending over me. "mebbe he's faint like; open the window, master phil! children, _don't_ crowd round your brother so," said nurse. "there, now, fan him, an' i'll bring some water." as she turned away i heard her say,--nurse never can whisper,--"i don't like his looks; go tell your pa, master phil, an' ask him if you can run for the doctor." nannie's fingers tightened round my hand. "o-o-h, my _dear_!" she whispered. the quiver in her voice told me that she, too, had heard nurse's remark, and that she was frightened,--my little twinnie! i think she would willingly any time suffer pain to spare me. i longed to comfort her, to tell them all that i was not at all hurt, that i had no pain whatever,--even the backache, which is my almost daily companion, having left me since the fall,--yet the terrible languor which controlled me seemed almost too great to be overcome. then i thought of poor nannie, and the _pater_, and the doctor, and the beastly fussing and restrictions i'd have to endure, and with a desperate effort--for my tongue really felt heavy--i managed to get out, "i'm--not--hurt. don't--need--doctor." nannie gave a little gasp when i spoke, and catching my two hands in hers, kissed them. "you old humbug!" cried phil, gaily,--i could hear the note of relief in his voice; "i do believe you've been shamming to give us a scare. open your eyes this minute." and then i found that i could raise my lids and look at the dear faces gathered about me. "sure you feel all right, master felix?" nurse asked, eyeing me closely. "sure," i answered slowly; "only tired." "well, if it's only tired you are, the best place is bed, an' we'll not send for the doctor," she said; and i made no objection, though usually i hate to go to bed in the day-time. not having inherited the good physique of the family, i've spent more days in bed and on the sofa than i'd be willing to count, and i'm not anxious for more. still i would rather do that now than have the doctor sent for, so without demur i let phil carry me down to my room, and undress and put me to bed. what wouldn't i give to be as strong as he is! and he's gentle with it; sometimes he provokes me by the way he watches and takes care of me,--as if i were so fragile i'd go to pieces at a knock,--though in a way i like it, too, and he doesn't mean to rub it in. he has an idea that i care less for him than he does for me, because i am so unfortunately constituted that i can't express what i feel; but--if he only knew it--life to me wouldn't be worth the living without him and nannie,--dear old lion-heart! sometimes i wonder if he will always be as good to me, and care as much; i mean when he gets older, and goes more among people, and they find out what a fine fellow he is, and what jolly company. he declares now that i'm the good company; but _i_ know that my good spirits are more dependent on his than his on mine. in our studies i'm the quicker,--he doesn't love books as i do,--but he is so kindly and brave and bright and merry, that i'd defy anybody not to like him. but--though he thinks he is awfully sharp--phil is one of the kind that will be imposed upon; he's so honest and straightforward himself that he thinks everybody else is also, and i'm constantly afraid that some fellow or other that he doesn't see through'll get hold of him and get him into mischief. this was one of the reasons why i was so awfully disappointed at not going to college; phil and i've been together all our lives, and i hated mortally to have him go off alone and meet people, and make friends there that i would never know. he really needs me--my cooler judgment, i mean--just as much as i ever need his protecting strength. i'm almost sure that _she_ thought so, too, for whenever college was spoken of she would say, "you must go at the same time, felix, and help him;" and once she added, "help him in _everything_," and i understood what she meant. it won't always be so: i think that by and by, when phil gets to be a man, he'll have more judgment; and now it's only because he's so true himself, and so simple-hearted. i really believe i love him all the better for these traits, though sometimes, when i get provoked, i tell him that he is gullible, and a second dr. primrose. when i found that i couldn't possibly go to college, it was a great relief to know that murray unsworth was there, and that they'd be together. murray's an a fellow! but i must confess that so far phil hasn't changed at all; he depends on me and seems to like to be with me just as much as ever. and now comes along that snob chad. i _don't_ like that fellow, and i'll be furious if he gets intimate with phil. phil didn't like him at all at first, but i can see--though he won't admit it--that chad is worming himself into his good graces. he's found out that phil is first-rate company, and now he is trying to be very friendly. max was called out of town on the evening of nora's birthday, and he didn't get back for some time; but that has not prevented monsieur le don_key_ from coming here again and again. he had the assurance to send his card up to nora the second time he called,--for her to go down to the drawing-room and entertain him alone! just like his impudence! but of course miss marston would not let nora go, and instead, the _pater_ walked in, and squelched mr. "shad." we don't know what father said, but the next time chad appeared he found the schoolroom good enough for him; and now, as i said, he is trying to be very friendly with phil. i don't want him to get intimate with phil; i dread it, for i have a conviction he's not the sort of fellow that it will do anybody any good to know. from what he has told nora, it seems that chad's father was a miner who "struck a bonanza," as he expresses it, and made a great deal of money; then, just as he was ready to enjoy the fortune, he and his wife were killed in a railroad disaster, leaving chad, who was the only child, to the guardianship of a fellow miner--another "bonanza" man--and max, whose only acquaintance with mr. whitcomb, by the way, had been in successfully conducting a law case for him. the other guardian took the boy all over the united states, and then to europe, letting him, i fancy, do as he pleased,--study or not as suited his own will,--with the result that chad is an ignorant, vulgar, conceited cad, with the merest veneering of refinement, who cares for no one but himself, and whose sole standard for everything and every one is that of money. when the other guardian died, of course max had to assume the charge of chad,--who'll not be of age for nearly two years,--though i should think he must be a serious trial, for max is so thoroughly nice himself, so honourable and clever and refined, that this affected, snobbish little dresden-china-young-man, as betty calls him, must jar on him in every way, though perhaps chad is on his best behaviour with his guardian. chad affects to be quite a man of the world, talks a great deal about his "bachelor quarters" and the theatres; he drinks and smokes, and i've heard him swear; he considers all this the proper thing for young fellows of our age, and more than once he has sneered at phil and me as "behind the times." he calls murray "the innocent," though i've snubbed him for it pretty sharply, and whenever he gets a chance, he makes fun of hilliard's slow ways, when old hill is worth a dozen or two of such blowers as he. i almost wish murray'd give the bediamonded cad a thrashing,--only that the fellow's not worth his touching. phil and i neither drink nor smoke; we've never spoken about it to each other, but we know that our--mother--would not have liked us to do any of these things, so we let them alone. i think chad knows that i've no liking for him,--to put it mildly,--and that he returns the compliment. i try not to quarrel with him; in fact,--though it goes awfully against the grain,--i make an effort to be civil, so as to see, hear, and know all that goes on between himself and phil, and to be able to guard phil from him without phil's knowing it. i've said a few things to warn phil; but i had to be careful, for he's such an old quixote that, if he thought i was particularly down on chad, he'd begin to take up the cudgels for him. but he _sha'n't_ get hold of phil, i declare he sha'n't,--not as long as i am here. i wish to goodness he hadn't ever come near us! nannie is the only one to whom i've said anything of my fear, and she laughs it away. she says phil is the last person in the world to fall in with a fellow like chad; but i'm not so sure of that, for chad can be entertaining enough when he chooses to be, telling of his life in california and the wild west, and in europe. i know he has invited phil to come to his rooms, and twice he has taken him off for a long walk. phil _loves_ to walk, with long, swinging strides, that, try to keep up as i may, wear me out before we've gone many blocks, even with the support of his arm. so there i can't be with him. _she_ used to say that it was best to recognise one's limitations, and to respect them: i recognise mine only too well,--i've _got_ to; but instead of respecting, i abhor them, and am always striving to get beyond them. with all the strength of soul that is in me i try to be patient and contented--to accept myself; but now that she has gone, only god and i know the miserable failure i make of it day after day. i want to do so much; i want to amount to something in the world, to have advantages for study and improvement, and to fit myself to mix with wise men by and by,--clever men and scholars,--and to hold my own among them. i could do it, i feel i could, if only i had the opportunity for study, and the health to improve it; this isn't conceit,--_she_ knew that,--but a cool, calm gauging of the sort of ability that i know i have. we--she and i--used to plan great things that i was to do when i went to college; when i finished college, and went into the world, i was to become a famous lawyer,--"good, wise, and great, my son felix," she used to say, with a look in her eyes that always stirred me to more and better efforts. she helped me in every way, and it was a delight to learn, in spite of the drawback of ill-health. but now all is changed: she is gone, there is no prospect whatever of my getting to college, and somehow, lately, this miserable old back of mine seems to be getting to be a wetter and wetter blanket than ever on my ambition. ah, if i but had a physique like phil's! she used to say, "remember always, felix, that your fine mind is a gift from god, a responsibility given you by him." oh, why, then, did he not give me a body to match? all things are possible to him; he could have done so. when i was a little fellow i used to pray most earnestly that god would let me outgrow this lameness and be strong like other boys; but we had a talk about it,--just before she went away,--and ever since then i have asked only to be patient and contented. but with all the trying, it is _very_ hard to say truthfully that i am thankful for my creation. i have never spoken of this to nannie, but perhaps, with that quick intuition which makes her such a blessing to us, she guesses it; for only last sunday, in church, when we came to that part in the general thanksgiving, she snuggled closer to me as we knelt, and gave my hand a quick, warm little squeeze, as if to tell me that she was glad of my "creation and preservation." nannie comforts me more than i can ever express to her; she has many a time given me courage when my spirits were at a very low ebb. xi. an afternoon reception. told by felix. though i felt all right the next day, to please nurse i did not get up; but on wednesday i did. at first my legs were very shaky, even for me: my cane was not enough; i had to hold on to the furniture besides to make my way about the room. but gradually that wore away, and by afternoon i was quite as well as usual; so on thursday we went to the reception in the order first planned. the blackwoods live in a large old house, and by the time we got there--we were rather late--the parlours were quite crowded. i think the _pater_ was a little nervous as we went up the palm-lined staircase; he hates an affair of this kind, and only the rare editions and a strong dislike to hurting the feelings of his old friends could have induced him to attend it. he kept nannie close beside him, nora and i following behind. mrs. blackwood is a fine-looking old lady, with beautiful white hair, which she wears turned straight off her face; she gave us a warm welcome, and after walking father through the rooms, and introducing him to a number of people,--not one of whom he would have recognised five minutes after!--and after showing us the corot, which is a _beauty!_ she led the way to the library. it was a cosy room, for all it was so large. the walls were lined with books; a desk stood near one of the windows; some tables--on which were books, photos, and several handsome glass and china bowls filled with flowers--and a variety of comfortable chairs were scattered about; in a space between the book-shelves, and thrown into bold relief by the dark portière behind it, was an exquisite marble laocoön, and in the bay-window the beautiful venus de milo. [illustration: "in the bay-window."] i should have enjoyed staying there, but we'd only been in a short while when mrs. blackwood's daughter came and carried us younger ones off to the drawing-room again. in vain nannie and i politely protested that we should rather stay in the library; mrs. endicott was not to be resisted. "your father and my mother enjoy looking at books more than anything else," she said pleasantly, as we made our reluctant way back; "but i know that young people like to be where there are life and gaiety,--and you haven't even had a cup of chocolate. come this way, and i'll introduce you to miss devereaux." she piloted us rapidly through the crowd to the upper end of the room, where at a table sat a young lady pouring chocolate, to whom she introduced us. taking my "thimbleful" of chocolate, i retreated to a corner where i could sit and sip and take observations unobserved. to begin with, i could not but notice the difference in my two sisters. nannie had found a place on a lounge near the tea-table, and was gazing about her with the deepest interest,--her brown eyes all a-shine, the faintest ripple of a smile stirring her lips; to my eyes she looked very sweet! nora stood, cup in hand, sipping her chocolate, and chatting as easily to miss devereaux and the different ones who came up as if she were in the habit of going to afternoon receptions every day in the week. i saw people look and look again at her, and it didn't surprise me, for nora is a stunner, and no mistake. as phil says, she carries herself as if she owned the whole earth, and she is self-possessed to a degree that is a constant surprise to us. if she weren't always so dead sure that she is right and everybody else wrong, we'd all think a great deal more of her; but as she is, one feels it a positive duty to snub her sometimes. we are proud of nora's beauty, but she's the very last one we'd any of us go to for comfort or in a strait,--why, betty'd be better, for all she's so fly-away and blunt. miss devereaux was handsome, too: she was large and statuesque, with beautifully moulded throat and arms, and hair which rippled like that of my poor old plaster juno at home,--in fact, she suggested to my mind some greek goddess dressed up in silk and lace; i quite enjoyed looking at her, and would have liked to make a sketch of her. but she wasn't as nice as she looked; in her way she was as snobbish as is chad. a tall, very richly dressed woman was brought up and introduced; she wore enormous diamond ear-rings, and her manner was even more condescending than that of the young goddess herself. she pulled forward a chair, completely barring the way to the table, and, seating herself, stirred her chocolate languidly. miss devereaux was all attention; she offered almost everything on the table, and listened with the deepest interest while the diamond lady talked loudly and impressively of _her_ last afternoon reception,--the distinguished people who were present, and what the music and refreshments cost. then, suddenly remembering that she was "due at one of 'mrs. judge' somebody's receptions,--they were always _alagant_ affairs,"--the diamond lady put down her cup, from which she had barely taken a sip or two, and with a bow, and what phil calls "a galvanised smile," sailed off to parts unknown. "such a charming woman!" murmured the goddess to nannie. before nannie could answer, there was a new claimant for refreshments,--a slender, rather spare little woman this time, dressed in a severely plain black gown; her hair was parted and pulled tightly away from her face; her bonnet was a good deal plainer and uglier than anything that nurse has ever had,--and she has rather distinguished herself in that line. this little woman was evidently not used to receptions and young goddesses. she seated herself on the extreme edge of the chair the diamond lady had just vacated, and after taking off her gloves, and laying them across her lap, she accepted her chocolate and cake with a deprecating air, as if apologising for the trouble she was causing. "oh, thank you, _thank_ you," she said gratefully; "you are _very_ kind." the young goddess gave her a haughty stare, and then assumed a bored expression that i could see made the poor little woman nervous. she stirred her chocolate violently, and drank half of the cupful at a draught; then, evidently considering it her duty to make conversation, she remarked, "didn't we have an interesting address yesterday at the missions house?" she glanced at miss devereaux as she spoke. "ah--indeed!" answered that young person, with another haughty glare that almost overcame the little woman. she got very red, and in her agitation drained her cup, and sat holding it. she looked thoroughly uncomfortable. i'm not fond of addressing strangers, but i couldn't stand that sort of treatment any longer, and got on my feet with the desperate intention of immediately starting a lively conversation with this particular stranger, without regard to miss devereaux. but nannie was ahead of me; bending forward, she said in her friendliest tone,--and nancy's friendliest tone is worth hearing, i tell you,--"i read of it in the papers; it must have been _very_ interesting." the little woman's look of gratitude was positively pathetic. [illustration: "'it must have been _very_ interesting.'"] "yes, it was, _very_ fine!" she said,--bending forward, and jerking her sentences out nervously,--"so many people, and such splendid speakers! i wish mrs. blackwood'd been there!" then, waxing confidential, she went on in a lower key: "she and i used to be girls together,--ages ago. then her folks took her to europe to finish her education,--some people set such store by foreign education! we didn't meet again--though i heard of her off and on--till here, lately, when i came to new york to live. of course--for old times' sake--i looked her up and called,--handsome house, isn't it? seems like some people have everything,"--with a short sigh that sounded almost like a snort,--"but i must say tilly isn't a bit stuck up over it,--never was. say, who's _she_?" a quick sidelong motion of eyes and thumb in miss devereaux's direction gave point to this last question. "i think her name--" began nannie, but she was interrupted by a loud crash which seemed to come from one of the adjoining rooms. in an instant my twin was on her feet: "oh, _felix_!" she cried breathlessly, "that came from the library! papa has knocked over something!" the _pater_ has an absent-minded way of upsetting things, and nannie's tone carried conviction with it; so, as fast as i could, i followed in her wake as she threaded her way swiftly through the crowded room. nora raised her eyebrows with an air of mock resignation. "no use our _all_ going," she said in an undertone as i went past her, and resumed her conversation with the gentleman to whom she had been talking. some people had collected in the doorway of the library by the time i got there, and i was delayed a minute or two in getting into the room; then i saw, at one glance, that our worst fears were realised. there stood my father, minus his spectacles, peering about him with a most anxious, bewildered expression on his face,--i was struck with how ill he looked! and around him on the polished floor lay the fragments of one of the doulton bowls! the small table on which it had stood was-overturned, flowers were scattered in every direction, and among the ruins shone my father's glasses, broken in several pieces. nannie went straight to the _pater's_ side and took his hand. "felix and i are here, papa; what can we do for you?" she said. the colour was in her face; i know she felt embarrassed, but her voice was quite calm. my father screwed up his eyes in a vain attempt to see the extent of the mischief: "i--i think--i think, my dear, that i've broken something," he said. at which very obvious statement there was a sound of smothered laughter at the door. nannie's colour deepened, and i believe i muttered something about finding mrs. blackwood; to tell the truth, i was so rattled--between sympathy for the _pater_ and embarrassment at the accident--that i hardly knew what i was saying, but my father caught at it. "yes, yes," he said nervously, "i must speak to our hostess; i must apologise for my awkwardness. ask mrs. blackwood if she will be kind enough to step here, felix--or stay, i will go to her." "i'll find mrs. blackwood for you," volunteered one of the bystanders; but at that moment the little crowd at the door parted and in came mrs. blackwood, and who should be behind her but _max_! i was delighted to see him. i felt that we were all right then, for max always knows what to do; and i think nannie felt as relieved as i did, for she gave a glad little cry as she held out her hand. then she turned as red as a rose,--i suppose she suddenly realised how many people were looking at her; but evidently max didn't mind them in the least, for he held on to nannie's hand, and smiled, and looked at her just as kindly as if we were at home,--max likes us all, but nannie has always been his favourite. in the mean time mrs. blackwood was trying, with exquisite tact, to make my father feel less uncomfortable. "it was the most absurd place to put a bowl of flowers," she asserted cheerfully, "on so slight a table, and so near the book-shelves. i've always declared that an accident would occur; now i can say, 'i told you so!' and that's such a satisfaction to a woman, you know." she laughed merrily, but the _pater_ still looked troubled. "it was a great piece of carelessness on my part," he repeated mournfully, for about the fifth time. "i stood looking over a volume i had taken from the shelf,--that, i am thankful to know, has not been injured" (with a hasty glance at the book still tightly clasped in his left hand),--"and becoming interested, i presume i forgot where i was, and--and leaned too heavily against the table. it gave way, and--this ruin is the result! i--i--cannot express to you how i regret the accident." "_don't_ be troubled over it, dear friend, _please_ don't," mrs. blackwood urged. "nothing is broken but the bowl, and that may have been cracked before,--it seems to me that one of them was; let us rather rejoice that you were not hurt by your fall, for _that_ would indeed have been a serious matter. now i'm sure you want to resume looking over that 'abbé marité;' isn't it quaint? and perhaps among mr. blackwood's glasses we may be able to find a pair that would suit your eyes for the nonce. i know how perfectly lost one feels without one's 'second eyes.' shall we make the selection? come, felix and nannie,--you, too, max,--and help us get the right focus. oh, please don't speak of going, mr. rose." chatting pleasantly to divert my father's mind from the accident, mrs. blackwood led us into her husband's smoking-room, where from his collection of spectacles and eyeglasses my father made a selection which enabled him to finish the "abbé," and soon after that to get home with some degree of comfort. there were no more _contretemps_ that afternoon, i am thankful to say; max went home and dined with us. he was in fine spirits,--so glad to get home again, he said,--and made even the _pater_ smile over a description of what he calls his "adventures in the far west." with the exception of a short visit in the study, he spent the evening with us in the schoolroom, hearing all that has happened to us since he went away, and playing violin and piano duets with nannie and me. i intended to have had a talk with max about chad, but there was no opportunity on this evening; and besides, he looked so pleased when nora said she thought that chad was "nice"--and she claims to be so _very_ fastidious! i can't understand it--that i concluded i'd wait until another time to air my opinion. i noticed that phil didn't say anything for or against chad: all the same, _i_ shall speak, just as soon as i can get max alone; for, if he doesn't know it already, he ought to be told the sort of individual his ward is. as far as i'm personally concerned, i'd put up with the fellow rather than trouble max, but i've got to think of phil. after max had taken his departure, and betty and jack had been walked off to bed, we four older ones sat talking for a few minutes. phil, as usual, sat on the edge of the schoolroom table. "well, you three gay and festive creatures," he said, with a comprehensive wave of his hand toward us, "what's your true and honest opinion of the afternoon's tea-fight, politely termed 'reception'? you needn't all speak at once, you know." "thanks awfully for the information," laughed nora, making him a very graceful and sweeping bow. "well, except for the unhappy _quart d'heure_ that papa gave us, i enjoyed the reception immensely. oh, i'd _love_ to be out in society," she said, with sparkling eyes, "and meet lots of people, and go to balls and receptions and all those affairs every day of my life. that's what _i_ call living,--not this stupid, humdrum school life; and i 'll have them all, too, some day, see if i don't," she ended, with a toss of her head and a little conscious laugh. nora knows she's pretty; that's one of the things that spoil her. phil eyed her severely, wrinkling up his brows. "eleanor, my love," he remarked, with his most fatherly air, "i beg that you will bear in mind the fable of the unwise canine who lost his piece of meat by trying to catch its larger reflection in the stream, and endeavour to profit thereby. no charge made for that good advice. now, nancy, let's hear from you." nannie hesitated a little. "why--i think i enjoyed it," she said slowly; "yes, i did." "what! _did_ you?" i exclaimed in surprise. "you mean to say you enjoyed sitting on that lounge and seeing miss devereaux snub that unfortunate little woman in the hideous bonnet?" "well, no, not that part," admitted nannie. "and did you enjoy the _pater's_ smashing the doulton bowl?" "oh, no, of _course_ not," nannie returned, somewhat indignantly. "then where did the enjoyment come in?" i persisted. "i can't tell you why, or when, or how, but i enjoyed it," was nannie's reply; and then, "without rhyme or reason," as nurse says, she blushed a vivid red. "do look at her!" teased phil. "why, nancy, it isn't against the law to have enjoyed yourself. what're you blushing for?" "i'm sure i don't know," my twinnie answered, with such a look of perplexity in her sweet, honest eyes that we had to laugh. whereupon she blushed rosier than ever, even to her ears and her pretty throat, and running over to me, hid her flushed face on my shoulder. "please stop teasing, fee," she whispered. now if anybody was teasing just then phil was in it, and i started to tell her so; but phil interrupted: "one more county to be heard from," he declared, "and that's you, most noble felix. are you, like nora, hankering after the unattainable in the shape of daily receptions?" "can't say that i'm devoured with a desire that way," i confessed with a grin. "i wouldn't go over this afternoon's experience for a farm! as they say in the novels, my feelings can be better imagined than described when i walked into the blackwoods' library and saw the _pater_ standing in the midst of the shattered vase _à la_ marius in the ruins of carthage. had i but owned a genii, we'd have been whisked out of that room and home in about two seconds. no, on calm reflection, i forswear receptions for the future." "hullo!" exclaimed phil, suddenly, "i say,--come to think of it,--how d'you suppose the _blackwoods_ enjoyed the orgy?" we looked at each other. "_i_ said i enjoyed myself," asserted nora, with a superior and very virtuous air. "it's the least one can do when people go to the trouble and expense of entertaining one." nannie sat up and looked contrite. "_poor_ mrs. blackwood!" she said; "doulton is her favourite china, and that bowl _was_ a beauty!" "i guess they got the worst of it," i said to phil. "i shouldn't wonder if they had," he answered with a nod. "moral: don't give afternoon receptions. let's be off to bed. good-night, all." xii. in the shadow. told by jack. felix and i were together in his room; he was helping me with my latin--that vile latin, how i despise it!--when we heard some one calling from the hall two flights below. "why, that sounds like nannie's voice!" felix said, starting from his chair. "i wonder what's up?" we heard plainly enough when we got in the hall, for nannie was calling, in a loud, frightened way, "felix! phil, jack! somebody!--_anybody!_" "all right! here we are! what's the matter?" felix answered, making for the steps as fast as he could go. "oh, pshaw! i've left my cane in the room; get it for me, jack, and catch up to me on the stairs." i dashed into fee's room, snatched up the cane, and was out again in time to hear nannie say, excitedly: "tell nurse to come right down to the study, felix, and send jack flying for dr. archard; papa is _very_ ill, i am afraid. oh, be quick, _quick!_" "great scott!" exclaimed fee. i knew by his voice that he was awfully frightened. then suddenly he slid down in a sitting position on one of the steps. i thought he must have stumbled; but before i could say anything, or even get to him, he called out, "all right, nan! nurse will be there in a minute," adding impatiently to me: "what are you gaping at? get on your hat--it's on the hat rack--and rush for dr. archard as fast as you can. tell him father's very ill, and to come at _once_. step lively, jack!" "but nurse--" i hesitated. "shall i tell her first?" "do as you've been told," fee said sharply. "i'll see to that; do you suppose i'm _utterly_ useless? _start!_" he gave me a little push on the shoulder as he spoke, and i tell you i just flew down those steps and out into the street. i ran every step of the way, and caught dr. archard just as he was stepping into his carriage to go somewhere. he looked very serious when he heard my message. "i'm not surprised," he said; "i've been expecting a break-down in that quarter for some time." then he made me jump into the carriage with him, and we drove rapidly round to the house. there we found everybody very much excited. the study door stood open, and from the hall i could see papa lying on the lounge, with his eyes closed, and looking very white. nurse was rubbing his feet, nannie his hands, and miss marston stood by his head fanning him. [illustration: "i could see papa lying on the lounge."] felix and phil were not around, but i tell you the younger children were; nurse and miss marston not being there to keep them upstairs, they had all collected in the hall, and refused flatly to go to the nursery. for fear of the noise they might raise, nora couldn't very well make them obey; but after the doctor came, she and betty half coaxed, half drove them into the drawing-room, and tried to keep them there. it was hard work to do this, though, for every now and then paul or alan, or even kathie--_she_ ought to have known better--would sneak out "to see what was going on." then betty'd fly out too, and as quietly as possible catch and haul back the runaway. i think both nora and betty would like to have had me come in there too,--nora said as much,--but i pretended i didn't hear; _i_ didn't want to be shut up, and anyway, as i thought, somebody ought to be on hand to run errands in case anything was needed. so i just stayed where i was. "oh, i am so _thankful_ you have come!" nannie exclaimed, as the doctor walked in. but, except for a nod, he didn't notice her; he laid his fingers on papa's pulse, then in a minute or so knelt down and put his ear to papa's chest. i was watching him so intently that i didn't know phil had come in until i heard nora--she was standing in the hall and holding the drawing-room doors shut--say, in a low tone, "hush! don't make a noise; papa is ill. dr. archard's here--in the study." "what's the matter?" phil asked, opening his eyes in a startled sort of way, and looking very serious. "why, he complained to nannie of feeling queer, and then suddenly fainted away; and since then he has gone from one fainting fit into another. isn't it strange? i don't think he has ever done such a thing as faint in his life before." "he's been working like a slave over that beastly old fetich," phil said irritably, "as if he was _bound_ to get it finished." i knew he was cross because he was scared about papa, and sorry for him; but nora didn't seem to guess that,--she doesn't see through things like that as nannie does,--and now she just put up her eyebrows as if surprised, and said, "why, isn't that what you all wanted,--to have the fetich finished?" phil got red in the face, and he made a step nearer the drawing-room door. "that was a mean speech, nora," he said in a low, angry voice. _i_ think it was mean, too; but perhaps it was because she felt badly about papa that nora spoke so,--as nurse says, different people have different ways of showing their feelings,--for she put out her hand and commenced, quickly, "i didn't mean to hurt--" but while she was speaking, nannie came out of the study. "oh, phil," she said, as soon as she saw him, "come right in here, won't you? the doctor says we must get papa to bed as quickly as possible, and you can help us." phil flung his books on the hat-rack table, and followed her into the room at once, and they shut the study door. it opened again, though, in a minute or two, and out came miss marston, just in time to catch alan as he rushed along the hall, away from betty, who was in hot pursuit. "what are _you_ doing down here?" demanded miss marston, severely. "they're all here," alan paused to explain, rather defiantly, whereupon betty pounced on him. miss marston held a hot-water bottle in her hand; she was on her way to the kitchen, but she stopped to speak to the children,--for at the sound of her voice nora had opened the drawing-room doors, and kathie, paul, and mädel had tumbled out into the hall in a body. "this will never do," miss marston said, "racing about the halls while your father is so ill! can't you find something for them to do, nora? take them to the nursery, or the schoolroom, and give each--" i didn't wait to hear the rest. i was afraid she'd see me, and remember that old latin, so i scooted up the back stairs as hard as i could go; you see she wouldn't have taken into account that i was waiting down there in case i was wanted for an errand. it was as i got up near fee's room that i began to wonder where he was, and why he hadn't been downstairs with the rest of us; he must have wanted to know how papa was, i thought. i looked in the schoolroom, but he wasn't there,--the place had a deserted appearance! then i ran down again and peeped into his room, and just think! there, flat on the floor, with his feet barely inside the doorway, lay felix! i was so astonished and so scared--it's a serious matter for fee to fall, you know (he hasn't really been himself, i mean not as strong, since that day in the schoolroom, when alan upset him)--that when i cried out, "oh, _fee!_ did you fall? have you hurt yourself?" and knelt down by him, i hardly knew what i was saying or doing. [illustration: "'oh, _fee!_ did you fall? have you hurt yourself?'"] "shut the door," felix said; he spoke slowly, as if he were very tired. his face looked badly, too,--pale, and with black rings under his eyes away below his glasses. and there was something in the way he lay there--a limpness and helplessness--that somehow frightened me, and made me feel right away as if i ought to call nurse or somebody. but i know fee likes to have people do as he tells them, so first i shut the door tight, then i came back and knelt down by him again. "hadn't i better help you up, fee?" i asked, "or shall i call"--i was going to say "nannie or phil," but remembered they were helping papa, and ended up with "somebody?" but felix only said, "how's father? tell me about him." he listened to all i could tell about papa; then, when i had finished, he threw his arms wide apart on the floor with a groan, and rolled his head impatiently from side to side. i just _longed_ to do something for him,--dear old fee! "don't you want to get up?" i asked again, in as coaxing a way as i could. "i could help you, you know, fee; the floor is so hard for your back." then he told me. "jack," he said, in a tired, hopeless voice that made a lump fly into my throat, "i'm in a pretty bad fix, i'm afraid; my poor old back and my legs have given out. i got a very queer feeling that time i sat down so suddenly on the steps, and after you'd gone 'twas all i could do to brace up and drag myself to this floor to call nurse. then i crawled in here, and barely got inside the door when i collapsed. my legs gave way entirely, and down i tumbled just where you see me now." he threw his arms out again, and twisted one of his hands in the fringe of the rug on which he was lying; then presently he went on: "do you know why i'm still lying here? do you know why, jack? because"--his voice shook so he had to stop for a minute--"because, from my waist down, i can't move my body at all. unless somebody helps me, i'll have to lie here all night; _i'm perfectly helpless_!" i'd been swallowing and swallowing while fee was talking, but now i couldn't stand it any longer; i felt awfully unhappy, and i just _had_ to let the tears come. "it's that fall that's done it," i said, trying to wipe away the tears that came rushing down,--it's so _girlie_ to cry!--"the day alan upset you in the schoolroom! oh, fee, _do_ let me call somebody to help you! phil's downstairs, you know; oh, and the doctor,--please, _please_ let me ask _him_ to come up! oh, mayn't i?" felix put out his hand and patted my knee in a way that reminded me of nannie; he doesn't usually do those things. "don't cry, jackie-boy," he said very gently, "and don't blame alan,--i don't believe he touched me that day; i believe now that that was an attack similar to this, only not so severe. what'll the _next_ one be!" his voice began shaking again, but he went right on: "now i want you to help me keep this thing quiet,--i was hoping you'd be the one to find me,--so that nannie and the others won't have it to add to their anxiety while the _pater_ is ill. i'm afraid he's in a bad way; i don't like the doctor's sounding his heart,--that looks as if he suspected trouble there. he has been working like a slave ever since--oh, what _beasts_ we were to get up that fetich joke! poor old _pater_!" felix folded his arms across his eyes and lay perfectly quiet; i _think_ i saw a tear run down the side of his face to his ear, but i won't be sure. that just brought that horrid lump right back into my throat, but i was determined i wouldn't break down again; so i got up, and taking a pillow from the bed, brought it over to slip under fee's head,--the floor was _so_ hard you know. this roused him. "you're not very big, rosebud, but perhaps you can help me to get to bed," he said, trying to speak as if nothing had happened. "i may feel better after i'm there; who knows but this attack may wear off in a day or two, as the other did." he spoke so cheerfully that i began to feel better, too, and i flew around and did just as he told me. first i pulled his bed right close up to where fee lay,--it's very light,--then i made a rope of his worsted afghan, and passing it round the farthest bedpost, gave the ends to him; then, as he pulled himself up, i pushed him with all my might, and by and by he got on the bed. it was awfully hard to do, though, for the bed was on casters, and would slip away from us; but after a good while we succeeded. "there, i feel a little better already!" he said, after i'd got him undressed. "that floor _was_ hard, and i was there some time; yes, i do feel a little better." he took hold of the railing at the head of the bed and pulled himself a little higher on the pillows. "perhaps you'll be all right again in a few days, same as the last time," i suggested. fee's face brightened up. "that's so,--perhaps i shall," he said. "why, jack, you're almost as good a comforter as nannie!" then he took my hand as if he were going to shake hands, and holding it tight, went on with, "now, jack, i want you to promise me that you'll not speak about this attack of mine to _anybody_. as you say, i'll possibly--probably--be all over it in a few days, and there's too much sickness and trouble in the house already, without my adding to it. promise me, jack!" he gave my hand a little shake as he spoke. but i hesitated; for, though now he seemed better, i couldn't get out of my mind how _awfully_ he had looked when i first found him,--and fee isn't strong like the rest of us. but he shook my hand again two or three times, saying impatiently, "why don't you promise? there's no harm in doing what i ask; think how worried and anxious phil and nannie are about papa!" "yes, presently," we heard phil's voice say at the door at that very moment. "promise! _promise!_" repeated felix, almost fiercely, and i got so nervous--phil was coming right into the room--that i said, "all right, i promise," almost before i knew what i was saying. i got a frightened sort of feeling the moment the words were out of my mouth, that made me just wish i hadn't said them. "hullo! in bed? what's up?" asked phil in surprise, as he walked up to fee. "i wondered where you were." then, without waiting for an answer, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and went on, in an excited tone of voice, "did you hear about the _pater_? i tell you we've had our hands full downstairs; i'm afraid he's"--here phil stopped and cleared his throat--"he's pretty low down. dr. archard as much as admitted it when i asked him to tell me the truth. it's that fetich! he has been working over it like a galley slave, because--" phil stopped again. he and felix looked at each other; then, starting up, phil walked over to the other side of the room, and stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at fee's picture of the good shepherd which hangs on the wall there, and which he had seen scores of times before. "who's going to take care of father?" felix asked presently, and that brought phil back to his bedside. "the doctor is going to send us a trained nurse this afternoon," he said; "but in the mean while nannie and nurse are with him. every time he became conscious he asked for nannie or spoke her name, and seemed easier when she was near him; once or twice he called her 'margaret'!" we were quiet for a moment or two,--that was dear mamma's name,--then phil began again: "the nurse that's coming is a woman, and very efficient, i believe. of course she'll have to have a certain amount of rest every day, and at those times somebody will have to take her place; so i'm going to try to be home early afternoons,--nannie can't do everything, you know,--and sit with the _pater_ while the nurse takes her nap. i thought perhaps we could alternate, you and i,--you're so splendid in a sick room; but i suppose i'll be as awkward as the proverbial bull in the china shop. i generally get rattled when i undertake to do anything for father, and am sure to do just what i shouldn't; so i'm not sorry you're going to be there for a change, old man." he threw his arm across fee's poor helpless legs as he spoke, and gave one of them a little squeeze. fee hesitated. "i'm afraid i can't begin right away," he said slowly; "i'm not up to the mark just now, and it would be best not to depend on me for anything for at least--a week. then, if i can, you may be sure i'll willingly take my part of the nursing." "why, you're not ill, are you?" exclaimed phil. "you were all right this morning when i went out. it's just to sit in the room, you know; you could read there, i suppose, if you wanted to." felix coloured up at phil's tone. "you know very well i'm not one of the sort to shirk,--i would do anything for the _pater_," he said quickly, "and just as soon as i can i'll take my full share in looking after and nursing him; but, as i told you, i don't feel quite up to it just now. i'm going to keep quiet for a few days,--a week, perhaps." fee was trying to speak in his usual way, but there was something in his voice when he said that "perhaps" that made me just long to tell phil right out what the trouble was. as it was, maybe phil noticed something, for he eyed fee sharply as he asked, rather anxiously: "look here, felix, is there anything you're keeping back? come to notice, you do look rather white about the gills; do you feel ill, old fellow?" i thought everything would come out then, for i knew fee wouldn't lie about it; and so it would, i'm pretty sure, if paul and alan hadn't come bouncing into the room, and nora behind them. the boys flew to fee's bedside. "oh, fee, _don't_ let her get us!" "oh, fee, _do_ let us stay with you!" they cried at the same moment, while alan added saucily, "she just thinks we b'long to her!" "they're the _rudest_ children i ever knew!" exclaimed nora, angrily,--just as if she knew all the children in the world! "they don't know what the word, 'obedience' means. come straight upstairs this minute,--both of you!" she made a dive for them, but the boys were too quick for her. alan ducked under fee's bed, and came up on the other side with a triumphant chuckle, while paul rolled right over fee's legs and landed on the floor, where phil grabbed him. "can't you behave yourselves, you young rascals?" demanded phil, sternly, giving paul's arm a shake, and catching alan by the collar. "just walk straight upstairs, and do as your sister tells you. stop your noise this minute,--do you hear me?" but instead they both roared the louder, at the same time pulling and tugging to get away. "she's just _horrid_!" asserted alan, trying to wriggle out of phil's grasp. "i just wish she'd go an' live in some other house, and never come back;" while between his sobs judge drawled out pertly: "she thinks she can treat us like anything 'cause nurse isn't here to take our part. she won't let us do one single thing, an' she's just as cross as an old cat--so _now_!" "i am, eh?" cried nora, indignantly. "well, like it or not, you will have to obey me. go upstairs at once,--both of you! _make_ them go, phil!" i felt awfully sorry for them,--you see i know nora is a nagger, she tries it on me sometimes; but they _were_ making a horrible din. fee looked very white; he lay with one arm folded over his eyes; and to make matters worse, in walked betty. "kathie has started crying, and i can't stop her," she announced, as she got in the doorway. "i'm afraid mädel will be off in a few minutes, too, if we don't quiet kathie; hadn't i better call nannie?" "who is taking my name in vain?" said a voice that we were all glad to hear, and there was nannie herself, smiling at us over betty's shoulder. xiii. through the shadow. told by jack. well, it was astonishing how things quieted down after that. phil let go the boys, and with a shout of delight they rushed up to nannie, and just threw themselves on her; with an arm round each, she went straight to fee's side: "why, felix, are you ill? my dear, is it your back again?" as she spoke she laid her hand on his forehead, and then stroked his hair back. "yes," fee said wearily, closing his eyes; "my back--and the _noise_!" "come, boys, we'll go up to the nursery and get ready for dinner. nurse has to stay with poor papa, so i'm going to give you your dinner; and of course i want my little knights to be on their best behaviour for the occasion." nannie drew them, still hanging on to her, toward the door. "oh, yes, and _do_ stop kathie, if you can," put in betty. "mädel accidentally rocked the charger on kathie's pet doll's head and smashed it, and she's just _howled_ ever since. do listen!" sure enough, we could all hear a long, mournful wail; then another and another; if there's one thing kathie does well, it's crying. "what! esmeralda dorothea? poor kathie!" said nannie; "i don't wonder she feels badly. come, boys, we'll go up and see if we can comfort her." the boys looked quite jubilant! holding on to nannie's hand, alan threw a defiant glance at nora as he passed her, and judge quoted in his slow, droll way: "'my _dear_ dolly's dead! she died of a hole in her head!'" "instead of petting those boys, nannie, you ought to punish them well, or give them a good scolding!" cried nora. "they have both been exceedingly rude and disobedient to me." nannie looked grieved, and the boys immediately began making excuses, which nannie heard in silence. when they had finished, she said: "we are going upstairs to get ready for dinner, nonie; but after that, when we are all sweet and clean, these two little men will, i am sure, come to you and ask you to overlook this afternoon's behaviour. i can't think that they really meant to be rude or disobedient to sister nora." nora tossed her head, but said nothing until nannie had gone upstairs; then she remarked: "it's outrageous the way nannie spoils the children; did you see the impertinent look alan gave me as he went by? you will see they won't apologise,--i know they won't;" and then she, too, walked out of the room. but they did apologise, all the same, and very soon after, too. "like oil on troubled waters! what a blessing that nannie belongs to this family!" phil said, when we three were alone again. "ay, thank god for her!" answered felix, fervently; and i felt like saying so too. really, i don't know what we'd do without nannie to keep the peace. it isn't that we don't love one another, for we do, dearly, and we just _love_ to be together, too; but somehow, somebody or other's sure to get into a discussion, or a fuss, or a regular quarrel, if nannie isn't on hand to smooth things down. i don't know how it is, but she can get us to do things that we wouldn't do for any one else, and it isn't because she coaxes, for she doesn't always; sometimes she speaks right square out, and doesn't mince matters either,--but even then we don't mind. i mean it doesn't hurt as it would from somebody else. felix says it's because she has tact, and betty says it's because she loves us an awful lot. _i_ think perhaps it's both. [illustration: "'these two little men will, i am sure, come to you and ask you to overlook this afternoon's behaviour.'"] well, those next two weeks were just _awful_! seems now as if they'd been a tremendous long nightmare. there was fee in bed upstairs he didn't get up or stand on his feet for nearly ten days,--he couldn't, you know, his legs wouldn't hold him up, though i rubbed and rubbed them every night till i was so tired, i felt as if i'd drop. of course i didn't let fee know how tired i got over it, 'cause then he wouldn't have let me rub 'em so long, and i did want to do it thoroughly. at first fee hadn't a bit of feeling in his legs; but gradually it came back, and at last one afternoon he managed to stand on his feet, holding on to me and the furniture,--his cane wasn't any good at all at first,--and i tell you he used to press hard, though he didn't know it. you see he was anxious to be all right as soon as he possibly could, 'cause the others began to think 'twas queer he stayed in bed so long if it was nothing but his back, and he didn't want them to know what the trouble was; and besides, he felt all the time that he should be up and helping take care of papa: there was a good deal to do, though the nurse was there, for the doctor said papa shouldn't be left alone for even a minute. so they were all very busy and anxious, or they would certainly have noticed what a long time i stayed in fee's room every afternoon, and perhaps have suspected something. phil was the one fee said he was most afraid would find out, but he was a good deal in papa's room in the afternoons, and evenings he was studying, 'cause his exams, were coming on, though sometimes he went for long walks with chad. chad was very often at the house at this time, but he never went in to see fee; and after the first or second time i didn't tell fee, for he doesn't like chad, and i could see he didn't want phil and chad to be together without his being there too. we don't any of us care very much for chad,--not half or even a quarter as much as we do for hilliard; even betty has to admit that, for all she makes such fun of hill's slow ways. you see chad puts on such silly airs, pretending he's a grown-up man, when really he's only a boy,--he's only a year older than phil. and then he talks so much about his money, and wears _diamonds_,--rings and pins and buttons,--fancy! as betty says, nice men and boys don't wear diamonds like that. betty is awfully rude to chad sometimes; she calls him monsieur le don_key_, and dresden-china-young man, and laughs at him almost to his face. i should think he'd get mad, but he just ignores her. in fact, the only one he shows any attention to is nora; he's all the time bringing her flowers, and talking to her in his affected way, and lately he has begun to be very friendly with phil, though i'm not sure that phil cares very much in return,--he's so short with chad sometimes. but, dear me! all this isn't what i started to say; i was telling you about those awful nightmare weeks. well, to go back, there was fee in bed upstairs, just as brave-hearted as he could be, but getting thinner and paler every day; and there was papa in the extension--he's slept down there ever since dear mamma died--in bed too, and desperately ill. the doctor came two and three and four times a day, and the house was kept as still as could be; we just stole through the halls, and scurried up the stairs like so many mice, so's not to make any noise, and because the constant muttering that we could hear from the sick-room made us feel so badly,--at least it did us older ones, the younger children didn't understand. papa doesn't usually say very much; but now he was out of his head, and he just talked the whole time, and loud, so one couldn't help hearing what he said. 'twas about the fetich; he called it "my book," and scolded himself because he couldn't work faster on it, so's to sell it. i tell you what, that just broke betty and phil all up! then he'd seem to forget that, and begin about walking in the country with mamma, through fields full of flowers and trees and "babbling brooks,"--that's what he called 'em, and quoted poetry about them all. he never once spoke of us; it was always "margaret, margaret!" sometimes in a glad voice, as if he were very happy, and sometimes in a sad, wailing sort of way, that brought a great lump into our throats. nannie had to be in papa's room most all of every day,--the nurse said he got very restless when she wasn't around,--and as he kept getting worse and worse, she was in there lots of nights, too. her lessons, and all the other things, had to just go, and we hardly saw her except for a little while now and then, when she ran up to sit with felix and tell him about how papa was getting on. after a while she began to look a little pale, and her eyes got real big and bright; but she never once said she was tired, and it never occurred to any of us--you see we were all worked up over papa--until one day max spoke of it to felix: he said nannie was just killing herself, and got so sort of excited over it--max isn't one of the excitable kind--that fee started in to worry about nannie. it was when he had just begun to walk about a little, and he was wild to go right down and take nannie's place in the sick-room. but he couldn't, you know; why, 'twas as much as he could do to barely stand on his feet and get round holding on to the furniture. then, when he realised that, he got disheartened, and called himself a "useless hulk," and all sorts of horrid names, and was just as cranky as he could be; but i felt so sorry for him that i didn't mind. poor old fee! well, from day to day papa got more and more ill; the fever kept right on and he was awfully weak, and at last he fell into a stupor. that day dr. archard hardly left our house for even an hour, and the other physicians just went in and out all the time. max was there, too,--he almost lived at our house those weeks, taking all the night watching they'd let him, and doing all he could for papa and us,--and about seven o'clock that evening he came up to the schoolroom, where we older ones were. dr. archard had told phil, and he had told us, that a change would come very soon,--papa would either pass from that stupor into a sleep which might save his life, or he would go away from us, as our dear mother had gone. no one of us was allowed to stay in the sick-room but nannie, and she had promised to let us know the minute the change came; so we five and max were waiting in the schoolroom, longing and yet just dreading what nannie might have to tell us. it was a glorious afternoon: the sun had just gone down, and from where we sat--close together--we could see through the windows the sky, all rose-colour and gold, with long streaks here and there of the most exquisite pale blue and green; and soft, white, fleecy clouds that kept changing their shape every minute. when i was little and heard that anybody we knew was dead, i used to sit in one of our schoolroom windows and watch the sunset, to see the angels taking the soul up to heaven,--- i thought that was the way it went up; i could almost always make out the shape of an angel in the clouds, and i'd watch with all my eyes till every speck of it had melted away, before i'd be willing to leave the window. of course i really know better than that now, but this afternoon as we all sat there so sad and forlorn, looking at the skies, there came in the clouds the shape of a most beautiful large angel, all soft white, and with rosy, outspread wings, and i couldn't help wondering if god was sending an angel for papa's soul, or if he would let mamma come for it--she loved him so dearly! betty saw the angel, too, for she nudged my elbow and whispered softly, "oh, jack, look!" just then we heard a step outside, the door flew open, and nannie came in; her face was pale, but her eyes were wide opened and shining, and when she spoke her voice rang out joyfully: "oh, my dears, my dears!" she cried, stretching out her arms to us, "god is good to us,--papa is asleep! he will live!" then, before anybody could say a word, she got very white, and threw out her hand for the back of fee's chair; phil sprang to catch her, but like a flash max was before him. taking nannie right up in his arms, as if she'd been a little child, max went over and laid her on the sofa, then knelt down by her, and began rubbing one of her hands. phil flew for nurse, nora for a fan, betty for water, and i caught up nannie's other hand and began rubbing it, though i could scarcely reach it from where i stood almost behind max. i could hear fee's chair scraping the floor as he hitched himself along toward us. max stopped rubbing and began smoothing the loose, curly pieces of nannie's hair off her forehead. "dear little nancy lee!" i heard him say; and then, "my brave little--" i lost that word, for nannie opened her eyes just then, and looked up at him with a far-off, wondering look; then the lids fell again, and she lay perfectly still, while max and i rubbed away at her hands. in a minute or two the others came trooping in with nurse and the things they'd gone for, and pretty soon nannie was much better. she sat up and looked at us with a smile that just lighted up her whole face,--i think nannie is so pretty! "what a goose i was to faint!" she said, "when we have such _good_ news! oh, isn't it splendid, _splendid_! that papa will get well!" then in a minute--before we knew what she was about--she was kneeling by felix, with her arms round his neck, crying and sobbing as if her heart would break. and what d'you think! in about two minutes more, if we weren't every one of us crying, too! i don't mean out loud, you know,--though nora and betty did,--but all the same we all knew we were doing it. phil laid his arms on the schoolroom table and buried his face in them, fee put his face down in nannie's neck, and i was just _busy_ wiping away the tears that would come pouring down; nurse threw her apron over her face and went out in the hall, and max walked to the window and stood there clearing his throat. and yet we were all _very_, _very_ glad and happy; queer, wasn't it? xiv. a mission of three. told by jack. that was the turning-point, for after that papa began to get better; but my! so slowly: why, it was days and days, nannie said, before she could really see any improvement, he was so dreadfully weak. after a while, though, he began to take nourishment, then to notice things and to say a few words to nannie, and one day he asked the doctor how long 'twould be before he could get at his writing again. the evening that nannie came upstairs and told us about his asking the doctor this, we held a council. the "kids" were in bed, and miss marston was in her own room, so we had the schoolroom to ourselves; and in about five minutes after nannie got through telling us, we were all quite worked up and all talking at once. you see we didn't want papa to begin working again on the fetich as he had done, for dr. archard had said right out that that was what made him ill; and yet we didn't see, either, how we could prevent it. "let's steal the fetich and bury it in the cellar," proposed betty, after a good deal'd been said; "then he _couldn't_ work at it, for it wouldn't be there, you know." her eyes sparkled,--i think she'd have liked no better fun than carrying off the fetich; but phil immediately snubbed her. "talk sense, or leave the council," he said so crossly that nannie put in, "why, _phil_!" and betty made a horrible face at him. then fee spoke up: "say, how would it do for us, we three,--you, phil, and betty and i,--to tell the _pater_ how mean we feel about that beastly joke, and then run through the potential mood in the way of beseeching, imploring, exhorting him not to slave over his work in the future as he's been doing in the past months. i have a fancy that mr. erveng has really made him an offer for the book when completed--" "i'm pretty sure he has, from something mrs. erveng said the other day," broke in nora, with a slow nod of her head. "well," went on felix, in an i-told-you-so tone of voice, "and i suppose the _pater_ thinks we're watching and measuring his progress like so many hungry hawks, just ready to swoop down and devour him--_ach_!" he threw out his hands with a gesture of disgust that somehow made us all feel ashamed, though we weren't all in it, you know. "that isn't a bad plan," said nora, presently. "in fact, i think it is good; only, instead of three of you going at papa about it, why not let one speak for all? he would be just as likely to listen to one as to three, and it wouldn't tire him so much,--that's _my_ opinion. what do you think, nannie?" nannie shook her head dubiously; she was lying on the sofa looking awfully tired. "i'm not sure that it'll do any good," she answered; "i'm afraid papa has made up his mind to do just so much work, and he likes to carry out his intentions, you know. but i'd speak all the same," she added, "for i think he felt dreadfully cut up over that fetich affair, and this will show him, anyhow, that you all care more for him--his well-being, i mean--than for the money the book might bring in. i fancy he has been doubtful of that sometimes. and i agree with nora that it would be better for one to speak for the three. he is getting stronger now, and whoever is to be spokesman might, perhaps, go in to see him for a few minutes some afternoon this week. who is it to be,--phil?" "don't ask me to do it!" exclaimed phil; "_don't_--if you want the affair to be a success. i feel mortally ashamed of my share in that joke, and i agree with felix that _somebody_ ought to speak to the _pater_ about working so hard, and almost killing himself; but i warn you that the whole thing will be a dead failure if i have the doing of it. in the first place, he looks so wretchedly now that i can't even look at him without feeling like breaking down; and with all that, if i undertook to say to him what i'd have to, why, i'm convinced i'd get rattled,--make an ass of myself, in fact,--and do no good whatever,--for that sort of thing always makes him mad. that's just the truth,--'tisn't that i want to shirk. why don't you do it, old fellow?" (throwing his arm across fee's shoulders), "you always know what to say, and can do it better than i." but fee didn't seem willing either; _i_ think the chief reason was because he was afraid of the steps,--it's as much as he can do to get up the one short flight from his floor to the schoolroom, and he gets awfully nervous and cranky over even that short distance; but of course the others didn't know that, and he didn't want them to know, and i couldn't say anything, so everybody was very much surprised: even nannie opened her eyes when, after a good deal of urging, he said sharply, "i am _not_ going to do it, and that settles it!" i was afraid there'd be a fuss, so i sung out quickly, "why don't _you_ do it, betty? you're always saying you're equal to anything." well, if you had seen her face, and felt the punch she gave my shoulder! i declare betty ought surely to've been a boy; she's entirely too strong for a girl, and rough. i will say, though, that she's been better lately; but still she breaks out every now and then, and then she hits out, perfectly regardless of whether she hurts people or not. she just glared at me. "_me!_ _i!_ _i_ go into papa's room and make a speech to him!" she exclaimed so loudly that phil reminded her she needn't roar, as none of us were deaf. "why, i couldn't, i simply _couldn't_! i'm just as bad as phil in a sick-room,--you all know i am; i'd tumble over the chairs, or knock things off the table, or fall on the bed, or something horrid, and papa'd have me put out. then i'm sure matters would be worse than they are now. 'tisn't that i'm _afraid_,"--with a withering glance at me,--"and i _do_ feel awfully sorry about papa; but all the same, i don't want to be the one to speak to him about the fetich,--i don't think it's my place: how much attention do you suppose he would pay to what _i_'d say?" she fanned herself vigorously, then added, in a milder tone, "why not let felix draw up a petition, and we could all sign it; then--eh--" with another withering glance--"_jack_ could take it in to papa!" "you're a fine set!" mocked nora; "all _very_ sorry, _very_ penitent, all seeing what should be done, but no one willing to do it. you are as bad as the rats who decided in council that a bell should be placed on the neck of their enemy, the cat, so that they should always have warning of her approach; but when it came to deciding on who was to do the deed, not one was brave enough." "i suppose you think, as nora does, that we're a pretty mean set?" felix said to nannie; he ignored nora's remark, though phil made a dash for her with the laughing threat, "just let me catch you, miss nora!" nannie sat up and pushed her hair off her forehead; she looked pale and languid, and when she spoke, her voice sounded tired. "no," she said, "i don't think you are any of you mean; but i am disappointed: i like people to have the courage of their convictions, and particularly you, fee." "that's right, give it to us, nancy,--we deserve it!" shouted phil, coming back in triumph with nora; but felix coloured up, and, leaning over, laid his hand on nannie's arm. "perhaps if you--" he began eagerly, but he didn't say the rest, for max and hilliard came in just then, and nannie got up to speak to them. that was on a tuesday evening, and the next afternoon, as i was going through the hall, miss appleton came out of the sick-room and asked if i would sit with papa for a short time, while she went to the basement to make some nourishment or something or other. "there is nothing to do but to sit somewhere about the room, within range of your father's sight," she said, as i hesitated a little,--not that i minded, but you see i was rather nervous for fear i might be asked to do things that i didn't know how to. "i won't be long, and i don't think he will need anything until i return." [illustration: "miss appleton ... asked if i would sit with papa for a short time."] nannie was lying down with a headache, and nurse, miss marston, and the others were away upstairs; phil had not yet come home; so i said, "very well," and walked in. papa was lying in bed, and he did look awful!--white and thin! he put out his hand as i went up to the bed, and said with a little smile, "why, it is jack! how do you do, my dear?" then he drew me down and kissed me. i would _love_ to have told him how very, _very_ glad i was that he was better, but i choked up so i couldn't get out a word. i just stood there hanging on to his hand, until he drew it away and said, "take a seat until the nurse returns." miss appleton had told me to sit where papa could see me, so i took a chair that somebody had left standing near the foot of the bed, and in full view of him. it was very quiet in the room after that; papa lay with his eyes closed, and i could see how badly he looked. he was very pale,--kind of a greyish white,--his eyes were sunk 'way in, and there were quite big hollows in his temples and his cheeks. i wondered if he knew that he had nearly died, and that we had prayed for him in church; then i thought of the figure of the angel that we'd seen in the clouds that afternoon in the schoolroom, and of the beautiful city--"o mother dear, jerusalem"--where everything is lovely and everybody so happy, and i wondered again if papa were sorry or glad that he was going to get better. you see he would have had dear mamma there, and been with the king "in his felicity;" but then he wouldn't have had the fetich or his books! suddenly papa opened his eyes and looked at me. "jack," he said, "suppose you take another seat,--over there behind the curtain. i will call you if i need anything." he told nannie afterward--and she told me, so i shouldn't do it again--that i'd "stared him out of countenance." i was awfully sorry; i wouldn't have done such a rude thing for the world, you know,--i didn't even know i was doing it; but, as i've told you before, when i'm alone with papa, i somehow just _have_ to look and look at him. i'd hardly taken my seat behind the curtain when the door opened and fee came slowly in. he leaned heavily on his cane and caught on to the different pieces of furniture to help him make his way to papa's bedside. they just clasped hands, and for a minute neither of them said a word; then felix began: "oh, sir, i thank god that you are spared,"--his voice shook so he had to stop. papa said gently: "more reference-making for you, my lad; i am evidently to be allowed to finish my work." and then fee began again. he didn't say a great deal, and it was in a low tone,--a little slow, too, at first, as if he were holding himself in,--but there was something in his voice that made my heart swell up in me as it did that day i thrashed henderson. it's a queer feeling; it makes one feel as if one could easily do things that would be quite impossible at any other time. "i hope i'll not tire or agitate you, sir," fee said, "but i feel i must tell you, for phil, betty, and myself, how _utterly_ ashamed we are of that miserable, heartless joke we got off some months ago,--going to mr. erveng about your book; no, father, _please_ let me go on,--this ought to have been said long ago! we earnestly ask your forgiveness for that, sir; the remembrance of it has lain very heavy on our hearts in these last anxious weeks--" he stopped; i guess there was a lump in his throat,--_i_ know what that is! and presently papa said, very gently: "that did hurt me, felix; but i have forgiven it. it may be that the experience was needed. i am afraid that i forgot i owed it to my children to finish and make use of my work." "no, _no_!" exclaimed felix, vehemently. "_don't_ feel that way, father; oh, _please_ don't! we hope you won't ever work on it again as you have been working,--to run yourself down, to make yourself ill. we beg, we implore that you will take better care of yourself. let the book go; _never_ finish it; what do we care for it, compared to having you with us strong and well once more! oh, sir, if you really do forgive us, if you really do believe in the love of your children, promise us that you will not work as you've been doing lately!" he waited a minute or two; then, as papa said nothing, he cried out sharply: "we are--_her_--children, sir; for _her_ sake do as we ask!" "why do you want this--why do you want me to live?" papa asked slowly. "_why?_ because we love you!" exclaimed fee, in surprise. and then i heard papa say, "my _son_!" in _such_ a tender voice; and then,--after a while,--"i am under a contract to finish my book, and i must do it; but i will endeavour to work less arduously, and to look more after my health." here i think fee must have kissed him,--it sounded so. "i shall have good news for the others," he said. "you know, sir, phil and betty feel as keenly about this as i do, but, for fear it would tire you, it was thought best for only one of us to speak to you about the matter. you don't feel any worse for our talk,--do you, father?" he said this anxiously, but papa said no, it hadn't done him any harm; still, he added, felix had better go, and so he did in a few minutes. i felt so sorry when i thought of all the steps he'd have to climb to the schoolroom; i wondered how he'd ever get up them. well, after that i think papa had a nap; anyway, he was very quiet. it was pretty stupid for me behind that curtain, and i was just wishing for about the tenth time that miss appleton would put in an appearance, when the door opened suddenly, and who should come walking in but phil! he went straight up to papa, and began rather loud, and in a quick, excited sort of way,--i could tell he was awfully nervous,--"how d'you feel to-day, sir?" then, before papa had time to answer, he went on: "we were talking things over last evening, and--and we--well, sir, we--that is, felix, betty, and i--feel that we're at the bottom of this illness of yours, through our getting up the scheme about the fet--your book, you know--in going to mr. erveng. it was the cheekiest thing on our part! i deserve to be kicked for that, sir,--i know i do. and we're afraid--we think--you're just killing yourself! i'm a blundering idiot at talking, i know, so i might's well cut it short. what i want to say is this: we'd rather have you living, sir, and the--history--_never_ finished, than have it finished, with no end of money, and you dead. oh, father, if you could know how we felt that night when your life hung in the balance!" he broke right down with a great sob. then everything was so quiet again that i looked round the portière; phil knelt by the bedside with his face buried in the bed-clothes, and papa's hand was resting on his head. i let the curtain fall. i felt, perhaps, they'd rather i didn't look at them. then presently papa said quite cheerfully, "it will be all right, phil: i think i am going to get well, and i shall try to take better care of myself; so you will, i hope, have no further occasion to be troubled about my health. i appreciate your speaking frankly to me, as you have done. now, perhaps, you had better go; i am a little tired." phil shook hands with papa and started to go, but paused half-way to the door. "this is for felix and betty, as well as for myself, father," he said pleadingly. "they feel just as badly as i do about you, but we thought 'twas best for one to speak for the three; and i being the eldest,--you understand?" "yes," papa said gently, "i understand." as the door closed behind phil, papa called me. "jack," he said, in a weak voice, "it seems to me that miss appleton is gone a good while; perhaps you had better give me something,--i think i am tired." my! didn't i get nervous! there was nothing on the table but bottles and a medicine glass; i didn't know any more than the man in the moon what to give him, and i didn't like to ask him. i was pretty sure he didn't know; and besides, he had shut his eyes. i caught up one of the bottles and uncorked and smelled it without in the least knowing what i intended doing next. how i did wish the nurse would come! just then some one came into the room, and when i turned quickly, expecting to see miss appleton, who was it but _betty_! well, i was so surprised, i nearly dropped the bottle. but she didn't even look at me; she just marched up to papa and began talking. she stood a little distance from the bed,--she said afterward she was afraid to go nearer for fear she'd shake the bed, or fall on it,--with her hands behind her back, and she just rattled off what she had to say as if she'd been "primed," as phil calls it. without even a "how d'you do?" she plunged into her subject. that's betty all over; she always goes right to the point. "papa," she said earnestly, "i'm awfully--that is, _very_, _very_ sorry we went to mr. erveng that time about your book, without first speaking to you about it. we're all _very_ sorry,--phil, felix, and i,--and just as ashamed as we can be. we've worried dreadfully over it, and about you, and it was simply _awful_ when we thought you were going to die! we didn't acknowledge it to one another, but if you had died, i know we three'd have felt as if we had as much as killed you" (here betty's voice dropped to almost a whisper; i thought perhaps she was going to cry, but she didn't, she just went on louder); "for we are sure you never would have hurried so with--your book--if we hadn't played that mean joke. you see, papa, we're _so_ afraid you'll--you'll--die, or be ill, or something else dreadful if you don't stop working so hard,--like a galley slave, as phil says. and i've come to ask you, for phil, felix, and myself, to let the hateful old book go, and just get well and strong again; will you?" "but if the history is completed, it can be sold, and thus bring in the money that is so much needed in the family." betty eyed papa; i think she wasn't sure whether he was in sarcasm or earnest. "oh," she said, "we did think it would be nice to have enough money to send fee to college, but we don't want it any more,--at least, not if it's to come by your being ill--or--or--oh, papa, dear, we're all so _very_ glad and thankful that you are going to get well." she took his hand up carefully and kissed it. "i think that now i am glad, too, betty," said papa; "much more so than i ever expected to be." "and you won't work so hard again, will you?" asked betty, anxiously. "you see, papa, i'm to get you to promise that; that's what i've come for. we talked the matter over last evening, and phil would have come to speak to you about it, but he said you looked so wretchedly--and so you do--that just to look at you made him break down, and he was afraid he'd get rattled and make an a--a mess of it. then felix, he couldn't come, because, well, because--i guess he felt badly, too, about your being ill. so i thought _i'd_ better come down and have a talk with you, though i must say i was afraid i might do something awkward,--i'm so _stupid_ in a sick-room; but so far all's right, isn't it? the boys don't know i've come,--i thought i'd surprise them; and so i will, with the good news: you'll promise, won't you, papa?" "yes," papa said, "i promise." then betty flew at him and kissed him, and then papa told her she'd better go. it was only just as she got to the door that she spied me. "hullo! you here?" she exclaimed in astonishment,--adding, in a lower tone, "what're you laughing at?" then, as i didn't answer, she walked out. "jack," called papa, "are there anymore of them to come? do you suppose they are crazy?" then he added to himself, "i wonder if any one else in the world has such children as i have?" we looked at each other for a minute or two (papa's eyes were bright, and his mouth was kind of smiley, and i was, i know, on a broad grin), and then we both laughed,--papa quietly, as he always does; but i cackled right out, i _couldn't_ help it. at this moment in came miss appleton with papa's nourishment, and right behind her nannie. "oh, how bright you look!" nannie exclaimed with delight, as she came up to him; "that last medicine has certainly done you good." "yes, i think it has," papa said, with a quizzical glance at me. "it was a new and unexpected kind; nannie, my dear,--i have had a visitation." xv. some minors. told by jack. instead of going in the country early, as usual, this year we just hung on and hung on until the weather was quite warm, waiting for papa to get strong enough to stand the journey. it seemed to us as if he were an awful while getting well: long after he was able to be dressed, he had to lie on the lounge for the greater part of every day,--the least exertion used him up; and as for his work, dr. archard said he wasn't to even _think_ of touching it. but at last--after changing the date several times--a day was set for us to start. we were all delighted; we _love_ to be at the cottage. you see we have no lessons then, 'cause miss marston goes away for her holidays, and we can be out of doors all day long if we choose; papa doesn't mind as long as we're in time for meals and looking clean and decent. there's a lovely cove near our house,--it isn't deep or dangerous,--and there we go boating and swimming; then there's fishing and crabbing, and drives about the country in the big, rattly depot-wagon behind pegasus,--that's our horse, but he's an awful old slow-poke,--and rides on our donkey, g. w. l. spry. oh, i tell you now, it's all just _splendid_! we always hate to go back to the city. perhaps you think our donkey has a queer name. most people do until we explain. well, his real name is george washington lafayette spry,--so the man said from whom papa bought him,--but that was such a mouthful to say that fee shortened it to g. w. l. spry, and i do believe the "baste," as cook calls him, knows it just as well as the other name,--any way, he answers to it just as readily. he _is_ pretty spry when he gets started, but the thing is to start him. [illustration: "g. w. l. spry."] well, to go back, we were delighted at the prospect of getting away, and we all worked like beavers helping to get ready. miss marston and the girls and phil packed,--his college closed ever so long ago,--fee directed things generally, and addressed and put on tags, and we children ran errands. almost everything was ready; in fact, some of the furniture had gone,--there're such a lot of us that we have to take a pile of stuff,--when two unexpected things happened that just knocked the whole plan to pieces. for a good while max had been urging and urging papa to go to his place in the adirondacks; he said his mother was there, and she was first-rate at taking care of sick people, and that she'd be awfully glad to see nannie, too, who, max declared, needed the change as much as ever papa did. but papa refused, and it was settled that we were all to go to the cottage, when suddenly dr. archard turns round and says that mountain, not sea air was what papa should have, and insisted so on it that at last papa gave in and accepted max's invitation for nannie and himself. so then it was arranged that papa, nannie, and max were to go to the mountains, and we to the cottage with miss marston,--they going one day, and we the next. [illustration: "we all worked like beavers."] that was the first set-back, and the next one was ten times worse. just as papa was being helped down the steps to the carriage, what should come but a telegram for miss marston from her aunt in canada, asking her to come right on. well, that just upset _our_ going in the country! phil and felix told papa they could manage things, and get us safely to the cottage,--and i'm sure they'd have done it as well as ever miss marston could, for she's awfully fussy and afraid of things happening; but no, papa wouldn't hear of it, though max declared he thought 'twould be all right. felix took it quietly, but phil got kind of huffy, and said papa must think he was about two years old, from the way he treated him. i tell you, for a little while there nannie had her hands full,--what with trying to smooth him down, and to keep papa from getting nervous and worked up over the matter. well, after a lot of talking, and papa losing one train, it was arranged that we should remain in the city with nurse until we heard from miss marston, and knew how long she'd be likely to stay in canada. if only a short time,--say ten days,--we were to wait for her return and go under her care to the cottage; but if she'd be gone several weeks, then phil, felix, and nurse would take us to the country. as soon as this was settled, papa, nannie, and max went off, and a little later miss marston started for her train. besides being worried about her aunt, miss marston felt real sorry at leaving us so hurriedly, and she gave no end of directions to nora and betty, to say nothing of nurse. nora didn't seem to mind this, but nurse sniffed--she always does that when she doesn't like what people are telling her--and betty got impatient; you see nannie'd been drilling betty, too,--telling her to be nice to nora, and to help with the little ones, and all that,--and i guess she'd got tired of being told things. "i know just how phil feels about papa's snubbing," she said to me. "some people never seem to realise that we're growing up. why, if papa and miss marston should live until we were eighty and ninety years old, i do believe, jack, that they'd still treat us as if we were infants,--like the story max told us of the man a hundred and ten years old, who whipped his eighty-year-old son and set him in a corner because he'd been 'naughty'! it's too provoking! and as to being '_nice_' to nora, i feel it in my bones that she and i will have a falling out the very first thing; she'll put on such airs that i'll not be able to stand her!" but as it turned out, there was something else in store for betty; that same evening over came mr. erveng and hilliard with an invitation from mrs. erveng for betty to go to their country home, near boston, and spend a month with them. mr. erveng had met papa in the railroad station that day, and got his consent for betty to accept the invitation. so all she had to do was to pack a trunk and be ready to leave with them the next morning,--they would call for her. i felt awfully sorry betty was going: though there are so many of us, you've no idea what a gap it makes in the family when even one is away; and, with all her roughness and tormenting ways, betty is real nice, too. i didn't actually know what i'd do with both nannie and her away. i couldn't help wishing that the ervengs had asked nora instead of betty, and i know betty wished so, too, for you never saw a madder person than she was when she came upstairs to help nurse pack her trunk: you see she didn't dare make any objections, as long as papa had given his consent, but she didn't want to go one step, and she just let us know it. "i'll have to be on my company manners the whole livelong time, and i simply _loathe_ that," she fumed. "mrs. erveng won't let me play with hilliard, i'm sure she won't, 'that's so unladylike!'"--mimicking mrs. erveng's slow, gentle voice,--"and i never know what to talk to _her_ about. i suppose i'll have to sit up and twirl my thumbs, like a regular miss prim, from morning to night. why didn't they ask _you_?" wheeling round on nora. "you and mrs. erveng seem to be such fine friends, and you suit her better than i do. i always feel as if she looked upon me as a clumsy, overgrown hoiden, an uncouth sort of animal." "i couldn't very well be spared from home just now," answered nora, calmly, with her little superior air; "and any way, i presume mrs. erveng asked the one she wanted,--people generally claim that privilege." so far was all right; but she must needs go on, and, as phil says, "put her foot in it." "i really hope you'll behave yourself nicely, betty," she continued, "for only the other day i heard mrs. erveng say that she thought you had improved wonderfully lately; _do_ keep up to that reputation." betty was furious! "no, _really_? how _very_ kind of her!" she burst out scornfully. "the idea of her criticising me,--and to you! you ought to be ashamed not to stand up for your own sister to strangers! indeed, i'll do just as i please; _i'm_ not afraid of mrs. erveng! i'll slide down every banister, if i feel like it, and swing on the doors, too, and make the most horrible faces; you see if i don't come home before the month is out!" "leave their house standing, elizabeth,--just for decency's sake, you know," advised phil. we were all laughing, and what does nora do but pitch into me for it. "can't you find anything better to do, jack, than encouraging betty to be rude and unladylike?" she commenced sharply; but just then hannah came, asking for something, and, with a great air of importance, nora went off with her. but if nora didn't understand how betty felt, i did. of course the ervengs meant it kindly asking her; but _i_ wouldn't have wanted to go off alone visiting people that were almost strangers,--for that's what mr. and mrs. erveng are to us, though we do know hilliard so well,--and i just said so to her, and gave her my best feather-top. as i told her, she might play it times when she was alone in her own room, to keep up her spirits. i'd have given her something nicer, but all my things were packed up, except my locomotive, and i knew she wouldn't care for _that_,--she's always making fun of it. betty's one of the kind that just hate to cry where people can see them, so she went away without the least fuss--though i know her heart was full--when the ervengs called for her the next morning. hilliard was as merry as a lark. "it's so good of you to come," he said, beaming on betty when he met her on the steps. "we are going to take the very best care of you, and help you to enjoy yourself immensely; i only wish all the others were coming with us, too,"--with a glance at us (the whole family had crowded out on the stoop to see betty off). "we don't want to; we'd rather go to the cottage," sung out alan. nora had to hush him up. hilliard was just as nice as he could be, putting betty into the carriage, and looking after her things,--i hadn't thought he could be so polite; but betty was very cool and snippy, and the last sight i got of her, as the carriage turned the corner, she was sitting bolt upright, looking as stiff as a poker. i felt sorry for betty, and i felt sorry for the ervengs, too,--at least for hilliard. i can't think why betty doesn't like him better. we were awfully lonely and unsettled for a few days,--it seemed so queer to have nora in nannie's place, and phil at the head of the table; to hear nora giving orders, and for phil to have to see to shutting up the house nights. somehow it made us feel grown-up,--it was such a responsibility, you know; and at first we were all very quiet, and so polite to one another that nurse declared she "wouldn't 'a' known we was the same fam'ly." felix and phil were as dignified as could be, and the little ones went to bed without a murmur, and obeyed nora like so many lambs. but it didn't last,--it couldn't, you know, for we weren't really happy, acting that way; and pretty soon we began to be just as we usually were,--only a little more so, as we boys say. you see nobody was really head, though nora and phil both pretended they were,--we didn't count nurse,--and each person just wanted to do as he or she pleased, and of course that made lots of fusses. phil did a lot of talking, and ordered people around a good deal, but nobody minded him very much. nora had her hands full with the children; they were awfully hard to manage, particularly kathie,--her feelings get hurt so easily. nora said that nurse spoiled them, and in a sort of way took their part against her, while nurse said nora was too fond of "ordering," and that she nagged them; so there were rumpuses there sometimes. i read over all my favourite books that weren't packed up, and worked on my steam engine, and went about to see what the others were doing; but i tried not to be mixed up in any of the rows. fee got a fit of painting,--he wanted nora to pose for him for antigone, but she wouldn't; and he played his violin any time during the day that he liked,--you see there wasn't anybody there to mind the noise. that was in the day; in the evenings we--nora and we three boys--sat on the stoop, it was _so_ warm indoors. the unsworths and vassahs and 'most all the people we knew were out of town, and chad whitcombe was the only person that came round to see us. when he found we hadn't gone to the country, he'd make his appearance every evening, and sit with us on the stoop. at first he stayed the whole evening, and was so pleasant and chatty i could hardly believe 'twas chad; of course he was affected,--he always is,--but still he was real interesting, telling about places he'd been to, and some of the queer people he'd met in his travels. after a while, though, he began to stay for about half the evening, then he'd ask phil to take a walk with him, and away they would go; and sometimes phil wouldn't get back very early either. well, felix stood it for a few times without saying anything,--he always has precious little to do with chad; but one evening when chad stood up and asked, "take a stroll--aw--will you, phil?" and phil rose to go, fee got quickly on his feet. "just let me get my cane, and i'll come, too," he said. i was looking at chad just then, and i could see he didn't like it; but phil answered at once, "all right, old fellow; come on!" and fee went. i was alone on the stoop when the boys got back,--chad wasn't with them. nora was playing the piano in the drawing-room, and phil went in to speak to her; but felix sat down on the step beside me with his back against the railing. as the light from the hall lamp fell on him, i could see how white and tired he looked. i couldn't help saying something about it. "you do look awfully used up, fee," i said; "i guess you've been walking too far. whatever made you do it? you know you can't stand that sort of thing." of course i didn't say this crossly,--fee isn't at all the sort of person that one would say cross things to,--but you see i knew just how miserable he'd been, and that he wasn't well yet, by any means. he pretended to be quite well, but i noticed that he sat down lots of times, instead of standing, as he used to, and that it was still an effort for him to go up and down stairs. when i said that about his being tired, he pushed his straw hat back off his face, and i could see his hair lying wet and dark on his white forehead. "i _am_ dead tired," he said, wearily. "i tell you, jack, the ascent to the third floor seems a formidable undertaking to-night." then he added abruptly, "_why_ did i do it? because i'm _determined_"--he brought his clinched hand down on the stoop--"that that scalawag sha'n't get hold of phil. i suppose my miserable old back'll take its revenge to-morrow; but i don't care,--i'd do it again and again, if i couldn't keep them apart any other way." just then phil's voice came to us through the open drawing-room window. "it's a lovely night," he was saying to nora; "i don't feel a bit like going to bed,--i think i'll go out again for a little while. you needn't wait up for me, nonie, and i'll see to the shutting up of the house when i come in; don't let fee bother about it,--he looks tired." with a quick exclamation, felix caught hold of the railing of the stoop, and dragging himself to his feet, limped into the parlour. "it's an age since we've sung any of our duets, phil," he called; "let's have some now. nora, play 'o wert thou in the cauld blast,'--that's one of our favourites." and in a minute or two they were singing away with all their might. but presently phil came out with his hat on, and behind him felix. "still here, jack? it's getting pretty late!" fee said. then to phil, "i guess it's too late for another tramp to-night, philippus; come on, let's go upstairs." he was trying to speak off-hand, but i could hear in his voice the eagerness he was trying to keep back. perhaps phil heard it, too, and suspected something, for he answered very shortly, "i'm going out; i'm not an infant to be put to bed at eight o'clock." and with that he jammed his hat tighter on his head, ran down the stoop, and was soon out of sight. felix sat down on one of the hall chairs, and leaned his head on his hand in such a sad, tired way that i felt as if i'd have liked to pitch right into phil. i darted in from the stoop and put my hand on fee's shoulder. "fee," i whispered,--i didn't want nora to hear,--"can i do anything to help? shall i run after him and _make_ him come back?" felix looked up at me; his lips were set tight together, and there was a stern expression on his face that made him look like papa. "'twould take a bigger man than you are to do that, jack," he said, with a faint smile, adding slowly, "but i'll tell you what you _can_ do,--you can keep mum about this; and now help me upstairs, like a good boy: i'm almost too tired to put one foot after the other." then, as he rose and slowly straightened himself up, he said, "after all, phil's only gone for a walk, you know, jack; he'll be home pretty soon, you may depend." but i had a feeling that he said this to make himself believe it as well as me. fee _was_ awfully used up; i could hardly get him up the steps. nora would certainly have heard the noise we made if she hadn't been so interested in her music. phil did not come in very early; in fact, i think it was late. i room with him, you know, and it seemed as if i'd been asleep a good while when his shutting of our door woke me up. of course i turned over and looked at him; i'm sure there wasn't anything in that to make a person mad, though perhaps i did stare a little, for phil had a queer expression on his face,--jolly, and yet sort of ashamed, too. his face was quite red, and his eyes looked glassy. he leaned against the closed door, with his hat on the back of his head, and just scowled at me. "what're you staring at, i'd like to know?" he said roughly. "without exception, you're the most inquisitive youngster! you _must_ have your finger in every pie. just turn yourself right over to the wall and go to sleep this minute; i _won't_ have you spying on me!" now i usually give in to phil, and i do hate to get into rows with people, but i couldn't stand that; i just sat straight up in bed and spoke out. "i'm _not_ inquisitive," i said, "and i'm _not_ spying on you, either. i wouldn't do such a mean thing, and you know it." "oh, hush up, and go to sleep! you talk entirely too much," phil answered back, and taking off his hat, he threw it at me. the hat didn't touch me,--it barely fell on the edge of the bed,--but it seemed to me as if i couldn't have felt worse if it had struck me; you see my feelings were so hurt. phil likes to order people, and he's rough, too, sometimes. we know him so well, though, that i don't usually mind; but this evening he was awfully disagreeable,--so bullying that i couldn't help feeling hurt and mad. i felt just like saying something back,--something sharp,--but i knew that would only make more words, and there was felix in the next room,--i didn't want him to be waked up and hear how phil was going on; it wouldn't have done any good, you see, and would only have made fee unhappy. so i just swallowed down what i was going to say, and bouncing over on my pillow, i turned my face to the wall, away from phil. but i couldn't go to sleep,--you know one can't at a minute's notice,--and i couldn't help hearing what he was doing about the room. i heard a clinking noise, as if he were putting silver money down on the bureau; then, while he was unlacing his boots and dropping them with a thud on the floor, he began to whistle softly, "o wert thou in the cauld blast." i suppose that reminded him of something he wanted to say, for presently he called out, "say, rosebud--_rose_bud!" i just _wouldn't_ answer,--after his treating me that way! what did he do then but lean over the footboard and shake me by the heel. "turn over," he said; "i want to talk to you,--d'you hear me?" and he shook my heel again. i jerked my foot away. "i wish you wouldn't bother me," i answered; "i'm trying to go to sleep." "oh, i see,--on your dig." phil laughed and pulled my toe. "well, you provoked me, staring at me with those owly eyes of yours; but now i want to speak to you about felix." i still felt sore over the way he'd acted, but as long as it was fee he wanted to talk about, i thought i'd better listen; so i turned over again and looked at phil. "see here, what's the matter with felix?" as he spoke, phil went over and threw himself into a chair, where he could see me. "he's never been very much of a walker, but seems to me that he's worse than ever at it lately. why, last evening--this evening i mean" (he gave me a funny look)--"we hadn't gone three blocks before he began to drag, and took hold of my arm; he hung on it, too, i can tell you. we didn't go very far, not nearly as far as we used to last winter; and i'd have made it still shorter, for i could see he was most awfully used up, but fee wouldn't give in,--you know he can be obstinate. and when he came into the drawing-room to sing, he looked wretched,--white as a ghost! since i've been home, i've noticed, in a good many little ways, that he doesn't do as much as he used to,--in the way of moving around; yet, when i speak to him 'bout it, he either--puts me off, or turns--cranky; i can't get a thing--out--of--him." phil's voice had been getting slower and slower, and almost before he finished the last word he was _asleep_. i thought he was making believe at first,--he's such a tease,--but i soon found out that he wasn't. well, i _was_ astonished; for a minute i couldn't say a word; i just lay there and looked at him. then i remembered how late it was, and called him,--not loud, though, for fear of waking felix. "phil, _phil_, aren't you coming to bed? it's awfully late." "oh, let me _alone_," he muttered sleepily; then presently he roused up and began to talk real crossly, but in the same slow voice, and with his eyes shut: "i'm not a _child_--and i'm not going--to be treated--like one--you needn't--think so--i'm a _man_--all--the fellows--do it--'tisn't--any harm--" his head drooped and he was off again. i had got awfully nervous when he first began, i mean about felix; you see fee hadn't given me back my promise not to speak of his attack when papa was so ill, so i couldn't have told phil, and i shouldn't have known what to say. oh, that promise! that _miserable_ promise! if only i had _never_ made it! well, as i said, i was thankful i didn't have to answer phil; but when he acted so queerly, i didn't like that either, and jumping out of bed, i went at him, and just talked and coaxed and pulled at him, until at last i got him to get up and undress and go to bed. * * * * * phil was as cross as a bear the next morning; he said he had a headache, and didn't get up until late. he lay in bed with his face to the wall, and just snapped up everybody that spoke to him; when i took him up some tea and toast,--that was all he'd take,--he turned on me. "i suppose you've told them about last night," he said sharply, "and you've all had a grand pow-wow over me!" "indeed, i _haven't_" i answered; "i haven't said one single word about it to anybody; we've got other things to talk of, i can tell you, besides your being such a sleepy-head." perhaps this was a little snippy, but i couldn't help it,--just as if i couldn't keep a thing to myself. you see i didn't understand then what it all meant. phil looked straight at me for a minute, and it seemed to me there was a kind of sorry expression came in his face; then he laughed. "great head! keep on being mum!" he said, in that teasing way of his, nodding at me. "now, mr. moses primrose, suppose you set that tray down and vacate the apartment--shut the door." but i could see that he wasn't sorry i hadn't spoken of it; i've wondered sometimes, since, whether things would have been different if i had told felix the whole business. well, he was a little pleasanter for a while; but when a telegram came later in the day from miss marston, saying she'd be back in ten days to take us to the cottage, phil got all off again, and scolded like everything. he said it was a burning shame for us to have to stay in the city and just _stew_, waiting for miss marston to "escort" us to the cottage, when he and felix could have taken us there long ago; that he wanted to go in the country _right away_; that papa'd made a big mistake in keeping us back, and that he'd find it out when 'twas too late,--and all that sort of talk. felix and nora did their best to cool him down, but it was no use,--the nicer they were, the more disagreeable he grew; and at last they got provoked and left him to himself. "i wish nannie were here," fee said, as we stood on the landing together, outside phil's door; "perhaps she could do something with him." "i just wish she were," i agreed dolefully; and if nora didn't get miffed because we said that! i can tell you it wasn't a bit pleasant at home those days. as fee said, "everybody seemed to be disgruntled," and there wasn't a thing to do but wander around; i missed betty awfully, she's such a splendid person for keeping up one's spirits. toward afternoon, phil came downstairs, and after dinner we sat on the stoop; he was still rather grumpy, though we pretended not to notice it. presently chad came along and took a seat beside us; but at first i don't think anybody, except, perhaps, nora, paid him much attention. felix had been very quiet all day, and now he sat with his elbows on his knees, and his hands holding up his face, a far-off look in his eyes, and not saying a word until about half-past eight, when chad leaned over, and in a low voice asked phil to go for a walk. phil's answer sounded like, "had enough of it;" and before chad could say anything more, fee began to talk to him. i was surprised, for felix doesn't usually talk to chad; but to-night, all at once, he seemed to have a friendly fit. he started chad talking of his travels; then he got phil into the conversation, and then nora, and he just kept them all going; he was so bright himself, and funny, and entertaining, that the evening fairly flew by. we were all amazed when ten o'clock struck; soon after that chad bid good-night, and we shut up the house and went to bed. 'most always phil stops in fee's room for a few minutes: he didn't this evening, though; he just called out,--a little gruffly,--"good-night, old man!" and marched right into his own room. but i went in. fee was sitting on the edge of his bed; he looked almost as tired as he had the night before, though now his eyes were bright and his cheeks red. he turned quickly to me. "did you think i was wound up to-night?" he asked. then, before i could answer, "but i kept them--i kept them both, jack; they didn't go walking to-night,--at least, phil didn't, and that's the main point. why, i could go on talking till morning." he got up and limped restlessly about, then stopped near me. "what'll we do to-morrow evening?" he said, "and the next, and the next?--there are _ten_ more, you know. we'll _have_ to think of something, that's all; it'll not be easy, but we'll have to do it. i'm afraid"--fee spoke slowly, shaking his head--"i'm afraid the _pater_ _has_ made a mistake, a big mistake. now if nannie were only here--what an owl you look, rosebud! come, off to bed with you!" he threw his arm across my shoulder and gave me a little squeeze, then pushed me out of the room and shut the door. i have an idea that he didn't sleep very well that night, for the next morning _he_, too, looked like a owl, in the way of eyes. xvi. and a major. told by jack. the next day phil was more like himself,--almost as usual, at least during the first part of the day; after that, everybody got into such a state of excitement that we forgot all about his mood,--i guess he forgot it himself. as i've told you, kathie and the little ones weren't behaving at all nicely. you see the trouble was they wanted their own way, and nora wanted hers, and nurse wanted hers too; and some days things went all wrong in the nursery. nora'd declare that _she_ was mistress as long as nannie wasn't at home, and that the children _should_ obey her; then nurse would get huffy and call the little ones her "pets" and her "poor darlin's," and of course that made them feel as if they were being dreadfully abused. i think nora did nag some, and perhaps she ordered people a little more than she need have done, but that's her way of doing things; she didn't mean in the least to be disagreeable, and the children were certainly _very_ provoking. it seemed to me as if they were forever in mischief, and my! weren't they pert! and sometimes they wouldn't mind at all. once or twice i tried to see if i could help things, but i just got into trouble both times, and only made matters worse, so i thought i'd better leave 'em alone. well, on this particular morning, nurse woke feeling so ill that she couldn't get up at all; so nora had to see to dressing the children and giving them their breakfast. mädel was good,--she's a dear little creature!--but the boys were wild for mischief, and just as saucy and self-willed as they could be, and, worst of all, kathie got into one of her crying moods. she cried all the time she was dressing, and all through breakfast,--a kind of whining cry that just wears on a person. phil called her niobe, and declared that if she didn't look out, she'd float away on her tears; fee threatened to put her in a picture, just as she looked; i coaxed and promised her one or two of my things, and nora scolded: nothing had any effect, kathie just wept straight on. she _is_ awfully trying when she gets in these moods, but i guess she can't always help it,--at least nannie thinks so,--and perhaps if nora had been patient just a little while longer, the storm would have blown over. but all at once nora lost her temper, and catching kathie by the arm, she walked her wailing from the room. well, in just about one minute more, paul and mädel and alan were off too, roaring like everything. "_o-o-h!_ we _want_ kathie! we _w-a-n-t_ kathie! _o-o-o-h!_ bring back _kath-i-e_!" well, you'd have thought they never expected to lay eyes on kathie again! [illustration: "where we found kathie."] i coaxed and talked and talked till my throat fairly ached, telling 'em funny things to divert their attention,--the way i've heard nannie and betty do; fee began just as loud as he could (to drown their noise and make them listen) about the trojan horse,--they like that story; and phil offered them everything that there was on the table if they'd _only_ stop yelling; he declared the neighbours would be coming in to see what we were doing to them. but at last they quieted down, and let me take them upstairs to the nursery, where we found kathie seated upon a chair, and still weeping. on account of nurse's being ill, there were a good many things for nora to do,--i could see she had her hands full,--so i stayed in the schoolroom and looked after the children to help her. by and by kathie stopped crying--i guess there were no more tears left to come--and began to join in the games i started. usually she's very penitent after one of these fits of temper, but this time she seemed more sulky than anything else; and she was such a sight that i felt sorry for her. kathie's very fair,--she's a real pretty little girl when she's in a good humour,--and now, from crying so much, and rubbing her eyes, they were all swollen and red; the red marks went 'way down on her cheeks; and her nose was all red and swollen, too: you'd hardly have known her for the same child. after awhile--i'd set them playing house, and things seemed quiet--i got out one of my books, and, fixing myself comfortably on the sofa, began to read. but presently something--a sort of stillness in the room--made me look up; the children were under the schoolroom table with their heads close together, and they were whispering. kathie was weeping again, but very softly; mädel had one arm around her, and was wiping kathie's tears away with her pinafore; paul was showing them something which i couldn't see,--he had his back to me,--and alan sat on his heels, grinning, and gazing at judge with wide-open, admiring eyes. just at this moment nora opened the door and called me; you should have seen those four jump! and the way judge hurried what he had in his hand out of sight! but i didn't suspect anything; i didn't dream of what they were up to. "jack," said nora, when i got out in the hall, "phil has gone out to see to something for me, and i can't send fee, so i wish you would go round to dr. archard's and ask him to call and see nurse as soon as possible. she won't let me do a thing for her, and yet she's groaning, and says she feels _dreadfully_; she may be very ill, for all i know." there was such an anxious look on nora's face that i tried to cheer her up. "don't worry, nonie," i said; "you know nurse gets scared awfully easy. if she has a finger-ache, she thinks she's dreadfully ill, and wants the doctor." "well, perhaps she'll feel better after she has seen him," nora said. "between kathie and her i've had a pretty hard morning; i'm doing my very best, but nobody seems to think so." she gave her head a proud toss, but i could see there were tears in her eyes. i didn't know what to say, so i just patted her hand, and then got my hat and went for the doctor. it was a lovely day, and i didn't suppose there was any need for me to hurry back, so i took a walk, and didn't get home for a good while after leaving my message at the doctor's. before i had time to ring the bell, nora opened the front door; she looked very much excited, and asked breathlessly, "did you meet them? have you seen them?" of course i didn't understand. "meet whom? what d'you mean?" i asked in surprise. "the children. then they are _lost!_" answered nora, and she sat down on a chair in the hall and burst out crying. then out came phil and felix from the drawing-room, where they had been with nora, and i heard the whole story. it seems that soon after i left for the doctor's, judge went down stairs and asked cook for some gingerbread,--"enough for the four of us," he said,--and some time later, when nora went up to the schoolroom to see what the children were doing, not one of them was there, nor could they be found in the house. nora flew to tell felix and phil, and in the hurried search from garret to cellar which everybody made,--except nurse, she wasn't told anything of it,--it was found that the children's every-day hats were gone. of course, as soon as i heard that, i remembered the whispering under the schoolroom table, and i felt at once that the children had run away. i just wished i had told nora about it, or that i had come right back from the doctor's; i might have prevented their going. [illustration: "nora tore it open."] while i was telling nora and the boys what i thought about the matter, hannah came flying into the drawing-room,--she was so excited, she forgot to knock. she held a cocked-hat note in her hand,--kathie is great on cocked-hat notes and paper lamplighters. "oh, miss nora! it's meself that's just found this on the flure mostly under the big sarytogy thrunk,--the one that's open," she cried, almost out of breath from her rush down the steps. "nora" was scrawled in kathie's handwriting on the outside of the note. in an instant nora tore it open, but she passed it right over to phil. "read it,--i can't," she said in a shaky voice. so he did. the note was very short and the spelling was funny, though we didn't think of that until afterward; this is what was in it: "we are not goging to stay here to be treted like this so we have run away we are goging to nannie becaws she tretes us good. i have token my new parrasole for the sun goodby we have jugs bank with us kathie." poor nonie! that just broke her all up! she cried and cried! "i _didn't_ ill-treat them; i was trying to do my _very_ best for them. if i _was_ cross, i didn't mean it,--and they _had_ to be made to mind," she kept saying between her sobs. "and now they've gone off in this dreadful way! oh, _suppose_ some tramp should get hold of them--or they should be run over or hurt--or--we--should--_never_ see them again! oh--_oh!_ what shall i say to papa and nannie!" "oh, shure, miss nora, you don't mane to say the darlints is ralely _lost_!" exclaimed hannah, and with that _she_ began to bawl; phil had to send her right down stairs, and warn her against letting nurse know. then we tried to comfort nora. "you've done your level best, and nobody can do any more than that," phil said, drawing nora to him, and pressing her face down hard on his shoulder, while he patted her cheek. "cheer up, nonie, old girl, they are no more lost than i am; you see if we don't walk them home in no time,--young rascals! they ought to be well punished for giving us such a scare." "yes, we'll probably find them in the park, regaling themselves with the good things that 'jugs bank' has afforded," remarked fee, trying to speak cheerfully. "we're going right out to look for them. come, jack, get on your hat and go along too; i'm ready." as he spoke, he stuck his hat on and stood up. "shall we go separately?" i asked, dropping nora's hand,--i'd been patting it. "indeed we _will_ go separately," answered phil, emphatically. "here, nora, sit down; and we will have a plan, and stick to it, too," he added, "or we'll all three be sure to think of the same scheme, travel over the same ground, and arrive at the same conclusion. there's been rather an epidemic of that sort of thing in this family lately,--the '_three_ souls with but a single thought, three wills that work as one,' business. yes, sir, we'll have a plan. fee, you go to the little parks, and some way down the avenue; jack, you go up the avenue, and through as many of the cross streets as you can get in; and i'll go east and west, across the _tracks_"--as the word slipped out he gave a quick look at nora; we knew he was thinking of those dreadful cable cars: but fortunately she didn't seem to have heard. so off we started, after making nora promise she'd stay at home and wait for us to bring her news. we separated at our corner; but i'd only gone a block or two when i thought of something that sent me flying back to the house. i slipped in the basement way, and up the back stairs to the nursery, where i hunted out an old glove of kathie's; then down i went to the yard and loosed major, and he and i started out as fast as we could go. once or twice in the country, when the children had strayed too far on the beach, by showing major something they'd worn, and telling him to "find 'em!" he had led phil and me right to them. i had remembered this, and now as we walked up the avenue i kept showing kathie's glove to the dear old doggie, and telling him, "find kathie, major, find her! find her, old boy!" and it did seem as if he understood--major's an awfully bright dog--by the way he wagged his tail and went with his nose to the ground smelling the pavement. he went pretty straight for nearly a block up the avenue, then he got bothered by the people passing up and down so continually, and he began to whine and run aimlessly about; i could hardly make him go on; and when i took him in the cross streets, he wasn't any good at all. i felt real discouraged. but just as soon as we turned into twenty-third street, i could see that he'd struck something; for though he did a lot of zigzagging over the pavement, he went ahead all the time: i tell you, i was right at his tail at every turn. when we came opposite to where madison avenue begins, if major didn't cross over and strike off into the park. presently he gave a short, quick bark, and tore down a path. i fairly _flew_ after him; up one path and down another we went like mad, until we came to the fountain, and there, in the shade of a big tree, just as cool and unconcerned as you please, were the runaways! kathie was seated off on one end of the bench, with her new parasol open over her head, putting on all sorts of airs, while she gave orders to paul and mädel, who were setting out some forlorn-looking fruit on the other end of the bench; alan was walking backward and forward dragging his express waggon after him. "why, it's _major_!" cried alan, as the old doggie bounced on him and licked his face. "and _jack_! hullo!" sang out paul, turning round and seeing me. "oh, _lawks_!" exclaimed mädel,--she'd caught that expression from nurse, who always says it when she's frightened or excited,--and with that she scrambled up on the bench and threw her arms round kathie's neck with such force that she knocked the parasol out of her hand, and it slipped down over their heads and hid their faces. [illustration: "and there, just as cool and unconcerned as you please, were the runaways."] of course i was thankful to see them, _very_ thankful; but at the same time i must say i was provoked, too, at the cool way in which they were taking things, when we'd been so frightened about them. "you mean little animals!" i said, giving paul's shoulder a shake. "there's poor nonie at home crying her eyes out about you, and here're you all _enjoying_ yourselves! what d'you mean by behaving like this?" instead of being sorry, if they didn't get saucy right away,--at least the boys did. judge jerked himself away from me. "if anybody's going to punish us, _i'm not_ coming home," he drawled, planting his feet wide apart on the asphalt pavement, and looking me square in the eye. "nor me!" chimed in alan, defiantly. the parasol was lifted a little, and mädel peeped out. "will nora make us go to bed right away?" she asked anxiously; "before we get any dinner?" up went the parasol altogether, and kathie slipped to the ground. "oh, jack, is everybody awfully mad? and what'll they do to us?" she said, and she looked just ready to begin weeping again. "'cause if they are, we'd rather stay here; we've got things to eat--" "yes, we've got lots of things," broke in alan; "see," pointing to the miserable-looking fruit on the end of the bench, "all that! judge bought it; we couldn't get the bank open, but the fruitman took it,--he said he didn't mind,--an' let us have all these things for it; wasn't he kind? we're going to have a party." well, for a few minutes i didn't know what to do,--i mean how to get them to go home without a fuss. i could see that paul and alan were just ready for mischief; if they started to run in different directions, i couldn't catch both, and there were those dangerous cable cars not very far away. suppose the boys should rush across broadway and get run over! i suppose i could have called a policeman, and got him to take us all home, but i knew that'd make a terrible fuss; kathie and mädel would howl,--they're awfully afraid of "p'leecemen," as alan calls them, and i really don't care very much for them myself. at last i got desperate. "see here, children," i said, "i've been sent to find you if i could, and to bring you home, and i've _got_ to do it, you know. if you'd seen how worried everybody was, and how poor nonie cried for fear some tramp had got hold of you--" "i just guess not!" broke in judge, defiantly; but all the same he glanced quickly over his shoulder, and drew a little nearer to me. "--or for fear you'd get hurt, or have no place to sleep in, you'd want to go straight home this minute. you know this park's all very well for the day-time; but when night comes, and it gets dark, what'll you do? the policemen may turn you out, and where will you all go _then_? nannie is miles and _miles_ away from here by the cars, and how're children like you ever going to get to her without money or anything? and even if it were so you could get to her, what do you suppose nannie'd say when she found you had all _run away from home_?" i said all this very seriously,--i tell you i felt serious,--and the minute i stopped speaking mädel slipped from the bench and slid her little hand into mine. "_i'm_ going home," she declared. "perhaps i will, too, if nora won't punish us," said kathie, undecidedly. "i don't know if she'll punish you or not," i said; "but even if she should, isn't that better than staying here all the time, and having no dinner,--cook's made a lovely shortcake for dessert,--and no beds to sleep in, and never coming home at all again?" kathie caught hold of my hand. "i'm ready," she said; "let's go now." "coming, boys?" i asked carelessly. "oh, i s'pose we'll _have_ to," answered paul, sulkily, kicking the leg of the bench; "and there's my money all gone!" i was wild to get them home, but i had to wait as patiently as i could while the boys piled the horrid old fruit into the express wagon--they wouldn't have left it for anything--and harnessed major to it with pieces of twine they had in their pockets; then we started. we passed the fruitman that had cheated judge, and phil said afterwards that i ought to have stopped and made him give up the bank,--there were nearly two dollars in it, besides the value of the bank itself, and he had given the children about ten or fifteen cents' worth of miserable stuff for it,--but i do hate to fight people, and besides, i was in a hurry to get home, so i didn't notice him at all. we went along in pretty good spirits--major at the head of the procession--until we got near home; then kathie asked once or twice, rather nervously, "what do you suppose nora'll do to us, jack?" and the boys began to lag behind a little. as we turned off the avenue, into our street, two people came down our stoop--we live near the corner--and came toward us. one of them was an old lady, and i knew at once that i'd seen her before, though i couldn't remember where. she was a little old lady, and she stooped a good deal; her nose was long and hooked, and she had a turn-up chin like in the pictures of punch that we have at home. kathie saw the likeness, too, for she pulled my elbow and whispered: "oh, jack, doesn't she look like punch? perhaps she's his wife." the other woman was stout, and she helped the old lady along,--i think she was a maid. as we got near them, the old lady fumbled for her eyeglasses, put them on, and looked sharply at us. "yes, yes, looks like his father!" we heard her say; then, "have we time, sanders? i should like to speak to them." "indeed, mum, we haven't time to stop," replied sanders; "we've barely time to catch the boat." then they got into the hansom that was standing at the curb, and were driven away. hannah opened the door, and the yell of joy that she gave when she saw the children brought nora flying to meet us. i couldn't help noticing how bright and happy nora looked, very different from when we had left her, an hour or so before; and the way she met the children was also a surprise to me. i knew she'd be glad to see them safe, but i thought surely she would have given them a good scolding, too, or punished them in some way; they deserved it, and i know they expected it. but she met them as sweetly and affectionately as even nannie could have; she gave them something to eat,--it was long past our lunch hour,--and then she walked them into the study and gave them a tremendous talking to. i don't know whether it was the unexpected way in which she treated them, or the talking to, or what, but they came out of the study looking very subdued, and they certainly behaved better for the rest of the time before we went in the country. and nora was different, too, for that time; she scarcely nagged, and she was more gentle,--so perhaps their running away taught her a lesson as well. in the mean time--while nora and the children were in the study--felix came in, all tired out, and a little while later phil; and weren't they indignant, though, with those youngsters when they found they were safe and sound! all that afternoon nora seemed very happy; we could hear her singing as she went up and down stairs and about the house, looking after nurse and the children. it was the same all through dinner-time,--she just bubbled over with fun, and it was the pleasantest meal we'd had since the family broke up. now nora isn't often like this,--in fact, very seldom; and to-day we supposed it was because she was so glad the children had been found; as phil said, 'twas almost worth while losing the youngsters--as long's we'd found them again--to have nora so bright and pleasant. his ill humour had all disappeared, and he and nora just kept us laughing with their funny sayings. but fee was rather quiet; his tramp after the children had tired him, and i guess, too, that he was thinking of the evening, and wondering how he could keep phil from going off with chad. after dinner i went out to feed major; i tell you, we all think him the wisest old doggie in new york! and i gave him the biggest dinner any dog could eat. just as i was coming through the hall to go on the stoop where phil and felix were sitting, nora ran down the steps and stood at the open front door. "come in the drawing-room, boys; i have something particular to tell you," she said. "come right away; better close the front door,--it's a long story." fee got up slowly, but phil hesitated. "i wonder if chad will be round?" he said. "oh, not to-night," answered nora, quickly. "why, didn't you hear him say last evening that he was going out of town for two or three days?" fee's face lighted up, and he opened his big eyes at me,--i know he was delighted; and it seemed to me that phil's surprised "no! is _that_ so?" did not sound very sorry. "oh, hurry in, _do_!" nora said impatiently. "i've kept the secret all the afternoon,--until we had a chance to talk quietly together,--and now it is just burning my lips to get out. come, jack, you, too." xvii. nora's secret. told by jack. of course that brought us into the drawing-room in double-quick time. fee threw himself full-length on a lounge; phil sat on a chair with his face to the back, which he hugged with both arms; i took the next chair,--the biggest in the room; and pulling over the piano stool, nora seated herself on that, and swung from side to side as she spoke to the different ones. for a minute she just sat and smiled at us without a word, until phil said: "well, fire away! we're all ears." "who do you think has been here to-day?" began nora. phil rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, and he and felix both answered very solemnly, and at the same moment:-- "the tsar!" "the president!" "_don't_ be silly!" said nora, with dignity; then, "i suppose i might as well tell you at once, for you never could guess,--_aunt lindsay!_" "no!" "jinks!" "we _saw_ her!" exclaimed felix, phil, and i. "yes," said nora, swinging herself slowly from side to side, and enjoying our surprise. "and what do you suppose she came for?" then, interrupting herself, "but there! i'll begin at the very beginning; that will be the best. well, i had just told dr. archard good-bye--by the way, he says nurse will be all right by to-morrow--and come in here for a minute, when the bell rang, and hannah ushered an old lady into the room. of course i knew at once that it was aunt lindsay, though i hadn't seen her for a long time; and i welcomed her as warmly as i could, feeling as i did about the children,--i didn't tell her anything about them, though,--and asked her to take off her things. but she said she could only stay a very short time, and asked to see 'nancy' and felix. "she sat in the chair you are in, jack,"--nora turned to me,--"and as she's very small, she looked about as lost in it as you do. when i said that felix was out, and nannie away in the adirondacks with papa, she looked _so_ disappointed. 'i knew your father was there,' she said, 'but he did not mention that nancy was with him. and so felix is out! h'm, sorry for that. good children, good children, both of them!'" "doesn't know you, old man, does she?" put in phil; and then he and felix grinned. "well," continued nora, "she said she couldn't stay for lunch, but i got her to loosen her bonnet strings and take a cup of tea and some crackers. while she sipped her tea she said: 'i am _en route_ for my usual summer resort, and have come a good deal out of my way to see my godchildren. it is a disappointment not to meet them; but if nancy is with her sick father, she is doing her duty.' then she asked about you, fee; your health particularly. after i had told her that you were as well as usual, and as fond of study as ever, then she told me what she had come on from boston for. felix, she knows all about your disappointment in not going to college last fall,--who do you suppose could have told her?--and she says--" nora stopped and looked at us with a teasing smile. fee was sitting up, and we were all leaning forward, eager for the rest of the story. "oh, _go_ on!" cried fee, quickly. "yes, out with it!" chimed in phil. "she says," went on nora, slowly, lingering over each word, "that you are to prepare yourself for examination to enter columbia in the fall, and she will see you through the college course. these are her very words: 'tell felix that his father has consented that i shall have the great pleasure and happiness of putting him through college. i wanted to do it last fall, but jack would not listen to it then. tell the boy that i shall enjoy doing this, and that he will hear from me about the last of august.' oh, felix, isn't it _splendid_?" [illustration: "'he will hear from me about the last of august.'"] "perfectly immense--_immense!_" exclaimed phil, landing on his feet in great excitement. "why, it's the _jolliest_, the _very_ best, the _finest_ piece of good news that i could hear--simply _huge!_ _blessed_ old dame! she's given me _the_ wish of my heart! hurrah, old chappie! after all we'll be at college together! _oo-h-ie!_" and he threw his arms right round felix and just hugged him. fee's eyes were wide open, and so bright! they shone right through his glasses; he leaned forward and looked anxiously from one to the other of us, his hands opening and shutting nervously on his knees as he spoke. "are you _sure_ about this?" he asked wistfully; "because i've dreamed this sort of thing sometimes, and--and--the awakening always upsets me for a day or two." "why, _certainly_ we're sure!" cried nora. "_dead sure!_" answered phil, emphatically; and nora added reproachfully: "why, felix! aren't you glad? i thought you'd be delighted." "_glad?_" echoed fee, "_glad?_ why, i'm--" his voice failed, and turning hurriedly from us, he buried his face in the sofa cushions. all this time i hadn't said a word; i really couldn't. you see, ever since i've been a choir boy, i've saved all the money that's been paid me for singing, so's to get enough to send fee to college. betty didn't think much of my scheme: she said 'twould take such a long while before i could get even half the amount; but still i kept on saving for it,--i haven't spent a penny of my salary,--and you've no idea how full the bank was, and _heavy!_ i've just hugged the little iron box sometimes, when i thought of what that money would do for fee; and for a few minutes after i heard nora's story i was so disappointed that i _couldn't_ congratulate him. then, all at once, it came over me like a rush how mean i was to want felix to wait such a long time for me to do this for him, when, through aunt lindsay's kindness, he could go to college right away. i got awfully ashamed, and going quickly over to fee's side, i knelt down by him and threw my arm over his shoulder. "fee," i said,--he still had his face in the cushions,--"i'm _very_, _very_, _very_ glad you are to go to college this fall,--_really_ and _truly_ i am, fee." i didn't see anything funny about this, but phil and nora began to laugh, and, sitting up, felix said, smiling, "why, i know you are, jacqueminot; i never doubted it for a moment. and by and by, when phil and i are staid old seniors, your turn will come,--we'll see to that." then, looking round at us, he went on, speaking rapidly, excitedly: "_at last_ it has come, and when i least expected it--when i had given up all hope. i can hardly believe it! _now_ i shall go in for the hardest sort of hard work, for i've great things to accomplish. don't think i'm conceited, but i'm going to try for _all_ the honours that a fellow can; and i'll get them, too--i'll get them; i _must!_ i promised--_her_--" he broke off abruptly and turned away, then presently added in a lighter tone: "i must write to my twinnie to-night,--how delighted she will be! oh, i tell you, you don't any of you know what this is to me!--but there, i _can't_ talk of it. let's have some fun. what shall we do to celebrate the occasion? play something lively, nora; we'll have a _musicale_." he stood up, and as nora ran to the piano and struck up a waltz, phil caught fee round the waist and danced off with him. but before they had turned twice round, fee was in a chair, holding on to his back, and laughing at phil's grumbling protest. "i never was much on dancing, you know," he said. "here, take rosebud; he'll trip the light fantastic toe with you as long as you like." so phil finished the waltz with me, but i didn't enjoy it; phil is so tall, and he grips a person so tight, that half the time my feet were clear off the floor and sticking straight out; and he went so fast that i got dizzy. well, we had a _jolly_ evening. after the dance, fee didn't move about very much, but he was just as funny and bright as he could be; nora was nicer, too, than i've ever known her; and as for phil, he was perfectly wild with good spirits. he danced,--alone when he couldn't get anybody for a partner,--and sang, and talked, and joked, and kept us in a roar of laughter until bedtime. "well," said nora, as we stood together by the drawing-room door for a few minutes before going upstairs, "i thought this morning that this was going to be a black day,--one of the days when everything goes wrong,--and yet see how pleasantly it has ended." "it has been a great day for me," said fee, slowly. "i don't mind telling you people, now, that that disappointment in the fall took the heart and interest all out of my studies; but now"--he straightened himself up, and his voice rang out--"_now_ i have hope again, and courage, and you'll see what i can do. thanks don't express my feelings; i'm more than thankful to aunt lindsay!" "so 'm i," i piped up, and i meant that; i was beginning to feel better about it. "thankful, more thankful, most thankful," phil said, pointing his finger at nora, then at me, then at felix; "and here am i, the 'thankfullest' of all." there was a break in his voice that surprised us; and to cover it up, he began some more of his nonsense. "high time for us--the _pater's_ little infants--to be a-bed," he said, laughing. "come, mr. boffin, make your adieux and prepare to leave "'the gay, the gay and festive scene; the halls, the halls of dazzling light.'" and suddenly, catching fee in his arms, he ran lightly up the stairs with him, calling back to us: "'good-night, ladies! good-night, ladies! good-night, ladies! i'm going to leave you now!'" xviii. experiences at endicott beach. told by betty. nora insisted that it was "exceedingly kind" of the ervengs, and "a compliment" to me, and all that sort of thing, to invite me to spend a month with them at their country place. well, perhaps she was right: nora is _always_ right,--in her own estimation; all the same, i didn't want to go one step, and i am afraid i was rather disagreeable about it. you see i had been looking forward to going to the cottage with the others; and having to start off for an entirely different place at only a few hours' notice quite upset me. at the cottage, nannie takes charge while miss marston is away for her holidays, and she lets us amuse ourselves in our own way, as long as we are punctual at meals,--papa insists on that,--and don't get into mischief. one can wear one's oldest clothes, and just _live_ out of doors; what with driving old pegasus, and riding g. w. l. spry, and boating, fishing, crabbing, wading, and playing in the sand, we do have the jolliest times! now, instead of all this fun and freedom, i was to be packed off to visit people that i didn't know very well, and didn't care a jot about. of course i knew hilliard _pretty_ well,--he's been at the house often enough! i didn't mind him much, though he is provokingly slow, and so--well, _queer_, for i could speak my mind right out to him if i felt like it; but it seemed to me that mr. erveng must always remember that silly escapade of mine whenever he looked at me, and i was sure that mrs. erveng regarded me as a rough, overgrown tomboy. somehow, when i am with her i feel dreadfully awkward,--all hands, and feet, and voice; though these things don't trouble me in the least with any one else. i did wish that she had invited nora to visit her instead of me. when i saw my old blue flannel laid with the things to go to the cottage, and only my best gowns put into the trunk i was to take to the ervengs', it suddenly rushed over me that i would have to be on my company manners for a whole month! and i got so mad that it would have been a relief to just _roar_,--the way kathie does. nannie was away, and the others didn't seem to understand how i felt; in fact, nora aggravated me by scolding, and saying i ought to feel highly delighted, when i knew that deep down in her heart she was only too thankful that _she_ hadn't been asked. jack was the only person that sympathised with me,--dear old jackie-boy! i'm beginning to think that there is a good deal to jack, for all he's so girlie. [illustration: "in the drawing-room car."] the ervengs called for me the morning after papa and nannie had gone to the mountains,--right after breakfast,--and i can assure you it was dreadfully hard to keep back the tears when i was telling the family good-bye; and when i was seated in the carriage, right under mr. and mrs. erveng's eyes, i got the most insane desire to scream out loud, or burst the door open and jump out: i had to sit up very straight and set my lips tight together, to keep from doing it. that feeling wore off, though, by the time we got settled in the drawing-room car, and i was three seats from mrs. erveng,--i managed that,--with mr. erveng and hilliard between us. it was a marvel to me the way those two waited on mrs. erveng; in watching them do it i forgot about myself. her chair must be at just such an angle, her footstool in just such a position, and the cushions at her back just so many, and most carefully arranged; and if she stirred, they were all attention immediately. and they were like that the whole month that i was at endicott beach, though it seemed to me sometimes that she was very exacting. now with us, though we love one another dearly, and, as phil says, would go through fire and water for one another if need be, particularly if any one were ill, still we're not willing to be imposed on _all_ the time, and we do keep the different ones up to the mark, and stand up for our individual rights,--we've _got_ to where there are so many. but the ervengs aren't in the least like us; and i think that, in some ways, hilliard is the very oddest boy i've _ever_ known. to begin with, he is so literal,--away ahead of nora; he took so many things seriously that i said in joke that at first i didn't know what to make of him. i used to get _so_ provoked! he doesn't understand the sort of "chaffing" that we do so much at home, and he is slow to get an idea; but once it's fixed in his mind, you needn't think he's going to change,--it's there for the rest of his natural life. he could no more change his opinion about things as i do than he could fly. perhaps he thinks i'm frivolous and "uncouth,"--as nora sometimes says i am. well, let him; who cares? _i_ think _he_ is a regular old poke, though he is better than i thought at first; but you'll hear all about it. of course hilliard was polite, and all that, when he came to our house, but i didn't always see him; in fact, i used to keep out of the way on purpose, many a time: so i didn't really know what sort of a boy he was until i went to stay at the beach. well, as soon as mrs. erveng was comfortably settled, hilliard came over to me with a big soft cushion in his hand. "may i put this at your back?" he asked. "it's a tiresome journey to boston, and we've got quite a ride after that to reach endicott beach; so let me make you as comfortable as possible." now if he had come up and simply put the cushion on the back of my chair, the way phil, or felix, or jack would have done, i wouldn't have minded at all,--i like cushions; but to stand there holding it, waiting for me to give him permission, struck me as being very silly. i knew he expected me to say yes, and instead of that i found myself saying, "no, i thank you,"--i could hear that my tone was snippy,--"i can get on very comfortably without a cushion." our boys, or max, or even murray unsworth would have said, "oh, come now, betty!" and just slipped the cushion behind me, and i'd have enjoyed it, and made no more fuss. but not so this individual. he looked helplessly at me for a minute, then laid the cushion down on his mother's travelling satchel; and there it reclined until we reached boston. 'twas the same way with getting me things to eat. with all the excitement that morning, i had very little appetite for breakfast, so by lunch time i was _very_ hungry; and when mrs. erveng opened her box of sandwiches, i felt as if i could have eaten every one in it,--but of course i didn't. they were delicious; but, oh, so small and thin! mr. erveng did not take any,--he never takes a mid-day meal. mrs. erveng ate two, trifling with the second one as if tired of it. i ate three,--when a _dozen_ would not have been too many! hilliard disposed of four, and then went out to get his mother a cup of tea,--i suspect he had something more to eat in the restaurant. he asked, in a tone as if he meant it, "mayn't i bring you a cup of tea?" but i despise tea, so i answered, "no, i thank you," for the second time. mr. and mrs. erveng were talking to an acquaintance who had come up, and actually hilliard hadn't the sense to offer me anything else, and i _couldn't_ ask. having sisters is certainly a great thing for a boy, as i've told jack scores of times; why, for all that he is so shy, jack could have taken twice as good care of a girl as hilliard did of me, just because he has had me to train him. presently mrs. erveng passed the lunch box over to me. "_do_ take another sandwich, betty," she said kindly, "and some cake." but by this time no one else in the car was eating, and i didn't want to be the only person,--i hate to have people stare at me while i'm eating,--so i refused. the open box remained by me for some time,--'twas all i could do to keep from putting out my hand for a sandwich; then the porter came by, and mr. erveng handed it to him to take away. hilliard talked to me as we flew along, in his deliberate, grown-up way, but pleasantly; if i had not been so hungry and homesick, i might have been interested. but by and by the hunger wore off, and by the time we reached endicott beach i had a raving headache; but i said nothing about it until after dinner, for mrs. erveng was so tired out that she had to be looked after and got to bed the very first thing, and that made a little fuss, though her maid dillon, who had come on the day before, was there to assist her. the house is very prettily furnished and arranged,--almost as prettily but more simply than mrs. erveng's rooms in new york. after dinner hilliard showed me a little of the place, which is _very_ pretty, and quite unlike anywhere else that i have been. there's a queer scraggly old garden at the back of the house, and in front a splendid view of the beach, with the ocean rolling up great booming waves. before very long i got to like endicott beach very much; but this first afternoon, though the sunset was most gorgeous, i felt so miserable that i could take interest in nothing. oh, how i longed for home! presently hilliard said, "i'm afraid you are dreadfully tired,--you look so pale. i should have waited until to-morrow to show you the place; i have been inconsiderate--" "i have a headache," i broke in shortly; then all at once my lips began to tremble. "i wish i were at home!" i found myself exclaiming; and then the tears came pouring down my face. "oh, i am so sorry! so _very_ sorry! what can i do for you?" began hilliard. "oh! mayn't i--" i was so mortified that i got very mad; i hate to cry, any way, and above all before this stiff wooden boy! i threw my hands over my face, and turning my back on him, started for the house, walking as fast as i could, stumbling sometimes on the uneven beach. but hilliard followed close behind me. "i'm _so_ sorry!" he repeated. "why didn't you let me know sooner? may i--" i got so provoked that i wheeled round suddenly on him,--i think i startled him. "oh, _do_ stop _asking_ people if you 'may' or 'mayn't do things for them,"--i'm afraid that here i mimicked his tone of voice. "_do_ the things first, and then ask,--if you must. i declare, you don't know the very first thing about taking care of a girl; why, our paul could do better." hilliard stood stock still and stared at me; his sleepy eyes were wide open, and there was such a bewildered expression on his face that it just set me off laughing, in spite of the tears on my cheeks, and my headache. "i am exceedingly sorry if i have neglected--" he began stiffly; but before he could say any more i turned and fled. i fancied i heard his footsteps behind me, and i fairly flew along the beach, into the house, and up to my room, where i began undressing as quickly as i could. but before i was ready for bed, mrs. erveng's maid brought a message from her mistress. she was so sorry to hear that i was not well; was there nothing that she could do for me? "please say that i am going to bed; that will cure my headache quicker than anything else," i called through the keyhole, instead of opening the door. i had a feeling that the ervengs would think me a crank; but i had got to that pitch that afternoon where i didn't care what anybody thought of me. then dillon went away, and i got into bed. but i couldn't sleep for ever so long: you see the sun had not yet set, and i'm not used to going to sleep in broad daylight; besides, i was very unhappy. as i lay there looking at the brilliant colours of the sky, i thought over what i had said to hilliard, and the oftener i went over it, the more uncomfortable i got; for i began to see that i'd been very rude--to insult the people i was visiting! i wondered if hilliard had told his mother what i said; and what she thought of me? would she send me home? i had declared to nora that i would behave so badly as to be sent home before the visit was over, but i had not really meant it. i got all worked up over the horrid affair, and if i had had then enough money to pay my expenses to new york, i really think i should have been tempted to climb out of the window, or make my escape in some way or other,--i dreaded so having to face the ervengs in the morning. after a long while i fell asleep, and dreamed that mr. and mrs. erveng were holding me fast, while hilliard stuffed sandwiches down my throat. but by the next morning my headache was gone, and the sunshine and beautiful view from my window made me feel a new person, though i still dreaded meeting the ervengs. usually i dress quickly, but this morning i just dawdled, to put off the evil moment as long as possible. it seemed so strange not to have nannie, or miss marston, or nora, or any one to tell me what to say or do; i really felt lost without dear old nannie. i would have been delighted to see her that morning,--we have such nice talks at home while we are dressing! before i left home, nora said particularly, "now, betty, _do_ remember that your ginghams are for the mornings and your thinner gowns for the afternoons. don't put on the first frock that comes to your hand, regardless of whether it is flannel, gingham, or _organdi_. you know you haven't a great many clothes, so _please_, i beg of you, for the reputation of the family, take care of them, or you will not have a decent thing to wear two weeks after you get to the ervengs'." i was provoked at her for saying this, but i could not resent it very much, for--though i love pretty things as well as anybody does--somehow accidents _are_ always happening to my clothes. nurse says it's because i am too heedless to think about what i have on, and perhaps it is: yet, when i remember, and try to be careful, i'm simply _miserable_; and it does seem too silly to make one's self uncomfortable for clothes,--so i generally forget. but this morning i looked carefully over the ginghams that dillon had unpacked and hung in the closet in my room, and finally, taking down the one i considered the prettiest, i put it on; i wished afterward that i had chosen the plainest and ugliest. as i said, i was taking as much time as possible over my dressing, when i happened to think that breakfast might be ready, and the ervengs waiting for me,--papa says "to be late at meals, particularly when visiting, is _extremely_ ill-bred;" then i rushed through the rest of my toilet, and raced down the stairs, not thinking of mrs. erveng's headache until i reached the foot of the steps. i was relieved to find no one in the parlour, or in the room across the hall, where the table was set for breakfast. but as i stepped out on the broad front piazza, hilliard rose from the hammock in which he had been lying, and came forward with such a pleasant "good-morning!" that i felt surprised and ashamed. "how is your head?" he asked, adding, "it must be better, i fancy,--you look so much brighter than you did yesterday." i could feel my face getting warm; i hate to apologise to people, but i knew that i ought to do it here. "that headache made me cross, and i was homesick," i answered, speaking as fast as i could to get it all over with quickly. "i am sorry i spoke so rudely--" but hilliard broke in quickly,--for him. "don't say that; please don't ever speak of it again," he said earnestly. "it's for _me_ to apologise; i must have deserved what you said, or i know you would not have said it." [illustration: "betty."] well, i _was_ taken aback! that was a new view of the case. at first i thought he might be in sarcasm; but no, he was in earnest, saying the words in his slow, deliberate way, with his eyes half shut. i couldn't help wishing that the family had been there to hear; but i decided that i would certainly tell them of it,--you see i don't often get such a compliment. i would like to have made a polite speech to him, but what was there to say?--it still remained that he _hadn't_ taken good care of me. and while this thought was going through my brain, i heard myself say, "did you tell your mother what i said to you?" now i had no more idea of asking hilliard that--though i did want to know--than i had of flying; my mouth opened, and the words just came out without the least volition on my part,--in fact, i was perfectly astonished to hear them. more than once this has happened at home; phil teases me about it, and fee calls me mrs. malaprop, because--that's the trouble--these speeches are almost always just the things i shouldn't have said. i'm sure i don't know what i am to do to prevent it. my face actually burnt,--it must have been as red as a beet. "i didn't mean to ask you that," i blurted out. while i was speaking, hilliard was saying, "why, certainly not; i simply mentioned that you had a headache," in such a surprised voice that i felt more uncomfortable than ever: but wasn't it nice of him not to tell? i just rushed into talk about the scenery as fast as i could go. from where we stood we could see the wild, rugged coast for miles,--the huge, bare brown rocks standing like so many grim sentinels guarding the spaces of shining white sand, which here and there sloped gently to the water's edge; the sea gulls resting, tiny white specks, against the dark rocks, or circling in flocks above them; the dark blue ocean, dotted with steamers and sailing-vessels and sparkling and dancing in the morning light, rolling up great white-crested waves that dashed on the rocks and threw up a cloud of foaming spray, and broke on the beach with a dull booming noise; and over all was the warm, glorious summer sunshine. as i looked and looked, all the disagreeableness slipped away, and it was _splendid_ just to be alive. i thought of felix, and how much he would enjoy all this beauty. we all think so much of the scenery at the cottage, and really it is nothing compared with this. there the beach is smooth and nice, but it hasn't a rock on it; and the water--it's the sound, you know--just creeps up on it with a soft lapping sound very different to the roar and magnificence of the ocean. i was so surprised and delighted that first morning that i spoke out warmly. "oh!" i cried, "isn't it _beautiful_! oh, it is grand! fascinating!--i could watch those waves all day!" hilliard's face lighted up. "i thought you would like it," he said. "you should see it in a storm,--it is magnificent! but it is terrible, too,"--he gave a little shudder. "i love the ocean, but i am afraid of it; it is treacherous." "afraid!" i looked at him in surprise,--the idea of a big strong boy as he is being _afraid_ of the water! i opened my mouth to exclaim, "well, _i'm_ not afraid!" then remembered my unlucky remark of a few minutes before and said instead, and in a much milder tone, "after breakfast i'm going to explore those rocks, and get as near to the ocean as i can--" "don't attempt to do any climbing alone," broke in hilliard, more positively than he usually speaks; "the rocks are very slippery, and you know nothing about the tides. people have been caught on those rocks and cut off--drowned--by the incoming tide, before they could reach the shore, or be rescued. i shall be very glad to go with you whenever--" "good-morning!" mr. erveng said, appearing in the doorway behind us; "will you young people come in and have some breakfast?" breakfast was served in a room that looked out on the garden; and everything was very nice, though quite different from our breakfasts at home. mrs. erveng was not down,--i found afterward that she always took her breakfast in her own room,--and hilliard sat in his mother's place and poured the tea. i was thankful that mr. erveng hadn't asked me to do it; but it did look so _queer_ to see a boy doing such a thing,--so like a "miss nancy," as phil would say. mr. erveng and hilliard talked a good deal about things that were going on in the world, and about books, and places they had been to. i was perfectly surprised at the way mr. erveng asked hilliard's opinion, and listened to his remarks,--i couldn't imagine papa's doing such a thing with any of us, not even with felix; and when i said anything, they both acted as if it were really worth listening to,--which is another thing that never happens in our family! and yet, on the other hand, mr. erveng goes off to boston in the mornings without even saying good-bye to mrs. erveng or hilliard,--they never know by what train he is coming home; and in the whole month i visited them i never once saw hilliard and his mother kiss each other. now at home papa always tells some one of us when he is going out, and about when he will return; and if we children go anywhere, the whole family is sure to know of it; and quite often we kiss one another good-bye, and always at night. nora often tells us that it isn't "good form" to do this; and sometimes, when she's in an airish mood, she calls us "a pack of kissers,"--as if that were something dreadful. still, all the same, i'm _glad_ that we're that sort of a family; and i am more than ever glad since i've been staying with the ervengs. hilliard and i were just starting for the beach that morning, when dillon came out on the piazza with a message. "mr. hilliard," she said, "your mother would like to speak to you." so off he went with, "excuse me; i'll be back in a few minutes," to me. but instead, presently back came dillon with another message: "mrs. erveng asks, will you please to excuse mr. hilliard; she would like him to do something for her for a while." so off i went for my walk, alone. i strolled down to the beach and sat in the shade of a big rock and looked at the waves,--watching them coming in and going out, and making up all sorts of thoughts about them. but after a while i got tired of that, and began wondering what they were all doing at home without nannie, or miss marston, or papa; and then i felt so lonely and homesick that i just _had_ to get up and walk about. and then i got into trouble,--i don't know another girl that gets into scrapes as i do! there were lots of little coves about the beach,--the water in them was just as clear as crystal; and as i stepped from rock to rock, bending down to look into the depths, what should i do but slip,--the rocks _are_ slippery,--and land in the middle of a cove, up to my waist in water! there was nothing to do but to scramble out,--the rocks ran too far out into the ocean to think of walking round them,--and i can assure you it was no easy thing to accomplish with my wet skirts clinging to me. i scratched my hands, and scraped my shoes, and got my sleeves and the whole front of my nice gingham stained with the green slimy moss that covered the rocks. but at last i got out; then came the walk up the beach to the house,--there was no other way of getting there,--and you may imagine my feelings when, half-way up, i discovered that mrs. erveng was seated on the piazza in her invalid's chair. i saw her put her _lorgnette_ to her eyes; i imagined i heard her say to hilliard, who was arranging a cushion back of her head, "who _is_ that extraordinary looking creature coming up the beach?" and i _longed_ to just burrow in the sand and get out of her sight. hilliard came running to meet me. "you've fallen into the water--you are wet! i hope you're not hurt?" he exclaimed, as he reached me. it was on the tip of my tongue to answer sharply, "i _have_ fallen into the water; did you expect me to be dry?" it was such a _silly_ speech of his! but i was afraid of mrs. erveng, so i just said carelessly,--as if i were in the habit of tumbling into the ocean with all my clothes on every day in the week,--"oh, i just slipped off one of the rocks; i got my feet wet." and there i was, mind you, wet almost to my waist, and such a figure! any one of our boys--even jack, and he is pretty dense sometimes--would have seen the joke, and we'd have had a hearty laugh, anyway, out of the situation; but not a smile appeared on hilliard's face. either he didn't see the fun at all, or else he was too deadly polite to laugh. if he had even said roughly, "didn't i _tell_ you not to go there!" i wouldn't have minded it as much as his "how unfortunate!" and his helpless look. i was afraid to say anything for fear i'd be rude again, so we walked up to the piazza in solemn silence. "good morning!" mrs. erveng said pleasantly, as i laboured up the steps. "an accident? i am so glad you are not hurt! hilliard should have warned you about those slippery rocks--oh, he did--i see. dillon will help you change your things; ring for her, hilliard. too bad, betty, to spoil that pretty frock." well, i changed my wet clothes, and for the rest of that day i was as meek as a lamb. i sat down, and got up, and answered, and talked to the ervengs as nearly in nora's manner as i could imitate. perhaps they liked it, but i didn't; i was having the pokiest kind of a time, and i was so homesick that i cried myself to sleep again that night. mind you, i wouldn't have our boys and nora know this for a kingdom! the next few days were more agreeable; the people from the other cottages on the beach came to call on mrs. erveng, and while she was entertaining them, hilliard and i went for walks or sat on the sands. as i've told you before, he isn't at all a wonderful sort of boy,--except for queerness,--and he always _will_ be a poke; but sometimes he's rather nice, and he is certainly polite. he knows the beach well,--he ought to, he's been here nearly every summer of his life, and he is eighteen years old,--and he showed me everything there was to see. there were no more accidents under his guidance; and no wonder,--he is caution itself. there was only one part of the beach that he did not take me, and that was where a tall pointed rock stood, that was separated from the others by a rather wide strip of sand. i thought it looked interesting; i could see what looked in the distance like the arched entrance to a cave in the side of the rock. i would like to have gone to look at it, but every time i proposed it, hilliard turned the conversation. "some day we'll investigate it," he said at last; "but don't ever go over there alone,--it is a dangerous place." according to him, the whole beach was dangerous; so i made up my mind that i would "investigate" for myself at the first opportunity that offered. while we rested on the sands, hilliard would read aloud to me,--he likes to read aloud. neither phil nor i care as much for books as do the others in the family; but to be polite, i did not tell hilliard that i am not fond of being read to; to me it always seems so slow. at first i used to look at the ocean and make up thoughts about it, so that i hardly heard any of what he was reading; but after a while i began to listen, and then, really, i got quite interested. we were sitting in the shade of the rocks one very warm afternoon,--hilliard was reading aloud,--when there came a sudden peal of thunder, and presently a flash of lightning. "oh, we're going to have a storm!" i exclaimed. "i am so glad! now i can see the ocean in a storm,--you said it was magnificent then. why, what are you doing?" "we must get in the house as quickly as possible." hilliard rose to his feet as he spoke, and began hastily gathering up the books and cushions, and the big sun umbrella. "but the rain hasn't come yet, and i _do_ want to watch the water,--see, it's beginning to get white-caps," i said. "we can reach the house in a few minutes." as i spoke there was another flash of lightning and a long roll of thunder, but neither was severe. to my great astonishment hilliard shrank back against the rock, and shielded his face with the cushion he held in his hand; i could see that he was very pale. "oh, come, _come_!" he begged; "oh, let us get to the house at once!" "what!" i flashed out scornfully, "are you _afraid_ of a thunder storm?" he didn't answer; he just stood there flattening himself against the rock, his face deadly white, his eyes almost closed, and his lips set tight together. i got _so_ angry! i _despise_ a coward! had jack done that, i thought to myself, i'd have been tempted to thrash him to put some spirit and pluck into him; and here was this great big overgrown boy--! "why don't you run away to the house?" i broke out sharply. "i can take care of myself; _i'm_ not afraid of a little thunder." he put up his hand in a deprecating way, as if asking me to hush. then, as a nearer peal reverberated among the rocks, and another flash lighted up the now leaden-coloured sky, he sprang forward and caught hold of my arm, with a sharp cry of "_come! come!_" wheeling me round suddenly, he ran toward the house, carrying me along with him with such force and swiftness--though i resisted--that in a few minutes we were on the piazza, and then in the hall, with the heavy outer door swung shut. we were barely under cover when the rain pelted down, and the thunder and lightning grew more loud and vivid. hilliard leaned breathlessly against the hat-rack table,--i could see that he was trembling. i stood and looked at him,--i suppose it was rude, but i couldn't help it; you see i had never met such a kind of boy before. mrs. erveng had spent part of the day on the beach, and had come to the house about an hour before to take her afternoon nap. now we heard her voice from the floor above us. "hilliard! hilliard, my son!" she called; there was something in her voice--a sort of tenderness--that i had never noticed before. "come here to me; come!" and he went, without a glance at me, lifting his feet heavily from step to step, with drooping head and a shamed, miserable expression on his pale face. in about an hour's time the storm was all over, and that afternoon we had a gorgeous sunset; but mr. erveng and i were the only ones who sat on the piazza to enjoy it. neither mrs. erveng nor hilliard appeared again that day. mr. erveng took me for a walk along the beach, and did his best to entertain me: but i had a feeling that i was in the way--that he would rather have been upstairs with his wife and son, or that perhaps if i had not been there they would have come down. i thought of them all at home,--phil and fee with their fun and merry speeches, and jack, and the little ones, and nora; there is always something or other going on, and i would have given almost anything to be back once more among them. i was so unhappy this afternoon that i actually deliberated whether i had the courage to do something desperate,--make faces at mr. erveng, or race upstairs and interview mrs. erveng, or call hilliard names out loud,--_anything_, so that they would send me home. but after a while i concluded i wouldn't try any of these desperate remedies; not that i minded what they'd say at home (teasing, i mean), but papa would want to know the whole affair,--he has got to think a good deal of mr. erveng,--and besides, somehow, though she's so gentle and refined, mrs. erveng isn't at all the sort of person that one could do those things to. so i said nothing, though i thought a great deal; and i went to bed before nine o'clock thoroughly disgusted with the ervengs. hilliard was at breakfast the next morning, just as stiff and prim and proper as ever,--it almost seemed as if what had happened in the storm must be a dream. but later on, when we were on the piazza, he spoke of it to me. "i feel that i should explain to you that i have a nervous dread of a thunder storm," he said, in that proper, grown-up way in which he speaks, but getting very red. "it completely upsets me at the time; i am afraid you think me a coward--" he broke off abruptly. "if it is nervousness, why don't you do something for it?--go to a physician and get cured?" i answered shortly; it seemed to me so silly--"so girlie," as jack says--to try to turn his behaviour off on _nervousness_. "i _am_ under a physician's care," he said eagerly; "and he says if i could only once--" but just then the carriage that had taken mr. erveng to the train drove up to the door, and with an exclamation of pleasure hilliard started forward to meet the lady and young girl who were getting out of it. they were mrs. endicott and her daughter alice, relatives of the ervengs, and they had come to stay with them while some repairs were being made to their own house, which was farther along the beach. it was _such_ a relief to see a girl again; and she turned out to be just as nice as she could be. she and hilliard are cousins, but she isn't at all like him in any way. in the first place, she is splendid looking,--tall and strong, and the picture of health, with the most beautiful colour in her cheeks; and she is so jolly and full of fun that we got on famously together. alice is a little over sixteen,--just one year older than i am,--and she has travelled almost everywhere with her parents (she's the only child, you see), all over america and in europe. but she doesn't put on any airs about it; in fact, instead of talking of her travels, as i would ask her to do, she'd beg, actually coax me to tell her about my brothers and sisters, and the times we have at home,--it seems hilliard has written her about us. she said she had never known such a large family, and she wanted me to describe each one, from phil down to alan. on warm mornings we would sit on the beach in the shade of the rocks, and when hilliard wasn't reading to us, somehow the conversation always got round to the family. hilliard thinks a good deal of our boys, and he talked to alice about them; he told her of our entertainment on nora's birthday, and our "performances," and she seemed to enjoy hearing of it all. she asked questions, too, and said she felt as if she really knew us all. mrs. endicott was almost as nice as alice, and so _kind_! why, almost every day she got up some amusement for us,--driving, or walking, or a picnic, or something. i really began to enjoy myself very much,--only that i didn't hear often enough from home. nora's notes were very short,--just scraps; she said she was too busy to write more; and jack never has shone as a letter writer. he'd say, "nora had a circus with the 'kids' to-day,--will tell you about it when you come home;" or, "something splendid has happened for fee,--you shall have full particulars when you get back," and other things like that. provoking boy! when i was longing to hear everything. after the endicotts came, i enjoyed myself so well that the time flew by, and almost before i knew it the last day but one of my visit at the beach had come. that afternoon, instead of going with mrs. endicott, alice, and hilliard, to see how the repairs were getting on at their cottage, i decided to remain at home. thinking it over afterward, i could not have explained why i did not care to go; i didn't even remember the excuse i made. it could not have been the heat,--though it was extremely warm,--for a little while after they had gone i dressed for dinner, and started for a stroll along the beach. [illustration: "on warm mornings we would sit on the beach."] i walked slowly on and on, enjoying the beauty of the scenery, until i suddenly discovered that i was directly opposite the large rock which hilliard and i were to have "investigated" some day, but to which he had never taken me. i knew we could not do it the next day, for mr. endicott had invited us to spend it on his steam yacht, and the day after that i was to leave for home; so i made up my mind that that afternoon was my opportunity. carefully gathering up my skirts,--i had on my best white gown,--i picked my way over the rocks and stepped down on the wide strip of sand which divided this rock from the others. i noticed that the beach sloped downward to the rock; but in my heedlessness i did not notice that the sand was slightly damp. on reaching the rock, i found that what had looked at a distance like an arched entrance to a cave was really some irregular steps cut out of its surface, and which led to a narrow shelf, or ledge, a little more than half-way up the tall, solid-looking mass of stone. i knew that the view from that height must be fine, and i _love_ to climb; so i determined to get up to that ledge. it was not very easy,--the steps were slippery and rather far apart, and then, too, my dress bothered me, i was so afraid i would soil or tear it,--so i was a little tired and warm by the time i reached the top. but the view from there was _beautiful!_ one had a clear sweep of the beach, except that smaller portion which lay behind the big rock. the shelf on which i sat, with my feet resting on the step below, was a little rounded, something of a horseshoe shape, and with the rock to lean back against i was quite comfortable. i wondered again and again why hilliard had avoided showing me this place, and enjoyed every detail of the view to my heart's content,--the grand, rugged outline of the beach, the exquisite colours of the sky and water, and the crafts that went sailing and purring past. i wondered where they were all going, and made up destinations for them. then i began counting them, so as to tell alice at dinner; i got up to twenty-eight, and then--i must have fallen asleep. how long i slept i don't know, but i woke with a great start, conscious of some loud, unusual noise, and that something cool had fallen on my face; and for a moment what i saw turned my heart sick with terror. everything was changed since last i had looked at it. the sky, so blue and clear then, was now covered with heavy black clouds, across which shot vivid flashes of lightning, and there were deep, fierce growls of thunder. the shining sands that i had crossed so easily but a while before had disappeared; the ocean, which had then been so far away, now covered them, and was on a level with the step on which my feet rested. the blueness of the water had gone,--it was lead-coloured, to match the sky,--and great angry, white-crested, curling waves came rolling in, tumbling over and over each other in a mad race to dash themselves against the rock on which i sat, throwing up each time a heavy shower of white, foamy spray. it was the touch of this spray on my face that had wakened me; and to my horror, the water was dancing and gurgling at my very feet! in a flash i realised that i was in great danger,--entirely cut off from the land, and on a rock that was under water at high tide! "oh, it can't be! it _can't_ be!" i cried aloud, standing up and looking wildly around; and as i did so, a big wave broke over my feet. with a scream i scrambled back on the ledge, and stood there, clinging to the jagged points of the rock, while i called for help at the top of my voice. i shouted, and shrieked, and yelled, until i was hoarse, and the cries were driven back into my throat by the wind; but all that answered me was the roar of the storm and the screams of the sea gulls as they flew by. as the wind lulled for a minute or two, i managed to drag off the skirt of my gown and wave it, hoping to attract the attention of some passing vessel,--a long range of rocks cut off any view of the cottages on the beach,--but the next wild gust tore it out of my grasp. the water kept rising,--it was bubbling and foaming over my ankles; the waves were lashing themselves higher and higher, the rain coming down in sheets, the wind howling and raging,--i was afraid it would blow me off the ledge! and never in all my life have i heard or seen such thunder and lightning! at first i was all confused,--i was so startled that i could think of nothing but that i was going to be drowned; but after a while i quieted down, and then i remembered that i could swim. many a swimming match had jack and i had at the cottage,--i should have said that i was a very good swimmer; but that was in still water, not in this terrible, cruel ocean. i made up my mind to throw myself off the ledge and strike out for the shore,--three times i thought i would, and each time shrank back and clung the closer to the rock. at last i had to admit to myself that i was _afraid!_ i, betty rose, who had always boasted that i was not afraid of anything, had to own to myself that i had not the courage to even attempt to struggle with those waves! my courage seemed all gone. i was afraid--_deadly_ afraid--of the waves; i screamed as each one struck me higher and higher, and i hid my face from the lightning. oh, it was awful! _awful!_ by and by i began to think; i still felt the rain and waves, and shrunk from the lightning, but not as i had at first, for i was thinking thoughts that had never come to me before in all my life. i could see right before me the faces of papa, and my dear brothers and sisters,--oh, how i loved them! and i should never be with them again! how they would miss me! and yet how many, _many_ times had i been disagreeable, and commanding, and unkind! i loved them, but i had spoken sharply, and teased, and grumbled when i had had little services to do for them; now there would be no more opportunities. i wished that i had done differently! then my thoughts flew off to mrs. erveng,--how surly and disagreeable i had behaved to her! not once had i offered her the slightest attention; instead, i had got out of her way at every chance. i had called this being very sincere, honest, above deceit; but it did not seem like that to me now. and there was hilliard,--i had laughed at him, been rude to him, despised him for being a coward, i was _so_ sure of my own courage; and what was i _now?_ i was ashamed--_ashamed!_ oh, how my heart ached! then i began saying my prayers. the water was up to my waist now; it came with such force that it swayed me from side to side, and beat me against the rock to which i still clung. my fingers were cramped by my tight grip; the next wave, or perhaps the next to that, would sweep me off--away--to death! i prayed from my very heart, with all my strength and soul, and it seemed as if the other things--the waves, the storm, the terrible death--grew fainter; a feeling came to me that i was speaking right into god's ear--that he was very near to me. somewhere out of the roar and awfulness of the storm came a human voice,--a cry: "_betty! betty! hold on! hold on! i can save you--only hold on!_" and when i opened my eyes, there was a boat coming nearer and nearer, dancing on the top of the waves like a cockle shell, and in it was hilliard! "i can't--come--too--close," he shouted. "jump--with--the--next--wave." i understood; and with the next receding wave i leaped into the water,--a wild plunge, scarcely seeing where i was going. but hilliard's hands caught me and hauled me into the boat, where i sank down, and lay huddled up, confused, and trembling so that i couldn't speak. hilliard threw something over me,--the rain was coming down in torrents,--and then he pulled with all his might for the shore. presently my senses began to come back; i knew what a terrible strain it must be to row in such a storm,--though fortunately the tide was with us,--and he had come out in it for me. i felt i ought to take my share of the work. "i--can--row. let--me--take--an--oar," i said slowly, sitting up. "not an oar,--i need both," hilliard answered decidedly; then he added persuasively, "be a good girl, betty, and just keep in the bottom of the boat." i saw that he was rowing in his shirt sleeves,--his coat was over me,--and his hat was gone; the rain was pouring down on his bare head. his face was very pale and set,--stern looking,--and the veins in his forehead were standing out like cords as he strained every nerve at the oars. "i'm going for one of the coves," he shouted to me presently, "where i can run her aground." again and again we were tossed back by the receding waves; but at last we shot into the cove, and i heard the keel grating on the rocky beach. in an instant hilliard was overboard, and had pulled the boat up on the sand, out of reach of the highest wave. as he helped me on to the beach, i looked up in his white face, and such a sense of what he had endured for me rushed over me that i couldn't get the words out fast enough. i threw my hands out and caught hold of his shoulders: "oh, hilliard erveng, you _are_ a brave boy!" i cried out, choking up. "you are no coward; you are brave--_brave!_ and i have been a mean, contemptible, conceited, stuck-up girl." i think i shook him a little; i was in such earnest that i hardly knew what i was doing. the rain had plastered hilliard's hair flat to his head, and washed it into funny little points on his forehead, and there were raindrops pouring down his face; but his mouth was smiling, and his eyes were wide open and shining. he laid his hands over mine as they rested on his shoulders. "thank god for to-day, betty, _thank_ god!" he said, in a glad, excited way. "he has saved your life, and i am no longer a coward; i am no longer afraid--see!" as the lightning flashed over us he lifted his head and faced it, with lips that quivered a little, but also with unflinching eyes. "doctor emmons always said that i would be cured of my dread could i but face one thunder storm throughout," he added, still with that joyous ring in his voice. "and now i've done it! i've done it; i am _free!_" "oh! i am so _glad!_ so _very_ thankful!" i began, and then broke down and burst into a violent fit of crying. i couldn't stop crying, though i _did_ try hard to control my tears; and my knees shook so that i could hardly walk. hilliard almost carried me along until we met jim the coachman and mr. erveng on the beach. mr. erveng had just got home, and heard that hilliard and i were out in the storm. then between them they got me to the house, where mrs. erveng and alice and her mother were anxiously waiting for us. how glad they were to see us! and how they all kissed and hugged me! mrs. erveng took me right into her arms. everybody began talking at once. i heard alice say, "as soon as we missed you, and dillon said she had seen you walking toward that part of the beach, hilliard declared you were on the rock,--he seemed to guess it. and he was off for the boat like a flash,--he wouldn't even wait for jim; he said every minute was precious--" i lost the rest; a horrid rushing noise came in my ears, everything got black before me, and i fainted, for the very first time in my life. * * * * * it is now nearly a week since all this happened, and to-morrow i am going home--to the cottage. i was so stiff and tired from the beating of the waves that mrs. erveng kept me in bed for several days, and telegraphed the family not to expect me until thursday; otherwise neither hilliard nor i have suffered from our drenching in that awful storm. mrs. endicott and alice are going as far as new york with me, and there phil will meet me and take me home. i shall be _very_ glad to be with my own dear ones again,--it seems an age since i saw them; and i long to talk to nannie, and tell her everything. still, _now_, i'm not sorry that i came here. i think that i shall never forget my visit to endicott beach. xix. his brother's keeper. told by jack. nora was playing a sweet, wild hungarian melody on the piano, the boys were on the stoop talking to chad,--every now and then the sound of their voices came in through the open windows,--and i sat under the drawing-room chandelier reading. presently chad came in, and, leaning on the piano, began talking to nora in a low tone; and without stopping her music, she talked back, in the same tone of voice. [illustration: "without stopping her music, she talked back, in the same tone of voice."] the story i was reading was a , and i'd got to a _very_ thrilling place, where the boy comes face to face with an infuriated tiger, when i heard something said outside that just took all the interest out of my book. phil was speaking sharply,--i wondered nora and chad didn't hear him. "what's the _matter_ with you?" he flared out. "i declare, you're getting as fussy as an old cat! i won't stand the way you're watching me, and you've just got to drop it. i'm not a _baby_, to be tied to anybody's apron-strings! i'll go and come as i please." i didn't hear what fee said to this, but phil's answer to it was quite loud: "yes, i _am_ going,--to-night, and to-morrow night, and any other night i please. the _idea_ of a fellow of my age not being able to go out for a walk without asking your permission!" [illustration: "the story i was reading was a ."] "when you talk like that you are downright silly!" broke in felix. i could tell by his voice he was trying hard to control his temper. "'tisn't the going out that anybody objects to; it's the person you're going with. you know very well, phil, that he isn't the sort of fellow to do you any good. i sized him up the very first time we saw him, and i still hold to my opinion,--he's a _b-a-d_ lot." "_a-c-h!_ you make me tired!" exclaimed phil,--that's a favourite expression of his when he's cornered,--and leaning in through the window, he called, "see here, chad; any time to-night!" "yes, a'm coming," chad called back, and bidding nora good-night, he went out; a minute after i heard their steps as phil and he ran down the stoop and passed by the drawing-room windows. laying my book down quietly and very quickly, i ran out on the stoop. fee sat there with his elbows on his knees, and his chin resting on his clasped hands, staring at nothing. dropping down beside him, i slipped my hand in his arm and squeezed it to me. "i heard phil," i said. "i'm awfully sorry he _would_ go." "yes," fee answered, but in a way that i knew he wasn't thinking of what he was saying. we sat quiet for a little while, then felix turned suddenly and laid his hand on my knee. "jack," he said earnestly, "i've made up my mind about something that's been bothering me since last night. what i'm going to do may turn out right, it may turn out wrong,--god only knows; but it seems right to me, and i'm going to try it. i dread it, though,--just _dread_ it. if i hadn't promised--" he broke off abruptly, and turned his head away. i wanted to say something to him, but i couldn't think of a _thing_. in a minute felix began again. "tell me honestly, jack," he said, "do you think that phil cares as much for me as he used to,--i mean before that fellow chad came?" "why, fee!" i exclaimed, "_of course_ he loves you just as well; i _know_ he does,--we all love you _dearly_!" do you know, it just hurt me to have him think phil could let a person like chad come between them. of course, as nurse says, we have our ups and downs; we get mad with one another sometimes, and all that, you know; but still we do love one another dearly, and we'd stand up for the different ones like everything, if need be. we've always been very proud of fee,--he's so clever, you see; but since that night that i'm going to tell you about, i just think my brother felix is the noblest, bravest, truest boy in the world! i've always loved fee very dearly; but now,--well, now i have a feeling that i would be willing to give my life for him. poor old fee! when i said that so positively about phil's caring, i could see fee was pleased; his face brightened up. "well, perhaps he does," he said. "he's been very cranky lately, and sharp to me,--in fact to everybody; but i have a feeling that that's because he isn't really satisfied with the way he's acting. i tell you, jack, phil's a good fellow,"--fee pounded his hand down on his knee as he spoke; "it isn't easy for him to do wrong. and he isn't up to chad's tricks, or the set he's got him into. they've flattered phil first, and that has turned his head; and then they've laughed at him for not doing the things they do, and that's nettled him,--until they've got him all their way. i know what they are,--i can see through their cunning; but phil isn't so sharp. there are people in this world, jack, so contemptible and wicked that they hate to have anybody better than they are themselves, and chad and his crowd belong to that class. if i'd been able to go about with phil as i used to, they'd _never_ have had the chance to get hold of him. and as it is, now that i've found out their game, i'm going to stop the whole business, and bring phil to his senses. he's too fine a fellow for those rascals to spoil. i'll stop it--i'll stop it, no matter _what_ it costs me!" oh, how often i've thought of those words since that dreadful night! and yet, i have a feeling that even if he had known, he would have gone--i tell you, there isn't another boy in all the world like our felix! fee's voice was shaking, and he got on his feet as if he were going to start that very minute; but before i could say anything he began again: "i've got a plan,--not a very good one, i must confess, but it's the best i can think of, and it may work; that is, if phil has as much of the old feeling for me as you think, jack: i'm building a good deal on that,--i hope i won't get left. he may turn obstinate,--you know he _can_ be a very donkey sometimes; and i suppose he'll get furiously mad. well, i'll have to stand that,--if only he doesn't blaze out at me before those cads; _that_ would cut me _awfully_. but that i'll have to risk; he's worth it. now, jack, i want you to help me,--to go somewhere with me, i mean. i'm sorry to have to ask this, for it's no place for a youngster like you; but i think you're one of the kind that won't be hurt by such things, rosebud,"--putting his hand on my arm,--"and i'm so unsteady on my feet that i am afraid i really couldn't get along alone. get your hat--and my cane." in a minute i had both, and we went down the stoop together. at the foot of the steps fee stopped, and taking off his hat, began pushing his hair back off his forehead. i could see he was nervous. "suppose this _shouldn't_ be the right thing that i'm going to do; suppose it should make matters worse," he said undecidedly, almost irritably. "now, if nannie were here--i haven't a creature to advise me!" "_i_ think you're doing right, fee," i began. i didn't remember until afterward that i really didn't know what his plan was; but i don't think he heard what i said, for he went on in a low tone, as if he were talking to himself: "suppose he gets furiously angry, and pitches into me before those low fellows,--you never know what phil's going to say when he gets mad,--and _will not_ come home with me, what'll i do _then_? it's a risk. and if this plan fails, i don't know what else to do. had i better just let things drift along as they are until we get in the country, and then speak to him? i _dread_ a row before that crowd; they'd just set him up against me. and yet--a week more of nights to come home as he did last night, and the night before that--_ought_ i to let that go on? what would _she_ say to do?" he stood with his head bent, thinking,--his hat and cane in one hand, and holding on to the stone newel-post with the other. and as we waited the gay strains of nora's waltz came to us through the windows; since that night i just hate to hear her play that piece. presently felix looked up at me with the faintest little smile. "i came pretty near asking you to write me down a coward, jack," he said; "but i'm all right again. now for your part of this affair: if phil will come back with me, as i hope, you'll have to make your way home alone, without letting him know of your being there. try and manage it. if he gets ugly, and will _not_ leave that crowd, why, then we--you and i--'ll have to travel back as we went. you must judge for yourself, rosebud, whether to go, or to stay for me; i'll have enough to do, you know, to manage phil. apart from that, have as little to do in the matter as possible; ask no questions, speak to no one, and see and hear no more than you can help. all right?" "yes," i answered quickly, "and i only wish i could do more for you, fee." felix put his hand on my shoulder for a rest, as he usually did when we walked together. "you've been a real comfort to me, jack, since nannie went away," he said. i tell you that meant _lots_ from him, and i knew it; i just put up my hand and squeezed fee's fingers as they rested on my coat; then we started off. on fee's account we walked very slowly; but after a while we came to a house with a very low stoop,--just a step or two from the ground. there were handsome glass doors to the vestibule, and the rather small hall was brilliantly lighted up. i fancied that the man who opened the door looked at me as if he thought i had no business there; but felix marched right by him and stepped into the elevator, and of course i followed. "mr. whitcombe," said fee; and then i knew that we were in the apartment house where chad has his "bachelor quarters." "turn to your left," said the elevator man, as he let us out. we did so, and just as we got opposite the door with the big silver knob and old bronze knocker that chad had told us he brought from europe, it opened, and some one came out. well, truly, he didn't look any older than fifteen,--two years older than i am, mind you,--but if he didn't have on a long-tailed evening coat, an awfully high stand-up collar, and a tall silk hat! you can't think what a queer figure he was,--like a caricature. before he could shut the door, felix lifted his hat, and then put out his hand quickly. "allow me," he said politely; and the next moment we were in chad's hall, with his front door closed behind us. at the other end of this hall was a room very brightly lighted; the portière was pushed almost entirely aside, and we could see some young fellows seated round a table. nearly all had cigars or cigarettes in their mouths,--phil, too; the room was just thick with smoke, and they were playing cards. "sit where they can't see you," fee whispered to me; "and if you find phil will go home with me, just slide out without letting him know of your being here. oh, jack, if i can _only_ succeed!" he gave my hand a little squeeze--though it was a warm evening, his fingers were cold--and then walked up the hall and stood in the doorway of chad's room. "hullo! _you!_ oh--aw--come in--aw--glad to see you! take a chair," chad said, in a tone of voice that told he was taken all aback; while phil was so startled that he dropped his cigarette and called out roughly, "what the mischief are _you_ doing here?" of course they all looked at felix; but he answered carelessly, "oh, i thought i'd accept a long-standing invitation,"--with a little bow toward chad,--"and drop in for a while." "oh, certainly, certainly--aw--glad to see you!" exclaimed chad. "who's with you?" demanded phil; but fee didn't answer him: he just went forward and took the place that one of the fellows made between himself and phil. and then chad began introducing felix to the others. from where i sat on the hat-rack settle,--it was the most shielded place in the hall, and near the door,--i had a full view of the people sitting on one side of the table, and particularly of felix and phil, who were almost directly under the glare of the light. fee's face was as white as marble, except a red spot on each cheek, and there was a delicate look about his eyes and temples, and round his mouth, that i hadn't noticed before. somehow his fine, regular features and splendid, broad white forehead made me think of the head of the young augustus that the unsworths have. but phil certainly didn't look like any marble statue; his face was very red and cross, and he was scowling until his eyebrows made a thick black line above his eyes. he was disagreeable, too,--rough and quarrelsome, something like that night when he came home so late, and hurt my feelings. when, in reply to an invitation from chad, felix said he would join the game, phil sung out in a kind of ordering tone, "what's the sense of spoiling the fun for everybody? you know nothing about cards; why don't you look on?" "because i prefer playing," answered fee, smiling; "it's the quickest and surest way of learning, i believe,"--with a glance round the company. "what are the stakes?" he drew a handful of money from his pocket, and laid it before him on the table. "don't make an ass of yourself, felix!" phil exclaimed angrily, laying a hand right over the little pile of silver. "we're not fooling here; we're playing in dead earnest, and you will lose every cent of your money." some of the fellows snickered, and one called out sharply, "look out what you're saying, rose." i saw the red spots on fee's cheeks grow brighter. "i _am going_ to play," he said quietly, but looking phil steadily in the eyes; "so please don't interfere." "evidently you've never learned that 'consistency is a jewel'!" phil retorted with a sneer. i suppose he was thinking of what fee had said that evening on the stoop. but felix only answered good-naturedly, "oh, yes, i have; that used to be one of our copy-book axioms," and then they all began to play. well, phil's face was a study,--it grew blacker and blacker as the game went on, and fee kept losing; and he got very disagreeable,--trying to chaff felix, almost as if he wanted to make him mad. but fee just turned it off as pleasantly as he could. those fellows made it ever so much harder, though; they got off the _silliest_ speeches, and then roared with laughter over them, as if they were jokes. and, in a sly kind of way, they egged phil on to quarrel with fee,--laughing at all his speeches, and pretending that they thought phil was afraid of felix. and chad joined in, i could hear his affected laugh and drawl above all the others; i felt how that must cut fee! there were some decanters and glasses on a side table, and every now and then chad urged his friends to drink, and he would get up and wait on them. felix refused every time, and phil did too at first, until those common fellows began to twit him about it,--as much as saying that he was afraid to take anything 'cause fee would "go home and tell on him." what did phil do then--the silly fellow! 'twas just what they wanted--but snatch up a glass and swallow down a lot of that vile stuff! well, i was so _mad_ with phil! i'd have liked to go right in and punch him. felix never said a word ('twouldn't have done the least good,--phil can be like a mule sometimes); he just sat there with his lips pressed tight together, looking down at the cards he held in his hands. after that phil's face got awfully red, and how his tongue did run! real ugly things he said, too, and perfectly regardless who he said them to. and those fellows got _very_ boisterous, and began again trying to tease our boys. i was _so_ afraid there'd be a row; and there surely would have been, if felix hadn't just worked as he did to prevent it. i tell you now, it was awfully hard to sit out there in that hall and hear those fellows carrying on against my brothers,--you see i was so near i couldn't help it, i just _had_ to hear everything,--and not be able to take their part. fee kept getting whiter and whiter, the spots on his cheeks redder and redder; and by and by such a tired look came in his face that i got real worked up. i felt as if i _must_ go in and just pitch right into those fellows. almost before i knew it, i'd got up and gone a step or two in the hall, when suddenly phil dashed his cards down on the table, and got on his feet. "i'm going home!" he declared. "are you coming?" turning to felix. "you sha'n't go!" "oh, _don't_ go!" "you've _got_ to finish the game," several called out. but phil just repeated doggedly, "i'm going home! are you coming or not, felix?" this was just what fee wanted,--i knew how glad and thankful he must feel. but all he said was, "yes, i'll go with you, if our host will excuse us," rising as he spoke and nodding his head toward chad. those unmannerly things burst out laughing, as if this were a great joke; and with a smothered exclamation, phil started for the door, knocking over a chair as he went. well, if you had seen me scoot down that hall and out of the door! i simply _flew_, and barely got round the corner in the shadow, when phil and felix came along. phil looked like a thundercloud, and instead of leaning on his arm, fee just had hold of a piece of phil's sleeve. they marched along in dead silence, and got into the elevator. i hung around a little, until i was sure they were out of the way, then i went down; the elevator man looked harder than ever at me,--i suppose he wondered why i hadn't gone with fee,--but i pretended i didn't notice. i'd never been out very late alone before, and at first it seemed queer; but i hurried, so that i soon forgot all about that. you see i wanted to get home before the boys did, and yet i had to look out that i didn't run across them. i hadn't thought of the time at chad's; but we must have been there a good while, for when i got to the house the drawing-room windows were closed, and so was the front door. i don't know what i'd have done if cook hadn't come to close the basement door just as i got to our stoop, and i slipped in that way. "master _jack_!" she cried out, holding up her hands in horror; "a little b'y like you out late's this! what'd your pa say to such doin's, an' miss marston? an' there's miss nora gone to bed, thinkin' it's safe an' aslape ye are." "oh, hush, cook! it's _all_ right. don't say anything; please don't," i said softly; then i let her go upstairs ahead of me. the drawing-room was all dark, and the light in the hall was turned down low. the house was very quiet,--everybody had gone to bed; and after thinking it over, i made up my mind i'd wait downstairs and let the boys in before they could ring,--i forgot that phil had taken possession of papa's latch-key, and was using it. i sat on the steps listening, and what d'you think? i must have fallen asleep, for the first thing i knew there were phil and felix in the hall, and phil was closing the front door. "oh, i see,--as usual, our gentle rosebud's to the front," exclaimed phil, still keeping his hand on the knob of the door; "all right, then he can help you upstairs," and he turned as if to go out. "what!" fee cried out in a sharp, startled voice, "you are _never_ going back to that crowd!" "that's just what i _am_ going to do," answered phil; his voice sounded thick and gruff. "shall i give your love?" felix caught him by the arm. "_don't_ go, phil," he pleaded; "_don't_ go back to-night, _please_ don't. we've had enough of them for one evening. come, let's go upstairs. won't you? i have a good reason for what i'm asking, and i'll explain to-morrow." phil came a step or two forward, shaking fee's hand off. "look here!" he said sharply, "this thing might's well be settled right here, and once for all. i'm a man, not a child, i'll have you to understand, and i'm not going to be controlled by you. just remember that, and don't try any more of your little games on me, as you have to-night, for i _will not_ stand 'em! the idea of your coming up there among those fellows and making such an ass of yourself--" "the asinine part of this evening's performance belongs to you and your friends, not to me," broke in felix, hotly,--phil's tone was _so_ insolent. "and there are a few things that _you_ might as well understand, too," he went on more calmly. "if you continue to go to chad's, i shall go, too; if you make those fellows your boon companions, they shall be mine as well; if you continue to drink and gamble, as you've been doing lately, and to-night, i will drink and gamble, too. i mean every word i am saying, phil. it may go against the grain at first to associate with such cads as chad and his crowd; but perhaps that'll wear away in time, and i may come to enjoy what i now abhor. as these low pleasures have fascinated you, so they may fascinate me." "if you _ever_ put your foot in chad whitcombe's house again, i'll make him turn you out," cried phil, in a rage, shaking his finger at felix. "why, you donkey! less than three months of that sort of life'd use you up completely. i'll fix you, if you ever undertake to try it; i'll go straight to the _pater_,--i swear i will." "no need to do that, old fellow," fee said, in _such_ a loving voice! "just drop that set you've got into, and be your own upright, honourable self again, and you shall never hear another word of such talk out of me. but," he added earnestly, "i _cannot_, i will not stand seeing you, my brother, my chum, our mother's son"--fee's voice shook--"going all wrong, without lifting a finger to save you. why, phil, i'd give my very life, if need be, to keep you from becoming a drunkard and a gambler. _don't_ go back to those fellows to-night, dear old boy; for--for _her_ sake, _don't_ go!" felix was pleading with his whole heart in his voice, looking eagerly, entreatingly up at phil, and holding out his hands to him. my throat was just filling up as fee spoke,--i could almost have cried; and i'm sure phil was touched, too, but he tried not to let us see it. he sort of scuffled his feet on the marble tiling of the hall, and cleared his throat in the most indifferent way, looking up at the gas fixture. "perhaps i will drop them by and by," he said carelessly, "but i can't just yet,--in fact, i don't want to just yet; i have a reason. and that reminds me--i _must_ go back to-night. now don't get _silly_ over me, felix; there's no danger whatever of my becoming a drunkard or a gambler,--nice opinion of me you must have!--and i'm quite equal to taking care of myself. as i've told you several times before, i'm a man now, not a child, and i will _not_ have you or anybody running round after me. just remember that!" as he spoke, he turned deliberately to go out. then fee did a foolish thing; he ought to have known phil better, but he was so awfully disappointed that i guess he forgot. in about one second--i don't know how he _ever_ got there so quickly--he had limped to the door, and planted himself with his back against it. his face was just as _white_! and his lips were set tight together, and he held his head up in the air, looking phil square in the eye. a horrid nervous feeling came over me,--i just _felt_ there was going to be trouble. i stood up on the steps quickly, and called out, "oh, boys, _don't_ quarrel! oh, please, _please_ don't quarrel!" but phil was talking, and i don't believe they even heard me. "get away from that door,--i'm going out!" phil commanded. not a word answered fee; he just stood there, his eyes shining steadily up at phil through his glasses. "do you hear me?" phil said savagely. "get--out--of--the--way. i don't want to hurt you, but i am _determined_ to go out. come,--move!" he stepped nearer felix, with a peremptory wave of his hand, and glowered at him. but fee didn't flinch. "no," he said quietly, but in just as positive a tone as phil's, "i will _not_ move." then, suddenly, a sweet, quick smile flashed over his face, and he threw his hands out on phil's shoulders as he stood before him, saying, in that winning way of his, "i'm not a bit afraid of _your_ ever hurting me, old lion-heart." i heard every word distinctly, but phil didn't; in his rage he only caught the first part of what fee said, and with a sharp, angry exclamation he shoved felix violently aside, and, hastily opening the door, stepped into the vestibule. fee was so completely taken by surprise--poor old fee!--that he lost his balance, swung to one side with the force of phil's elbow, striking his back against the sharp edge of the hall chair, and fell to the floor. i can't tell you the awful feeling that came over me when i saw fee lying there; i got _wild_! i dashed down those steps and into the vestibule before phil had had time to even turn the handle of the outer door, and, locking my hands tight round his arm, i tried to drag him back into the hall. "come back," i cried out; "come back--oh, come back!" "hullo! what's happened to you,--crazy?" demanded phil, giving his arm a shake; but i hung on with all my weight. and then i said something about felix; i don't remember now what it was,--i hardly knew what i was saying,--but, with a sharp cry, phil threw me from him and rushed back into the hall. when i got to him, phil was kneeling by felix, with his hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. "fee, _fee_!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "what's the matter? are you hurt? are you, fee? oh, _tell_ me!" but fee didn't answer; he just lay there, his face half resting on the arm he had thrown out in falling; his glasses had tumbled off, and his eyes were closed. in an instant phil had rolled him over on his back on the hall rug, and i slipped my arm under his head. fee looked _dreadfully_,--white as death, with big black shadows under his eyes; and such a sad, pitiful expression about his mouth that i burst out crying. "oh, hush, hush!" phil cried eagerly; "he's coming to himself. oh, thank god! stop your crying, jack,--you'll frighten him." but he was mistaken; fee wasn't coming to,--he lay there white and perfectly still. oh, how we worked over him! we took off his necktie and collar, we poured water on his forehead, and fanned him, and rubbed his hands and feet with hands that were as cold as his own, and trembling. and phil kept saying, "oh, jack, he'll soon be better,--don't you think so? _don't_ you, jack? oh, surely, such a _little_ fall couldn't be serious! he _couldn't_ have struck himself on that chair,--see, it's entirely out of his way," with such a piteous pleading in his eyes and voice that i hadn't the heart to contradict him. nothing that we did had any effect; fee still lay unconscious, and there was a pinched look about his features, a limp heaviness about his body, that struck terror to our hearts. "oh, isn't this _awful_!" i sobbed. then all at once i thought of that day i found felix lying on the floor,--could this be an attack like that, only worse? his words, "what'll the _next_ one be!" flashed into my mind, and i burst out eagerly, "oh, phil, call somebody--go for the doctor--quick, quick, oh, do be _quick_! the doctor will know what to do--he can help him--call nurse--oh, call _somebody_!" but phil suddenly dropped felix's hand that he'd been rubbing, and bending down laid his ear on fee's chest over his heart. i shall never forget the awful horror that was in his white face when he lifted it and looked at me across fee's body. "jack," he said in a slow, shrill whisper, that just went through my ears like a knife, "jack, it's no use; fee is--" but i screamed out before he could say that dreadful word,--a loud scream that rang through the house and woke the people up. in a confused sort of way--as if i had dreamed it--i remember that nora came flying down the stairs in her dressing-gown and bare feet, and nurse hurrying behind her, both crying out in a frightened way,--something like, "oh, _lawkes_! what _have_ them boys been doin'?" and, "oh, boys, _boys_! what _is_ the matter?" but phil's answer stands out clear,--i can hear it every time i let myself think of that awful night. he had pushed me aside, and was sitting on the floor with fee's body gathered in his arms, fee's face lying against his shoulder. he looked up at nora; his dry, white lips could hardly utter the words. "fee is dead," he said; "i have killed felix!" xx. a solemn promise. told by jack. for a little while there was a dreadful commotion down there in the hall. hannah and cook had come, too, by this time, and everybody was crying, and rushing about, and all talking at once,--telling everybody else what to do. poor nonie was awfully frightened; at first she couldn't do a thing but cry, and i was just as bad,--i'd got to that pitch that i didn't care who saw my tears. but nurse kept her head splendidly; generally she gets all worked up over the least little sickness, but this time she kept cool, and told us what to do. "don't talk so foolish, master phil!" she exclaimed sharply, when phil said that awful thing about fee. "ain't you ashamed of yourself,--frightening your sister that way! he ain't no more dead 'n you are." well, if you'd seen the look of hope that flashed into phil's face! "oh, nurse!" he gasped, "do you _honestly_ think so? but he isn't breathing,--i can't feel his heart beat." "that's 'cause he's in a swoond," nurse answered briskly. "here, lay him down flat. now rub his feet--_hard_; hannah, slap his palms,--that'll start up a cirkilation. here, miss nora, fan your brother. cook, fill them hot-water bottles; if the water in the biler ain't hot 'nough, start your fire _immejiate_. master jack, you run for the doctor; an' if he can't come," she added, dropping her voice so that only i heard her, "get another. don't you come back here without _somebody_. an' be quick's you can." that told me that she wasn't as sure about fee as she pretended to be, and the hope that had come up in my heart died right out. my eyes got so blinded with tears that i just had to grope for my hat; but as i was opening the outer door, i heard something that brought me in again in double quick time. it was a cry from phil,--a shout of joy: "he _is_ breathing! oh, he's _breathing_! his eyes are opening!" sure enough, they were. slowly the heavy lids raised, and fee's near-sighted eyes looked blankly up at phil. "don't you know me, old fellow?" phil asked with a break in his voice, bending eagerly over felix. a sweet little smile flickered over fee's lips. "phil," he said faintly; and then, with what we could all see was a great effort, he raised his hand slowly and let it fall heavily on phil's hand. poor phil! that broke him down completely. catching fee's face between his two hands, he kissed him warmly two or three times, and then, dropping his head down on fee's shoulder, burst into a storm of sobs. "oh, come, come! this'll _never_ do!" cried nurse, bustling forward. "come, master phil, this ain't any time for sich behaviour,"--mind you, she was wiping the corners of her own eyes! "now we must get him up to his own room soon's possible; _then_ we can make him comfort'ble. can you carry him up? me and hannah can help." "i can do it alone," phil said quickly, beginning to gather fee into his arms. but i tell you it was hard work getting him up, he was such a dead weight! fee knew phil was making a desperate effort to lift him, and he tried, poor fellow, to help all he could. when at last phil stood erect, with him in his arms, nurse raised fee's hands and joined them back of phil's neck. "now clasp your hands tight, master felix," she said, "and that'll take some of your weight off your brother." fee's hands were actually resting one on the other, and i saw his fingers move feebly, trying to take hold of one another. then he said in a slow, frightened whisper, "i--can't--make--them--hold!" and his arms slipped down, one of them swinging helplessly by his side, until nurse laid it in his lap. "never mind, don't worry about that, fee; i can get you up," phil said cheerfully. "why, don't you remember i took you almost up to your room the other night?" nora and i looked at each other. i know we were both thinking of the same thing,--that happy evening when we heard of aunt lindsay's plan for fee, and when phil had picked felix up and run so gaily up the stairs with him, singing. was it possible that was only three or four evenings ago! it seemed _years_. "run for the doctor, master jack--_don't_ loiter," nurse said, as she fell in with the procession that was moving so slowly up the stairs; phil was going one step at a time, and sometimes sliding himself along against the banister to rest the weight he was carrying. i rushed out and up to dr. archard's as fast as i could go. the streets through which i went were very lonely,--i scarcely met a creature,--but i didn't mind; in fact, the stillness, and the stars shining so clear and bright in the quiet sky, seemed to do me good. i knew who was up there above those shining stars; i thought of the poor lame man that he had healed long ago, and as i raced along, i just _prayed_ that he would help our fee. dr. archard was away, out of town, the sleepy boy who answered the bell told me; but dr. gordon, his assistant, was in,--would he do? i didn't know him at all,--he'd come since papa's illness; but of course i said yes, and in a few minutes the doctor was ready and we started. he had a nice face,--he was years younger than dr. archard,--and as we hurried toward home and began talking of felix, i suddenly made up my mind that i would tell him about the attack fee had had when papa was so ill. that promise of mine not to speak of it had always worried me, and now, all at once, a feeling came over me that i just _ought_ to tell dr. gordon everything about it,--and i did. he asked a lot of questions, and when i finished he said gravely, "you have done very right in telling me of this; the knowledge of this former attack and his symptoms will help me in treating your brother's case." "is it the same trouble?" i asked eagerly. "certain symptoms which you have described point that way," he answered; "but of course i can say nothing until i have seen and examined him." "could such an accident"--i'd told him that fee had struck his back against a chair and then fallen--"do anybody--_harm_?" my heart was thumping as i put the question. "under some circumstances, serious harm," the doctor said. and just then--before i could say anything more--we came to our stoop, and there was hannah holding the door open for us to go in. * * * * * the doctor turned every one out of fee's room but phil and nurse; and he was in there an awful long time. and while nonie and i sat on the upper stairs waiting for news, what did i do but fall _asleep_! and i didn't wake up until the next morning, when i found myself in my own bed. it seems that phil had undressed and put me to bed, though i didn't remember a thing about it. i felt dreadfully ashamed to have gone to sleep without hearing how fee was, but you see i was so dead tired, that i suppose i really _couldn't_ keep awake. did you ever wake up in the morning with a strange sort of feeling as if there was a weight on your heart, and then remember that something dreadful had happened the night before? well, then you know just how i felt the morning after fee got hurt. for a moment or two i tried to make myself believe it was all a bad dream; but there sat phil on the edge of our bed, and the sight of his wretched white face brought back the whole thing only too plainly. "oh! how is fee?" i exclaimed, sitting up in bed. "what does the doctor say about him?" phil's elbow was resting on his knee, his chin in his palm. "the doctor says," he answered, with, oh! such a look of misery in his tired eyes, "that felix is not in danger of death, but it looks now as if he _might not be able to walk again_!" [illustration: "there sat phil on the edge of our bed."] "oh, phil, _phil_!" i cried out; then i sat and stared at him, and wondered if i were really awake, or if this were some dreadful dream. "his back was weak from the start," went on phil, drearily, "and probably would have been to the end of his life; but at least he would have been able to get around--to go to college--to enter a profession. now all that is over and done with. isn't it _awful_!" "oh, but that can't be true," i broke in eagerly. "why, phil, fee was in a dreadful way that last attack, i told the doctor about it,"--phil nodded; "he couldn't stand on his feet at all,--and yet he got better. oh, he may now; he may, phil, only with a longer time! see?" "i thought of that when gordon told me what you had told him, and i begged for some hope of that sort,--begged as i wouldn't now for my own life, jack." phil's voice got so unsteady that he had to stop for a minute. "after a good deal of talking and pleading," he went on presently, "i got him to admit that there _is_ a bare chance, on account of his being so young, that fee _may_ get around again, in a sort of a way; but it's too slim to be counted on, and it could only be after a long time,--two or three years or longer. dr. archard'll be in town to-morrow, and they will consult; but gordon says he's had cases of this kind before, and knows the symptoms well. i think he would have given us hope if he could. you see fee isn't strong; oh, if it had _only_ been _i_!--great, uncouth, ugly brute that i am!" phil struck his hand so fiercely on the bed that the springs just bounced me up and down. "fee's feet and legs are utterly useless," he began again; "his spine is so weak he can't sit up. even his fingers are affected,--he can't close them on anything; he's lost his grip. and he may lie in this condition for years; he may _never_ recover from it. oh, think of that, jack!" phil broke out excitedly; "_think_ of it! our fee, with his splendid, clever mind, with all his bright hopes and ambitions, with the certainty of going to college so near at hand,--to have to lie there, day in and day out, a helpless, useless creature! and brought to it by _my_ doing,--his own brother! _oh_!" he drew his knee up, and folding his arms round it, laid his face down with a moan. i slipped over to his side and threw my arm across his shoulder. "phil, dear," i said, to comfort him, "try and not think of that part; i'm sure fee wouldn't want you to. you know he had that other attack--and--perhaps this would have come any way--" but phil interrupted, looking at me with those miserable, hollow eyes. "not like this," he said. "dr. gordon told me himself that the blow fee got was what did the mischief this time; with medical care he might have got over those other attacks. gordon didn't dream that i was the infuriated drunken brute who flung him against that chair. drunken! i think i must have been possessed by a _devil_! that _i_ should have raised my hand against fee,--the brother i love so dearly, my chum, my comrade, mother's boy, of whom she was so tender! oh, _god_! shall i have to carry this awful remorse all the rest of my life!" his voice broke in a kind of a wail, and he threw his clinched hands up over his head. "oh, phil, _dear_ phil! oh, _please_ don't," i begged. "oh, fee _wouldn't_ want you to talk like this." "i know he wouldn't. god bless him!" phil answered in a quieter tone, dropping his arms by his sides. "oh, jack, it cuts me up awfully to see him lying there so cheerful and serene when he knows that what's happened has just spoiled his whole life--" "oh, _does_ he know?" i exclaimed. "he insisted on knowing, and bore it like a soldier. when i broke down he smiled at me, actually _smiled_, jack, with, 'why, old fellow, it isn't so bad--as all that'--_o-oh_!" phil choked up, and, throwing himself on the bed, he buried his face deep in the pillows, that fee in the next room might not hear his sobs. * * * * * that was a miserable day. dr. archard came quite early, and after the consultation we heard that, in the main, he agreed with dr. gordon. "still," he said to nora and me, as he was going, "felix _may_ surprise us all by recovering much faster and more fully than we expect. the thing is to get him out of town _just_ as soon as we can, and in the mean time to follow directions and keep him quiet and cheerful. phil seems to have taken charge of the boy, and i do believe he's going to develop into a nurse. i'll send you round a _masseur_, and i'll write to your father, so he'll not be alarmed. keep up your spirits, and your roses, my dear," patting nora's cheek. then he got into his carriage and drove away. because the doctor said that about keeping fee quiet, no one but phil or nurse was allowed in his room all day. but late in the afternoon nurse let me take something up to him,--she had to see to the children's dinner, or something or other downstairs; she said if phil were with him i wasn't to stay. i knocked, but not very hard,--my hands were pretty full; and then, as nobody answered, i opened the door softly, and went in. fee was lying sort of hunched up among the pillows, which weren't any whiter than his face. oh! _didn't_ he look delicate! he had on his glasses again, and now his eyes were shining through them, and there was a very sweet expression on his lips. phil was sitting on the edge of the bed, talking in a low, unsteady voice: "i didn't really care for them," he was saying, "and there were times when i fairly loathed them; but somehow they got round me, and--i began to go there regularly. they drank and gambled; they said all young fellows did it, and they laughed at me when i objected. i held out for a good while,--then one night i gave in. i was a fool; i dreaded their ridicule. there were times, though, when i was _disgusted_ with myself. then i began to win at cards, and--well--i thought i'd save the money for a purpose; though in my heart i knew full well that--the--the--the person i was saving for wouldn't touch a penny got that way. well, then something happened that made that money i was saving quite unnecessary, and then i just played to lose. i wanted those fellows to have their money back; after that i thought i'd cut loose from 'em. that was the reason i wanted to go back to chad's that night,--was it _only_ last night? it seems like _years_ ago!" phil dropped his face down in his hands for a minute; then he went on: "i started out this morning and gave each of the fellows his money back. they didn't want to take it,--they think me a crazy loon; but i insisted. i've got beyond caring for their opinion. and now, fee, the rest of my life belongs to you; you've paid an awful price for it, old fellow,--i'm not worth it. think of your college course--your profession--all the things we planned! i'm not worth it!" phil's voice failed, but he cleared his throat quickly, and spoke out clearly and solemnly. "felix," he said, "i will _never_ play cards again as long as i live; and i will _never_ drink another drop of liquor,--so help me god." he raised his hand as he spoke, as if registering the oath. then he bent over and buried his face in the bed-clothes. slowly fee's poor helpless hand went out and fell on phil's head. "what is all the rest compared with _this_," he said, oh, so tenderly! then, with a little unsteady laugh, "philippus, i always said there wasn't a mean bone in your body." and then phil threw his arms round felix and kissed him. i laid what i had brought down on the table, and went quickly away, shutting the door a little hard that they might know somebody'd gone out. i should have left just as soon as i found they were talking,--i know i should,--but it seemed as if phil's words just held me there. i've told phil and felix all about it since then, and they say they don't mind my having heard; but between what i felt for them both, and for my having done such a mean thing as to listen to what wasn't meant for me to hear, i was a pretty miserable boy that afternoon. i flew upstairs to the schoolroom, and throwing myself down on the old sofa i just had a good cry. it seems as if i were an awful cry-baby those days; but how could a person help it, with such dreadful things happening? well, i hadn't been there very long when in came nora and opened the windows to let in the lovely afternoon light, and of course then i got up. i guess i must have been a forlorn-looking object, for nora smoothed my hair back off my forehead and kissed me,--she doesn't often do those things. "i'm going to write to nannie," she said, laying some note-paper on the schoolroom table. "it is the first minute i've had in which to do it; perhaps,"--slowly,--"if she had been here, all this trouble might not have happened. why don't you send betty a few lines, jack? you know she will want to hear of fee; but don't frighten her about him." so i thought i would write betty,--i owed her a letter. after all, she wasn't having at all a bad time with the ervengs; in fact, i fancy she was enjoying herself, though she was careful not to say so. nora and i were sitting at the same table, but far apart, and i'd just called out and asked her if there were two l's in wonderful--i was writing about fee--when the schoolroom door opened, and in walked chad whitcombe! as usual, he looked a regular dandy, and he held a bunch of roses in his hand. he came forward with his hand out and smiling: "i've--aw--just called in for a minute," he said. "i thought--aw--you might care for these flowers--" but nora rose quickly from her chair, pushing it a little from her, and putting her hands behind her back, she faced him with her head up in the air. my! how handsome she looked,--like a queen, or something grand like that! "i thank you for your polite intention," she said very stiffly and proudly, "but hereafter i prefer to have neither flowers nor visits from you." well, you should have seen chad's face! he'd been stroking his moustache, but now, positively, he stood staring at nora with his mouth open, he was so astonished. "wha--what's wrong?" he stammered. "what've i done?" then nora gave it to him; she didn't mince matters,--truly, she made me think of betty. "what have you done?" she repeated, opening her grey eyes at him. "oh! only acted as i have never known any one calling himself a gentleman to act. mr. whitcombe,"--with a toss of her head equal to anything betty could have done,--"i will _not_ have the acquaintance of a man who drinks and gambles." then _i_ was the one to be astonished; i didn't dream nora knew anything about that part. phil must have told her that day. [illustration: "'hereafter i prefer to have neither flowers nor visits from you.'"] "and who not only does those dreadful things himself," went on nora, "but inveigles others into doing them, too. the idea of coming here among us as a friend, and then leading phil off,--trying to ruin his life!" nonie's cheeks were scarlet; she was getting madder and madder with every word she said. "why, that isn't gambling; we just play for small amounts," exclaimed chad, eagerly, forgetting his affectation, and speaking just like anybody. "all the fellows do it; why, i've played cards and drunk liquor since i was twelve years old. it hasn't hurt me." "no?" said nora, coldly. "we don't agree on that point;" then, curling her lip in a disgusted way: "what an unfortunate, neglected little boy you must have been. if jack should do either of those low, wicked things, i should consider a sound thrashing entirely too mild treatment for him. and allow me to tell you that _all_ the young fellows we know are _not_ after your kind: they neither drink, nor play cards; and yet, strange to say,--that is, from your point of view,--they are extremely manly." "i'm sorry, you know; but i didn't suppose you'd mind--so much," chad began, in the meekest sort of tone. "you always seemed to understand lots of things that the others didn't, and--" but nora interrupted: "i made allowances for you," she said, with her little superior air, "knowing that you had lost your parents as a little boy, and that you had had so little--now i will say _no_--home training. besides, i thought, perhaps"--she hesitated, then went on--"that perhaps the others were a little hard on you; it seemed rather unjust, simply because you were--well--different from ourselves. but i didn't imagine for one moment that you were this sort of a person. it isn't honourable to do those things,--don't you know that? it is low and wicked." "i only wanted phil to have a good time; i never thought he was such a baby he'd get any harm," exclaimed chad, a little sulkily, getting awfully red, even to his ears. "and as to felix, he came of his own free will. it's he that has told you all this, and set you up against me. felix doesn't like me, and he hasn't taken any pains to hide it. i don't see why he came up there last night, if he thinks we're so wicked." "i will tell you why," cried nora; "he came in the hope that seeing _him_ there would shame phil, and induce him to get out of such a set. and it _has_ gotten him out,--though not in the way that fee expected. when i think of all that has happened since you and phil went out together last evening,--of all the trouble you have brought on us,--i really wish you would go away; i prefer to have nothing more to say to you." she made a motion of her hand as if dismissing him, but chad never moved. he just stood there, holding the roses upside down, and looking very gloomy. "you're _awfully_ down on me," he said presently; then, "and a'm awfully sorry. ah wish you'd forgive me!" in _such_ a beseeching sort of tone that i could have laughed right out. but nonie didn't laugh, or even smile; she just answered, a little more kindly than before: "it's not a question of _my_ forgiving you that will set the matter right; the thing is to give up that way of living. surely there are plenty of other ways of amusing yourself,--nice honourable ways that belong to a gentleman. then--people--would be able to respect as well as like you. i wonder that max has let this sort of thing go on." "oh, he doesn't know," chad said, with a quick glance over his shoulder at the door, as if he thought max might be there, ready to walk in on him. "_tell_ him," advised nora,--she just loves to advise people,--"and get him to help you. you could study for college, or--go into business, if you preferred that." chad was looking intently at her; suddenly he threw the roses on the schoolroom table,--with such force that they slid across and fell on the floor on the other side,--and made a step or two toward nora, with his hands extended, exclaiming eagerly, "oh, nora, if i thought that _you_ cared--" but like a flash nora got behind her chair, putting it between herself and chad. "don't say _another_ word!" she broke in imperiously, standing very straight, and looking proudly at him over the back of the chair. "jack, pick up those flowers and return them to mr. whitcombe, and then open the door for him." chad was so startled that he jumped,--you see he hadn't noticed that i was there,--and didn't he look foolish! and _blush_! why, his face actually got mahogany colour. he snatched the poor roses from me and just bolted through that schoolroom door. well, i had to laugh; and when i turned back into the room, after seeing him to the head of the stairs, i said, "i'm just _glad_ you gave it to him, nonie!" "there is nothing for you to laugh at, jack," nora said sharply, turning on me. "remember you are only a little boy, and this is none of your affair." with that she picked up her writing materials and walked off. aren't girls the _funniest_! xxi. through the slough of despond. told by jack. the man to massage felix came the next day; but, except for the time he was there, phil took entire charge of fee. he had always declared he wasn't of any use in a sick-room, but now he seemed to get on very well; you can't think how kind and gentle he was! for one thing, fee wasn't hard to suit, and that helped things a great deal. if phil made a mistake, or did something awkwardly, fee just turned it off in a joking way. he was very white and languid, but not at all sad; in fact, he kept our spirits up with his funny sayings. we all thought it was amazing; nurse said he was "a born angel," and now and then i saw phil look wistfully at fee, as if wondering how he _could_ be so brave. and felix, when he caught phil's eye, would give a roguish little smile, and say something so merry that we had to laugh. the only part that troubled me was that phil stuck so closely to fee that nobody else got a chance to do anything for him. i just longed to go in and sit with fee a while, but the doctor didn't want more than one to be with him at a time; and what with nora, and nurse, and phil, i didn't get any chance at all until about the third day that fee'd been ill. a telegram came that morning from miss marston, saying she was on the way home, and would arrive early in the afternoon, and that we would start for the cottage the next day,--she didn't know about fee; we'd been so upset that nobody had thought of writing her. well, that threw nora into what phil calls "a state of mind," and she and nurse began getting things together and packing 'em. i just hate packing times; you have to keep running up and down stairs carrying things, and all that, and you don't have a minute to yourself for reading. but of course i had to help, and i was busy in the nursery handing things to nurse off a shelf, when phil came to the door with his hat on. he looked brighter than he had for some time. "jack," he said, "will you sit with felix for a while? i have to go out; but i'll be back as soon as i can." of course i was only too glad, and i went right to fee's room. he looked tired, and those circles under his eyes were very big and dark; but he smiled at me, and chatted for a few minutes. then presently, after phil'd gone, he said: "would you mind taking a seat over there in the window, jack? i want to do a little quiet thinking. there's a nice book on the table; take it. phil said he wouldn't be away long." [illustration: "packing times."] i was disappointed,--i wanted to talk with him; but i took the book and went over to the window. it was a capital story, and i soon got interested in it. i don't know how long i'd read--i was enjoying the story so much--when i heard a queer, smothered sound, and it came from the direction of felix. in a minute i was by his side, exclaiming, "why, what's the matter, fee?" he had slipped down in the bed, and while his poor helpless legs still lay stretched straight out, he'd twisted the upper part of his body so that he was now lying a little on his side, hugging one of the pillows, and with his face buried in it. his shoulders were shaking, and when he raised his head to answer me, i saw the tears were streaming down his cheeks. "shut the door--_quick_!" he cried, gasping between the words. "lock it--pile the furniture against it--don't let a creature in--oh, _don't_ let them see me!" i flew to the door and locked it; and by the time i got back to the bed, fee seemed to have lost all control over himself. he twisted and twitched, rolling his head restlessly from side to side,--one minute throwing his arms out wildly as far as they could reach, the next snatching at the pillows or the bed-clothes, and trying to stuff them into his mouth. and all the time he kept making that horrible sharp gasping noise,--as if he were almost losing his breath. i was _dreadfully_ scared at first,--that _felix_, of all people, should act this way! i got goose-flesh all over, and just stood there staring at fee, and that seemed only to make him worse. "don't stare at me like that. oh, don't, don't, _don't_!" he cried out. "i can't help this--really--i can't, i _can't_! oh, if i could only _scream_ without the others hearing me!" he threw his head back and beat the pillows with his outstretched arms. then, somehow, i began to understand: a great lump came in my throat, and taking hold of one of fee's cold, clammy hands, i commenced stroking and patting it without a word. his fingers were twitching so i could hardly hold them, and he talked very fast,--almost as if he couldn't stop himself. "don't tell them of this, jack," he begged, in that sharp gasping voice, "_don't_ tell them! they wouldn't understand--they'd worry--and poor phil would be wretched. i know what this is to him,--poor old fellow! i see the misery in his face from day to day, and i've tried--so hard--to keep everything in--and be cheerful--so he shouldn't guess--until i thought i _should_ go _mad_! oh, think of what this _means_ to me, jack! college, profession, hopes, ambitions--gone _forever_--nothing left but to lie here--for the rest of my life--a useless hulk--a cumberer of the ground. only seventeen, jack, and i may live to be eighty--like _this_! never to go about--never to walk again. oh, if i might _die_!"--his voice got shrill,--"if god would _only_ let me die! i've always been a poor useless creature,--and now, _now_, of what good am i in the world? nothing but a burden and a care. oh, how shall i ever, _ever_ endure it!" i was so nervous that i began shaking inside, and i had to speak very slowly to keep my voice from shaking too. "don't talk so foolishly, fee," i said,--but not unkindly, you know. "why, i don't know what we'd all do without you,--having you to ask things of, and to tell us what to do. i know papa depends on you an awful lot; and miss marston said the day she went away that she wouldn't've gone if she hadn't known you would be here to look after us and keep things straight; and what _would_ nannie do without you? talk about being of no use,--just think what you've saved phil from!" "i _am_ thankful for that," broke in felix, "most _thankful_! i don't regret what i did that night, jack. i'd do it again if need be, even knowing that it must end like _this_,"--with a despairing motion of his hand toward his helpless legs. then he added eagerly, breathlessly, "don't ever tell phil about this morning, jack,--that i feel so terribly about the accident. don't tell him,--'twould break his heart. i hope he'll _never_ know. i pretended to be cheerful, i laughed and talked to cheer him up, but my heart grew heavier and heavier, and my head felt as if it were being wound up; i was afraid i'd go mad and tell the whole thing out. oh, jack, it's those dreary days, those endless years of uselessness that terrify me. oh, help me to be strong! oh, jack, help me! _help_ me!" his arms began to fly about again; he had thrown off his glasses, and his big hollow eyes stared at me with a wild, beseeching expression in them. "i'm so afraid--i'll scream out--and then they'll all hear me--and know," he gasped. "oh, give me something, _quick_--oh, do something for me before i lose entire control of myself." i flew to the table and got him some water; i didn't know what else to do, and he wouldn't let me call anybody,--even just speaking of it made him wild. then i fanned him, and knelt by the bed stroking one of his hands. but nothing seemed to help him. and then--god must have put the thought into my mind--i said suddenly, "fee, dear, i'm going to sing to you;" and before he could say no, i began. at first i could hardly keep my voice steady,--on account of that horrid, inward shaking,--but i went right on, and gradually it got better. i sang very softly and went from one hymn to the other, just as they came to my mind: first, "o mother dear, jerusalem,"--i love that old hymn!--then, "and now we fight the battle, but then shall win the crown;" and then, "the son of god goes forth to war." that's one of fee's favourites, and he sobbed right out when i sang,-- "'who best can drink his cup of woe, triumphant over pain; who patient bears his cross below,-- he follows in his train.'" but i kept on,--really, i felt as if i couldn't stop,--and when i got to the last line of "for all the saints who from their labours rest," fee whispered, "sing those verses again, jack." i knew which he meant; so i sang:-- "'thou wast their rock, their fortress, and their might; thou, lord, their captain in the well-fought fight; thou, in the darkness drear, the one true light. alleluia! "o may thy soldiers, faithful, true, and bold, fight as the saints who nobly fought of old, and win, with them, the victor's crown of gold. alleluia! * * * * * "and when the strife is fierce, the warfare long, steals on the ear the distant triumph-song, and hearts are brave again, and arms are strong. alleluia!'" fee lay quiet when i finished. he was still twitching, and tears were slipping down his cheeks from under his closed lids; but he no longer made that dreadful gasping sound, and there was a beautiful expression on his mouth,--so sweet and patient. "i've not been a soldier 'faithful, true, and bold,'" he said sadly, "but a miserable coward. ah! how we must weary god with our grumblings and complainings, our broken resolutions and weaknesses. i prayed with all my heart and strength for phil, that he might be saved from that crowd. and now that god has granted my prayer, i bewail his way of doing it. i was willing then to say, 'at any cost to myself,' and here i am shrinking from the share he has given me! dreading the pain and loneliness. a faithless soldier, jack,--not worthy to be called a soldier." "oh! not faithless," i put in eagerly; "indeed, fee, you're _not_ faithless. even if you do shrink from this--this trouble--it's only just here between us; you are going to be brave over it,--you know you are. _going_ to be! why, fee, i think you _are_ the _bravest_ boy! the truest, noblest--" i had to stop; that lump was just swelling up in my throat. "no," fee said mournfully, drawing his breath in as kathie does hers sometimes when she's been crying for a long while; "no, jack, i'm not really brave,--not yet! i'm going to bear this only because i must--because i _can't_ escape it. perhaps, by and by, strength may come to endure the trial more patiently; but now--i _dread_ it. i would _fly_ from it if i could; i would _die_ rather than face those awful years of helplessness! see what a poor creature your 'brave boy' is, jack." his lips were quivering, and he folded one arm over his eyes. then all at once there came back to me a talk which mamma and i once had, and i thought perhaps 'twould comfort poor felix, so i tried to tell him as well as i could. "fee, dear," i said, holding his hand tight in mine, and snuggling my head close up to his on the pillow, so i could whisper, "once, when mamma and i were talking, she said always to remember that god knows it's awfully hard for people to bear suffering and trouble; and that he always helps them and makes allowances for them, because he's our father, and for the sake of his own dear son, who had to go through so much trouble here on earth. "and _he_ knows, too, fee,--jesus knows _just_ how you feel about this; don't you remember how he prayed that last night in gethsemane that--if god would--he might not have to go through the awful trial of the cross? he meant to carry it right through, you know, all the time,--that's what he came on earth for; he meant to do every single thing that god had given him to do, and just as _bravely_! but, all the same, he felt, too, how _awfully_ hard 'twas going to be, and just for a little while beforehand he _dreaded_ it,--just as you dread the years that'll have to pass before you can be well. see? "and he knows your heart, fee; he knows that you're going to be just as _brave_ and _patient_ as you can be, and he'll help you every time. nannie and i'll ask him for you--and betty--and poor old phil--all of us. and dear mamma's up there, too; perhaps she's asking him to comfort you and make you strong. i feel as if she must be doing it,--she loved you so!" fee drew his hand out of mine, and raising his arm, touched my cheek softly with his feeble fingers, and for a few minutes we neither of us said a word. then there came a knock at the door; i scrambled to my feet, and going over, turned the key. somebody brushed quickly by me with the swish of a girl's dress, and there was nannie in the middle of the room! she ran toward felix with her arms out, her brown eyes shining with love. "oh, my darling!" she cried out, "my _dear_!" i heard fee's glad, breathless exclamation, "my _twinnie_!" then phil's arm went over my shoulders and drew me into the hall, and phil's voice said softly in my ear, "come, rosebud, let's leave them alone for a while." xxii. auf wiedersehen. told by jack. miss marston arrived that afternoon, and the next day we started, bag and baggage, for the cottage. and here we've been for nearly three months; in a week or two more we'll be thinking of going back to the city. dr. gordon came up with us, and he and phil did all they could to make the journey easier for felix. but he was dreadfully used up by the time we got him to the house, and for days no one but phil and nannie were allowed in his room. papa came a few days after we did, looking ever so much better than when he went away, and he settled down to work at once. betty's here, too. from what she lets out now and then, i'm pretty sure she's had a real good time; but, do you know, she _won't_ acknowledge it. still, i notice she doesn't make such fun of hilliard as she used to; and i will say betty's improving. she doesn't romp and tear about so much, nor flare out at people so often, and of course that makes her much more comfortable to live with. i'm ever so glad she's here; if she hadn't been, i'm afraid i'd have had an awfully stupid time this summer. you see betty and i are in the middle; we come between the big and the little ones in the family, and we 'most always go together on that account. [illustration: "out of doors."] nannie's had her hands full, what with helping papa with the fetich, and doing all sorts of things for her twin. nora's looked after phil and cheered him up when he got blue about felix, and phil has just devoted himself to fee. he's with him almost the whole time, and you can't think how gentle and considerate phil is these days. fee is out of doors a great deal; phil carries him out on fine days, and lays him on his bamboo lounge under the big maples; and there you're sure to find the whole family gathered, some time or other, every day that he is there. it seems as if we love fee more and more dearly every day,--he's so bright and merry and sweet, and he tries _so_ hard to be patient and make the best of things. of course he has times--what he calls his "dark days"--when his courage sinks, and he gets cranky and sarcastic; but they don't come as often as at first. and we all make allowances, for we know there isn't one of us that in his place would be as unselfish and helpful. we go to him with everything,--even papa has got in the way of sitting and talking with fee; anyway, it seems as if papa were more with us now than he used to be, and he's ever so much nicer,--more like other people's fathers are, you know! felix has got back the use of his fingers since we've been in the country; he can paint or play his violin for a little while at a time, but his legs are still useless. the doctor, though, declares he can see a slight improvement in them. he says now that perhaps--after several years--fee may be able to get around on crutches! betty and i felt awfully disappointed when we heard this,--we've been so sure fee would get perfectly well; but fee himself was very happy over it. "once let me assume the perpendicular, even on crutches," he said, smiling at phil, who sat sadly beside him, "and you see if, after a while, these old pegs don't come up to their duty bravely. i may yet dance at your wedding, philippus." max comes up to the cottage quite often, and stays from saturday to monday. he's just as nice and kind as he can be,--why, he doesn't seem to mind one bit going off on jolly long drives in the old depot-wagon, or on larks, with only nannie and us children; and he's teaching mädel how to manage g. w. l. spry and make him go, without being thrown off. phil and felix and max had a long talk together the first time max came up, and i have an idea 'twas about chad, for max looked very grave. i don't know what he did about it, but the other day i heard him tell nora that chad had positively made up his mind to go into business. "he says he has broken loose from a very bad set he was in," max said, "and seems very much in earnest to make the best of himself,--which is, of course, a great relief to me. i hope his good resolutions will amount to something." "perhaps they will," nora answered, rather indifferently, but her cheeks got real red. i shouldn't wonder if she thought chad'd done it because she advised him to. we have a way this summer, on sunday afternoons, of all sitting with felix under the maple-trees, talking, and singing our chants and hymns there instead of in the parlour. we were all there--the whole ten of us--one afternoon, when papa came across the lawn and sat down in the basket-chair that phil rushed off and got him. we'd just finished singing, "o mother dear, jerusalem," fee accompanying us on his violin, and we didn't begin anything else, for there was a queer--sort of excited--look on papa's face that somehow made us think he had something to tell us. and sure enough he had. "my children," he said presently, and his voice wasn't as quiet and even as it usually is, "i have this to tell you,--that last night i finished my life work; my history is completed!" the fetich finished! we just looked at each other with wide-open eyes. then nannie knelt down by papa's chair and kissed him warmly, and phil, who was sitting on the edge of fee's lounge, leaned over and shook hands with papa in a kind of grown-up, manly way. "allow me to congratulate you, sir," fee said earnestly, with shining eyes. "it is a great piece of work, and your children are _very_ proud of it and of you." the rest of us didn't know what to say, so we just sat and looked at papa. "i began it years ago," papa said after a minute or two, in a dreamy voice, as if talking more to himself than to us, and looking away at the sunset with a sad, far-off expression in his eyes, "_years_ ago; just after i met--margaret. but for her encouragement--her loving help--her perfect faith in my ability--it could never have been accomplished. now it is finished--i am here alone--and she--is far away--at peace!" papa's lips were working; he put his hand up quickly and shielded his eyes from us. we were all very still; we older ones felt very sad. and then, soft and low--almost like an angel's voice--there came from fee's violin the sweet strains of handel's "largo." the music rose and fell a bar or two, and then nannie and nora and phil sang together very softly:-- "the souls of the righteous are in the hand of god. there shall no sorrow touch them. in the sight of the unwise they seemed to die; but they are in peace, for so he giveth his beloved sleep." note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) grandmother dear a book for boys and girls by mrs. molesworth author of 'carrots,' 'cuckoo clock,' 'tell me a story' illustrated by walter crane macmillan and co., limited st. martin's street, london first edition november . reprinted december september and december , , , , , , , , , , , , , , printed in great britain by r. & r. clark, limited, edinburgh [illustration: 'i hope it isn't haunted.'] to _our_ 'grandmother dear,' a. j. s. maison du chanoine, _october_ . contents. chapter i. making friends chapter ii. lost in the louvre chapter iii. "_where_ is sylvia?" chapter iv. the six pinless brooches chapter v. molly's plan chapter vi. the apple-tree of stéfanos chapter vii. grandmother's grandmother chapter viii. grandmother's story (_continued_) chapter ix. ralph's confidence chapter x. "that cad sawyer" chapter xi. "that cad sawyer"--part ii. chapter xii. a christmas adventure chapter xiii. a christmas adventure--part ii. chapter xiv. how this book came to be written list of illustrations. sylvia lost in the louvre "whose drawer is this?" under the apple-tree "zwanzig--twenty schelling, that cup" in the coppice "good-bye again, my boy, and god bless you!" "i hope it isn't haunted" chapter i. making friends. "good onset bodes good end." spenser. "well?" said ralph. "well?" said sylvia. "well?" said molly. then they all three stood and looked at each other. each had his or her own opinion on the subject which was uppermost in their minds, but each was equally reluctant to express it, till that of the others had been got at. so each of the three said "well?" to the other two, and stood waiting, as if they were playing the old game of "who speaks first?" it got tiresome, however, after a bit, and molly, whose patience was the most quickly exhausted, at last threw caution and dignity to the winds. "well," she began, but the "well" this time had quite a different tone from the last; "_well_," she repeated emphatically, "i'm the youngest, and i suppose you'll say i shouldn't give my opinion first, but i just will, for all that. and my opinion is, that she's just as nice as she can be." "and i think so too," said sylvia, "don't you, ralph?" "i?" said ralph loftily, "you forget. _i_ have seen her before." "yes, but not to _remember_," said sylvia and molly at once. "you might just as well never have seen her before as far as that goes. but isn't she nice?" "ye-es," said ralph. "i don't think she's bad for a grandmother." "'for a grandmother!'" cried molly indignantly. "what do you mean, ralph? what can be nicer than a nice grandmother?" "but suppose she wasn't nice? she needn't be, you know. there are grandmothers and grandmothers," persisted ralph. "of course i know _that_," said molly. "you don't suppose i thought our grandmother was everybody's grandmother, you silly boy. what i say is she's just like a real grandmother--not like nora leslie's, who is always scolding nora's mother for spoiling her children, and wears such grand, quite _young lady_ dresses, and has _black_ hair," with an accent of profound disgust, "not nice, beautiful, soft, silver hair, like _our_ grandmother's. now, isn't it true, sylvia, isn't our grandmother just like a _real_ one?" sylvia smiled. "yes, exactly," she replied. "she would almost do for a fairy godmother, if only she had a stick with a gold knob." "only perhaps she'd beat us with it," said ralph. "oh no, not _beat_ us," cried molly, dancing about. "it would be worse than that. if we were naughty she'd point it at us, and then we'd all three turn into toads, or frogs, or white mice. oh, just fancy! i am so glad she hasn't got a gold-headed stick." "children," said a voice at the door, which made them all jump, though it was such a kind, cheery voice. "aren't you ready for tea? i'm glad to see you are not very tired, but you must be hungry. remember that you've travelled a good way to-day." "only from london, grandmother dear," said molly; "that isn't very far." "and the day after to-morrow you have to travel a long way farther," continued her grandmother. "you must get early to bed, and keep yourselves fresh for all that is before you. aunty says _she_ is very hungry, so you little people must be so too. yes, dears, you may run downstairs first, and i'll come quietly after you; i am not so young as i have been, you know." molly looked up with some puzzle in her eyes at this. "not so young as you have been, grandmother dear?" she repeated. "of course not," said ralph. "and you're not either, molly. once you were a baby in long clothes, and, barring the long clothes, i don't know but what----" "hush, ralph. don't begin teasing her," said sylvia in a low voice, not lost, however, upon grandmother. what _was_ lost upon grandmother? "and what were you all so busy chattering about when i interrupted you just now?" she inquired, when they were all seated round the tea-table, and thanks to the nice cold chicken and ham, and rolls and butter and tea-cakes, and all manner of good things, the children fast "losing their appetites." sylvia blushed and looked at ralph; ralph grew much interested in the grounds at the bottom of his tea-cup; only molly, molly the irrepressible, looked up briskly. "oh, nothing," she replied; "at least nothing particular." "dear me! how odd that you should all three have been talking at once about anything so uninteresting as nothing particular," said grandmother, in a tone which made them all laugh. "it wasn't _exactly_ about nothing particular," said molly: "it was about _you_, grandmother dear." "molly!" said sylvia reproachfully, but molly was not so easily to be snubbed. "we were wishing," she continued, "that you had a gold-headed stick, and then you'd be quite _perfect_." it was grandmother's and aunty's turn to laugh now. "only," molly went on, "ralph said perhaps you'd beat us with it, and i said no, most likely you'd turn us into frogs or mice, you know." "'frogs or mice, i know,' but indeed i don't know," said grandmother; "why should i wish to turn my boy and girl children into frogs and mice?" "if we were naughty, i meant," said molly. "oh, sylvia, you explain--i always say things the wrong way." "it was i that said you looked like a fairy godmother," said sylvia, blushing furiously, "and that put it into molly's head about the frogs and mice." "but the only fairy godmother _i_ remember that did these wonderful things turned mice into horses to please her god-daughter. have you not got hold of the wrong end of the story, molly?" said grandmother. "the wrong end and beginning and middle too, i should say," observed ralph. "yes, grandmother dear, i always do," said molly, complacently. "i never remember stories or anything the right way, my head is so funnily made." "when you can't find your gloves, because you didn't put them away carefully, is it the fault of the shape of the chest of drawers?" inquired grandmother quietly. "yes, i suppose so,--at least, no, i mean, of course it isn't," replied molly, taking heed to her words half-way through, when she saw that they were all laughing at her. grandmother smiled, but said no more. "what a wool-gathering little brain it is," she said to herself. when she smiled, all the children agreed together afterwards, she looked more like a fairy godmother than ever. she was really a _very_ pretty old lady. never very tall, with age she had grown smaller, though still upright as a dart; the "november roses" in her cheeks were of their kind as sweet as the june ones that nestled there long ago--ah! so long ago now; and the look in her eyes had a tenderness and depth which can only come from a life of unselfishness, of joy and much sorrow too--a life whose lessons have been well and dutifully learnt, and of which none has been more thoroughly taken home than that of gentle judgment of, and much patience with, others. while they are all finishing their tea, would you, my boy and girl friends, like to know who they were--these three, ralph, sylvia, and molly, whom i want to tell you about, and whom i hope you will love? when i was a little girl i liked to know exactly about the children in my books, each of whom had his or her distinct place in my affections. i liked to know their names, their ages, all about their homes and their relations _most_ exactly, and more than once i was laughed at for writing out a sort of genealogical tree of some of my little fancy friends' family connections. we need not go quite so far as _that_, but i will explain to you about these new little friends of yours enough for you to be able to find out the rest for yourselves. they had never seen their grandmother before, never, that is to say, in the girls' case, and in ralph's "not to remember her." ralph was fourteen now, sylvia thirteen, and molly about a year and a half younger. more than seven years ago their mother had died, and since then they had been living with their father, whose profession obliged him often to change his home, in various different places. it had been impossible for their grandmother, much as she wished it, to have had them hitherto with her, for, for several years out of the seven, her hands, and those of aunty, too, her only other daughter besides their mother, had been more than filled with other cares. their grandfather had been ill for many years before his death, and for his sake grandmother and aunty had left the english home they loved so much, and gone to live in the south of france. and after his death, as often happens with people no longer young, and somewhat wearied, grandmother found that the old dream of returning "home," and ending her days with her children and old friends round her, had grown to be but a dream, and, what was more, had lost its charm. she had grown to love her new home, endeared now by so many associations; she had got used to the ways of the people, and felt as if english ways would be strange to her, and as aunty's only idea of happiness was to find it in hers, the mother and daughter had decided to make their home where for nearly fourteen years it had been. they had gone to england this autumn for a few weeks, finally to arrange some matters that had been left unsettled, and while there something happened which made them very glad that they had done so. mr. heriott, the children's father, had received an appointment in india, which would take him there for two or three years, and though grandmother and aunty were sorry to think of his going so far away, they were--oh, i can't tell you how delighted! when he agreed to their proposal, that the children's home for the time should be with them. it would be an advantage for the girls' french, said grandmother, and would do ralph no harm for a year or two, and if his father's absence lasted longer, it could easily be arranged for him to be sent back to england to school, still spending his holidays at châlet. so all was settled; and grandmother, who had taken a little house at dover for a few weeks, stayed there quietly, while aunty journeyed away up to the north of england to fetch the children, their father being too busy with preparations for his own departure to be able conveniently to take them to dover himself. there were some tears shed at parting with "papa," for the children loved him truly, and believed in his love for them, quiet and undemonstrative though his manner was. there were some tears, too, shed at parting with "nurse," who, having conscientiously spoilt them all, was now getting past work, and was to retire to her married daughter's; there were a good many bestowed on the rough coat of shag, the pony, and the still rougher of fusser, the scotch terrier; but after all, children are children, and for my part i should be very sorry for them to be anything else, and the delights of the change and the bustle of the journey soon drowned all melancholy thoughts. and so far all had gone charmingly. aunty had proved to be all that could be wished of aunty-kind, and grandmother promised more than fairly. "what _would_ we have done if she had been very tall and stout, and fierce-looking, with spectacles and a hookey nose?" thought molly, and as the thought struck her, she left off eating, and sat with wide open eyes, staring at her grandmother. though grandmother did not in general wear spectacles--only when reading very small print, or busied with some peculiarly fine fancywork--nothing ever seemed to escape her notice. "molly, my dear, what are you staring at so? is my cap crooked?" she said. molly started. "oh no, grandmother dear," she replied. "i was only thinking----" she stopped short, jumped off her seat, and in another moment was round the table with a rush, which would have been sadly trying to most grandmothers and aunties, only fortunately these special ones were not like most! "what is the matter, dear?" grandmother was beginning to exclaim, when she was stopped by feeling two arms hugging her tightly, and a rather bread-and-buttery little mouth kissing her valorously. "nothing's the matter," said molly, when she stopped her kisses, "it only just came into my head when i was looking at you, how nice you were, you dear little grandmother, and i thought i'd like to kiss you. i don't want you to have a gold-headed stick, but i do want one thing, and then you _would_ be quite perfect. oh, grandmother dear," she went on, clasping her hands in entreaty, "just tell me this, _do_ you ever tell stories?" grandmother shook her head solemnly. "i _hope_ not, my dear child," she said, but molly detected the fun through the solemnity. she gave a wriggle. "now you're laughing at me," she said. "you _know_ i don't mean that kind. i mean do you ever tell real stories--not real, i don't mean, for very often the nicest aren't real, about fairies, you know--but you know the sort of stories i mean. you would look so beautiful telling stories, wouldn't she now, sylvia?" "and the stories would be beautiful if i told them--eh, molly?" "yes, i am sure they would be. _will_ you think of some?" "we'll see," said grandmother. "anyway there's no time for stories at present. you have ever so much to think of with all the travelling that is before you. wait till we get to châlet, and then we'll see." "i like _your_ 'we'll see,'" said molly. "some people's 'we'll see,' just means, 'i can't be troubled,' or, 'don't bother.' but i think _your_ 'we'll see' sounds nice, grandmother dear." "i am glad you think so, grand-daughter dear; and now, what about going to bed? it is only seven, but if you are tired?" "but we are not a bit tired," said molly. "we never go to bed till half-past eight, and ralph at nine," said sylvia. the word "bed" had started a new flow of ideas in molly's brain. "grandmother," she said, growing all at once very grave, "that reminds me of one thing i wanted to ask you; do the tops of the beds ever come down now in paris?" "'do the tops of the beds in paris ever come down?'" repeated grandmother. "my dear child, what _do_ you mean?" "it was a story she heard," began sylvia, in explanation. "about somebody being suffocated in paris by the top of the bed coming down," continued ralph. "it was robbers that wanted to steal his money," added molly. grandmother began to look less mystified. "oh, _that_ old story!" she said. "but how did you hear it? i remember it when i was a little girl; it really happened to a friend of my grandfather's, and afterwards i came across it in a little book about dogs. 'fidelity of dogs,' was the name of it, i think. the dog saved the traveller's life by dragging him out of the bed." "yes," said aunty, "i remember that book too. it was among your old child's books, mother. a queer little musty brown volume, and i remember how the story frightened me." "there now!" said molly triumphantly. "you see it frightened aunty too. so i'm _not_ such a baby after all." "yes, you are," said ralph. "people might be frightened without making such a fuss. molly declared she would rather not go to paris at all. _that's_ what i call being babyish--it isn't the feeling frightened that's babyish--for people might feel frightened and still _be_ brave, mightn't they, grandmother?" "certainly, my boy. that is what _moral_ courage means." "oh!" said molly, as if a new idea had dawned upon her. "i see. then it doesn't matter if i am frightened if i don't tell any one." "not exactly that," said grandmother. "i would _like_ you all to be strong and sensible, and to have good nerves, which it would take a good deal to startle, as well as to have what certainly is best of all, plenty of moral courage." "and if molly is frightened, she certainly couldn't help telling," said sylvia, laughing. "she does _so_ pinch whoever is next her." "there was nothing about a dog in the story of the bed we heard," said molly. "it was in a book that a boy at school lent ralph. i wouldn't ever be frightened if i had fusser, i don't think. i do so wish i had asked papa to let him come with us--just _in case_, you know, of the beds having anything funny about them: it would be so comfortable to have fusser." at this they all laughed, and aunty promised that if molly felt dissatisfied with the appearance of her bed, she would exchange with her. and not long after, sylvia and molly began to look so sleepy, in spite of their protestations that the dustman's cart was nowhere near _their_ door, that aunty insisted they must be mistaken, _she_ had heard his warning bell ringing some minutes ago. so the two little sisters came round to say good-night. "good night, grandmother dear," said molly, in a voice which tried hard to be brisk as usual through the sleepiness. grandmother laid her hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. molly had nice eyes when you looked at them closely: they were honest and candid, though of too pale a blue to show at first sight the expression they really contained. just now too, they were blinking and winking a little. still grandmother must have been able to read in them what she wanted, for her face looked satisfied when she withdrew her gaze. "so i am _really_ to be 'grandmother dear,' to you, my dear funny little girl?" she said. "of course, grandmother dear. really, _really_ i mean," said molly, laughing at herself. "do you see it in my eyes?" "yes, i think i do. you have nice honest eyes, my little girl." molly flushed a little with pleasure. "i thought they were rather ugly. ralph calls them 'cats',' and 'boiled gooseberries,'" she said. "anyway sylvia's are much prettier. she has such nice long eyelashes." "sylvia's are very sweet," said grandmother, kissing her in turn, "and we won't make comparisons. both pairs of eyes will do very well my darlings, if always 'the light within them, tender is and true.' now good night, and god bless my little grand-daughters. ralph, you'll sit up with me a little longer, won't you?" "what nice funny things grandmother says, doesn't she, sylvia?" said molly, as they were undressing. "she says nice things," said sylvia, "i don't know about they're being funny. you call everything funny, molly." "except you when you're going to bed, for then you're very often rather cross," said molly. but as she was only _in fun_, sylvia took it in good part, and, after kissing each other good night, both little sisters fell asleep without loss of time. chapter ii. lost in the louvre. "oh how i wish that i had lived in the ages that are gone!" a child's wish. it was--did i say so before? the children's first visit to paris. they had travelled a good deal, for such small people quite "a _very_ good deal," as molly used to maintain for the benefit of their less experienced companions. they knew england, "of course," ralph would say in his lordly, big-boy fashion, scotland too, and wales, and they had spent some time in germany. but they had never been in paris, and the excitement on finding the journey safely past and themselves really there was very considerable. "and, molly," said sylvia, on their way from the railway station to the hotel where rooms had been engaged for them, "remember you've _promised_ not to awake me in the middle of the night if you begin thinking about the top of the bed coming down." "and, oh, sylvia! i _wish_ you hadn't reminded me of it just now," said molly pathetically, for which all the satisfaction she received was a somewhat curt observation from sylvia, that she shouldn't be so silly. for sylvia, though in reality the kindest of little elder sisters, was sometimes inclined to be "short" with poor molly. sylvia was clever and quick, and very "capable," remarkably ready at putting herself, as it were, in the place of another and seeing for the time being, through his or her spectacles. while molly had not got further than opening wide her eyes, and not unfrequently her mouth too, sylvia, practical in the way that only people of lively imagination can be so, had taken in the whole case, whatever it might be, and set her ready wits to work as to the best thing to be said or done. and molly would wonderingly admire, and wish she could manage to "think of things" the way sylvia did. they loved each other dearly, these two--but to-night they were tired, and when people, not children only, big people too, very often--are tried, it is only a very little step to being cross and snappish. and when aunty, tired too, and annoyed by the unamiable tones, turned round to beg them to "_try_ to leave off squabbling; it was so thoughtless of them to disturb their grandmother," two or three big tears welled up in molly's eyes, though it was too dark in the omnibus, which was taking them and their luggage from the station, for any one to see, and she thought to herself what a terrible disappointment it would be if, after all, this delightful, long-talked-of visit to paris, were to turn out not delightful at all. and through sylvia's honest little heart there darted a quick sting of pain and regret for her sharpness to molly. how was it that she could not manage to keep the resolutions so often and so conscientiously made? how was it that she could not succeed in remembering at the time, the very moment at which she was tempted to be snappish and supercilious, her never-_really_-forgotten motive for peculiar gentleness and patience with her younger sister, the promise she had made, now so many years ago, to the mother molly could scarcely even remember, to be kind, _very_ kind, and gentle to the little, flaxen-haired, toddling thing, the "baby" whom that dear mother had loved so piteously. "eight years ago," said sylvia to herself. "i was five and molly only three and a half then. poor little molly, how funny she was!" and a hand crept in under molly's sleeve, and a whisper reached her ear. "i don't mean to be cross or to tease you, molly." and molly in a moment was her own queer, happy, muddle-headed little self again. "dear sylvia," she whispered in return, "of course you don't. you never do, and if the top of the bed _did_ come down, i'm sure i'd pull you out first, however sleepy i was. only of course i know it _won't_, and it's just my silly way, but when i'm as big as you, sylvia, i'll get out of it, i'm sure." "you're as big as me now, you silly girl," said sylvia laughingly, which was true. molly was tall and well-grown for her age, while sylvia was small, so that very often, to molly's delight, they were taken for twins. "in my body, but not in my mind," rejoined molly, with a little sigh. "i wish the growing would go into my mind for a little, though i wouldn't like to be _much_ smaller than you, sylvia. perhaps we shouldn't be dressed alike, then." "do be quiet, molly, you are such an awful chatterbox," growled ralph from his corner. "i was just having a nice little nap." he was far too "grown-up" to own to the eagerness with which, as they went along, he had been furtively peeping out at the window beside him--or to join in molly's screams of delight at the brilliance of the illumined shop windows, and the interminable perspective of gas lamps growing longer and longer behind them as they rapidly made their way. a sudden slackening of their speed, a sharp turn, and a rattle over the stones, told of their arrival at their destination. and "oh!" cried molly, "i _am_ so glad. aren't you awfully hungry, sylvia?" and grandmother, who, to tell the truth, had been indulging in a peaceful, _real_ little nap--not a sham one like ralph's--quite woke up at this, and told molly it was the best sign in the world to be hungry after a journey; she was delighted to find her so good a traveller. the "dinner-tea" which, out of consideration for the children's home hours, had been ordered for them, turned out delicious. never had they tasted such butter, such bread, such grilled chicken, and fried potatoes! and to complete molly's satisfaction the beds proved to have no tops to them at all. "i told you so," said ralph majestically, when they had made the tour of the various rooms and settled who was to have which, and though neither sylvia nor molly had the slightest recollection of his "telling you so," they were wise enough to say nothing. "but the little doors in the walls are quite as bad, or worse," ralph continued mischievously. "there's one at the head of your bed, molly,"--molly and sylvia were to have two little beds in the same room, standing in a sort of alcove--"which i am almost sure opens on to a secret staircase." molly gave a little shiver, and looked up appealingly. "ralph, you are not to tease her," said aunty. "remember all your promises to your father." ralph looked rather snubbed. "let us talk of something pleasant," continued aunty, anxious to change the subject. "what shall we do to-morrow? what shall we go to see first?" "yes," said grandmother. "what are your pet wishes, children?" "notre dame," cried molly. "the louvre," said sylvia. "anything you like. i don't care much for sightseeing," said ralph. "that's a pity," said aunty drily. "however, as you are the only gentleman of the party, and we are all dependent on you, perhaps it is just as well that you have no special fancies of your own. so to-morrow i propose that we should go a drive in the morning, to give you a general idea of paris, returning by notre dame. in the afternoon i have some calls to make, and a little shopping to do, and you three must not forget to write to your father. then the next day we can go to the louvre, as sylvia wished." "thank you, aunty," said sylvia. "it isn't so much for the pictures i want to go, but i do so want to see the room where poor henry the fourth was killed. i am _so_ fond of henry the fourth." aunty smiled, and ralph burst out laughing. "what a queer idea!" he said. "if you are so fond of him, i should think you would rather _not_ see the room where he was killed." sylvia grew scarlet, and molly flew up in her defence. "you've no business to laugh at sylvia, ralph," she cried. "_i_ understand her quite well. and she knows a great deal more history than you do--and about pictures, too. of course we want to see the pictures, too. there's that beautiful blue and orange one of murillo's that papa has a little copy of. _it's_ at the louvre." "i didn't say it wasn't," retorted ralph. "it's sylvia's love of horrors i was laughing at." "she _doesn't_ love horrors," replied molly, more and more indignant. "_you_ needn't talk," said ralph coolly. "who was it that took a box of matches in her pocket to holyrood palace, and was going to strike one to look for the blood-stains on the floor? it was the only thing you cared to see, and yet you are such a goose--crying out if a butterfly settles on you. i think girls are----" "ralph, my boy," said grandmother, seeing that by this time molly was almost in tears; "whatever you think of girls, you make me, i am sorry to say, think that boys' love of teasing is utterly incomprehensible--and oh, _so_ unmanly!" the last touch went home. "i was only in fun, grandmother," said ralph with unusual meekness; "i didn't mean really to vex molly." so peace was restored. to-morrow turned out fine, deliriously fine. "not like england," said molly superciliously, "where it _always_ rains when you want it to be fine." they made the most of the beautiful weather, though by no means agreeing with aunty's reminder that even in paris it did sometimes rain, and the three pairs of eager feet were pretty tired by the time bed-time came. and oh, what a disappointment the next morning brought! the children woke to a regular, pouring wet day, no chance of fulfilling the programme laid out, for sylvia was subject to sore throats, and grandmother would not let her go out in the damp, and there would be no fun in going to the louvre without her. so, as what can't be cured _must_ be endured, the children had just to make the best of it and amuse themselves in the house in the hopes of sunshine again for to-morrow. these hopes were happily fulfilled. "a lovely day," said aunty, "all the brighter for yesterday's rain." "and we may go to the louvre," exclaimed sylvia eagerly. aunty hesitated and turned, as everybody did when they were at a loss, to grandmother. "what do you think?" she said. she was reluctant to disappoint the children--sylvia especially--as they had all been very good the day before, but yet----"it is saturday, and the louvre will be so crowded you know, mother." "but _i_ shall be with you," said ralph. "and _i_!" said grandmother. "is not a little old lady like me equal to taking care of you all?" "will you really come too, dear grandmother?" exclaimed sylvia and molly in a breath. "_oh_, how nice!" "i should like to go," said grandmother. "it is ever so many years since i was at the louvre." "do let us go then. oh, do let us all go," said the little girls. "you know we are leaving on tuesday, and something might come in the way again on monday." so it was settled. "remember, children," said grandmother as they were all getting out of the carriage, "remember to keep close together. you have no idea how easily some of you might get lost in the crowd." "_lost!_" repeated sylvia incredulously. "lost!" echoed molly. "lost!" shouted ralph so loudly that some of their fellow-sight-seers, passing beside them into the palace, turned round to see what was the matter. "how could we _possibly_ get lost here?" "very easily," replied aunty calmly. "there is nothing, to people unaccustomed to it, so utterly bewildering as a crowd." "not to me," persisted ralph. "i could thread my way in and out of the people till i found you. the _girls_ might get lost, perhaps." "thank you," said molly; "as it happens, master ralph, i think it would be much harder to lose us than you. for one thing we can speak french ever such a great deal better than you." "and then there are two of us. if one of us was lost, grandmother and aunty could hold out the other one as a pattern, and say, 'i want a match for this,'" said sylvia laughing, and a little eager to prevent the impending skirmish between ralph and molly. "hush, children, you really mustn't chatter so," said aunty. "use your eyes, and let your tongues, poor things, rest for a little." they got on very happily. aunty managed to show the children the special picture or pictures each had most wanted to see--including the "beautiful blue and orange" one of molly's recollection. she nearly screamed with delight when she saw "how like it was to the one in papa's study," but took in good part ralph's cynical observation that a thing that was copied from another was generally supposed to be "like" the original. only sylvia was a little disappointed when, after looking at the pictures in one of the smaller rooms--a room in no way peculiar or remarkable as differing from the others--they suddenly discovered that they were in the famous "salle henri ii.," where henry the fourth was killed! "i didn't think it would be like this," said sylvia lugubriously. "why do they call it 'salle henri ii.?' it should be called after henry the fourth; and i don't think it should have pictures in, and be just like a common room." "what would you have it? hung round with black and tapers burning?" said her aunt. "i don't know--any way i thought it would have had old tapestry," said sylvia. "i should like it to have been kept just the way it was then." "poor sylvia!" said grandmother. "but we must hurry on, children. we have not seen the 'petite galérie' yet--dear me, how many years it is since i was in it!--and some of the most beautiful pictures are there." they passed on--grandmother leaning on aunty's arm--the three children close behind, through a room called the "salle des sept cheminées," along a vestibule filled with cases of jewellery, leading again to one of the great staircases. something in the vestibule attracted grandmother's attention, and she stopped for a moment. sylvia, not interested in what the others were looking at, turned round and retraced her steps a few paces by the way they had entered the hall. a thought had struck her. "i'd like just to run back for a moment to henry the fourth's room," she said to herself. "i want to notice the shape of it exactly, and how many windows there are, and then i think i can fancy to myself how it looked _then_, with the tapestry and all the old-fashioned furniture." no sooner thought than done. in a moment she was back in the room which had so curiously fascinated her, taking accurate note of its features. "i shall remember it now," she said to herself, after gazing round her for a minute or two. "now i must run after grandmother and the others, or they'll be thinking i am lost." she turned with a little laugh at the idea, and hastened out of the room, through the few groups of people standing or moving about, looking at the pictures--hastened out, expecting in another moment to see the familiar figures. the room into which she made her way was also filled with pictures, as had been the one through which she had entered the "salle henri ii." she crossed it without misgiving: she had no idea that she had left the salle henri ii. by the opposite door from that by which she had entered it! poor little sylvia, she did not know that grandmother's warning was actually to be fulfilled. she was "lost in the louvre!" chapter iii. "_where_ is sylvia?" "what called me back? a voice of happy childhood, "yet might i not bewail the vision gone, my heart so leapt to that dear loving tone." mrs. hemans, "an hour of romance." she did not find out her mistake. she passed through the room and entered the vestibule into which it led, quite confident that she would meet the others in an instant. there were several groups standing about this vestibule as there had been in the other, but none composed of the figures she was looking for. "they must have passed on," said sylvia to herself; "i wish they hadn't; perhaps they never noticed i wasn't beside them." then for the first time a slight feeling of anxiety seized her. she hurried quickly across the ante-room where she was standing, to find herself in another "salle," which was quite unlike any of the others she had seen. instead of oil-paintings, it was hung round with colourless engravings. here, too, there were several people standing about, but none whom, even for an instant, sylvia could have mistaken for her friends. "how quickly they must have hurried on," she thought, her heart beginning to beat faster. "i do think they might have waited a little. they must have missed me by now." no use delaying in _this_ room. sylvia hurried on, finding herself now in that part of the palace devoted to ancient pottery and other antiquities, uninteresting to a child. the rooms through which she passed were much less crowded than those containing pictures. at a glance it was easy to distinguish that those she was in search of were _not_ there. still she tried to keep up heart. "there is nothing here they would much care about," she said to herself. "if i could get back to the picture rooms i should be sure to find them." at last, to her delight, after crossing a second vestibule, from which descended a great staircase which she fancied she had seen before, she entered another of the long galleries completely hung with paintings. she bounded forward joyously. "they're sure to be here," she said. the room was very crowded. she dared not rush through it as fast as hitherto; it was _so_ crowded that she felt it would be quite possible to overlook a group of even four. more than once she fancied she caught sight of grandmother's small and aunty's taller figure, both dressed in black. once her heart gave a great throb of delight when she fancied she distinguished through the crowd the cream-coloured felt hat and feathers of molly, her double. but no--it was a cream-coloured felt hat, but the face below it was not molly's. then at last a panic seized the poor little girl. she fairly lost her head, and the tears blinding her so, that had molly and all of them been close beside her, she could scarcely have perceived them, she ran half frantically through the rooms. half frantically in reality, but scarcely so to outward appearance. her habit of self-control, her unconquerable british dislike to being seen in tears, or to making herself conspicuous, prevented her distress being so visible as to attract general attention. some few people remarked her as she passed--a forlorn little evangeline--her pretty face now paler, now more flushed than its wont, as alternations of hope and fear succeeded each other, and wondered if she had lost her party or her way. but she had disappeared before there was time to do more than notice her. more than once she was on the point of asking help or advice from the cocked-hat officials at the doors, but she was afraid. in some ways she was very ignorant and childish for her age, notwithstanding her little womanlinesses and almost precocious good sense, and to tell the truth, a vague misty terror was haunting her brain--a terror which she would hardly have confessed to molly, not for worlds untold to _ralph_--that, being in france and not in england, she might somehow be put in prison, were the state of the case known to these same cocked-hat gentlemen! so, when at last one of these dignitaries, who had been noticing her rapid progress down the long gallery "napoléon iii.," stopped her with the civil inquiry, "had mademoiselle lost her way? was she seeking some one?" she bit her lips tight and winked her eyes briskly not to cry, as she replied in her best french, "oh no," she could find her way. and then, as a sudden thought struck her that possibly he had been deputed by grandmother and aunty, who _must_ have missed her by now, to look for her, she glanced up at him again with the inquiry, had he, perhaps, seen a little girl like her? _just_ like her? [illustration: sylvia lost in the louvre.] "une petite fille comme mademoiselle?" replied the man smiling, but not taking in the sense of the question. "no, he had not." how could there be two little demoiselles, "tout-à-fait pareilles?" he shook his head, good-natured but mystified, and sylvia, getting frightened again, thanked him and sped off anew. the next doorway--by this time she had unconsciously in her panic and confusion begun actually to retrace her steps round the main court of the palace--brought her again into a room filled with statuary and antiquities. she was getting so tired, so out of breath, that the excitement now deserted her. she sat down on the ledge of one of the great marble vases, in a corner where her little figure was almost hidden from sight, and began to think, as quietly and composedly as she could, what she should do. the tears were slowly creeping up into her eyes again; she let two or three fall, and then resolutely drove the others back. "what shall i do?" she thought, and joined to her own terrors there was now the certainty of the anxiety and misery the others must, by this time, be suffering on her account. "oh, poor little molly," she said to herself. "how dreadfully she will be crying! what shall i do?" two or three ideas struck her. should she go down one of the staircases which every now and then she came upon, and find her way out of the palace, and down in the street try to call a cab to take her back to the hotel? but she had no money with her, and no idea what a cab would cost. and she was frightened of strange cabmen, and by no means sure that she could intelligibly explain the address. besides this, she could not bear to go home without them all, feeling certain that they would not desert the palace till they had searched every corner for her. "if i could but be sure of any place they _must_ pass," she said to herself, with her good sense reviving; "it would be the best way to wait there till they come." she jumped up again. "the door out!" she exclaimed. "they _must_ pass it. only perhaps," her hopes falling, "there are several doors. the best one to wait at would be the one we came in by, if i could but tell which it was. let me see--yes, i remember, as we came upstairs, aunty said, 'this is the grand escalier.' if i ask for the 'grand escalier.'" her courage returned. the very next cocked hat she came upon, she asked to direct her to the "grand escalier." he sent her straight back through a vestibule she had just left, at the other entrance to which she found herself at the head of the great staircase. "i am sure this is the one we came up," she thought, as she ran down, and her certainty was confirmed, when, having made her way out through the entrance hall at the foot of the staircase, she caught sight, a few yards off, of an old apple woman's stall in the courtyard. "i remember that stall quite well," thought sylvia, and in her delight she felt half inclined to run up to the apple-woman and kiss her. "she looks nice," she said to herself, "and they must pass that way to get to the street we came along. i'll go and stand beside her." half timidly the little girl advanced towards the stall. she had stood there a minute or two before its owner noticed her, and turned to ask if mademoiselle wanted an apple. sylvia shook her head. she had no money and did not want any apples, but might she stand there to watch for her friends, whom she had lost in the crowd. the old woman, with bright black eyes and shrivelled-up, yellow-red cheeks, not unlike one of her own apples that had been thrown aside as spoilt, turned and looked with kindly curiosity at the little girl. "might mademoiselle wait there? certainly. but she must not stand," and as she spoke she drew out a little stool, on which sylvia was only too glad to seat herself, and feeling a little less anxious, she mustered courage to ask the old woman if every one came out at this door. "to go where?" inquired the old woman, and when sylvia mentioned the name of the hotel and the street where they were staying, "ah, yes!" said her informant; "mademoiselle might be quite satisfied. it was quite sure madame, her mother, would come out by that entrance." "not my mother," said sylvia. "i have no mother. it is my grandmother." "the grandmother of mademoiselle," repeated the old woman with increased interest. "ah, yes i too had once a grand-daughter." "did she die?" said sylvia. "poor angel, yes," replied the apple-seller; "she went to the good god, and no doubt it is better. she was orphan, mademoiselle, and i was obliged to be out all day, and she would come too. and it is so cold in paris, the winter. she got a bad bronchitis and she died, and her old grandmother is now alone." "i am so sorry," said sylvia. and her thoughts went off to her own grandmother, and molly, and all of them, with fresh sympathy for the anxiety they must be suffering. she leant back on the wall against which the old woman had placed the stool, feeling very depressed and weary--so weary that she did not feel able to do anything but sit still, which no doubt from every point of view was the best thing she could do, though but for her weariedness she would have felt much inclined to rush off again to look for them, thus decidedly decreasing her chance of finding them. "mademoiselle is tired," said the old woman, kindly. "she need not be afraid. the ladies are sure to come out here. i will watch well those who pass. a little demoiselle dressed like mademoiselle? one could not mistake. mademoiselle may feel satisfied." somehow the commonplace, kindly words did make sylvia feel less anxious. and she was very tired. not so much with running about the louvre; that, in reality, had not occupied more than three quarters of an hour, but with the fright and excitement, and the excitement of a different kind too, that she had had the last few days, poor little sylvia was really quite tired out. she laid her head down on the edge of the table on which the apples were spread out, hardly taking in the sense of what the old woman was saying--that in half-an-hour at most mademoiselle would find her friends, for then the doors would be closed, and every one would be obliged to leave the palace. she felt satisfied that the old woman would be on the look-out for the little party she had described to her, and she thought vaguely that she would ask grandmother to give her a sixpence or a shilling--no, not a sixpence or a shilling,--she was in france, not in england--what should she say? a franc--half a franc--how much was equal to a sixpence or a shilling? she thought it over mistily for a moment or two, and then thought no more about it--she had fallen fast asleep! but how was this? she had fallen asleep with her head on the apple-woman's stall; when she looked round her again where was she? for a minute or two she did not in the least recognise the room--then it suddenly flashed upon her she was in the salle henri ii., the room where poor henry the fourth was killed! but how changed it was--the pictures were all gone, the walls were hung with the tapestry she had wished she could see there, and the room was but dimly lighted by a lamp hanging from the centre of the roof. sylvia did not feel in any way surprised at the transformation--but she looked about her with great interest and curiosity. suddenly a slight feeling of fear came over her, when in one corner she saw the hangings move, and from behind the tapestry a hand, a very long white hand, appear. whose could it be? sylvia's fear increased to terror when it suddenly struck her that this must be the night of the th of may, the night on which henry of navarre was to be killed. she gave a scream of terror, or what she fancied a scream; in reality it was the faintest of muffled sounds, like the tiny squeal of a distressed mouse, which seemed to startle the owner of the hand into quicker measures. he threw back the hangings and came towards sylvia, addressing her distinctly. the voice was so kind that her courage returned, and she looked up at the new comer. his face was pale and somewhat worn-looking, the eyes were bright and sparkling, and benevolent in expression; his tall figure was curiously dressed in a fashion which yet did not seem quite unfamiliar to the little girl--a sort of doublet or jacket of rich crimson velvet, with lace at the collar and cuffs, short trousers fastened in at the knees, "very like ralph's knickerbockers," said sylvia to herself, long pointed-toed shoes, like canoes, and on the head a little cap edged with gold, half coronet, half smoking cap, it seemed to her. where had she ever seen this old-world figure before? she gazed at him in perplexity. "why are you so frightened, mademoiselle?" said the stranger, and curiously enough his voice sounded very like that of the most amiable of her cocked-hat friends. sylvia hesitated. "i don't think i am frightened," she said, and though she spoke english and the stranger had addressed her in french, he seemed quite to understand her. "i am only tired, and there was something the matter. i can't remember what it was." "i know," replied her visitor. "you can't find molly and the others. never mind. if you come with me i'll take you to them. i know all the ins and outs of the palace. i have lived here so long, you see." he held out his hand, but sylvia hesitated. "who are you?" she said. a curious smile flickered over the face before her. "don't you know?" he said. "i am surprised at that. i thought you knew me quite well." "are you?" said sylvia--"yes, i am sure you must be one of the pictures in the long gallery. i remember looking at you this afternoon. how did you get down?" "no," said the stranger, "mademoiselle is not quite right. how could there be two 'tout à fait pareils'?" and again his voice sounded exactly like that of the cocked-hat who would not understand when she had asked him if he had seen molly. yet she still felt sure he was mistaken, he _must_ be the picture she remembered. "it is very queer," she said. "if you are not the picture, who are you then?" "i pass my time," said the figure, somewhat irrelevantly, "between this room, where i was killed and the 'salle des caryatides,' where i was married. on the whole i prefer this room." "are you--can you be--henry the fourth?" exclaimed sylvia. "oh! poor henry the fourth, i am so afraid of them coming to kill you again. come, let us run quick to the old apple-woman, she will take care of you till we find grandmother." she in turn held out her hand. the king took it and held it a moment in his, and a sad, very sad smile overspread his face. "alas!" he said, "i cannot leave the palace. i have no little grand-daughter like mademoiselle. i am alone, always alone. farewell, my little demoiselle. les voilà qui viennent." the last words he seemed to speak right into her ears, so clear and loud they sounded. sylvia started--opened her eyes--no, there was no king to be seen, only the apple-woman, who had been gently shaking her awake, and who now stood pointing out to her a little group of four people hurrying towards them, of whom the foremost, hurrying the fastest of all, was a fair-haired little girl with a cream-coloured felt hat and feathers, who, sobbing, threw herself into sylvia's arms, and hugged and hugged as if she never would let go. "oh, sylvia, oh, my darling!" she cried. "i thought you were lost for always. oh, i have been so frightened--oh, we have all been so frightened. i thought perhaps they had taken you away to one of the places where the tops of the beds come down, or to that other place on the river, the morgue, where they drown people, only i didn't say so, not to frighten poor grandmother worse. oh, grandmother _dear_, aren't you glad she's found?" sylvia was crying too by this time, and the old apple-woman was wiping her eyes with a corner of her apron. you may be sure grandmother gave her a present, i rather think it was of a five-franc piece, which was very extravagant of grandmother, wasn't it? they had been of course hunting for sylvia, as people always do for anything that is lost, from a little girl to a button-hook, _before they find it_, in every place but the right one. i think it was grandmother's bright idea at last to make their way to the entrance and wait there. there had been quite a commotion among the cocked-hats who had _not_ seen sylvia, only unfortunately they had not managed to communicate with the cocked-hats who _had_ seen her, and they had shown the greatest zeal in trying to "match" the little girl in the cream-coloured hat, held out to them as a pattern by the brisk old lady in black, who spoke such beautiful french, that they "demanded themselves" seriously if the somewhat eccentric behaviour of the party could be explained, as all eccentricities should of course _always_ be explained, by the fact of their being english! aunty's distress had been great, and she had not "kept her head" as well as grandmother, whose energies had a happy knack of always rising to the occasion. "what _will_ walter think of us," said aunty piteously, referring to the children's father, "if we begin by losing one of them?" and she unmercifully snubbed ralph's not unreasonable suggestion of "detectives;" he had always heard the french police system was so excellent. ralph had been as unhappy as any of them, especially as grandmother had strenuously forbidden his attempting to mend matters by "threading his way in and out," and getting lost himself in the process. and yet when they were all comfortably at the hotel again, their troubles forgotten, and sylvia had time to relate her remarkable dream, he teased her unmercifully the whole evening about her description of the personal appearance of henry the fourth. he was, according to ralph, neither tall nor pale, and he certainly could not have had long thin hands, nor did people--kings, that is to say, at that date--wear lace ruffles or pointed shoes. had molly not known, for a fact, that all their lesson books were unget-at-ably packed up, she would certainly have suspected ralph of a sly peep at mrs. markham, just on purpose "to set sylvia down." but failing this weapon, her defence of sylvia was, it must be confessed, somewhat illogical. she didn't care, she declared, whether henry the fourth was big or little, or how he was dressed. it was very clever of sylvia to dream such a nice dream about real history things, and ralph couldn't dream such a dream if he tried ever so hard. boys are aggravating creatures, are they not? chapter iv. the six pinless brooches. "they have no school, no governess, and do just what they please, no little worries vex the birds that live up in the trees." the discontented starlings. not many days after this thrilling adventure of sylvia's, the little party of travellers reached their destination, grandmother's pretty house at châlet. they were of course delighted to be there, everything was so bright, and fresh, and comfortable, and grandmother herself was glad to be again settled down at what to her now represented home. but yet, at the bottom of their hearts, the children were a little sorry that the travelling was over. true, molly declared that, though their passage across the channel had really been a very good one as these dreadful experiences go, nothing would _ever_ induce her to repeat the experiment; whatever came of it, there was no help for it, live and die in france, at least on this side of the water, she _must_. "i am never going to marry, you know," she observed to sylvia, "so for that it doesn't matter, as of course i _couldn't_ marry a frenchman. but you will come over to see me sometimes and bring your children, and when i get very old, as i shall have no one to be kind to me you see, i daresay i shall get some one to let me be their concierge like the old woman in our lodge. i shall be very poor of course, but _anything_ is better than crossing the sea again." it sounded very melancholy. sylvia's mind misgave her that perhaps she should offer to stay with molly "for always" on this side of the channel, but she did not feel quite sure about it. and the odd thing was that of them all molly had most relished the travelling, and was most eager to set off again. she liked the fuss and bustle of it, she said; she liked the feeling of not being obliged to do any special thing at any special hour, for regularity and method were sore crosses to molly. "it is so nice," she said, "to feel when we get up in the morning that we shall be out of one bustle into another all day, and nobody to say 'you will be late for your music,' or, 'have you finished your geography, molly?'" "well," said sylvia, "i am sure you haven't much of that kind of thing just now, molly. we have _far_ less lessons than we had at home. it is almost like holidays." this was quite true. it had been settled between grandmother and their father that for the first two or three months the children should not have many lessons. they had been working pretty hard for a year or two with a very good, but rather strict, governess, and sylvia, at no time exceedingly strong, had begun to look a little fagged. "they will have plenty to use their brains upon at first," said their father. "the novelty of everything, the different manners and customs, and the complete change of life, all that will be enough to occupy and interest them, and i don't want to overwork them. let them run wild for a little." it sounded very reasonable, but grandmother had her doubts about it all the same. "running wild" in her experience had never tended to making little people happier or more contented. "they are always better and more able to enjoy play-time when they feel that they have done some work well and thoroughly," she said to aunty. "however, we must wait a little. if i am not much mistaken, the children themselves will be the first to tire of being too much at their own disposal." for a few weeks it seemed as if mr. heriott had been right. the children were so interested and amused by all they saw that it really seemed as if there would not be room in their minds for anything else. every time they went out a walk they returned, molly especially, in raptures with some new marvel. the bullocks who drew the carts, soft-eyed, clumsy creatures, looking, she declared, so "sweet and patient;" the endless varieties of "sisters," with the wonderful diversity of caps; the chatter, and bustle, and clatter on the market-days; the queer, quaint figures that passed their gates on horse and pony back, jogging along with their butter and cheese and eggs from the mountain farms--all and everything was interesting and marvellous and entertaining to the last degree. "i don't know how other children find time to do lessons here," she said to sylvia one day. "it is quite difficult to remember just practising and french, and think what lots of other lessons we did at home, and we seemed to have much more time." "yes," said sylvia, "and do you know, molly, i think i liked it better. just now at the end of the day i never feel as if i had done anything nicely and settledly, and i think ralph feels so too. _he_ is going to school regularly next month, every day. i wish we were too." "_i_ don't," said molly, "and it will be very horrid of you, sylvia, if you go putting anything like that into grandmother's head. there now, she is calling us, and i am not _nearly_ ready. where _are_ my gloves? oh, i cannot find them." "what did you do with them yesterday when you came in?" said sylvia. "you ran down to the lodge to see the soldiers passing; don't you remember, just when you had half taken off your things?" "oh yes, and i believe i left them in my other jacket pocket. yes, here they are. there is grandmother calling again. do run, sylvia, and tell her i'm just coming." molly was going out alone with grandmother to-day, and having known all the morning at what time she was to be ready, there was no excuse for her tardiness. "my dear child," said grandmother, who, tired of waiting, just then made her appearance in their room, "what have you been doing? and you don't look half dressed now. see, your collar is tumbling off. i must really tell marcelline never to let you go out without looking you all over." "it wasn't marcelline's fault, grandmother dear," said molly. "i'm so sorry. i dressed in such a hurry." "and why in such a hurry?" asked grandmother. "this is not a day on which you have any lessons." "no-o," began molly; but a new thought struck grandmother. "oh, by the by, children, where are your letters for your father? i told you i should take them to the post myself, you remember, as i wasn't sure how many stamps to put on for cairo." sylvia looked at molly, molly looked at sylvia. neither dared look at grandmother. both grew very red. at last, "i am _so_ sorry, grandmother dear." "i am _so_ sorry, dear grandmother." "we are both _so_ sorry; we _quite_ forgot we were to write them this morning." grandmother looked at them both with a somewhat curious expression. "you both forgot?" she said. "have you so much to do, my dear little girls, that you haven't room in your minds to remember even this one thing?" "no, grandmother, it isn't that. i should have remembered," said sylvia in a low voice. "i don't know, grandmother dear," replied molly, briskly. "my mind does seem very full. i don't know how it is, i'm sure." grandmother quietly opened a drawer in a chest of drawers near to which she was standing. it was very neat. the different articles it contained were arranged in little heaps; there were a good many things in it--gloves, scarfs, handkerchiefs, ribbons, collars, but there seemed plenty of room for all. "whose drawer is this?" she asked. [illustration: 'whose drawer is this?'] "mine," said sylvia. "sylvia's," answered molly in the same breath, but growing very red as she saw grandmother's hand and eyes turning in the direction of the neighbour drawer to the one she had opened. "i am so sorry, grandmother dear," she exclaimed; "i wish you wouldn't look at mine to-day. i was going to put it tidy, but i hadn't time." it was too late. grandmother had already opened the drawer. ah, dear! what a revelation! gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, ribbons, collars; collars ribbons, scarfs, handkerchiefs, gloves, in a sort of _pot-pourri_ all together, or as if waiting to be beaten up into some wonderful new kind of pudding! molly grew redder and redder. "dear me!" said grandmother. "this is your drawer, i suppose, molly. how is it it is so much smaller than sylvia's?" "it isn't, grandmother dear," said molly, rather surprised at the turn of the conversation. "it is just the same size exactly." "then how is it you have so many more things to keep in it than sylvia?" "i haven't, grandmother dear," said molly. "we have just exactly the same of everything." "and yet yours looks crowded to the last degree--far too full--and in hers there seems plenty of room for everything." "because, grandmother dear," said molly, opening wide her eyes, "hers is neat and mine isn't." "ah," said grandmother. "see what comes of order. suppose you try a little of it with that mind of yours, molly, which you say seems always too full. do you know i strongly suspect that if everything in it were very neatly arranged, you would find a very great deal of room in it; you would be surprised to find how little, not how much, it contains." "_would_ i, grandmother dear?" said molly, looking rather mystified. "i don't quite understand." "think about it a little, and then i fancy you will understand," said grandmother. "but we really must go now, or i shall be too late for what i wanted to do. there is that collar of yours loose again, molly. a little brooch would be the proper thing to fasten it with. you have several." poor molly--her unlucky star was in the ascendant this afternoon surely! she grew very red again, as she answered confusedly, "yes, grandmother dear." "well then, quick, my dear. put on the brooch with the bit of coral in the middle, like the one that sylvia has on now." "please, grandmother dear, that one's pin's broken." "the pin's broken! ah, well, we'll take it to have it mended then. where is it, my dear? give it to me." molly opened the unlucky drawer, and after a minute or two's fumbling extracted from its depths a little brooch which she handed to grandmother. grandmother looked at it. "this is not the one, molly. this is the one aunty sent you on your last birthday, with the little turquoises round it." molly turned quickly. "oh yes. it isn't the coral one. it must be in the drawer." another rummage brought forth the coral one. "but the turquoise one has no pin either!" "no, grandmother dear. it broke last week." "then it too must go to be mended," said grandmother with decision. "see, here is another one that will do for to-day." she, in turn, drew forth another brooch. a little silver one this time, in the shape of a bird flying. but as she was handing it to molly, "why, this one _also_ has no pin!" she exclaimed. "no, grandmother dear. i broke it the day before yesterday." grandmother laid the three brooches down in a row. "how many brooches in all have you, molly?" she said. "six, grandmother dear. they are just the same as sylvia has. we have each six." "and where are the three others?" molly opened a little box that stood on the top of the chest of drawers. "they're here," she said, and so they were, poor things. a little mosaic brooch set in silver, a mother-of-pearl with steel border, and a tortoise-shell one in the shape of a crescent; these made up her possessions. "i meant," she added naïvely, "i meant to have put them all in this box as i broke them, but i left the coral one, and the turquoise one, and the bird in the drawer by mistake." "_as you broke them?_" repeated grandmother. "how many are broken then?" "all," said molly. "i mean the pins are." it was quite true. there lay the six brooches--brooches indeed no longer--for not a pin was there to boast of among them! "six pinless brooches!" said grandmother drily, taking them up one after another. "six pinless brooches--the property of one careless little girl. little girls are changed from the days when i was young! i shall take these six brooches to be mended at once, molly, but what i shall do with them when they are mended i cannot as yet say." she put them all in the little box from which three of them had been taken, and with it in her hand went quietly out of the room. molly, by this time almost in tears, remained behind for a moment to whisper to sylvia, "is grandmother dreadfully angry, do you think, sylvia? i am so frightened, i wish i wasn't going out with her." "then you should not have been so horribly careless. i never knew any one so careless," said sylvia, in rather a job's comforter tone of voice. "of course you must tell grandmother how sorry you are, and how ashamed of yourself, and ask her to forgive you." "grandmother dear," said molly, her irrepressible spirits rising again when she found herself out in the pleasant fresh air, sitting opposite grandmother in the carriage, bowling along so smoothly--grandmother having made no further allusion to the unfortunate brooches--"grandmother dear, i am so sorry and so ashamed of myself. will you please forgive me?" "and what then, my dear?" said grandmother. "i will try to be careful; indeed i will. i will tell you how it is i break them so, grandmother dear. i am always in such a hurry, and brooches _are_ so provoking sometimes. they won't go in, and i give them a push, and then they just squock across in a moment." "they just _what_?" said grandmother. "squock across, grandmother dear," said molly serenely. "it's a word of my own. i have a good many words of my own like that. but i won't say them if you'd rather not. i've got a plan in my head--it's just come there--of teaching myself to be more careful with brooches, so _please_, grandmother dear, do try me again when the brooches are mended. _of course_ i'll pay them out of my own money." "well, we'll see," said grandmother, as the carriage stopped at the jeweller's shop where the poor brooches were to be doctored. during the next two days there was a decided improvement in molly. she spent a great part of them in putting her drawers and other possessions in order, and was actually discovered in a quiet corner mending a pair of gloves. she was not once late for breakfast or dinner, and, notwithstanding the want of the brooches, her collars retained their position with unusual docility. all these symptoms were not lost on grandmother, and to molly's great satisfaction, on the evening of the third day she slipped into her hand a little box which had just been left at the door. "the brooches, molly," said grandmother. "they have cost just three francs. i think i may trust you with them, may i not?" "oh yes, grandmother dear. i'm sure you may," said molly, radiant. "and do you know my drawers are just _beautiful_. i wish you could see them." "never fear, my dear. i shall be sure to take a look at them some day soon. shall i pay them an unexpected visit--eh, molly?" "if you like," replied the little girl complacently. "i've quite left off being careless and untidy; it's so much nicer to be careful and neat. good-night, grandmother dear, and thank you so much for teaching me so nicely." "good-night, grand-daughter dear. but remember, my little molly, that rome was not built in a day." "of course not--how could a big town be built in a day? grandmother dear, what funny things you do say," said molly, opening wide her eyes. "_the better to make you think, my dear_," said grandmother, in a gruff voice that made molly jump. "oh dear! how you do frighten me when you speak like that, grandmother dear," she said in such a piteous tone that they all burst out laughing at her. "my poor little girl, it is a shame to tease you," said grandmother, drawing her towards her. "to speak plainly, my dear, what i want you to remember is this: faults are not cured, any more than big towns are built, in a day." "no, i know they are not. i'm not forgetting that. i've been making a lot of plans for making myself remember about being careful," said molly, nodding her head sagaciously. "you'll see, grandmother dear." and off to bed she went. the children went out early the next morning for a long walk in the country. it was nearly luncheon time when they returned, and they were met in the hall by aunty, who told them to run upstairs and take off their things quickly, as a friend of their grandmother's had come to spend the day with her. "and make yourselves neat, my dears," she said. "miss wren is a particular old lady." sylvia was down in the drawing-room in five minutes, hair brushed, hands washed, collar straight. she went up to miss wren to be introduced to her, and then sat down in a corner by the window with a book. miss wren was very deaf, and her deafness had the effect, as she could not in the least hear her own voice, of making her shout out her observations in a very loud tone, sometimes rather embarrassing for those to whom they were addressed, or, still worse, for those concerning whom they were made. "nice little girl," she remarked to grandmother, "very nice, pretty-behaved little girl. rather like poor mary, is she not? not so pretty! dear me, what a pretty girl mary was the first winter you were here, twelve, no, let me see, fourteen years ago! never could think what made her take a fancy to that solemn-looking husband of hers." grandmother laid her hand warningly on miss wren's arm, and glanced in sylvia's direction, and greatly to her relief just then, there came a diversion in the shape of molly. grandmother happened to be asked a question at this moment by a servant who just came into the room, and had therefore turned aside for an instant as molly came up to speak to miss wren. her attention was quickly caught again, however, by the old lady's remarks, delivered as usual in a very loud voice. "how do you do, my dear? and what is your name? dear me, is this a new fashion? laura," to aunty, who was writing a note at the side-table and had not noticed molly's entrance, "laura, my dear, i wonder your mother allows the child to wear so much jewellery. in _my_ young days such a thing was never heard of." aunty got up from her writing at this, and grandmother turned round quickly. what could miss wren be talking about? was her sight, as well as her hearing, failing her? was grandmother's own sight, hitherto quite to be depended upon, playing her some queer trick? there stood molly, serene as usual, with--it took grandmother quite a little while to count them--one, two, three, yes, _six_ brooches fastened on to the front of her dress! all the six invalid brooches, just restored to health, that is to say _pins_, were there in their glory. the turquoise one in the middle, the coral and the tortoise-shell ones at each side of it, the three others, the silver bird, the mosaic and the mother-of-pearl arranged in a half-moon below them, in the front of the child's dress. they were placed with the greatest neatness and precision; it must have cost molly both time and trouble to put each in the right spot. grandmother stared, aunty stared, miss wren looked at molly curiously. "odd little girl," she remarked, in what she honestly believed to be a perfectly inaudible whisper, to grandmother. "she is not so nice as the other, not so like poor mary. but i wonder, my dear, i really do wonder at your allowing her to wear so much jewellery. in _our_ young days----" for once in her life grandmother was _almost_ rude to miss wren. she interrupted her reminiscences of "our young days" by turning sharply to molly. "molly," she said, "go up to your room at once and take off that nonsense. what _is_ the meaning of it? do you intend to make a joke of what you should be so ashamed of, your own carelessness?" molly stared up in blank surprise and distress. "grandmother dear," she said confusedly. "it was my _plan_. it was to make me careful." grandmother felt much annoyed, and molly's self-defence vexed her more. "go up to your room," she repeated. "you have vexed me very much. either you intend to make a joke of what i hoped would have been a lesson to you for all your life, or else, molly, it is as if you had not all your wits. go up to your room at once." molly said no more. never before had grandmother and aunty looked at her "like that." she turned and ran out of the room and up to her own, and throwing herself down on the bed burst into tears. "i thought it was such a good plan," she sobbed. "i wanted to please grandmother. and i do believe she thinks i meant to mock her. oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!" downstairs the luncheon bell rang, and they all seated themselves at table, but no molly appeared. "shall i run up and tell her to come down?" suggested sylvia, but "no," said grandmother, "it is better not." but grandmother's heart was sore. "i shall be so sorry if there is anything of sulkiness or resentfulness in molly," she said to herself. "what _could_ the child have had in her head?" chapter v. molly's plan. "... such a plague every morning with buckling shoes, gartering, and combing." the twin rivals. soon after luncheon miss wren took her departure. nothing more was said about molly before her, but on leaving she patted sylvia approvingly on the back. "nice little girl," she said. "your grandmother must bring you to see me some day. and your sister may come, too, if she leaves her brooches at home. young people in _my_ young days----" aunty saw that sylvia was growing very red, and looking as if she were on the point of saying something; molly's queer behaviour had made her nervous: it would never do for sylvia, too, to shock miss wren's notion of the proprieties by bursting out with some speech in molly's defence. so aunty interrupted the old lady by some remark about her shawl not being thick enough for the drive, which quite distracted her attention. as soon as she had gone, grandmother sent sylvia upstairs to look for molly. sylvia came back looking rather alarmed. no molly was there. where could she be? grandmother began to feel a little uneasy. "she is nowhere in the house," said sylvia. "marcelline says she saw her go out about half-an-hour ago. she is very fond of the little wood up the road, grandmother: shall i go and look for her there?" grandmother glanced round. "ralph," she said. "oh, i forgot, he will not be home till four;" for ralph had begun going to school every day. "laura," she went on, to aunty, "put on your hat and go with sylvia to find the poor child." sylvia's face brightened at this. "then you are not so vexed with molly now, grandmother," she said. "i know it seemed like mocking you, but i am sure she didn't mean it that way." "what did she mean, then, do you think?" said grandmother. "i don't quite know," said sylvia. "it was a plan of her own, but it wasn't anything naughty or rude, i am sure." aunty and sylvia went off to the little wood, as the children called it--in reality a very small plantation of young trees, where any one could be easily perceived, especially now when the leaves were few and far between. no, there was no molly there. hurriedly, aunty and sylvia retraced their steps. "let us go round by the lodge," said aunty--they had left the house by the back gate--"and see if old marie knows anything of where she is." as they came near to the lodge they saw old marie coming to meet them. "is mademoiselle looking for the little demoiselle?" she said with a smile. "yes, she is in my kitchen--she has been there for half-an-hour. poor little lady, she was in trouble, and i tried to console her. but the dear ladies have not been anxious about her? ah yes! but how sorry i am! i knew it not, or i would have run up to tell marcelline where she was." "never mind, marie," said aunty. "if we had known she was with you, we should have been quite satisfied. run in, sylvia, and tell molly to come back to the house to speak to your grandmother." sylvia was starting forward, but marie touched her arm. "a moment, mademoiselle sylvie," she said,--sylvia liked to be called "mademoiselle sylvie," it sounded so pretty--"a moment. the little sister has fallen asleep. she was sitting by the fire, and she had been crying so hard, poor darling. better not wake her all at once." she led the way into the cottage, and they followed her. there, as she had said, was molly, fast asleep, half lying, half sitting, by the rough open fireplace, her head on a little wooden stool on which marie had placed a cushion, her long fair hair falling over her face and shoulders--little sobs from time to time interrupting her soft, regular breathing. sylvia's eyes filled with tears. "poor molly," she whispered to aunty, "she must have been crying so. and do you know, aunty, when molly does cry and gets really unhappy, it is dreadful. she seems so careless, you know, but once she does care, she cares more than any one i know. and look, aunty." she pointed to a little parcel on the floor at molly's side. a parcel very much done up with string, and an unnecessary amount of sealing-wax, and fastened to the parcel a little note addressed to "dear grandmother." "shall i run with it to grandmother?" said sylvia: and aunty nodding permission, off she set. she had not far to go. coming down the garden-path she met grandmother, anxiously looking for news of molly. "she's in old marie's kitchen," said sylvia, breathlessly, "and she's fallen fast asleep. she'd been crying so, old marie said. and she had been writing this note for you, grandmother, and doing up this parcel." without speaking, grandmother broke the very splotchy-looking red seal and read the note. "my dear, dear grandmother," it began, "please do forgive me. i send you all my brooches. i don't _deserve_ to keep them for vexing you so. only i didn't, oh, indeed, i didn't mean to _mock_ you, dear grandmother. it is that that i can't bear, that you should think so. it was a plan i had made to teach me to be careful, only i know it was silly--i am always thinking of silly things, but oh, _believe_ me, i would not make a joke of your teaching me to be good.--your own dearest "molly." "poor little soul," said grandmother. "i wish i had not been so hasty with her. it will be a lesson to me;" and noticing that at this sylvia looked up in surprise, she added, "does it seem strange to you my little sylvia, that an old woman like me should talk of having lessons? it is true all the same--and i hope, do you know, dear?--i hope that up to the very last of my life i shall have lessons to learn. or rather i should say that i shall be able to learn them. that the lessons are there to be learnt, always and everywhere, we can never doubt." "but," said sylvia, and then she hesitated. "but what, dear?" "i can't quite say what i mean," said sylvia. "but it is something like this--i thought the difference between big people and children was that the big people _had_ learnt their lessons, and that was why they could help us with ours. i know what kind of lessons you mean--not _book_ ones--but being kind and good and all things like that." "yes," said grandmother, "but to these lessons there is no limit. the better we have learnt the early ones, the more clearly we see those still before us, like climbing up mountains and seeing the peaks still rising in front. and knowing and remembering the difficulties we had long ago when _we_ first began climbing, we can help and advise the little ones who in their turn are at the outset of the journey. only sometimes, as i did with poor molly this morning, we forget, we old people who have come such a long way, how hard the first climbing is, and how easily tired and discouraged the little tender feet get." grandmother gave a little sigh. "dear grandmother," said sylvia, "i am sure _you_ don't forget. but those people who haven't learnt when they were little, they can't teach others, grandmother, when they don't know themselves?" "ah, no," said grandmother. "and it is not many who have the power or the determination to learn to-day the lessons they neglected yesterday. we all feel that, sylvia, all of us. only in another way we may get good out of that too, by warning those who have still plenty of time for all. but let us see if molly is awake yet." no, she was still fast asleep. but when grandmother stooped over her and gently raised her head, which had slipped half off the stool, molly opened her eyes, and gazed up at grandmother in bewilderment. for a moment or two she could not remember where she was; then it gradually came back to her. "grandmother, will you forgive me?" she said. "i wrote a note, where is it?"--she looked about for it on the floor. "i have got it, molly," said grandmother. "forgive you, dear? of course i will if there is anything to forgive. but tell me now what was in your mind, molly? what was the 'plan'?" "i thought," said molly, sitting up and shaking her hair out of her eyes, "i thought, grandmother dear, that it would teach me to be careful and neat and not hurried in dressing if i wore _all_ my brooches every day for a good while--a month perhaps. for you know it is very difficult to put brooches in quite straight and neat, not to break the pins. it has always been such a trouble to me not to stick them in, in a hurry, any how, and that was how i broke so many. but i'll do just as you like about them. i'll leave off wearing them at all if you would rather." she looked up in grandmother's face, her own looking so white, now that the flush of sleep had faded from it, and her poor eyelids so swollen, that grandmother's heart was quite touched. "my poor little molly," she said. "i don't think that will be necessary. i am sure you will try to be careful. but the next time you make a plan for teaching yourself any good habit, talk it over with me first, will you, dear?" molly threw her arms round grandmother's neck and hugged her, and old marie looked quite pleased to see that all was sunshine again. just as they were leaving the cottage she came forward with a basketful of lovely apples. "they came only this morning, madame," she said to grandmother. "might she send them up to the house? the little young ladies would find them good." grandmother smiled. "thank you, marie," she said. "are they _the_ apples? oh, yes, of course. i see they are. is there a good crop this year?" "ah, yes, they seem always good now. the storms are past, it seems to me, madame, both for me and my tree. but a few years now and they will be indeed all over for me. 'tis to-morrow my fête day, madame; that was why they sent the apples. they are very good to remember the old woman--my grand-nephews--i shall to-morrow be seventy-five, madame." "seventy-five!" repeated grandmother. "ah, well, marie, i am not so very far behind you, though it seems as if i were growing younger lately--does it not?--with my little girls and my boy beside me. you must come up to see us to-morrow that we may give you our good wishes. thank you for the beautiful apples. some day you must tell the children the history of your apple-tree, marie." marie's old face got quite red with pleasure. "ah, but madame is too kind," she said. "a stupid old woman like me to be asked to tell her little stories--but we shall see--some day, perhaps. so that the apples taste good, old marie will be pleased indeed." "what is the story of marie's apple-tree, grandmother?" said sylvia, as they walked back to the house. "she must tell you herself," said grandmother. "she will be coming up to-morrow morning to see us, as it is her birthday, and you must ask her about it. poor old marie." "has she been a long time with you, grandmother dear?" said molly. "twelve or thirteen years, soon after we first came here. she was in great trouble then, poor thing; but she will tell you all about it. she is getting old, you see, and old people are always fond of talking, they say--like your poor old grandmother--eh, molly?" "_grandmother_," said molly, flying at her and hugging her, for by this time they were in the drawing-room again, and molly's spirits had quite revived. the apples turned out very good indeed. even ralph, who, since he had been in france, had grown so exceedingly "john bull," that he could hardly be persuaded to praise anything not english, condescended to commend them. "no wonder they're good," said molly, as she handed him his second one, "they're _fairy_ apples i'm sure," and she nodded her head mysteriously. "fairy rubbish," said ralph, taking a good bite of the apple's rosy cheek. "well, they're something like that, any way," persisted molly. "grandmother said so." "_i_ said so! my dear! i think your ears have deceived you." "well, grandmother dear, i know you didn't exactly say so, but what you said made me think so," explained molly. "not quite the same thing," said grandmother. "you shall hear to-morrow all there is to tell--a very simple little story. how did you get on at school, to-day, ralph?" "oh, right enough," said ralph. "some of the fellows are nice enough. but some of them are awful cads. there's one--he's about thirteen, a year or so younger than i--his name's prosper something or other--i actually met him out of school in the street, carrying a bundle of wood! a boy that sits next me in the class!" he added, with considerable disgust. "is he a poor boy?" asked sylvia. "no--at least not what you'd call a poor boy. none of them are that. but he got precious red, i can tell you, when he saw me--just like a cad." "is he a naughty boy? does he not do his lessons well?" asked grandmother. "oh i daresay he does; he is not an ill-natured fellow. it was only so like a cad to go carrying wood about like that," said ralph. "ralph," said grandmother suddenly. "you never saw your uncle jack, of course; has your father ever told you about him?" ralph's face lighted up. "uncle jack who was killed in the crimea?" he said, lowering his voice a little. "yes, papa has told me how brave he was." "brave, and gentle, and good," said grandmother, softly. "some day, ralph, i will read you a little adventure of his. he wrote it out to please me not long before his death. i meant to have sent it to one of the magazines for boys, but somehow i have never done so." "what is it about, grandmother? what is it called?" asked the children all together, molly adding, ecstatically clasping her hands. "if you tell us stories, grandmother, it'll be _perfect_." "what is the little story about?" repeated grandmother. "i can hardly tell you what it is about, without telling the whole. the _name_ of it--the name your uncle gave to it, was 'that cad sawyer.'" ralph said nothing, but somehow he had a consciousness that grandmother did not agree with him that carrying a bundle of wood through the streets proved that "a fellow" must certainly be a cad. chapter vi. the apple-tree of stÉfanos. "and age recounts the feats of youth." thomson. "i was the only daughter among nine children," began old marie, when the girls and ralph had made her sit down in their own parlour, and they had all drunk her "good health and many happy returns" in raspberry vinegar and water, and then teased her till she consented to tell them her story. "that is to say, my little young ladies and young monsieur, i had eight brothers. not all my own brothers: my father had married twice, you see. and always when the babies came they wanted a little girl, for in the family of my grandfather too, there were but three boys, my father and his two brothers, and never a sister. and so one can imagine how i was fêted when i came, and of all none was so pleased as the old 'bon papa,' my father's father. he was already very old: in our family we have been prudent and not married boy and girl, as so many do now, and wish often they could undo it again. before he had married he had saved and laid by, and for his sons there was something for each when they too started in life. for my father there was the cottage and the little farm at stéfanos." "where is stéfanos, marie?" interrupted ralph. "not so far, my little monsieur; nine kilometers perhaps from châlet." "nine kilomètres; between five and six miles? we must have passed it when we were driving," said ralph. "without doubt," replied marie. "well, as i was saying, my father had the paternal house at stéfanos for his when he married, and my uncles went to the towns and did for themselves with their portions. and the bon papa came, of course, to live with us. he was a kind old man--i remember him well--and he must have had need of patience in a household of eight noisy boys. they were the talk of the country, such fine men, and i, when i came, was such a tiny little thing, you would hardly believe there could be a child so small! and yet there was great joy. 'we have a girl at last,' they all cried, and as for the bon papa he knew not what to do for pleasure. "i shall have a little grand-daughter to lead me about when my sight is gone, i shall live the longer for this gift of thine,' he said to my mother, whom he was very fond of. she was a good daughter-in-law to him. she shall be called 'marie, shall she not? the first girl, and so long looked for. and, eulalie,' he told my mother, 'this day, the day of her birth, i shall plant an apple-tree, a seedling of the best stock, a 'reinette,' in the best corner of the orchard, and it shall be her tree. they shall grow together, and to both we will give the best care, and as the one prospers the other will prosper, and when trouble comes to the one, the other will droop and fade till again the storms have passed away. the tree shall be called 'le pommier de la petite.'" "my mother smiled; she thought it the fancy of the old man, but she was pleased he should so occupy himself with the little baby girl. and he did as he said: that very day he planted the apple-tree in the sunniest corner of the orchard. and he gave it the best of his care; it was watered in dry weather, the earth about its roots was kept loose, and enriched with careful manuring; no grass or weeds were allowed to cling about it, never was an apple-tree better tended." marie paused. "it is not always those that get the most care that do the best in this world," she said, with a sigh. "there was my louis, our eldest, i thought nothing of the others compared with him! and he ran away to sea and nearly broke my heart." "did he ever come back again?" asked the children. old marie shook her head. "never," she said. "but i got a letter that he had got the curé somewhere in the amérique du sud--i know not where, i have not learnt all about the geography like these little young ladies--to write for him, before he died of the yellow fever. and he asked me to forgive him all the sorrows he had caused me: it was a good letter, and it consoled me much. that was a long time ago; my louis would have been in the fifties by now, and my other children were obedient. the good god sends us comfort." "and about the apple-tree, tell us more, marie," said molly. "did it do well?" "indeed yes. mademoiselle can judge, are not the apples good? ah, yes, it did well, it grew and it grew, and the first walk i could take with the hand of the bon papa was to the apple-tree. and the first words i could say were 'mi pommier à malie.' before many years there were apples, not so fine at the first, of course, but every year they grew finer and finer, and always they were for me. what we did not eat were sold, and the money given to me to keep for the carnival, when the bon papa would take me to the town to see the sights." "and did you grow finer and finer too, marie?" said sylvia. marie smiled. "i grew strong and tall, mademoiselle," she said. "as for more than that it is not for me to say. but _they_ all thought so, the father and mother and the eight brothers, and the bon papa, of course, most of all. and so you see, mademoiselle, the end was i got spoilt." "but the apple-tree didn't?" "no, the apple-tree did its work well. only i was forgetting to tell you there came a bad year. everything was bad--the cows died, the harvest was poor, the fruit failed. to the last, the bon papa hoped that 'le pommier de la petite' would do well, though nothing else did, but it was not so. there was a good show of blossom, but when it came to the apples, _every one_ was blighted. and the strange thing was, my little young ladies and little monsieur, that that was the year the small-pox came--ah, it was a dreadful year!--and we all caught it." "_all?_" exclaimed sylvia. "yes, indeed, mademoiselle--all the seven, that is to say, that were at home. i cannot remember it well--i was myself too ill, but we all had it. i was the worst, and they thought i would die. it was not the disease itself, but the weakness after that nearly killed me. and the poor bon papa would shake his head and say he might have known what was coming, by the apple-tree. and my mother would console him--she, poor thing, who so much needed consoling herself--by saying, 'come, now, bon papa, the apple-tree lives still, and doubtless by next year it will again be covered with beautiful fruit. let us hope well that our little one will also recover.' and little by little i began to mend--the mother's words came true--by the spring time i was as well as ever again, and the six brothers too. all of us recovered; we were strong, you see, very strong. and after that i grew so fast--soon i seemed quite a young woman." "and did the small-pox not spoil your beauty, marie?" inquired sylvia with some little hesitation. it was impossible to tell from the old woman's face now whether the terrible visitor had left its traces or not; she was so brown and weather worn--her skin so dried and wrinkled--only the eyes were still fine, dark, bright and keen, yet with the soft far-away look too, so beautiful in an old face. "no, mademoiselle," marie replied naïvely, "that was the curious part of it. there were some, my neighbour didier for one, the son of the farmer larreya----" "why, marie, that's _your_ name," interrupted molly. "'marie larreya,'--i wrote it down the other day because i thought it such a funny name when grandmother told it me." "well, well, molly," said sylvia, "there are often many people of the same name in a neighbourhood. do let marie tell her own story." "as i was saying," continued marie, "many people said i had got prettier with being ill. i can't tell if it was true, but i was thankful not to be marked: you see the illness itself was not so bad with me as the weakness after. but i got quite well again, and that was the summer i was sixteen. my eldest brother was married that summer,--he was one of the two sons of my father's first marriage and he had been away for already some time from the paternal house. he married a young girl from châlet; and ah, but we danced well at the marriage! i danced most of all the girls--there was my old friend didier who wanted every dance, and glad enough i would have been to dance with him--so tall and straight he was--but for some new friends i made that day. they were the cousins of my brother's young wife--two of them from châlet, one a maid in a family from paris, and with them there came a young man who was a servant in the same family. they were pleasant, good-natured girls, and for the young man, there was no harm in him; but their talk quite turned my silly head. they talked of châlet and how grandly the ladies there were dressed, and still more of paris--the two who knew it--till i felt quite ashamed of being only a country girl, and the fête-day costume i had put on in the morning so proudly, i wished i could tear off and dress like my new friends. and when didier came again to ask me to dance, i pushed him away and told him he tired me asking me so often. poor didier! i remember so well how he looked--as if he could not understand me--like our great sheep-dog, that would stare up with his soft sad eyes if ever i spoke roughly to him! "that day was the beginning of much trouble for me. i got in the way of going to châlet whenever i could get leave, to see my new friends, who were always full of some plan to amuse themselves and me, and my home where i had been so happy i seemed no longer to care for. i must have grieved them all, but i thought not of it--my head was quite turned. "one day i was setting off for châlet to spend the afternoon, when, just as i was leaving, the bon papa stopped me. "'here, my child,' he said, holding out to me an apple; 'this is the first of this season's on thy pommier. i gathered it this morning--see, it is quite ripe--it was on the sunny side. take it; thou mayest, perhaps, feel tired on the way.' "i took it carelessly. "'thanks, bon papa,' i said, as i put it in my pocket. bon papa looked at me sadly. "'it is never now as it used to be,' he said. 'my little girl has never a moment now to spare for the poor old man. and she would even wish to leave him for ever; for thou knowest well, my child, i could not live with the thought of thee so far away. when my little girl returned she would find no old grandfather, he would be lying in the cold church-yard.' "the poor old man held out his arms to me, but i turned away. i saw that his eyes were filled with tears--he was growing so feeble now--and i saw, too, that my mother, who was ironing at the table--work in which i could have helped her--stooped to wipe away a tear with the corner of her apron. but i did not care--my heart was hard, my little young ladies and young monsieur--my heart was hard, and i would not listen to the voices that were speaking in my conscience. "'it is too bad,' i said, 'that the chances of one's life should be spoilt for such fancies;' and i went quickly out of the cottage and shut the door. but as i went i saw my poor bon papa lift his head, which he had bent down on his hands, and say to my mother, "'there will be no more apples this year on the pommier de la petite. thou wilt see, my daughter, the fortune of the tree will leave it.' "i heard my mother say something meant to comfort him, but i only hurried away the faster. "what my grandfather meant about my wishing to leave him was this,--my new friends had put it in my head to ask my parents to consent to my going to paris with the family in which the two that i told you of were maid and valet. they had spoken of me to their lady; she knew i had not much experience, and had never left home. she did not care for that, she said. she wanted a nice pretty girl to amuse her little boy, and walk out with him. and of course the young man, the valet, told me he knew she could not find a girl so pretty as i anywhere! i would find when i got to paris, he said, how i would be admired, and then i would rejoice that i had not stayed in my stupid little village, where it mattered not if one had a pretty face or not. i had come home quite full of the idea--quite confident that, as i had always done exactly what i wished, i would meet with no difficulty. but to my astonishment, at the paternal house, one would not hear of such a thing! "'to leave us--thou, our only girl--to go away to that great paris, where one is so wicked--where none would guard thee or care for thee? no, it is not to be thought of,' said my father with decision; and though he was a quiet man who seldom interfered in the affairs of the house, i knew well that once that he had said a thing with decision, it was done with--it would be so. "and my mother said gently, "'how could'st thou ask such a thing, marie?' "and the bon papa looked at me with sad reproach; that was worse than all. "so this day--the day that bon papa had given me the first apple of the season--i was to go to châlet to tell my friends it could not be, i felt very cross and angry all the way there. "'what have i done,' i said to myself, 'to be looked at as if i were wicked and ungrateful? why should my life be given up to the fancies of a foolish old man like bon papa?' "and when i got to châlet and told my friends it was not to be, their regret and their disappointment made me still more displeased. "'it is too much,' they all said, 'that you should be treated still like a bébé--you so tall and womanly that one might think you twenty.' "'and if i were thee, marie,' said one, 'i would go all the same. they would soon forgive thee when they found how well things would go with thee at paris. how much money thou wouldst gain!' "'but how could i go?' i asked. "then they all talked together and made a plan. the family was to leave châlet the beginning of the week following, sooner than they had expected. i should ask leave from my mother to come again to say good-bye the same morning that they were to start, and instead of returning to stéfanos i should start with them for paris. i had already seen the lady, a young creature who, pleased with my appearance, concerned herself little about anything else, and my friends would tell her i had accepted her offer. and for my clothes, i was to pack them up the evening before, and carry the parcel to a point on the road where the young man would meet me. they would not be many, for my pretty fête costumes, the dress of the country, which were my best possessions, would be of no use in paris. "'and once there,' said my friend, 'we will dress thee as thou should'st be dressed. for the journey i can lend thee a hat. thou could'st not travel with that ridiculous foulard on thy head, hiding all thy pretty hair.' "i remember there was a looking-glass in the room, and as odette--that was the girl's name--said this, i glanced at myself. my poor foulard, i had thought it so pretty. it had been the 'nouvel an' of the bon papa! but i would not listen to the voice of my heart. i set out on my return home quite determined to carry out my own way. "it was such a hot walk that day. how well i remember it! my little young ladies and little monsieur, you would hardly believe how one can remember things of fifty years ago and more, as if they were yesterday when one is old as i am! the weather had been very hot, and now the clouds looked black and threatening. "'we shall have thunder,' i said to myself, and i tried to walk faster, but i was tired, and oh, so hot and thirsty. i put my hand in my pocket and drew out the apple, which i had forgotten. how refreshing it was! "'poor bon papa,' i said to myself. 'i wish he would not be so exacting. i do not wish to make him unhappy, but what can i do? one cannot be all one's life a little child.' "still, softer thoughts were coming into my mind, i began to wish i had not given my decision, that i had said i would think it over. paris was so far away; at home they might all be dead before i could hear, the poor bon papa above all; it was true he was getting very old. "just then, at a turn in the road, i found myself in face of didier, didier larreya. he was walking fast, his face looked stern and troubled. he stopped suddenly on seeing me; it was not often of late that we had spoken to each other. he had not looked with favour on my new friends, who on their side had made fun of him (though i had noticed the day of the wedding that odette had been very ready to dance with him whenever he had asked her), and i had said to my silly self that he was jealous. so just now i would have passed him, but he stopped me. "'it is going to thunder, marie,' he said. 'we shall have a terrible storm. i came to meet thee, to tell thee to shelter at our house; i told thy mother i would do so. i have just been to thy house.' "i felt angry for no reason. i did not like his watching me, and going to the house to be told of all my doings. i resented his saying 'thou' to me. "'i thank you, monsieur didier,' i said stiffly. 'i can take care of myself. i have no wish to rest at your house. i prefer to go home,' and i turned to walk on. "didier looked at me, and the look in his eyes was very sad. "'then it is true,' he said. "'what is true?' "'that you are so changed'--he did not say 'thou'--'that you wish to go away and leave us all. the poor bon papa is right.' "'what has bon papa been saying?' i cried, more and more angry, 'what is it to you what i do? attend to your own affairs, i beg you, monsieur didier larreya, and leave me mine.' "didier stopped, and before i knew what he was doing, took both my hands in his. "'listen, marie,' he said. 'you _must_. you are scarcely more than a child, and i was glad for you to be so. it would not be me that would wish to see you all wise, all settled down like an old woman at your age. but you force me to say what i had not wished to say yet for a long time. i am older than you, eight years older, and i know my own mind. marie, you know how i care for you, how i have always cared for you, you know what i hope may be some day? has my voice no weight with you? i do not ask you now to say you care for me, you are too young, but i thought you would perhaps learn, but to think of you going away to paris? oh, my little marie, you would never return to us the same!" "he stopped, and for a moment i stood still without speaking. in spite of myself he made me listen. he seemed to have guessed that though my parents had forbidden it, i had not yet given up the thoughts of going away, and in spite of my silly pride and my temper i was much touched by what he said, and the thought that if i went away he would leave off caring for me came to me like a great shock. i had never thought of it like that; i had always fancied that whatever i did i could keep didier devoted to me; i had amused myself with picturing my return from paris quite a grand lady, and how i would pretend to be changed to didier, just to tease him. but now something in his manner showed me this would not do; if i defied him and my friends now, he would no longer care for me. yet--would you believe it, my little young ladies and young monsieur?--my naughty pride still kept me back. i turned from didier in a rage, and pulled away my hands. "'i wish none of your advice or interference,' i said. 'i shall please myself in my affairs.' "i hurried away; he did not attempt to stop me, but stood there for a moment watching me. "'good-bye, marie,' he said, and then he called after me, 'beware of the storm.' "i had still two miles to go. i hurried on, passing the larreyas' farm, and just a minute or two after that the storm began. i heard it come grumbling up, as if out of the heart of the mountains at first, and then it seemed to rise higher and higher. i was not frightened, but yet i saw it was going to be a great storm--you do not know, my young ladies, what storms we have here sometimes--and i was so hot and so tired, and when the anger began to pass away i felt so miserable. i could not bear to go home and see them all with the knowledge in my heart of what i intended to do. when i got near to the orchard, which was about a quarter of a mile from the house, i felt, with all my feelings together, as if i could go no farther. the storm seemed to be passing over--for some minutes there had been no lightning or thunder. "'perhaps after all it will only skirt round about us,' i said. and as i thought this i entered the orchard and sat down on my own seat, a little bench that--now many years ago--the bon papa had placed for me with his own hands beside my pommier. "i was so tired and so hot and so unhappy, i sat and cried. "'i wish i had not said i would go,' i thought. 'now if i change one will mock so at me.' "i leaned my head against the trunk of my tree. i had forgotten about the storm. suddenly, more suddenly than i can tell, there came a fearful flash of lightning--all about me seemed for a moment on fire--then the dreadful boom of the thunder as if it would shake the earth itself to pieces, and a tearing crashing sound like none i had ever heard before. i screamed and threw myself on the ground, covering my eyes. for a moment i thought i was killed--that a punishment had come to me for my disobedience. 'oh! i will not go away. i will do what you all wish,' i called out, as if my parents could hear me. 'bon papa, forgive me. thy little girl wishes no longer to leave thee;' but no one answered, and i lay there in terror. gradually i grew calmer--after that fearful crash the thunder claps seemed to grow less violent. i looked up at last. what did i see? the tree next to my pommier--the one but a yard or two from my bench--stood black and charred as if the burning hand of a great giant had grasped it; already some of its branches strewed the ground. and my pommier had not altogether escaped; one branch had been struck--the very branch on the sunny side from which bon papa had picked the apple, as he afterwards showed me! that my life had been spared was little less than a miracle." marie paused.... [illustration: under the apple-tree.] "i left the orchard, my little young ladies and young monsieur," she went on after a moment or two, "a very different girl from the one that had entered it. i went straight to the house, and confessed all--my naughty intention of leaving them all, my discontent and pride, and all my bad feelings. and they forgave me--the good people--they forgave me all, and bon papa took me in his arms and blessed me, and i promised him not to leave him while he lived. nor did i--it was not so long--he died the next year, the dear old man! what would my feelings have been had i been away in paris?" old as she was, marie stopped to wipe away a tear. "it is nearly sixty years ago, yet still the tears come when i think of it," she said. "he would not know me now if he saw me, the dear bon papa," she added. "i am as old as he was then! how it will be in heaven i wonder often--for friends so changed to meet again? but that we must leave to the good god; without doubt he will arrange it all." "and didier, marie?" said sylvia, after a little pause. "did you also make friends with him?" marie smiled, and underneath her funny old brown wrinkled skin i almost think she blushed a little. "ah yes, mademoiselle," she said. "that goes without saying. ah yes--didier was not slow to make friends again--and though we said nothing about it for a long time, not till i was in the twenties, it came all as he wished in the end. and a good husband he made me." "oh!" cried molly, "i see--then _that's_ how your name is 'larreya' too, marie." they all laughed at her. "but grandmother said you had many more troubles, marie," said sylvia. "long after, when first she knew you. she said you would tell us." "ah yes, that is because the dear lady wishes not herself to tell how good she was to me!" said marie. "i had many troubles after my husband died. i told you my son louis was a great grief, and we were poor--very poor--i had a little fruit-stall at the market--" "like my old woman in paris," said molly, nodding her head. "and there it was the dear lady first saw me," said marie. "it was all through the apples--bon papa did well for me the day he planted that tree! they were so fine--madame bought them for the poor gentleman who was ill--and then i came to tell her my history; and when she took this house she asked me to be her concierge. since then i have no troubles--my daughter married, long ago of course, but she died, and her husband died, and the friends were not good for her children, and it was these i had to provide for--my grand-daughters. but now they are very well off--each settled, and so good to me! the married one comes with her bébé every sunday, and the other, in a good place, sends me always a part of her wages. and my son too--he that went to paris--he writes often. ah yes, i am well satisfied! and always my great-nephews send me the apples--every year--their father and their grandfather made the promise, and it has never been broken. and still, my little young ladies and little monsieur--still, the old apple-tree at the paternal house at stéfanos, is called 'le pommier de la petite.'" "how nice!" said the children all together. "thank you, marie, thank you so much for telling us the story." chapter vii. grandmother's grandmother. "i'll tell you a story of jack-o-my-nory, and now my story's begun. i'll tell you another of jack and his brother, and now my story's done." old nursery rhyme. marie's story was the subject of much conversation among the children. sylvia announced her intention of writing it down. "she tells it so nicely," she said. "i could have written it down beautifully while she was talking, if she would have waited." "she would not have been able to tell it so nicely if she had known you were waiting to write down every word as she said it," remarked grandmother. "at least in her place i don't think _i_ could." a shriek from molly here startled them all, or perhaps i should say, _would_ have done so, had they been less accustomed to her eccentric behaviour. "what is the matter now, my dear?" said aunty. "oh," said molly, gasping with eagerness, "grandmother's saying that _reminded_ me." "but what about, my dear child?" "about telling stories; don't you remember grandmother _dear_, i said you would be _perfect_ if you would tell us stories, and you didn't say you wouldn't." "and what's more, grandmother promised me one," said ralph. "_did_ i, my dear boy?" "yes, grandmother," said ralph, looking rather abashed, "don't you remember, grandmother--the day i called prosper de lastre a cad? i don't think he's a cad now," he added in a lower voice. "ah yes, i remember now," said grandmother. "but do you know, my dears, i am so sorry i cannot find your uncle jack's manuscript. he had written it out so well--all i can find is the letter in which he first alluded to the incident, very shortly. however, i remember most of it pretty clearly. i will think it over and refresh my memory with the letter, and some day i will tell it to you." "can't you tell it us to-night then, grandmother dear?" said molly in very doleful tones. they were all sitting round the fire, for it was early december now, and fires are needed then, even at châlet! what a funny fire some of you would think such a one, children! no grate, no fender, such as you are accustomed to see--just two or three iron bars placed almost on the floor, which serve to support the nice round logs of wood burning so brightly, but alas for grandmother's purse, so swiftly away! but the brass knobs and bars in front look cheery and sparkling, and then the indispensable bellows are a delightful invention for fidgety fingers like those of ralph and molly. how many new "nozzles" grandmother had to pay for her poor bellows that winter i should really be afraid to say! and once, to molly's indescribable consternation, the bellows got on fire _inside_; there was no outward injury to be seen, but they smoked alarmingly, and internal crackings were to be heard of a fearful and mysterious description. molly flew to the kitchen, and flung the bellows, as if they were alive, into a pan of water that stood handy. doubtless the remedy was effectual so far as extinguishing the fire was concerned, but as for the after result on the constitution of the poor bellows i cannot report favourably, as they were never again fit to use. _and_, as this was the fourth pair spoilt in a month, molly was obliged to give up half her weekly money for some time towards replacing them! but we are wandering away from the talk by the fire--grandmother and aunty in their low chairs working--the three children lying in various attitudes on the hearthrug, for hearthrug there was, seldom as such superfluities are to be seen at châlet. grandmother was too "english" to have been satisfied with her pretty drawing-room without one--a nice fluffy, flossy one, which the children were so fond of burrowing in that grandmother declared she would need a new one by the time the winter was over! "_can't_ you tell it to us to-night then, grandmother dear?" said molly. "i would rather think it over a little first," said grandmother. "you forget, molly, that old people's memories are not like young ones. and, as marie says, it is very curious how, the older one gets, the further back things are those that one remembers the most distinctly. the middle part of my life is hazy compared with the earlier part. i can remember the patterns of some of my dresses as a _very_ little girl--i can remember words said and trifling things done fifty years ago better than little things that happened last month." "how queer!" said molly. "shall we all be like that, grandmother dear, when we get old?" grandmother laid down her knitting and looked at the children with a soft smile on her face. "yes, dears, i suppose so. it is the 'common lot.' i remember once asking _my_ grandmother a question very like that." "_your_ grandmother!" exclaimed all the children--molly adding, "had _you_ ever a grandmother, grandmother dear?" "oh, molly, how can you be so silly?" said ralph and sylvia, together. "i'm not silly," said molly. "it is you that are silly not to understand what i mean. i am sure anybody might. of course i mean can grandmother remember her--did she know her? supposing anybody's grandmother died before they were born, then they wouldn't ever have had one, would they now?" molly sat up on the rug, and tossed back her hair out of her eyes, convinced that her logic was unanswerable. "you shouldn't begin by saying 'anybody's grandmother,'" remarked ralph. "you put anybody in the possessive case, which means, of course, that the grandmother belonged to the anybody, and _then_ you make out that the anybody never had one." molly retorted by putting her fingers in her ears and shaking her head vehemently at her brother. "be quiet, ralph," she said. "what's the good of muddling up what i say, and making my head feel _so_ uncomfortable when you know quite well what i _mean_? please, grandmother dear, will you go on talking as soon as i take my fingers out of my ears, and then he will have to leave off puzzling me." "and what am i to talk about?" asked grandmother. "tell us about your grandmother. if you remember things long ago so nicely, you must remember story sort of things of then," said molly insinuatingly. "i really don't, my dear child. not just at this moment, anyhow." "well, tell us _about_ your grandmother: what was she like? was she like you?" grandmother shook her head. "that i cannot say, my dear; i have no portrait of her, nor have i ever seen one since i have been grown up. she died when i was about fifteen, and as my father was not the eldest son, few, if any, heirlooms fell to his share. and a good many years before my grandmother's death--at the time of her husband's death--the old home was sold, and she came to live in a curious old-fashioned house, in the little county town a few miles from where we lived. this old house had belonged to her own family for many, many years, and, as all her brothers were dead, it became hers. she was very proud of it, and even during my grandfather's life they used to come in from the country to spend the worst of the winter there. dear me! what a long time back it takes us! were my grandmother living now, she would be--let me see--my father would have been a hundred years old by now. i was the youngest of a large family you know, dears. his mother would have been about a hundred and thirty. it takes us back to the middle of george the second's reign." "yes," said molly so promptly, that every one looked amazed, "george the first, seventeen hundred and fourteen, george the second, seventeen hundred and twenty-seven, george the third, seventeen hundred and----" "when did you learn that--this morning i suppose?" observed ralph with biting sarcasm. "no," said molly complacently, "i always could remember the four georges. sylvia will tell you. _she_ always remembered the norman conquest, and king john, and so when we spoke about something to do with these dates when we were out a walk miss bryce used to be as pleased as pleased with us." "is that the superlative of 'very pleased,' my dear molly?" said aunty. molly wriggled. "history is bad enough," she muttered. "i don't think we need have grammar too, just when i thought we were going to have nice story-talking. did _you_ like lessons when you were little, grandmother dear?" she inquired in a louder voice. "i don't know that i did," said grandmother. "i was a very tom-boy little girl, molly. and lessons were not nearly so interesting in those days as they are made now." "then they must have been--_dreadful_," said molly solemnly, pausing for a sufficiently strong word. "what did you like when you were little, grandmother?" said sylvia. "i mean, what did you like best?" "i really don't know what i liked _best_," said grandmother. "there were so many nice things. haymaking was delicious, so were snow-balling and sliding; blindman's buff and snapdragon at christmas were not bad, nor were strawberries and cream in summer." the children drew a long breath. "had you all those?" they said. "oh, what a happy little girl you must have been!" "and all the year round," pursued grandmother, "there was another delight that never palled. when i look back upon myself in those days i cannot believe that ever a child was a greater adept at it." "what was that, grandmother?" said the children, opening their eyes. "_mischief_, my dears," said grandmother. "the scrapes i got into of falling into brooks, tearing my clothes, climbing up trees and finding i could not get down again, putting my head through window-panes--ah dear, i certainly had nine lives." "and what did your grandmother say? did she scold you?" asked molly--adding in a whisper to ralph and sylvia, "grandmother must have been an _awfully_ nice little girl." "my grandmother was to outward appearance quiet and rather cold," replied _their_ grandmother. "for long i was extremely afraid of her, till something happened which led to my knowing her true character, and after that we were friends for life--till her death. it is hardly worth calling a story, but i will tell it to you if you like, children." "oh, _please_ do," they exclaimed, and molly's eyes grew round with satisfaction at having after all inveigled grandmother into story telling. "i told you," grandmother began, "that my grandmother lived in a queer, very old-fashioned house in the little town near which was our home. it was such a queer house, i wish you could have seen it, but long ago it was pulled down, and the ground where it stood used for shops or warehouses. when you entered it, you saw no stair at all--then, on opening a door, you found yourself at the foot of a very high spiral staircase that went round and round like a corkscrew up to the very top of the house. by the by that reminds me of an adventure of my grandmother's which you might like to hear. it happened long before i was born, but she has often told it me. ah, molly, i see that twinkle in your eyes, my dear, and i know what it means! you think you have got grandmother started now--wound up--and that you will get her to go on and on; ah well, we shall see. where was i? taking you up the corkscrew stair. the first landing, if landing it could be called, it was so small, had several doors, and one of these led into a little ante-room, out of which opened again a larger and very pretty drawing-room. it was a long, rather narrow room, and what i admired in it most of all were wall cupboards with glass doors, within which my grandmother kept all her treasures. there were six of them at least--in two or three were books, of which, for those days, grandmother had a good many; another held chinese and indian curiosities, carved ivory and sandal-wood ornaments, cuscus grass fans, a pair or two of chinese ladies' slippers--things very much the same as you may see some of now-a-days in almost every prettily furnished drawing-room. and one, or two perhaps, of the cupboards contained treasures which are rarer now than they were then--the _loveliest_ old china! even i, child as i was, appreciated its beauty--the tints were so delicate and yet brilliant. my grandmother had collected much of it herself, and her taste was excellent. at her death it was divided, and among so many that it seemed to melt away. all that came to my share were those two handleless cups that are at the top of that little cabinet over there, and those were by no means the most beautiful, beautiful as they undoubtedly are. i was never tired of feasting my eyes on grandmother's china when i used to be sent to spend a day with her, which happened every few weeks. and _sometimes_, for a great treat, she used to open the wall cupboards and let me handle some of the things--for it is a curious fact that a child _cannot_ admire anything to its perfect satisfaction without touching it too, and looking back upon things now, i can see that despite her cold manner, my grandmother had a very good knowledge of children and a real love and sympathy for them. "one day--it was a late autumn day i remember, for it was just a few days after my ninth birthday--my birthday is on the fifteenth of november,--my mother told me that my father, having to drive to the town the following day, would take me with him to spend the day with grandmother. "'and nelly,' said my mother, 'do try to be very good and behave prettily. i really fear, my dear, that you will never be like a young lady--it is playing so much with your brothers, i suppose, and you know grandmother is very particular. the last time you were there you know you dressed up the cat and frightened poor old betsy (my grandmother's cook) so. do try to keep out of mischief this time.' "'i can't,' i said. 'there is no one to play with there. i would rather stay at home;' and i teased my mother to say i need not go. but it was no good; she was firm about it--it was right that i, the only girl at home, should go to see my grandmother sometimes, and my mother repeated her admonitions as to my behaviour; and as i really loved her dearly i promised to 'try to be very good;' and the next morning i set off with my father in excellent spirits. there was nothing i liked better than a drive with him, especially in rather cold weather, for then he used to tuck me up so beautifully warm in his nice soft rugs, so that hardly anything but the tip of my nose was to be seen, and he would call me his 'little woman' and pet me to my heart's content. "when we reached my grandmother's i felt very reluctant to descend from my perch, and i said to my father that i wished he would take me about the town with him instead of leaving me there. "he explained to me that it was impossible--he had all sorts of things to do, a magistrate's meeting to attend, and i don't know all what. besides which he liked me to be with my grandmother, and he told me i was a silly little goose when i said i was afraid of her. "my father entered the house without knocking--there was no need to lock doors in the quiet streets of the little old town, where everybody that passed up and down was known by everybody else, and their _business_ often known better by the everybody else than by themselves. we went up to the drawing-room, there was nobody there--my father went out of the room and called up the staircase, 'mother, where are you?' "then i heard my grandmother's voice in return. "'my dear hugh--is it you? i am so sorry. i cannot possibly come down. it is the third tuesday of the month. my wardrobe day.' "'and the little woman is here too. what shall i do with her?' said my father. he seemed to understand, though i did not, what 'wardrobe day' meant. "'bring her up here,' my grandmother called back. 'i shall soon have arranged all, and then i can take her downstairs again.' "i was standing on the landing by my father by this time, and, far from loth to discover what my grandmother was about, i followed him upstairs. you have no idea, children, what a curious sight met me! my grandmother, who was a very little woman, was perched upon a high stool, hanging up on a great clothes-horse ever so many dresses, which she had evidently taken out of a wardrobe, close by, whose doors were wide open. there were several clothes-horses in the room, all more or less loaded with garments,--and oh, what queer, quaint garments some of them were! the clothes my grandmother herself had on--even those i was wearing--would seem curious enough to you if you could see them now,--but when i tell you that of those she was hanging out, many had belonged to _her_ grandmother, and mother, and aunts, and great-aunts, you can fancy what a wonderful array there was. her own wedding-dress was among them, and all the coloured silks and satins she had possessed before her widowhood. and more wonderful even than the dresses were a few, not very many, for indeed no room or wardrobe would have held _very_ many, bonnets, or 'hats,' as i think they were then always called. huge towering constructions, with feathers sticking straight up on the top, like the pictures of cinderella's sisters in old-fashioned fairy-tale books--so enormous that any ordinary human head must have been lost in their depths." "did you ever try one on, grandmother?" said molly. grandmother shook her head. "i should not have been allowed to take such a liberty," she said. "i stood and stared about me in perfect amazement without speaking for a minute or two, till my grandmother got down from her stool, and my father told me to go to speak to her. "'are you going away, grandmother?' i said at last, my curiosity overcoming my shyness. 'are these all your clothes? you will want a great many boxes to pack them in, and what queer ones some of them are!' "'queer, my dear,' said my grandmother. 'they are certainly not like what you get now-a-days, if that is what you mean by queer. see here, nelly, this is your great-grandmother's wedding dress--white padusoy embroidered in gold--why, child, it would stand alone! and this salmon-coloured satin, with the pea-green slip--will the stuffs they dye now keep their colour like that a hundred years hence?' "'it's good strong stuff certainly,' said my father, touching it as he spoke. but then he went on to say to my grandmother that the days for such things were past. 'we don't want our clothes to last a century now, mother,' he said. 'times are hurrying on faster, and we must make up our minds to go on with them and leave our old clothes behind. the world would get too full if everybody cherished bygone relics as you do.' "i don't think she much liked his talking so. she shook her head and said something about revolutionary ideas, which i didn't understand. but my father only laughed; his mother and he were the best of friends, though he liked to tease her sometimes. i wandered about the room, peeping in among the rows of quaint costumes, and thinking to myself what fun it would be to dress up in them. but after a while i got tired, and i was hungry too, so i was very glad when grandmother, having hung out the last dress to air, said we must go down to dinner--my father had left some time before----" "what did you have for dinner, grandmother?" said sylvia. "it isn't that i care so much about eating," she added, blushing a little, "but i like to know exactly the sort of way people lived, you know." "only i wish you wouldn't interrupt grandmother," said molly. "i'm _so_ afraid it'll be bed-time before she finishes the story." "which isn't yet begun--eh, molly?" said grandmother. "i warned you my stories were sadly deficient in beginning and end, and middle too--in short they are not stories at all." "never mind, they're _very_ nice," said molly; "and if i may sit up till this one's done i don't mind your telling sylvia what you had for dinner, grandmother dear." "many thanks for your small majesty's gracious permission," said grandmother. "but as to what we had for dinner, i really can't say. much the same as you have now, i fancy. let me see--it was november--very likely a roast chicken and rice pudding." "oh!" said sylvia, in a tone of some disappointment; "go on then, please, grandmother." "where was i?" said grandmother. "oh yes--well, after dinner we went up to the drawing-room, and grandmother, saying she was a good deal tired by her exertions of the morning, sat down in her own particular easy chair by the fire, and, spreading over her face a very fine cambric handkerchief which she kept, i strongly suspect, for the purpose, prepared for her after-dinner nap. it was really a regular institution with her--but i noticed she always made some little special excuse for it, as if it was something quite out of the common. she told me to amuse myself during her forty winks by looking at the treasures in the glass-doored cupboards, which she knew i was very fond of admiring, and she told me i might open the book cupboard if i wanted to take out a book, but on no account any of the others. "now i assure you, children, and by your own experience you will believe what i say, that, but for my grandmother's warnings, the idea of opening the glass doors when by myself would never have come into my head. i had often been in the drawing-room alone and gazed admiringly at the treasures without ever dreaming of examining them more closely. i had never even _wished_ to do so, any more than one wishes to handle the moon or stars or any other un-get-at-able objects. but now, unfortunately, the idea was suggested, it had been put into my head, and there it stayed. i walked round the room gazing in at the cupboards in turn--the book ones did not particularly attract me--long ago i had read, over and over again, the few books in my grandmother's possession that i could feel interested in, and i stood still at last in front of the prettiest cupboard of all, wishing that grandmother had not forbidden my opening it. there were such lovely cups and saucers! i longed to handle them--one in particular that i felt sure i had never seen before. it had a deep rose pink ground, and in the centre there was the sweetest picture of a dear little shepherdess curtseying to an equally dear little shepherd. "as i gazed at this cup the idea struck me that it would be delicious to dress one of my dolls in the little shepherdess's costume, and, eager to see it more minutely, i opened the glass door, and was just stretching up my hand for the cup, when i again remembered what my grandmother had said. i glanced round at her; she was fast asleep; there was no danger; what harm _could_ it do for me to take the cup into my hand for a moment? i stretched up and took it. yes, it was really most lovely, and the little shepherdess's dress seemed to me a perfect facsimile of the one i had most admired upstairs in my grandmother's wardrobe--a pea-green satin over a pale pink or rather salmon-coloured quilted slip. i determined that lady rosabella should have one the same, and i was turning over in my mind the possibilities of getting satin of the particular shades i thought so pretty, when a slight sound in the direction, it seemed to me, of my grandmother's arm-chair, startled me. i turned round hastily--how it was i cannot tell, but so it was--the beautiful cup fell from my hands and lay at my feet in, i was going to say, a thousand fragments." "oh!" exclaimed sylvia and molly--"oh, grandmother, what _did_ you do?" "first of all," grandmother continued, "first of all i stooped down and picked up the pieces. there were not a thousand of them--not perhaps above a dozen, and after all, grandmother was sleeping quietly, but to all appearance soundly. the sound that had startled me must have been a fancied one, i said to myself, and oh dear, what a terrible pity i had been startled! "i gathered the bits together in my handkerchief, and stood staring at them in perfect despair. i dared not let myself burst out crying as i was inclined to do, for grandmother would have heard me and asked what was the matter, and i felt that i should sink into the earth with shame and terror if she saw what i had done, and that i had distinctly disobeyed her. my only idea was to conceal the mischief. i huddled the bits up together in my handkerchief, and huddled the handkerchief into my pocket--the first pocket i had ever had, i rather think--and then i looked up to see if the absence of the cup was very conspicuous. i thought not; the saucer was still there, and by pulling one or two of the other pieces of china forward a little, i managed to make it look as if the cup was just accidentally hidden. to reach up to do this, i had to draw forward a chair; in getting down from it again i made some little noise, and i looked round in terror to see if grandmother was awake. no, she was still sleeping soundly. _what_ a blessing! i got out of one of the book cupboards a book i had read twenty times at least, and sitting down on a stool by the fire i pretended to read it again, while really all my ideas were running on what i should, what i _could_ do. for i had no manner of doubt that before long the accident would be discovered, and i felt sure that my grandmother's displeasure would be very severe. i knew too that my having tried to conceal it would make her far less ready to forgive me, and yet i felt that i _could_ not make up my mind to confess it all. i was so miserable that it was the greatest relief to me a minute or two afterwards to hear the hall door open and my father's hearty voice on the stair." "'i have come to fetch you rather sooner than i said, little woman,' he exclaimed, as he came in, and then he explained that he had promised to drive a friend who lived near us home from the town in our gig, and that this friend being in a hurry, we must leave earlier than usual. my grandmother had wakened up of course with my father's coming in. it seemed to me, or was it my fancy?--that she looked graver than usual and rather sad as she bade us good-bye. she kissed me very kindly, more tenderly than was her habit, and said to my father that he must be sure to bring me again very soon, so that as i was going downstairs with him, he said to me that he was glad to see how fond grandmother was getting of me, and that he would bring me again next week. _i_ did not feel at all pleased at this--i felt more unhappy than ever i had done in my life, so that my father, noticing it, asked what was the matter. i replied that i was tired and that i did not care for going to grandmother's, and then, when i saw that this ungracious answer vexed my kind father, i felt more and more unhappy. every moment as we walked along--we were to meet the carriage at the inn where it had been left--the bits of broken china in my pocket bumped against my leg, as if they would not let themselves be forgotten. i wished i could stop and throw them away, but that was impossible. i trudged along, gloomy and wretched, with a weight on my heart that it seemed to me i would never get rid of. suddenly--so suddenly that i could hardly believe my own senses, something caught my eye that entirely changed my whole ideas. i darted forward, my father was a few steps in front of me--the footpath was so narrow in the old town that there was often not room for two abreast--_and_----" just at this moment the door opened, and grandmother's maid appeared with the tea-tray. molly gave an impatient shake. "oh, _what_ a bother!" she said. "i quite forgot about tea. and immediately after tea it is always time for us to go to bed. it is eight o'clock now, oh grandmother, _do_ finish the story to-night." "and why cannot my little girl ask it without all those shakes and 'bothers?'" said grandmother. she spoke very gently, but molly looked considerably ashamed. "yes, grandmother dear," she replied meekly. then she got up from the rug and stood by aunty patiently, while she poured out the tea, first "grandmothering" each cup to keep it from slipping about, then warming them with a little hot water, then putting in the beautiful yellow cream, the sugar, and the nice rich brown tea, all in the particular way grandmother liked it done. and during the process, molly did not once wriggle or twist with impatience, so that when she carried grandmother's tea to her, very carefully and steadily, without a drop spilling over into the saucer in the way grandmother disliked to see, she got a kiss by way of reward, and what was still better perhaps, grandmother looked up and said, "that's _my_ good little woman. there is not much more of what you call 'my story,' to tell, but such as it is, you may sit up to hear it, if you like." chapter viii. grandmother's story----(_continued_). "o while you live, tell truth." henry iv., part . so in a few minutes they were all settled again, and grandmother went on. "we were walking through a very narrow street, i was telling you--was i not? when i caught sight of something that suddenly changed my ideas. 'what was this something?' you are all asking, i see. it was a china cup in a shop window we were passing, a perfect match it seemed to me of the unfortunate one still lamenting its fate by rattling its bits in my pocket! it was a shabby little old shop, of which there were a good many in the town, filled with all sorts of curiosities, and quite in the front of the window, as conspicuous as if placed there on purpose, stood the cup. i darted forward to beg my father to let me wait a moment, but just then, curiously enough, he had met a friend and was standing talking to him, and when i touched his arm, he turned rather hastily, for, as i told you, he had not been pleased with my way of replying about my grandmother. and he said to me i must not be so impatient, but wait till he had finished speaking to mr. lennox. i asked him if i might look in at the shop window, and he said 'yes, of course i might,' so i flew back, the bits rattle-rattling in my pocket, and stood gazing at the twin-cup. i must tell you that i happened to have in my possession an unusual amount of money just then--ten shillings, actually ten whole shillings, which my father had given me on my birthday, and as i always brought my purse with me when i came into the town, there it was all ready! i looked and looked at the cup till i was satisfied it was a perfect match, then glancing up the street and seeing my father still talking to his friend, i crept timidly into the shop, and asked the price of the pink cup and saucer in the window. "the old man in the shop was a german; afterwards my grandmother told me he was a jew, and well accustomed to having his prices beaten down. he looked at me curiously and said to me, "'ach! too moch for leetle young lady like you. zwanzig--twenty schelling, that cup. old lady bought von, vill come again buy anoder. zwanzig--twenty schelling.' "i grew more and more eager. the old lady he spoke of must be my grandmother; i had often heard my father laugh at her for poking about old shops; i felt perfectly certain the cups were exactly alike. i begged the old man to let me have it, and opened my purse to show him all i had--the ten shilling piece, two sixpences and a fourpenny, and a few coppers. that was all, and the old man shook his head. it was too little, 'twenty schelling,' he repeated, or at the very least, to oblige the 'young lady,' fifteen. i said to him i had not got fifteen--eleven and nine-pence was everything i possessed, and at last, in my eagerness, i nearly burst into tears. i really do not know if the old man was sorry for me, or if he only thought of getting my money; however that may have been, he took my purse out of my hand and slowly counted out the money. i meanwhile, nearly dancing with impatience, while he repeated 'nine-pence, von schelling, zehn schelling ach vell, most be, most be,' and to my great delight he handed me the precious cup and saucer, first wrapping them up in a dirty bit of newspaper. [illustration: zwanzig--twenty schelling, that cup.] "then he took the ten-shilling piece out of my purse, and handed it back to me, leaving me in possession of my two sixpences, my fourpenny bit, and my five coppers. "i flew out of the shop, thanking the old man effusively, and rushed up the street clutching my treasure, while rattle-rattle went the bones of its companion in my pocket. my father was just shaking hands with mr. lennox and turning round to look for me, when i ran up. mr. lennox, it appeared, was the gentleman who was to have driven home with us, but something had occurred to detain him in the town, and he was on his way to explain this to my father when we met him. "my father was rather silent and grave on the way home; he seemed to have forgotten that i had said anything to vex him; some magistrates' business had worried him, and it was that that he had been talking about to mr. lennox. he said to me that he was half afraid he would have to drive into the town again the next day, adding, 'it is a pity lennox did not know in time. by staying a little later, we might have got all done.' "to his astonishment i replied by begging him to let me come with him again the next day. he said to me, 'why, nelly, you were just now saying you did not care for going to see your grandmother, that it was dull, and tired you. what queer creatures children are.' "i felt my cheeks grow hot, but i replied that i was sorry i had said that, and that i did want very much to go to see my grandmother again. of course you will understand, children, that i was thinking about the best chance of putting back the cup, or rather its substitute, but my dear father thought i was sorry for having vexed him, and that i wanted to please him by asking to go again, so he readily granted my request. but i felt far from happy that evening at home, when something was said about my wanting to go again, and one of my brothers remarking that i must surely have enjoyed myself very greatly at my grandmother's, my father and mother looked at me kindly and said that their little nelly liked to please others as well as herself. oh how guilty i felt! i hated having anything to conceal, for i was by nature very frank. and oh, what a torment the poor cup and saucer were! i got rid of the bits by throwing them behind a hedge, but i could not tell where to hide my purchase, and i was so terribly afraid of breaking it. it was a relief to my mind the next morning when it suddenly struck me that i need not take the saucer too, the cup was enough, as the original saucer was there intact, and the cup was much easier to carry by itself. "when we got to the town my father let me down at my grandmother's without coming in himself at all, and went off at once to his business. the door was open, and i saw no one about. i made my way up to the drawing-room as quickly and quietly as possible; to my great satisfaction there was no one there. i stole across the room to the china cupboard, drew forward a chair and climbed upon it, and, in mortal fear and trembling, placed the cup on the saucer waiting for it. they seemed to match exactly, but i could not wait to see any more--the sound of some one coming along the ante-room reached my ears--i had only just time to close the door of the cupboard, jump down and try to look as if nothing were the matter, when my grandmother entered the room. she came up to me with both her hands out-stretched in welcome, and a look on her face that i did not understand. she kissed me fondly, exclaiming, "'my own dear little nelly. i thought you would come. i knew you would not be happy till you had----.' but she stopped suddenly. i had drawn a little back from her, and again i felt my face get red. why would people praise me when i did not deserve it? my grandmother, i supposed, thought i had come again because i had felt conscious of having been not particularly gracious the day before--whereas i knew my motive to have been nothing of the kind. "'papa was coming again, and he said i might come. i have nothing to do at home just now. it's holidays,' i said abruptly, my very honesty _now_ leading me into misrepresentations, as is constantly the case once one has quitted the quite straight path of candour. "my grandmother looked pained and disappointed, but said nothing. but _never_ had she been kinder. it was past dinner time, but she ordered tea for me an hour earlier than her usual time, and sent down word that the cook was to bake some girdle-cakes, as she knew i was fond of them. and what a nice tea we might have had but for the uncomfortable little voice that kept whispering to me that i did not deserve all this kindness, that i was deceiving my grandmother, which was far worse than breaking twenty cups. i felt quite provoked with myself for feeling so uneasy. i had thought i should have felt quite comfortable and happy once the cup was restored. i had spent all, or very nearly all, my money on it. i said to myself, who could have done more? and i determined not to be so silly and to think no more about it--but it was no good. every time my grandmother looked at me, every time she spoke to me--worst of all when the time came for me to go and she kissed me, somehow so much more tenderly than usual, and murmured some words i could not catch, but which sounded like a little prayer, as she stroked my head in farewell--it was dreadfully hard not to burst into tears and tell her all, and beg her to forgive me. but i went away without doing so. "half way home a strange thought came suddenly into my mind. it seemed to express the unhappiness i was feeling. supposing my grandmother were to die, supposing i were never to see her again, would i _then_ feel satisfied with my behaviour to her, and would i still say to myself that i had done all for the best in spending my money on a new cup? would i not then rather feel that it would have been less grievous to my grandmother to know of my breaking twenty cups, than to discover the concealment and want of candour into which my cowardliness had led me? "'if grandmother were _dead_, i suppose she would know all about it,' i said to myself. 'i would not like to think of that. i would rather have told her myself.' "and i startled my father by turning to him suddenly and asking if grandmother was very old. he replied, 'not so very. of course she is not _young_, but we may hope to have her among us many a day yet if god wills it, my little woman.' "i gave a sigh of relief. 'i know she is very strong,' i said. 'she is very seldom ill, and she can take quite long walks still.' "thank god for it,' said my father, evidently pleased with my interest in my grandmother. and although it was true that already i was beginning to love her much more than formerly, still my father's manner gave me again the miserable feeling that i was gaining credit which i did not deserve. "more than a week passed after this without my seeing my grandmother. it was not a happy week for me. i felt quite unlike my old light-hearted self. and constantly--just as when one has a tender spot anywhere, a sore finger for instance, everything seems to rub against it--constantly little allusions were made which appeared to have some reference to my concealment. something would be said about my birthday present, and my brothers would ask me if i had made up my mind what i should buy with it, or they would tease me about my sudden fancy for spending two days together with my grandmother, and ask me if i was not in a hurry to go to see her again. i grew irritable and suspicious, and more and more unhappy, and before long those about me began to notice the change. my father and mother feared i was ill--'nelly is so unlike herself,' i heard them say. my brothers openly declared 'there was no fun in playing with me now, i had grown so cross.' i felt that it was true--indeed both opinions were true, for i really _was_ getting ill with the weight on my mind, which never, night or day, seemed to leave it. "at last one day my father told me that he was going to drive into the little town where my grandmother lived, the next day, and that i was to go with him to see her. i noticed that he did not ask me, as usual, if i would like to go; he just said i must be ready by a certain hour, and gave me no choice in the matter. i did not want to go, but i was afraid of making any objection for fear of their asking my reasons, so i said nothing, but silently, and to all appearance i fear, sulkily, got ready as my father desired. we had a very quiet drive; my father made no remarks about my dullness and silence, and i began to be afraid that something had been found out, and that he was taking me to my grandmother's to be 'scolded,' as i called it in my silly little mind. i glanced up at his face as i sat beside him. no, he did not look severe, only grave and rather anxious. dear father! afterwards i found that he and my mother had been really _very_ anxious about me, and that he was taking me to my grandmother, by her express wish, to see what she thought of the state of matters, before consulting a doctor or trying change of air, or anything of that kind. and my grandmother had particularly asked him to say nothing more to myself about my own unsatisfactory condition, and had promised him to do her utmost to put things right. "well--we got to my grandmother's--my father lifted me out of the carriage, and i followed him upstairs--my grandmother was sitting in the drawing-room, evidently expecting us. she came forward with a bright kind smile on her face, and kissed me fondly. then she said to my father she was so glad he had brought me, and she hoped i would have a happy day. and my father looked at me as he went away with a sort of wistful anxiety that made me again have that horrible feeling of not deserving his care and affection. and oh, how i wished the long day alone with my grandmother were over! i could not bear being in the drawing-room, i was afraid of seeming to glance in the direction of the china cupboard; i felt miserable whenever my grandmother spoke kindly to me. "and how kind she was that day! if ever a little girl _should_ have been happy, that little girl was i. grandmother let me look over the drawers where she kept her beautiful scraps of silk and velvet, ever so many of which she gave me--lovely pieces to make a costume such as i had fancied for lady rosabelle, but which i had never had the heart to see about. she let me 'tidy' her best work-box--a _wonderful_ box, full of every conceivable treasure and curiosity--and then, when i was a little tired with all my exertions, she made me sit down on a footstool at her feet and talked to me so nicely--all about when _she_ was a little girl--fancy that, molly, your great-great-grandmother ever having been a little girl!--and about the queer legends and fairy tales that in those days were firmly believed in in the far-away scotch country place where her childhood was spent. for the first time for all these unhappy ten days, i began to feel like myself again. sitting there at my grandmother's feet listening to her i actually forgot my troubles, though i was in the very drawing-room i had learnt so to dread, within a few yards of the cupboard i dared not even glance at. "there came a little pause in the conversation; i leaned my head against my grandmother's knee. "'i wish there were fairies now,' i said. 'don't you, grandmother?' "grandmother said 'no, on the whole she preferred things being as they were.' there were _some_ fairies certainly she would be sorry to lose, princess sweet-temper, and lady make-the-best-of-it, and old madame tidy, and, most of all perhaps, the beautiful fairy _candour_. i laughed at her funny way of saying things, but yet something in her last words made the uneasy feeling come back again. then my grandmother went on talking in a different tone. "'do you know, nelly,' she said, 'queer things happen sometimes that one would be half inclined to put down to fairies if one did not know better?' "i pricked up my ears. "'do tell me what sort of things, grandmother,' i said eagerly. "'well'--she went on, speaking rather slowly and gravely, and very distinctly--'the other day an extraordinary thing happened among my china cups in that cupboard over there. i had one pink cup, on the side of which was--or is--the picture of a shepherdess curtseying to a shepherd. now this shepherdess when i bought the cup, which was only a few days ago, was dressed--i am _perfectly_ certain of it, for her dress was just the same as one i have upstairs in my collection--in a pale pink or salmon-coloured skirt, looped up over a pea-green slip--the picture of the shepherdess is repeated again on the saucer, and there it still is as i tell you. but the strangest metamorphosis has taken place in the cup. i left it one morning as i describe, for you know i always dust my best china myself. two days after, when i looked at it again, the shepherdess's attire was changed--she had on no longer the pea-green dress over the salmon, but a _salmon_ dress over a _pea-green_ slip. did you ever hear anything so strange, nelly?' "i turned away my head, children; i dared not look at my grandmother. what should i say? this was the end of my concealment. it had done _no_ good--grandmother must know it all now, i could hide it no longer, and she would be far, far more angry than if at the first i had bravely confessed my disobedience and its consequences. i tried to speak, but i could not. i burst into tears and hid my face. "grandmother's arm was round me in a moment, and her kind voice saying, 'why, what is the matter, my little nelly?' "i drew myself away from her, and threw myself on the floor, crying out to grandmother not to speak kindly to me. "'you won't love me when you know,' i said. 'you will never love me again. it was _me_, oh grandmother! it was me that changed the cup. i got another for you not to know. i spent all my money. i broke it, grandmother. when you told me not to open the cupboard, i did open it, and i took out the cup, and it fell and was broken, and then i saw another in a shop window, and i thought it was just the same, and i bought it. it cost ten shillings, but i never knew it wasn't quite the same, only now it doesn't matter. you will never love me again, and nobody will. oh dear, oh dear, what _shall_ i do?' "'never love you again, my poor dear faithless little girl,' said grandmother. 'oh, nelly, my child, how little you know me! but oh, i am so glad you have told me all about it yourself. that was what i was longing for. i did so want my little girl to be true to her own honest heart.' "and then she went on to explain that she had known it all from the first. she had not been asleep the day that i disobediently opened the cupboard, at least she had wakened up in time to see what had happened, and she had earnestly hoped that i would make up my mind to tell it frankly. that was what had so disappointed her the next day when she had quite thought i had come on purpose to tell it all. then when my father had come to consult her about the queer state i seemed to be in, she had not felt surprised. she had quite understood it all, though she had not said so to him, and she had resolved to try to win my confidence. she told me too that she had found out from the old german about my buying the cup, whose reappearance she could not at first explain. "'i went to his shop the very next morning,' she told me, 'to see if he still had the fellow to the cup i had bought, as i knew he had two of them, and he told me the other had been bought by a little girl. ten shillings was too much to give for it, nelly, a great deal too much for you to give, and more than the cup was really worth. it was not a very valuable cup, though the colour was so pretty that i was tempted to buy it to place among the others.' "'i don't mind about the money, grandmother,' i replied. 'i would have given ever so much more if i had had it. you will keep the cup now?' i added. 'you won't make me take it back to the old man? and oh, grandmother, will you really forgive me?' "she told me she had already done so, fully and freely, from the bottom of her heart. and she said she would indeed keep the cup, as long as she lived, and that if ever again i was tempted to distrust her i must look at it and take courage. and she explained to me that even if there had been reason for my fears, 'even if i had been a very harsh and severe grandmother, your concealment would have done no good in the end,' she said. 'it would have been like the first little tiny seed of deceit, which might have grown into a great tree of evil, poisoning all your life. oh, nelly, never _never_ plant that seed, for once it has taken root who can say how difficult it may be to tear it up?' "i listened with all my attention; i could not help being deeply impressed with her earnestness, and i was so grateful for her kindness that her advice found good soil ready to receive it. and how many, many times in my life have i not recalled it! for, ralph and sylvia and molly, my darlings, remember this--even to the naturally frank and honest there come times of sore temptation in life, times when a little swerving from the straight narrow path of uprightness would seem to promise to put all straight when things have gone wrong, times when the cost seems so little and the gain so great. ah! yes, children, we need to have a firm anchor to hold by at these times, and woe for us then if the little evil seed has been planted and has taken root in our hearts." grandmother paused. the children too were silent for a moment or two. then sylvia said gently, "did you tell your father and mother all about it, grandmother?" "yes," said grandmother, "i did--all about it. i told them everything. it was my own choice. my grandmother left it to myself. she would not tell them; she would leave it to me. and, of course, i did tell them. i could not feel happy till i had done so. they were very kind about it, _very_ kind, but still it was to my grandmother i felt the most grateful and the most drawn. from that time till her death, when i was nearly grown up, she was my dearest counsellor and guide. i had no concealment from her--i told her everything. for her heart was so wonderfully young; to the very last she was able to sympathise in all my girlish joys, and sorrows, and difficulties." "like you, grandmother dear," said molly, softly stroking her grandmother's hand, which she had taken in hers. "she must have been just like you." they all smiled. "and when she died," pursued grandmother gently, almost as if speaking to herself, "when she died and all her things were divided, i begged them to give me the pink cup. i might have had a more valuable one instead, but i preferred it. it is one of those two over there on the little cabinet." molly's eyes turned eagerly in the direction of the little cabinet. "grandmother dear," she said, solemnly, "when you die--i don't _want_ you to die, you know of course, but when you _do_ die, i wish you would say that _i_ may have that cup--will you? to remind me, you know, of what you have been telling us. i quite understand how you mean: that day all my brooches were broken, i did awfully want not to tell you about them all, and i might forget, you see, about the little bad seed and all that, that you have been telling us so nicely. please, grandmother dear, _may_ i have that cup when you die?" "molly," said sylvia, her face growing very red, "it is perfectly horrible of you to talk that way. i am quite ashamed of you. don't mind her, grandmother. she just talks as if she had no sense sometimes. how _can_ you, molly?" she went on, turning again to her sister, "how _can_ you talk about dear grandmother dying? _dear_ grandmother, and you pretend to love her." molly's big blue eyes opened wide with astonishment, then gradually they grew misty, and great tears welled up to their surface. "i don't _pretend_--i _do_ love her," she said. "and i don't _want_ you to die, grandmother dear, do i? only we all must die some time. i didn't mean to talk horribly. i think you are very unkind, sylvia." "children, children," said grandmother's gentle voice, "i don't like these words. i am sure molly did not mean anything i would not like, sylvia dear, but yet i know how _you_ mean. don't be in such a hurry to judge each other. and about the cup, molly, i'll consider, though i hope and believe you will not need it to remind you of the lesson i want to impress on you by the story of my long-ago troubles. now kiss each other, dears, and kiss me, for it is quite bed-time. good-night, my little girls. ralph, my boy, open the door for your sisters, and pleasant dreams to you all." chapter ix. ralph's confidence. "sad case it is, as you may think for very cold to go to bed; and then for cold not sleep a wink." wordsworth's _goody blaks_ "grandmother," said ralph, when they were all sitting at breakfast the next morning, "didn't you say that your grandmother once had an adventure that we might like to hear? it was at the beginning of the story you told us--i think it was something about the corkscrew staircase. i liked the story awfully, you know, but i'm fearfully fond of adventures." grandmother smiled. "i remember saying something about it," she said, "but it is hardly worth calling an adventure, my boy. it showed her courage and presence of mind, however. she was a very brave little woman." "presence of mind," repeated ralph. "ah yes! that's a good thing to have. there's a fellow at our school who saved a child from being burnt to death not long ago. it was his little cousin where he lives. it wasn't he that told me about it, he's too modest, it was some of the other fellows." "who is he? what's his name?" asked molly. "prosper de lastre," replied ralph. "he's an awful good fellow every way." "prosper de lastre!" repeated molly, who possessed among other peculiarities that of a sometimes most inconveniently good memory. "prosper de lastre! i do believe, ralph, that's the very boy you called a cad when you first went to school." ralph's face got very red, and he seemed on the verge of a hasty reply. but he controlled himself. "well, and if i did," he said somewhat gruffly, "a fellow may be mistaken, mayn't he? i don't think him a cad _now_, and that's all about it." molly was preparing some rejoinder when grandmother interrupted her. "you are quite right, ralph, _quite_ right not to be above owning yourself mistaken. who _can_ be above it really? not the wisest man that ever lived. and molly, my dear little girl, why can you not learn to be more considerate? do you know what 'tact' is, molly? did you ever hear of it?" "oh yes, grandmother dear," said molly serenely. "it means--it means--oh i don't quite know, but i'm sure i do know." "think of it as meaning the not saying or doing to another person whatever in that other's place you would not like said or done to you--that is _one_ meaning of tact anyway, and a very good one. will you try to remember it, molly?" molly opened her eyes. "yes, grandmother dear, i will try. but i _think_ all that will be rather hard to remember, because you see people don't feel the same. my head isn't twisty-turny enough to understand things like that, quickly. i like better to go bump at them, quite straight." "without, in nine cases out of ten, the faintest idea what you are going to go bump straight at," said aunty, laughing. "oh, molly, you are irresistible!" the laughing at her had laughed back ralph's good humour anyway, and now he returned to the charge. "twisty-turny is like a corkscrew, grandmother," he said slyly, "and once there was an old house with a corkscrew stair----" "yes," said grandmother, "and in that old house there once lived an old lady, who, strange to say, was not always old. she was not very old at the time of the 'adventure.' you remember, children, my telling you that during her husband's life, my grandmother and he used to spend part of the winter in the old house where she afterwards ended her days. my grandfather used to drive backwards and forwards to his farms, of which he had several in the neighbourhood, and the town was a sort of central place for the season of bad weather and short days. sometimes he used to be kept rather late, for besides his own affairs, he had, like his son, my father, a good deal of magistrate's business to attend to. but however late he was detained my grandmother always sat up for him, generally in a little sitting-room she had on the storey above the long drawing-room i have described to you, almost, that is to say, at the top of the house, from attic to basement of which ran the lung 'twisty-turny, corkscrew staircase.' one evening, about christmas time it was, i think, my grandfather was very late of coming home. my grandmother was not uneasy, for he had told her he would be late, and she had mentioned it to the servants, and told them they need not sit up. so there she was, late at night, alone, sewing most likely--ah girls, i wish i could show you some of her sewing--in her little parlour. she was not the least nervous, yet it was a little 'eerie' perhaps, sitting up there alone so late, listening for her husband's whistle--he always whistled when he was late, so that she might be _sure_ it was he, when she went down to open the door at his knock--and more than once she looked at the clock and wished he would come. suddenly a step outside the room, coming up the stair, made her start. she had hardly time to wonder confusedly if it could be my grandfather, knowing all the time it could _not_ be he--the doors were all supposed to be locked and barred, and could only be opened from the inside--when the door was flung open and some one looked in. not my grandfather certainly; the man who stood in the doorway was dressed in some sort of rough workman's clothes, and his face was black and grimy. that was all she had time to catch sight of, for, not expecting to see her there, the intruder, startled, turned sharply round and made for the stair. up jumped my little grandmother; she took it all in in an instant, and saw that her only chance was to take advantage of his momentary surprise and start at seeing her. up she jumped and rushed bravely after him, making all the clatter she could. downstairs he flew, imagining very probably in his fright that two or three people instead of one little woman were at his heels, and downstairs, round and round the corkscrew staircase, she flew after him. never afterwards, she has often since told me, did she quite lose the association of that wild flight, never could she go downstairs in that house without the feeling of the man before her, and seeming to hear the rattle-rattle of a leathern apron he was wearing, which clattered against the banisters as he ran. but she kept her head to the end of the chase; she followed him--all in the dark, remember--down to the bottom of the staircase, and, guided by the clatter of his apron, through a back kitchen in the basement which opened into a yard--there she stopped--she heard him clatter through this cellar, banging the door--which had been left open, and through which he had evidently made his way into the house--after him, as if to prevent her following him farther. poor thing, she certainly had no wish to do so; she felt her way to the door and felt for the key to lock it securely. but alas, when she pushed the door closely to, preparatory to locking it, it resisted her. some one or something seemed to push against her from the outside. then for the first time her courage gave way, and thinking that the man had returned, with others perhaps, she grew sick and faint with fright. she sank down helplessly on the floor for a moment or two. but all seemed quiet; her courage and common sense returned; she got up and felt all about the door carefully, to try to discover the obstacle. to her delight she found that some loose sand or earth driven into a little heap on the floor was what prevented the door shutting. she smoothed it away with her hand, closed the door and locked it firmly, and then, faint and trembling, but safe, made her way back to the little room where her light was burning. you can fancy how glad she was, a very few moments afterwards, to hear my grandfather's cheerful whistle outside." "but," interrupted molly, her eyes looking bigger and rounder than usual, "but suppose the man had been waiting outside to catch him--your grandfather--grandmother, when he came in?" "but the man wasn't doing anything of the sort, my dear molly. he had gone off in a fright, and when my grandmother thought it over coolly, she felt convinced that he was not a regular burglar, and so it turned out. he was a man who worked at a smithy near by, and this was his first attempt at burglary. he had heard that my grandfather was to be out late, through one of the servants, whom he had persuaded not to lock the door, on the pretense that he might be passing and would look in to say good-night. it all came out afterwards." "and was he put in prison?" said molly. "no," said grandmother. "the punishments for housebreaking and such things in those days were so frightfully severe, that kind-hearted people often refrained from accusing the wrong-doers. this man had been in sore want of money for some reason or other; he was not a dishonest character. i believe the end of it was that my grandfather forgave him, and put him in the way of doing better." "that was very nice," said molly, with a sigh of relief. "good-bye," said ralph, who was just then strapping his books together for school. "thank you for the story, grandmother. if it is fine this afternoon," he added, "may i stay out later? i want to go a walk into the country." "certainly, my boy," said grandmother. "but you'll be home by dinner." "all right," said ralph, as he marched off. "and grandmother, please," said sylvia, "may molly and i go out with marcelline this afternoon to do some shopping? the pretty christmas things are coming in now, and we have lots to do." "certainly, my dears," said grandmother again, and about two o'clock the little girls set off, one on each side of good-natured marcelline, in high spirits, to do their christmas shopping. grandmother watched them from the window, and thought how pretty they looked, and the thought earned her back to the time--not so very long ago did it seem to her now--when their mother had been just as bright and happy as they--the mother who had never lived to see them more than babies. grandmother's eyes filled with tears, but she smiled through the tears. "god is good and sends new blessings when the old he takes away," she whispered to herself. it was a blessing, a very great blessing and pleasure to have what she had so often longed for, the care of her dear little grand-daughters herself. "and ralph," she added, "i cannot help feeling the responsibility with him even greater. an old woman like me, can i have much influence with a boy? but he is a dear boy in many ways, and i was pleased with the way he spoke yesterday. it was honest and manly. ah! if we could teach our boys what _true_ manliness is, the world would be a better place than it is." the days were beginning to close in now. by four o'clock or half-past it was almost dark, and, once the sun had gone down, cold, with a peculiar biting coldness not felt farther north, where the temperature is more equable and the contrasts less sudden. grandmother put on her fur-lined cloak and set off to meet the little market-women. once, twice thrice she walked to the corner of the road--they were not to be seen, and she was beginning to fear the temptations of the shops had delayed them unduly, when they suddenly came in view; and the moment they caught sight of her familiar figure off they set, as if touched at the same instant by an electric thrill, running towards her like two lapwings. "dear grandmother, how good of you to come to meet us," said sylvia. "we have got such nice things. they are in marcelline's basket," nodding back towards marcelline, jogging along after them in her usual deliberate fashion. "_such_ nice things," echoed molly. "but oh, grandmother dear, you don't know what we saw. we met ralph in the town, and i'm sure he didn't want us to see him, for what _do_ you think he was doing?" a chill went through poor grandmother's heart. in an instant she pictured to herself all manner of scrapes ralph might have got into. had her thoughts of him this very afternoon been a sort of presentiment of evil? she grew white, so white that even in the already dusky light, sylvia's sharp eyes detected it, and she turned fiercely to molly, the heedless. "you naughty girl," she said, "to go and frighten dear little grandmother like that. and only this very morning or yesterday grandmother was explaining to you about tact. don't be frightened, dear grandmother. ralph wasn't doing anything naughty, only i daresay he didn't want us to see." "but what _was_ he doing?" said grandmother, and molly, irrepressible still, though on the verge of sobs, made answer before sylvia could speak. "he was carrying wood, grandmother dear," she said--"big bundles, and another boy with him too. i think they had been out to the little forests to fetch it. it was fagots. but i _didn't_ mean to frighten you, grandmother; i _didn't_ know it was untact to tell you--i have been thinking all day about what you told me." "carrying wood?" repeated grandmother, relieved, though mystified. "what can he have been doing that for?" "i think it is a plan of his. i am sure it is nothing naughty," said sylvia, nodding her head sagely. "and if molly will just leave it alone and say _nothing_ about it, it will be all right, you will see. ralph will tell you himself, i'm sure, if molly will not tease." "i won't, i promise you i won't," said molly; "i won't say anything about it, and if ralph asks me if we saw him i'll screw up my lips as tight as tight, and not say a single word." "as if that would do any good," said sylvia contemptuously; "it would only make him think we had seen him, and make a fuss. however, there's no fear of ralph asking you anything about it. you just see him alone when he comes in, grandmother. "oh dear, oh dear," sighed molly, as they returned to the house, "i shall never understand about tact, never. we've got our lessons to do for to-morrow, sylvia, and the verbs are very hard." "never mind, i'll help you," said sylvia good-naturedly, and grandmother was pleased to see them go upstairs to their little study with their arms round each other's waists as usual--the best of friends. half an hour later, ralph made his appearance. he looked rather less tidy than his wont--for as a rule ralph was a particularly tidy boy--his hair was tumbled, and his hands certainly could not have been described as _clean_. "well, ralph, and what have you been doing with yourself?" said grandmother, as he came in. ralph threw himself down on the rug. "my poor rug," thought grandmother, but she judged it wiser not, at that moment, to express her misgivings aloud. ralph did not at once reply. then-- "grandmother," he said, after a little pause. "well, my boy?" "you remember my calling one of the boys in my class a cad--what molly began about last night?" "well, my boy?" said grandmother again. "do you remember what made me call him a cad? it was that i met him carrying a great bundle of wood--little wood they call it--along the street one day. well, just fancy, grandmother, _i've_ been doing it too. that's what i wanted to stay later for this afternoon." grandmother's heart gave a bound of pleasure at her boy's frankness. "sensible child sylvia is," she said to herself. but aloud she replied with a smile, "carrying wood! what did you do that for, and where did you get it?" "i'll tell you, i'll tell you all about it," said ralph. "we went out after school to a sort of little coppice where there is a lot of that nice dry brushwood that anybody may take. prosper knew the place, and took me. it was to please him i went. he does it every thursday; that is the day we are let out of school early." "and what does he do it for?" asked grandmother. "is he--are his people so very poor that he has to do it? i thought all the boys were of a better class," she added, with some inward misgiving as to what mr. heriott might say as to his son's present companions. "oh, so they are--at least they are not what you would call poor," said ralph. "prosper belongs to quite rich people. but he's an orphan; he lives with his uncle, and i suppose he's not rich--prosper himself, i mean--for he says his uncle's always telling him to work hard at school, as he will have to fight his way in the world. he has got a little room up at the top of the house, and that's what put it into his head about the wood. there's an old woman, who was once a sort of a lady, who lives in the next room to his. you get up by a different stair; it's really a different house, but once, somehow, the top rooms were joined, and there's still a door between prosper's room and this old woman's, and one morning early he heard her crying--she was really _crying_, grandmother, she's so old and shaky, he says--because she couldn't get her fire to light. he didn't know what she was crying for at first, but he peeped through the keyhole and saw her fumbling away with damp paper and stuff that wouldn't light the big logs. so he thought and thought what he could do--he hasn't any money hardly--and at last he thought he'd go and see what he could find. and he found a _beautiful_ place for brushwood, and he carried back all he could, and since then every thursday he goes out to that place. but, of course, one fellow alone can't carry much, and you should have seen how pleased he was when i said i'd go with him. but i thought i'd better tell you. you don't mind, grandmother?" [illustration: in the coppice.] grandmother's eyes looked very bright as she replied. "_mind_, my ralph? no, indeed. i am only glad you should have so manly and self-denying an example as prosper's, and still more glad that you should have the right feeling and moral courage to follow it. poor old woman! is she quite alone in the world? she must be very grateful to her little next-door neighbour." "i don't know that she is--at least not so very," said ralph. "the fun of it was, that for ever so long she didn't know where the little wood came from. prosper found a key that opened the door, and when she was out he carried in the fagots, and laid the fire all ready for her with some of them; and when she came in he peeped through the keyhole. she was so surprised, she couldn't make it out. and the wood he had fetched lasted a week, and then he got some more. but the next time she found him out." "and what did she say?" "at first she was rather offended, till he explained how he had got it; and then she thanked him, of course, but not so very much, i fancy. he always says old people are grumpy--doesn't 'grogneur' mean grumpy, grandmother?--that they can't help it, and when his old woman is grumpy he only laughs a little. but _you're_ not grumpy, grandmother, and you're old; at least getting rather old." "decidedly old, my boy. but why should i be grumpy? and how do you know i shouldn't be so if i were living up alone in an attic, with no children to love and cheer me, my poor old hands swollen and twisted with rheumatism, perhaps, and very little money. ah, what a sad picture! poor old woman, i must try to find out some way of helping her." "she washes lace for ladies, prosper says," said ralph, eagerly. "perhaps if you had some lace to wash, grandmother." "i'll see what i can do," said grandmother. "you get me her name and address from prosper. and, ralph, we might think of something for a little christmas present for her, might we not? you must talk to your friend about it. i suppose his relations are not likely to interest themselves in his protégée?" "no," said ralph. "his aunt is young, and dresses very grandly, and i don't think she takes much notice of prosper himself. oh no, _you_ could do it much better than any one else, grandmother; find out all about her and what she would like--in a nice sort of way, you know." grandmother drew ralph to her and kissed him. "my own dear boy," she said. ralph got rather red, but his eyes shone with pleasure nevertheless. "grandmother," he said, half shyly, "i've had a lesson about not calling fellows cads in a hurry, but all the same you won't forget about telling us the story of uncle jack's cad, will you?" "what a memory you have, ralph," said grandmother. "you're nearly as bad for stories as molly. no, i haven't forgotten. as well as i could remember, i have written out the little story--i only wish i had had it in your uncle's own words. but such as it is, i will read it to you all this evening." grandmother went to her davenport, and took out from one of the drawers some sheets of ruled paper, which she held up for ralph to see. on the outside one he read, in grandmother's neat, clear handwriting, the words---- chapter x. --"that cad sawyer." "i do not like thee, doctor fell, the reason why i cannot tell." old rhyme. and grandmother of course kept her promise. that evening she read it aloud. "they were ryeburn boys--ryeburn boys to their very heart's core--jack and his younger brother carlo, as somehow he had got to be called in the nursery, before he could say his own name plainly." "that's uncle charlton, who died when he was only about fifteen," whispered sylvia to ralph and molly; "you see grandmother's written it out like a regular story--not saying 'your uncle this' or 'your uncle that,' every minute. isn't it nice?" grandmother stopped to see what all the whispering was about. "we beg your pardon, grandmother, we'll be quite quiet now," said the three apologetically. "they had been at school at ryeburn since they were quite little fellows, and they thought that nowhere in the world was there a place to be compared with it. holidays at home were very delightful, no doubt, but school-days were delightful too. but for the sayings of good-byes to the dear people left at home--father and mother, big sister and little one, i think jack and carlo started for their return journey to school at the end of the midsummer holidays _very_ nearly as cheerfully as they had set off for home eight weeks previously, when these same delightful holidays had begun. jack had not very many more half-years to look forward to: he was to be a soldier, and before long must leave ryeburn in preparation for what was before him, for he was fifteen past. carlo was only thirteen and small of his age. he _had_ known what it was to be homesick, even at ryeburn, more than three years ago, when he had first come there. but with a big brother--above all a big brother like jack, great strong fellow that he was, with the kindest of hearts for anything small or weak--little carlo's preliminary troubles were soon over. and now at thirteen he was very nearly, in his way, as great a man at ryeburn as jack himself. jack was by no means the cleverest boy at the school, far from it, but he did his book work fairly well, and above all honestly. he was honesty itself in everything, scorned crooked ways, or whatever he considered meanness, with the exaggerated scorn of a very young and untried character, and, like most boys of his age, was inclined, once he took up a prejudice, to carry it to all lengths. "there was but one cloud over their return to school this special autumn that i am telling you of, and that was the absence of a favourite master--one of the younger ones--who, an unexpected piece of good luck having fallen to his share, had left ryeburn the end of the last half. "'i wonder what sort of a fellow we shall have instead of wyngate,' said jack to carlo, as the train slackened for ryeburn station. "'we shan't have any one as nice, that's certain,' said carlo, lugubriously. 'there couldn't be any one as nice, could there?' "but their lamentations over mr. wyngate were forgotten when they found themselves in the midst of their companions, most of whom had already arrived. there were such a lot of things to tell and to ask; the unfortunate 'new boys' to glance at with somewhat supercilious curiosity, and the usual legendary caution as to 'chumming' with them, till it should be proved what manner of persons they were; the adventures of the holidays to retail to one's special cronies; the anticipated triumphs in cricket and football and paper-chases of the forthcoming 'half' to discuss. jack and carlo soon found themselves each the centre of his particular set, too busy and absorbed in the present to give much thought to the past. only later that evening, when prayers were over and supper-time at hand, did the subject of their former teacher and his successor come up again. "a pale, thin, rather starved-looking young man came into the schoolroom desiring them to put away their books, which they were arranging for next morning. his manner was short but ill-assured, and he spoke with a slightly peculiar accent. none of the boys seemed in any hurry to obey him. "'cod-faced idiot!' muttered one. "'french frog!' said another. "'is that the new junior?' said jack, looking up from the pile of books before him. "'yes; did you ever see such a specimen?' replied a tall boy beside him, who had arrived the day before. 'and what a fellow to come after wyngate too.' "'he can't help his looks,' said jack quietly; 'perhaps he's better than they are.' "'hallo, here's old berkeley going to stick up for that nice specimen sawyer!' called out the boy, caring little apparently whether mr. sawyer, who had only just left the room, was still within ear-shot or not. "jack took it in good part. "'i'm not 'sticking up' for him, nor 'not sticking up' for him,' he said. 'all i say is, wait a bit till you see what sort of a fellow he is himself, whatever his looks are.' "'and most assuredly they're _not_ in his favour,' replied the tall boy. "from this jack could not honestly dissent; mr. sawyer's looks were not, in a sense, in his favour. it was not so much that he was downright ugly--perhaps that would have mattered less--but he was _poor_ looking. he had no presence, no self-assertion, and his very anxiety to conciliate gave his manner a nervous indecision, in which the boys saw nothing but cause for ridicule. he did not understand his pupils, and still less did they understand him. but all the same he was a capital teacher, patient and painstaking to the last degree, clear-headed himself, and with a great power, when he forgot his nervousness in the interest of his subject, of making it clear to the apprehensions of those about him. in class it was impossible for the well-disposed of his pupils not to respect him, and in time he might have fought his way to more, but for one unfortunate circumstance--the unreasonable and unreasoning prejudice against him throughout the whole school. "now our boys--jack and carlo--jack, followed by carlo, perhaps i should say, for whatever jack said carlo thought right, wherever jack led carlo came after--to do them justice, i must say, did not at once give in to this unreasonable prejudice. jack stuck to his resolution to judge sawyer by what he found him to be on further acquaintance, not to fly into a dislike at first sight. and for some time nothing occurred to shake jack's opinion that not improbably the new master was better than his looks. but sawyer was shy and reserved; he liked jack, and was in his heart grateful to him for his respectful and friendly behaviour, and for the good example he thereby set to his companions, only, unfortunately, the junior master was no hand at expressing his appreciation of such conduct. unfortunately too, jack's lessons were not his strong point, and mr. sawyer, for all his nervousness, was so rigorously, so scrupulously honest that he found it impossible to pass by without comment some or much of jack's unsatisfactory work. and jack, though so honest himself, was human, and _boy_-human, and it was not in boy-human nature to remain perfectly unaffected by the remarks called forth by the new master's frequent fault-finding. "'it's just that you're too civil to him by half,' his companions would say. 'he's a mean sneak, and thinks he can bully you without your resenting it. _wyngate_ would never have turned back those verses.' "or it would be insinuated how partial sawyer was to little castlefield, 'just because he's found out that castle's father's so rich'--the truth being that little castlefield, a delicate and precocious boy, was the cleverest pupil in the school, his tasks always faultlessly prepared, and his power of taking in what he was taught wonderfully great, though, fortunately for himself, his extreme good humour and merry nature made it impossible for his companions to dislike him or set him down as a prig. "jack laughed and pretended--believed indeed--that he did not care. "'i don't want him to say my verses are good if they're not good,' he maintained stoutly. but all the same he did feel, and very acutely too, the mortification to which more than once mr. sawyer's uncompromising censure exposed him, little imagining that the fault-finding was far more painful to the teacher than to himself, that the short, unsympathising manner in which it was done was actually the result of the young man's tender-hearted reluctance to cause pain to another, and that other the very boy to whom of all in the school he felt himself most attracted. "and from this want of understanding his master's real feelings towards him arose the first cloud of prejudice to dim jack's reasonable judgment. "now at ryeburn, as was in those days the case at all schools of old standing, there were legends, so established and respected that no one ever dreamed of calling them into question; there were certain customs tolerated, not to say approved of, which yet, regarded impartially, from the outside as it were, were open to objection. among these, of which there were several, were one or two specially concerning the younger boys, which came under the junior master's direction, and of them all, none was more universally practised than the feat of what was called 'jumping the bar.' the 'bar,'--short in reality for 'barrier,'--was a railing of five or six feet high, placed so as to prevent any of the junior boys, who were late in the morning, from getting round by a short cut to the chapel, where prayers were read, the proper entrance taking them round the whole building, a matter of at least two minutes' quick walking. day after day the bar was 'jumped,' day after day the fact was ignored; on no boy's conscience, however sensitive, would the knowledge of his having made his way into chapel by this forbidden route have left any mark. but alas, when mr. sawyer came things struck him in a different light. "i cannot go into the question of how far he was wrong and how far right. he meant well, of that there is no doubt, but as to his judiciousness in the matter, that is another affair altogether. he had never been at a great english school before; he was conscientious to the last degree, but inexperienced. and i, being only an old woman, and never having been at school at all, do not feel myself able to give an opinion upon this or many other matters of which i, like poor mr. sawyer, have no experience. i can only, children, 'tell the tale as 'twas told to me,' and not even that, for the telling to me was by an actor in the little drama, and i cannot feel, therefore, that in this case the 'tale will gain by the telling,' but very decidedly the other way. "to return, however, to the bar-jumping--of all the boys who made a practice of it, no one did so more regularly than carlo, 'berkeley minor.' he was not a lazy boy in the morning; many and many a time he would have been quite soon enough in the chapel had he gone round the proper way; but it became almost a habit with him to take the nominally forbidden short cut--so much a habit that mr. wyngate, who was perfectly aware of it, said to him jokingly one day, that he would take it as a personal favour, if, _for once_, carlo would gratify him by coming to chapel by the regular entrance. as for being _blamed_ for his bar-jumping, such an idea never entered carlo's head; he would almost as soon have expected to be blamed for eating his breakfast, and, naturally enough, when mr. sawyer's reign began, it never occurred to him to alter his conduct. for some time things went on as usual, mr. sawyer either never happening to see carlo's daily piece of gymnastics, or not understanding that it was prohibited. but something occurred at last, some joke on the subject, or some little remark from one of the other masters, which suddenly drew the new 'junior's' attention to the fact. and two or three mornings afterwards, coming upon carlo in the very act of bar-jumping, mr. sawyer ventured mildly, but in reality firmly, to remonstrate. "'berkeley,' he said, in his nervous, jerky fashion, 'that is not the _proper_ way from your schoolroom to chapel, is it?' "carlo took this remark as a good joke, after the manner of mr. wyngate's on the same subject. "'no, sir,' he replied mischievously, 'i don't suppose it is.' "'then,' said mr. sawyer, stammering a very little, as he sometimes did when more nervous than usual, 'then will you oblige me for the future by coming the proper way?' "he turned away before carlo had time to reply, if indeed he had an answer ready, which is doubtful, for he could not make up his mind if mr. sawyer was in earnest or not. but by the next morning all remembrance of the junior master's remonstrance had faded from carlo's thoughtless brain. again he went bar-jumping to chapel, and this time no mr. sawyer intercepted him. but two mornings later, just as he had successfully accomplished his jump, he perceived in front of him the thin, uncertain-looking figure of the junior master. "'berkeley,' he said gravely, 'have you forgotten what i said to you two or three days ago?' "carlo stared. the fact of the matter was that he _had_ forgotten, but as his remembering would have made no difference, considering that he had never had the slightest intention of taking any notice of mr. sawyer's prohibition, his instinctive honesty forbade his giving his want of memory as an excuse. "'no,' he replied, 'at least i don't know if i did or not. but i have always come this way--lots of us do--and no one ever says anything.' "'but _i_ say something now,' said mr. sawyer, more decidedly than he had ever been known to speak, 'and that is to forbid your coming this way. and i expect to be obeyed.' "carlo made no reply. this time there was no mistaking mr. sawyer's meaning. it was mortifying to have to give in to the 'mean little sneak,' as carlo mentally called the new master; still, as next morning he happened to be in particularly good time he went round the proper way. the day after, however, he was late, decidedly late for once, and, throwing to the winds all consideration for mr. sawyer or his orders, carlo jumped the bar and made his appearance in time for prayers. he had not known that he was observed, but coming out of chapel mr. sawyer called him aside. "'berkeley,' he said, 'you have disobeyed me again. if this happens once more i shall be obliged to report you.' "carlo stared at him in blank amazement. "'report me?' he said. such a threat had never been held out to either him or jack through all their ryeburn career. they looked upon it as next worst to being expelled. for reporting in ryeburn parlance meant a formal complaint to the head-master, when a boy had been convicted of aggravated disobedience to the juniors. and its results were very severe; it entirely prevented a boy's in any way distinguishing himself during the half-year: however hard a 'reported' boy might work, he could gain no prize that term. so no wonder that poor carlo repeated in amazement, "'_report_ me?' "'yes,' said sawyer. 'i don't want to do it, but if you continue to disobey me, i must,' and he turned away. "off went carlo to his cronies with his tale of wrongs. the general indignation was extreme. "'i'd like to see him dare to do such a thing,' said one. "'i'd risk it, berkeley, if i were you,' said another. 'anything rather than give in to such a cowardly sneak.' "in the midst of the discussion up came jack, to whom, with plenty of forcible language, his brother's woes were related. jack's first impulse was to discredit the sincerity of mr. sawyer's intention. "he'd never _dare_ do such a thing as report you for nothing worse than bar-jumping,' he exclaimed. "but carlo shook his head. "'he's mean enough for anything,' he replied. 'i believe he'll do it fast enough if ever he catches me bar-jumping again.' "'well, you'll have to give it up then,' said jack. 'it's no use hurting yourself to spite him,' and as carlo made no reply, the elder brother went away, satisfied that his, it must be confessed, not very exalted line of argument, had had the desired effect. "but carlo's silence did _not_ mean either consent or assent. when jack had left them the younger boys talked the whole affair over again in their own fashion and according to their own lights--the result being that the following morning, with the aggravation of a whoop and a cry, carlo defiantly jumped the bar on his way to chapel for prayers. "when jack came to hear of it, as he speedily did, he was at first very angry, then genuinely distressed. "'you will only get what you deserve if he does report you,' he said to carlo in his vexation, and when carlo replied that he didn't see that he need give up what he had always done 'for a cad like that,' jack retorted that if he thought sawyer a cad he should have acted accordingly, and not trusted to _his_ good feeling or good nature. but in his heart of hearts jack did not believe the threat would be carried out, and, unknown to carlo, he did for his brother what he would never have done for himself. as soon as morning school was over he went to mr. sawyer to beg him to reconsider his intention, explaining to the best of his ability the extenuating circumstances of the case--the tacit indulgence so long accorded to the boys, carlo's innocence, in the first place, of any intentional disobedience. "mr. sawyer heard him patiently; whether his arguments would have had any effect, jack, at that time at least, had not the satisfaction of knowing, for when he left off speaking mr. sawyer replied quietly, "'i am very sorry to seem severe to your brother, berkeley, but what i have done i believed to be my duty. i have _already_ reported him.' "jack turned on his heel and left the room without speaking. only as he crossed the threshold one word of unutterable contempt fell from between his teeth. '_cad_,' he muttered, careless whether sawyer heard him or not. "and from that moment jack's championship of the obnoxious master was over; and throughout the school he was never spoken of among the boys, big and little, but as 'that cad sawyer.' "though, after all, the 'reporting' turned out less terrible than was expected. how it was managed i cannot exactly say, but carlo was let off with a reprimand, and new and rigorous orders were issued against 'bar-jumping' under any excuse whatever. "i think it probable that the 'authorities' privately pointed out to mr. sawyer that there might be such a thing as over-much zeal in the discharge of his duties, and if so i have no doubt he took it in good part. for it was not zeal which actuated him--it was simple conscientiousness, misdirected perhaps by his inexperience. he could not endure hurting any one or anything, and probably his very knowledge of his weakness made him afraid of himself. be that as it may, no one concerned rejoiced more heartily than he at carlo's acquittal. "but it was too late--the mischief was done. day by day the exaggerated prejudice and suspicion with which he was regarded became more apparent. yet he did not resent it--he worked on, hoping that in time it might be overcome, for he yearned to be liked and trusted, and his motives for wishing to do well at ryeburn were very strong ones. "and gradually, as time went on, things improved a little. now and then the better-disposed of the boys felt ashamed of the tacit disrespect with which one so enduring and inoffensive was treated; and among these better-disposed i need hardly say was our jack. "it was the end of october. but a few days were wanting to the anniversary so dear to schoolboy hearts--that of gunpowder plot. this year the fifth of november celebration was to be of more than ordinary magnificence, for it was the last at which several of the elder boys, among them jack, could hope to be present. fireworks committees were formed and treasurers appointed, and nothing else was spoken of but the sums collected and promised, and the apportionment thereof in catherine wheels, chinese dragons, and so on. jack was one of the treasurers. he had been very successful so far, but the sum total on which he and his companions had set their hearts was still unattained. the elder boys held a committee meeting one day to consider ways and means, and the names of all the subscribers were read out. "'we _should_ manage two pounds more; we'd do then,' said one boy. "'are you sure everybody's been asked?' said another, running his eye down the lists. 'bless me, sawyer's not in,' he added, looking up inquiringly. "'no one would ask him,' said the first boy, shrugging his shoulders. "a sudden thought struck jack. "'i'll tell you what, _i'll_ do it,' he said, 'and, between ourselves, i shouldn't much wonder if he comes down handsomely. he's been very civil of late--i rather think he'd be glad of an opportunity to do something obliging to make up for that mean trick of his about carlo, and what's more,' he added mysteriously, 'i happen to know he's by no means short of funds just now.' "they teased him to say more, but not another word on the subject could be got out of jack. what he knew was this--that very morning when the letters came, he had happened to be standing beside mr. sawyer, who, with an eager face, opened one that was handed to him. he was nervous as usual, more nervous than usual probably, and perhaps his hands were shaking, for as he drew his letter hastily out of the envelope, something fluttered to the ground at jack's feet. "it was a cheque for twenty pounds, and conspicuous on the lowest line was the signature of a well-known publishing firm. instinctively jack stooped to pick it up and handed it to its owner--it had been impossible for him not to see what he did, but he had thought no more about it, beyond a passing wonder in his own mind, as to 'what on earth sawyer got to write about,' and had forgotten all about it till the meeting of the fireworks committee recalled it to his memory. "but it was with a feeling of pleasant expectancy, not unmixed with some consciousness of his own magnanimity in 'giving old sawyer a chance again,' that jack made his way to the junior master's quarters, the list of subscribers in his hand. "he made a pleasant picture, as, in answer to the 'come in' which followed his knock at the door, he opened it and stood on the threshold of mr. sawyer's room--his bright, honest, blue-eyed, fair-haired 'english boy' face smiling in through the doorway. with almost painful eagerness the junior master bade him welcome; he liked jack so much, and would so have rejoiced could the attraction have been mutual. and this was the first time that jack had voluntarily sought mr. sawyer in his own quarters since the bar-jumping affair. mr. sawyer's spirits rose at the sight of him, and hope again entered his heart--hope that after all, his position at ryeburn, which he was beginning to fear it was nonsense to attempt to retain, in face of the evident dislike to him, might yet alter for the better. "'i have not a good way with them--that must be it,' he had said to himself sadly that very morning. 'i never knew what it was to be a boy myself, and therefore i suppose i don't understand boys. but if they could but see into my heart and read there how earnestly i wish to do my best by them, surely we could get on better together.' "'well, berkeley--glad to see you--what can i do for you?' said sawyer, with a little nervous attempt at off-hand friendliness of manner, in itself infinitely touching to any one with eyes to take in the whole situation and judge it and him accordingly. but those eyes are not ours in early life, more especially in _boy_-life. we must have our powers of mental vision quickened and cleared by the magic dew of sad experience--experience which alone can give sympathy worth having, ere we can understand the queer bits of pathos we constantly stumble upon in life, ere we can begin to judge our fellows with the large-hearted charity that alone can illumine the glass through which for so long we see so _very_ 'darkly.' "'i have come to ask you for a subscription for the fifth of november fireworks, mr. sawyer,' said jack, plunging, as was his habit, right into the middle of things, with no beating about the bush. 'we've asked all the other masters, and every one in the school has subscribed, and i was to tell you, sir, from the committee that they'll be very much obliged by a subscription--and--and i really think they'll all be particularly pleased if you can give us something handsome.' "the message was civil, but hardly perhaps, coming from pupils to a master, 'of the most respectful,' as french people say. but poor sawyer understood it--in some respects his perceptions were almost abnormally sharp; he read between the lines of jack's rough-and-ready, boy-like manner, and understood perfectly that here was a chance for him--a chance in a thousand, of gaining some degree of the popularity he had hitherto so unfortunately failed to obtain. and to the bottom of his heart he felt grateful to berkeley--but alas! "he grew crimson with vexation. "'i am dreadfully sorry, berkeley,' he said, 'dreadfully sorry that i cannot respond as i would like to your request. at this moment unfortunately, i am very peculiarly out of pocket. stay,'--with a momentary gleam of hope, 'will you let me see the subscription list. how--how much do you think would please the boys?' "'a guinea wouldn't be--would please them very much, and of course two would be still better,' said jack drily. already he had in his own mind pronounced a final verdict upon mr. sawyer, already he had begun to tell himself what a fool he had been for having anything more to do with him, but yet, with the british instinct of giving an accused man a fair chance, he waited till all hope was over. "'a guinea, two guineas?' repeated mr. sawyer sadly. 'it is perfectly impossible;' and he shook his head regretfully but decidedly. 'half-a-crown, or five shillings perhaps, if you would take it,' he added hesitatingly, but stopped short on catching sight of the hard, contemptuous expression that overspread jack's face, but a moment ago so sunny. "no thank you, sir,' he replied. 'i should be very sorry to take _any_ subscription from you, knowing what i do, and so would all my companions. you're a master, sir, and i'm a boy, but i can tell you i wish you _were_ a boy that i might speak out. i couldn't help seeing what came to you by post this morning--you know i couldn't--and yet on the face of that you tell me you're too hard-up to do what i came to ask like a gentleman--and what would have been for your good in the end too. i'm not going to tell what came to my knowledge by accident; you needn't be afraid of that, but i'd be uncommonly sorry to take _anything_ from you for our fireworks.' "and again jack turned on his heel, and in hot wrath left the under-master, muttering again between his set teeth as he did so the one word 'cad.' "'jack,' mr. sawyer called after him, but either he did not call loud enough or jack would not take any notice of his summons, for he did not return. what a pity! had he done so, mr. sawyer, who understood him too well to feel the indignation a more superficial person would have done at his passionate outburst, had it in his heart to take the hasty, impulsive, generous-spirited lad into his confidence and what might not have been the result? what a different future for the poor under-master, had he then and there and for ever won from the boy the respect and sympathy he so well deserved! "jack returned to his companions gloomy but taciturn. he gave them to understand that his mission had failed, and that henceforth he would have nothing to say to sawyer that he could help, and that was all. he entered into no particulars, but there are occasions on which silence says more than words, and from this time no voice was ever raised in the junior master's defence--throughout the school he was never referred to except as 'the cad,' or 'that cad sawyer.' "and alone in his own room, mr. sawyer, sorrowful but unresentful still, was making up his mind that his efforts had been all in vain. 'i must give it up,' he said. 'and both for myself and the boys the sooner the better, before there is any overt disrespect which would _have_ to be noticed. it is no use fighting on, i have not the knack of it. the boys will never like me, and i may do harm where i would wish to do good. i must try something else.' "two or three weeks later--a month perhaps--the boys were one day surprised by the appearance of a strange face at what had been mr. sawyer's desk. and on inquiry the new comer proved to be a young curate accidentally in the neighbourhood, who had undertaken to fill for a few weeks the under-master's vacant place. the occurrence made some sensation--it was unusual for any change of the kind to take place during a term. 'was sawyer ill?' one or two of the boys asked, as there came before them the recollection of the young man's pale and careworn face, and they recalled with some compunction the pariah-like life that for some time past had been his. "no, he was not ill, they were informed, but he had requested the head-master to supply his place and let him leave, for private reasons, as soon as possible. "what were the private reasons? the head-master and his colleagues had tried in vain to arrive at them. not one syllable of complaint had fallen from the junior master's lips. he had simply repeated that, though sorry to cause any inconvenience, it was of importance to him to leave at once. "'at least,' he said to himself, 'i shall say nothing to get any of them into trouble after i am gone.' "and he had begged, too, that no public intimation of his resignation should be given. "but one or two of the boys had known it before it actually occurred--and among them the berkeley brothers. late one cold evening, for winter had set in very early that year, mr. sawyer had stopped them on their way across the courtyard to their own rooms. "'berkeley,' he had said, 'i am leaving early to-morrow morning. i should like to say good-bye and shake hands with you before i go. i have not taken a good way with you boys, somehow, and--and the prejudice against me has been very strong. but some day--when you are older perhaps, you may come to think it possible you have misunderstood me. be that as it may, there is not and never has been any but good feeling towards you on my part.' "he held out his hand, but a spirit of evil had taken possession of jack--a spirit of hard, unforgiving prejudice. "'good-bye, mr. sawyer,' he said, but he stalked on without taking any notice of the out-stretched hand, and carlo, echoing the cold 'good-bye, mr. sawyer,' followed his example. "but little carlo's heart was very tender. he slept ill that night and early, very early the next morning he was up and on the watch. there was snow on the ground, snow, though december had scarcely set in, and it was very cold. "carlo shivered as he hung about the door leading to mr. sawyer's room, and he wondered why the fly which always came for passengers by the early london train had not yet made its appearance, little imagining that not by the comfortable express, but third class in a slow 'parliamentary' mr. sawyer's journey was to be accomplished. and, when at last the thin figure of the under-master emerged from the doorway, it went to the boy's heart to see that he himself was carrying the small black bag which held his possessions. "'i have come to wish you good-bye again, sir,' said carlo, 'and i am sorry i didn't shake hands last night. and--and--i believe jack would have come too, if he'd thought of it.' "mr. sawyer's eyes glistened as he shook the small hand held out to him. "'thank you, my boy,' he said earnestly, how much i thank you you will never know.' "'and is that all your luggage?' asked carlo, half out of curiosity, half by way of breaking the melancholy of the parting, which somehow gave him a choky feeling about the throat. "'oh no,' said mr. sawyer, entering into the boy's shrinking from anything like a scene, 'oh no, i sent on my box by the carrier last saturday. it would have been _rather_ too big to carry.' he spoke in his usual commonplace tone, more cheerful, less nervous perhaps than its wont. then once more, with a second hearty shake of the hand, "'good-bye again, my boy, and god bless you." and carlo, his eyes dim in spite of his intense determination to be above such weakness, stood watching the dark figure, conspicuous against the white-sheeted ground and steel-blue early morning winter sky. "'i wonder if we've been right about him,' he said to himself. 'i'm glad i came, any way.' "and there came a day when others beside little carlo himself were glad, oh so glad, that he had 'come' that snowy morning to bid the solitary traveller godspeed." [illustration: 'good-bye again, my boy, and god bless you!'] chapter xi. "that cad sawyer."--part ii. "did the road wind uphill all the way? yes to the very end." christina rossetti. grandmother's voice had faltered a little now and then during the latter part of her reading. the children looked at each other significantly. "uncle carlo _died_ you know," whispered sylvia again to ralph and molly. "and uncle jack too," said ralph. "yes, but much longer after. uncle _carlo_ was only a boy when he died," said molly, as if the fact infinitely aggravated the sorrow in his case. their whispering did not interrupt their grandmother this time. she had already paused. "i think, dears," she said, "i had better read the rest to-morrow evening. there is a good deal more of it, and my voice gets tired after a while." "couldn't i read it for you, mother dear?" said aunty. grandmother smiled a little roguishly. "no, my dear, thank you," she said. "i think i like best to read myself what i have written myself. and you, according to that, will have your turn soon, laura." "_mother!_ how did you find out what i was doing?" exclaimed aunty. "a little bird told me, of course," said grandmother, smiling. "you know how clever my little birds are." during this mysterious conversation the children had sat with wide open eyes and puzzled faces. suddenly a light broke upon sylvia. "i know, i know," she cried. "_aunty's_ writing a story for us too. oh, you delightful aunty!" "oh you beautiful aunty! oh you delicious aunty!" echoed molly. "why don't you say something too, ralph?" she exclaimed, turning reproachfully to her brother. "you like stories just as much as we do--you know you do." "but you and sylvia have used up all the adjectives," said ralph. "what _can_ i call aunty, unless i say she's a very jolly fellow?" "reserve your raptures, my dears," said aunty, "'the proof of the pudding's in the eating,' remember. perhaps you may not care for my story when you hear it. i am quite willing to wait for your thanks till you have heard it." "but any way, aunty dear, we'll thank you for having _tried_," said molly encouragingly. "i daresay it won't be _quite_ as nice as grandmother's. you see you're so much younger, and then i don't think anybody _could_ tell stories like her, could they? but, grandmother dear," she went on, "would you mind telling me one thing? when people write stories how do they know all the things they tell? how do you know what poor mr. sawyer said to himself when he was alone in his room that day? did he ever tell anybody? i know the story's true, because uncle jack told it you himself, only i can't make out how you got to know all those bits of it, like." "what a goose you are, molly!" exclaimed both ralph and sylvia. "how could any stories ever be written if people went on about them like that?" but molly's honest puzzled face made grandmother smile. "i know how you mean, dear," she said, "i used to think like that myself. no, i don't know _exactly_ the very words mr. sawyer said to himself, but, judging from my knowledge of the whole story, i put myself, as it were, in his place, and picture to myself what i would have said. i told you i had altered it a little. when your uncle wrote it out it was all in the first person, but not having been an eye-witness, as he was, it seemed to me i could better give the _spirit_ of the story by putting it into this form. do you understand at all better, dear? when you have heard the whole to the end you will do so, i think. all the part about carlo i had from his own lips." "thank you, grandmother dear. i think i understand," said molly, and she was philosophical enough to take no notice of the repeated whisper which reached her ears alone. "oh, you _are_ a goose!" it was not till the next evening that grandmother went on with the second part of her story. "what do all those stars mean?" asked molly, peeping over her grandmother's shoulder before she began to read. "look sylvia, how funny!" and she pointed to a long row of * * * * at the end of the first part of the manuscript. "they mean that some length of time had elapsed between the two parts of the story," said grandmother. "oh, i see. and each star counts for a year. i suppose. let me see; one, two, three----" "molly, _do_ be quiet, and let grandmother go on," said ralph and sylvia, their patience exhausted. "no, they are not counted like that," said grandmother. "listen, molly, and you will hear for yourself." "the first part of my little story finished in the snow--on a cold december morning in england. the second part begins in a very different scene and many, many miles away from ryeburn. three or four years have passed. some of those we left boys are now men--many changes have taken place. instead of december, it is august. instead of england we have a far away country, which till that time, when the interest of the whole world was suddenly concentrated on it, had been but little known and still less thought of by the dwellers in more civilised lands. it is the crimea, children, and the crimea on a broiling, stifling august day. at the present time when we speak and think of that dreadful war and the sufferings it entailed, it is above all the _winters_ there that we recall with the greatest horror--those terrible 'crimean winters.' but those who went through it all have often assured me that the miseries of the summers--of some part of them at least--were in their way quite as great, or worse. what could be much worse? the suffocating heat; the absence, or almost total absence, of shade; the dust and the dirt, and the poisonous flies; the foul water and half-putrid food? bad for the sound ones, or those as yet so--and oh, how intolerably dreadful for the sick! "'what could be much worse?' thought jack berkeley to himself, as after a long killing spell in the trenches he at last got back to his tent for a few hours' rest. "'my own mother wouldn't know me,' he said to himself, as out of a sort of half melancholy mischief he glanced at his face in the little bit of cracked looking-glass which was all he had to adorn himself by. he was feeling utterly worn out and depressed--so many of his friends and companions were dead or dying--knocked down at that time quite as much by disease as by russian bullets--in many cases the more terrible death of the two. and things in general were looking black. it was an anxious and weariful time. "jack threw himself on the bed. he was too tired to undress. all he longed for was coolness and sleep--the first the less attainable of the two, for the thin sides of his tent were as powerless to keep out the scorching heat as the biting cold, and it was not till many more months of both heat and cold had passed that any better shelter was provided for him or his fellows. "but heat and flies notwithstanding jack fell asleep, and had slept soundly for an hour or two when he was suddenly awakened by a voice calling him by name. "'berkeley,' it said, 'you are berkeley of the th, aren't you? i am sorry to awaken you if you're not, but i couldn't see your servant about anywhere to ask. there's a poor fellow dying, down at kadikoi, asking for berkeley--jack berkeley of the th.' "'yes, that's me,' said jack, rubbing his eyes with his smoke-begrimed hands, which he had neither had energy nor water to wash before he fell asleep. 'that's me, sure enough. who is it? what does he want?' "'i don't know who he is,' replied the other. 'i didn't hear his name. he's not one of us. he's a poor devil who's out here as a correspondent to some paper--i forget which--he's only been out a short time. he's dying of dysentery--quite alone, near our quarters. i'm montagu of the th hussars--captain montagu, and our doctor, who's looking after him, sent in for me, knowing i'd been at ryeburn, as the poor fellow said something about it. but it must have been after my time. i left in ' .' "'i don't think i remember you,' said jack meditatively. 'but you may have been among the upper boys when i was one of the small ones.' "'sure to have been,' said captain montagu. 'but about this poor fellow. he was so disappointed when he found i was a stranger to him that i said i'd try to find some other ryeburn boy who might remember him. and some one or other mentioned you, so i came over to look you up.' "'very good of you,' said jack, who was still, however, feeling so sleepy that he could almost have wished captain montagu had _not_ been so good. 'shall i go back with you to kadikoi? very likely it's some one i did not know either, still one can but try.' "'you're very tired,' said montagu, sympathisingly. 'i am sorry to give you such a long walk. but the doctor said he couldn't last long, and the poor fellow seemed so eager when he heard your name.' "'oh, he _does_ know me then?' said jack, his interest reviving. 'i didn't understand.' "'oh yes. i mentioned your name when i heard it, and he said at once if it was _jack_ berkeley he would extremely like to see him. it was stupid of me not to ask his name.' "'i'll be ready to go with you in a moment,' said jack, after frantic efforts discovering in a bucket a very small reserve of water with which he managed to wash his face clear of some part of its grimy covering. 'my servant's gone to balaclava to see what he could get in the way of food for a change from these dreadful salt rations. he brought me a bottle of porter the other day; it cost three shillings, but i never enjoyed anything so much in my life.' "'i can quite believe it,' said captain montagu feelingly. 'your servant must be worth his weight in gold.' "in another minute they were on their way. the sun was beginning to sink, fortunately; it was not _quite_ so hot as a few hours previously. but it was quite as dusty, and the walking along a recently and roughly made track, not worthy the name of road, was very tiring. it was fully five miles to kadikoi--five miles across a bare, dried-up country, from which all traces of the scanty cultivation it had ever received were fast disappearing under the present state of things. there was not a tree, hardly a stunted shrub, to be seen, and the ground--at best but a few inches of poor soil above the sterile rock, felt hard and unyielding as well as rough. it was a relief of its kind at last to quit the level ground for the slope leading down to balaclava, where, though they were too small to afford anything in the shape of shade, the sight of some few, starved-looking bushes and some remains of what might once have been grass, refreshed the eye, at once wearied and dazzled by the glare and monotony of the sun-dried plain. "the tent to which captain montagu led the way stood by itself on some rising ground, a little behind the row of nondescript hovels or mud huts representing what had been the little hamlet of kadikoi. it looked wretched enough as the two young men made their way in, but everywhere looked wretched, only the bareness and comfortlessness impressed one doubly when viewed in connection with physical suffering that would have been hard to endure even with all the alleviations and tenderness of friends and home about one. "the doctor was just leaving the tent--his time was all too precious to give much of it where it was evident that his skill could be of no avail--but before going he had done what he could for the sick man's comfort, and he lay now, pale, worn, and wan, but no longer in pain, and by the bedside--a low narrow camp stretcher--sat a young soldier, holding from time to time a cup of water to the dry lips of the dying man. clumsy he might be, but there was no lack of tenderness in his manner or expression. "that's one of our men that the doctor sent in,' whispered montagu; 'the poor fellow there had been lying alone for two or three days, and no one knew. his greek servant--scoundrels those fellows are--had deserted him.' "jack cautiously approached the bed. "'this is mr. berkeley--jack berkeley of the th, whom you said you would like to see,' said captain montagu gently, stepping in front of jack. "the sick man's eyes lightened up, and a faint flush rose in his cheeks. he was very fair, and lying there looked very young, younger somehow than jack had expected. _had_ he ever seen him before? there was nothing remarkable about the face except its peculiarly gentle and placid expression--yet it was a face of considerable resolution as well, and there were lines about the mouth which told of endurance and fortitude, almost contradicting the wistfulness of the boyish-looking blue eyes. jack grew more and more puzzled. _something_ seemed familiar to him, yet---- "'how good, how very good of you to come. do you remember me, berkeley?' said the invalid, feebly stretching out a thin hand, which jack instinctively took and held gently in his own strong grasp. "jack hesitated. a look of disappointment overspread the pale face. "'i am afraid you don't know me. perhaps you would not have come if you had understood who it was.' "'i did not hear your name,' said jack, very gently, 'but, of course, hearing you wished to see me----' he hesitated. 'were we at ryeburn together?' "'yes,' said the dying man. 'my--my name is sawyer--philip sawyer--but you only knew my surname, of course.' "jack understood it all. even before the name was mentioned, the slight nervous stammer, the faint peculiarity of accent, had recalled to his memory the poor young junior master, whose short, apparently unsuccessful, ryeburn career had left its mark on the lives of others besides his own. "_jack_ understood--not so the sick man. he was surprised and almost bewildered by the eagerness with which his visitor received his announcement. "'sawyer, mr. sawyer!' he exclaimed. 'you cannot imagine how glad i am to see you again. i don't mean--i am terribly sorry to see you like this--but i have so often wished to find you, and i could never succeed in doing so.' "he turned as he spoke to captain montagu. "'i'll stay with him for an hour or two--as long as i can,' he said. 'i think,----' he added, glancing at the extempore sick-nurse, and hesitating a little. captain montagu understood the glance. "'come, watson,' he said to the young soldier, 'mr. berkeley will sit with--with mr.----' "'sawyer,' said jack. --"'with mr. sawyer for a while. shall he return in an hour, berkeley?' "'thank you, yes,' said jack, and then he found himself alone with his old master. "'you said you tried to trace me after i left ryeburn,' said sawyer. 'will you tell me why? there was no special reason for it, was there? i know i was disliked, but the sort of enmity i incurred must soon have died out. i was too insignificant for it to last. and the one great endeavour i made was to injure no one. that was why i left hurriedly--before i should be forced to make any complaints.' "he stopped--exhausted already by what he had said. 'and i have so much to say to him,' he whispered regretfully to himself. "'i know,' said jack sadly. 'i understood it all before you had left many months.' "mr. sawyer looked pleased but surprised. "'it is very kind of you to speak so,' he said. 'i remember that dear little brother of yours when he came to see me off that last morning--i remember his saying, 'i'm sure jack would have come if he had thought of it.' you don't know what a comfort the remembrance of that boy has been to me sometimes. you must tell him so. dear me--he must be nearly grown up. is he too in the army?' "'no, oh no,' said jack. 'he--he died the year after you knew him.' "sawyer's eyes looked up wistfully in jack's face. 'dead?' he said. 'that dear boy?' "'yes,' jack went on. 'it was of scarlet fever. it was very bad at ryeburn that half. we both had it, but i was soon well again. it was not till carlo was ill that he told me of having run over to wish you good-bye that morning--he had been afraid i would laugh at him for being soft-hearted--what a young brute i was--forgive my speaking so, sawyer, but i can't look back to that time without shame. what a life we led you, and how you bore it! you were too good for us.' "sawyer smiled. 'no,' he said. 'i cannot see it that way. i had not the knack of it--i was not fit for the position. the boys were very good boys, as boys go. it would have been inexcusable of me to have made them suffer for what, after all, was an unfortunate circumstance only. i had attempted what i could not manage. and carlo--he is dead--somehow, perhaps because i am so near death myself, it does not shock or startle me. dear little fellow that he was!' "'and while he was ill he was constantly talking about you. it seemed the only thing on his conscience, poor little chap, that he had joined at all in our treatment of you. and he begged me--i would have promised him anything, but by that time i saw it plainly enough for myself--to try to find you and ask you to forgive us both. but i little thought it would have been like this--i had fancied sometimes----' jack hesitated, and the colour deepened in his sunburnt cheeks. "'what?' said mr. sawyer. 'do not be afraid of my misunderstanding anything you say.' "'i had hoped perhaps that if i found you again i might be able to be of some use to you. and now it is too late. for you see we owe you some reparation for indirectly forcing you to leave ryeburn--you might have risen there--who knows? i can see now what a capital teacher you were.' "mr. sawyer shook his head. "'i know i could teach,' he said, 'but that was all. i did not understand boys' ways. i never was a boy myself. but put all this out of your mind, berkeley, for ever. in spite of all the disappointment, i was very happy at ryeburn. the living among so many healthy-minded happy human beings was a new and pleasant experience to me. short as it was, no part of my life has left a pleasanter remembrance. you say you would like to do something for me. will you write to my mother after i am gone, and tell her? tell her how little i suffered, and how good every one was to me, a perfect stranger. will you do this?' "jack bent his head. 'willingly,' he said. "'you will find her address in this book,' he went on, handing a thick leather pocket-book to jack. 'also a sort of will--roughly drawn up, but correctly--leaving her all i have, and the amount of that, and the bank it is in--all is noted. i have knocked about so--since i was at ryeburn i have tried so many things and been in so many places, i have learnt to face all eventualities. i was so pleased to get the chance of coming out here----' "he stopped again. "'you must not tire yourself so,' said jack. "'what does it matter? i can die so much more easily if i leave things clear--for, trifling as they are, my poor mother's comfort depends on them. and i am so glad too for you to understand about me, berkeley. that day--it went to my heart to have to refuse you about the subscription for the fireworks.' "'don't speak of it. i know you had some good motive,' said jack. "'necessity--sheer, hard necessity,' said poor sawyer. 'the money i had got that morning was only just in time to save my younger brother from life-long disgrace, perhaps imprisonment.' "then painfully--in short and broken sentences--he related to jack the history of his hard, sad, but heroic life. _he_ did not think it heroic--it seemed to him, in his single-minded conscientiousness, that he had done no more than his duty, and that but imperfectly. he had given his life for others, and, hardest of all, for others who had little appreciated his devotion. "'my father died when i was only about twelve,' he said. 'he had been a clergyman, but his health failed, and he had to leave england and take a small charge in switzerland. there he met my mother--a swiss, and there i was partly brought up. when he died he told me i must take his place as head of the family. i was not so attractive as my brother and sister; i was shy and reserved. naturally my mother cared most for them. i fear she was too indulgent. my sister married badly, and i had to try to help her. my poor brother, he was always in trouble and yet he meant well----' "and so he told jack the whole melancholy history, entering into details which i have forgotten, and which, even if i remembered them, it would be only painful to relate. his brother was now in america--doing well he hoped, thanks of course to him; his sister's circumstances too had improved. for the first time in his life sawyer had begun to feel his burdens lessening, when he was brought face to face with the knowledge that all in this world was over for him. uncomplainingly he had, through all these long years, borne the heat and burden of the day; rest for him was to be elsewhere, not here. but as he had met life, so he now met death--calmly and unrepiningly, certain that hard as it had been hard as it seemed now, it must yet be for the best--the solving of the riddle he left to god. "and his last thought was for others--for the mother who had so little appreciated him, who required to lose him, perhaps, to bring home to her his whole value. "'i have always foreseen the possibility of this,' he said, 'and prepared for it as best i could. besides the money i have confided to you, i insured my life, most fortunately, last year. she will have enough to get on pretty comfortably--and tell her,' he hesitated, 'i don't think she will miss me very much. i have never had the knack of drawing much affection to myself. but tell her i was quite satisfied that it is all for the best, and louis may yet return to cheer her old age.' "jack stayed till he could stay no longer. then, with a grasp of the hand which meant more than many words, he left his new, yet old friend, promising to be down again at kadikoi first thing in the morning. 'but take the papers with you, berkeley, the papers and the pocket-book, in case, you know----' were sawyer's last words to him. "jack was even earlier the next day than he had expected. but when he got to the tent the canvas door was drawn to. "'asleep?' he said to the doctor of the th hussars, who came up at that moment, recognizing him. "'yes,' said the doctor, bending his head reverently, as he said the word. "he unfastened the door, and signed to jack to follow him. jack understood--yes, asleep indeed. there he lay--all the pain and anxiety over, and as the two men gazed at the peaceful face, there came into jack's mind the same words which his mother had whispered over the dead face of his little brother, "'of such is the kingdom of heaven'." chapter xii. a christmas adventure. "with bolted doors and windows wedged, the care was all in vain; for there were noises in the night which nothing could explain." grandmamma and the fairies the children had gone quietly to bed the evening before when grandmother had finished the reading of her story. they just kissed her and said, "thank you, _dear_ grandmother," and that was all. but it was all she wanted. "i felt, you know," said molly to sylvia when they were dressing the next morning, "i felt a sort of feeling as if i'd been in church when the music was _awfully_ lovely. a beautiful feeling, but strange too, you know, sylvia? _particularly_ as uncle jack died too. when did he die? do you know, sylvia? was it at that place?" "what place?" said sylvia curtly. when her feelings were touched she had a way of growing curt and terse, sometimes even snappish. "that hot place--without trees, and all so dusty and dirty--kadi--kadi--i forget." "oh! you stupid girl kadikoi was only one little wee village. you mean the crimea--the crimea is the name of all the country about there--where the war was." "yes, of course. i _am_ stupid," said molly, but not at all as if she had any reason to be ashamed of the fact. "did he never come home from the crimea?" "no," said sylvia, curtly again, "he never came home." for an instant molly was silent. then she began again. "well, i wonder how the old lady, that poor nice man's mother, i mean--i wonder how she got the money and all that, that uncle jack was to settle for her. shall we ask grandmother, sylvia?" "no, of course not. what does it matter to us? of course it was all properly done. if it hadn't been, how would grandmother have known about it?" "i never thought of that. still i would like to know. i think," said molly meditatively, "i think i could get grandmother to tell without exactly asking--for fear, you know, of seeming to remind her about poor uncle jack." "you'd much better not," said sylvia, as she left the room. but once let molly get a thing well into her head, "trust her," as ralph said, "not to let it out again till it suited her." that very evening when they were all sitting together again, working and talking, all except aunty, busily writing at her little table in the corner, molly began. "grandmother dear," she said gently, "wasn't the old lady _dreadfully_ sorry when she heard he was dead?" for a moment grandmother stared at her in bewilderment--her thoughts had been far away. "what are you saying, my dear?" she asked. sylvia frowned at molly across the table. too well did she know the peculiarly meek and submissive tone of voice assumed by molly when bent on--had the subject been any less serious than it was, sylvia would have called it "mischief." "molly," she said reprovingly, finding her frowns calmly ignored. "what is it?" said molly sweetly. "i mean, grandmother dear," she proceeded, "i mean the mother of the poor nice man that uncle was so good to. wasn't she _dreadfully_ sorry when she heard he was dead?" "i think she was, dear," said grandmother unsuspiciously. "poor woman, whatever her mistakes with her children had been, i felt dreadfully sorry for her. i saw her a good many times, for your uncle sent me home all the papers and directions--'in case,' as poor sawyer had said of himself--so my jack said it." grandmother sighed; sylvia looked still more reproachfully at molly; molly pretended to be threading her needle. "and i got it all settled as her son had wished. he had arranged it so that she could not give away the money during her life. not long after, she went to america to her other son, and i believe she is still living. he got on very well, and is now a rich man. i had letters from them a few years ago--nice letters. i think it brought out the best of them--philip sawyer's death i mean. still--oh no--they did not care for him, alive or dead, as such a man deserved." "what a shame it seems!" said molly. "when _i_ have children," she went on serenely, "i shall love them all alike--whether they're ugly or pretty, if _anything_ perhaps the ugliest most, to make up to them, you see." "i thought you were never going to marry," said ralph. "for you're never going to england, and you'll never marry a frenchman." "englishmen might come here," replied molly. "and when you and sylvia go to england, you might take some of my photographs to show." this was too much. ralph laughed so that he rolled on the rug, and sylvia nearly fell off her chair. even grandmother joined in the merriment, and aunty came over from her corner to ask what it was all about. "i have finished my story," she said. "i am so glad." "and when, oh, when will you read it?" cried the children. "on the evening of the twenty-second of december. i fixed that while i was writing it, for that was the day it happened on," said aunty. "that will be next monday, and this is friday. not so very long to wait. and after all it's a very short story--not nearly so long as grandmother's." "never mind, we'll make it longer by talking about it," said molly. "that's how i did at home when i had a very small piece of cake for tea. i took one bite of cake to three or four of bread and butter. it made it seem much more." "i can perfectly believe that _you_ will be ready to provide the necessary amount of 'bread and butter' to eke out my story," said aunty gravely. and molly stared at her in such comical bewilderment as to what she meant, that she set them all off laughing again. monday evening came. aunty took her place at the table in front of the lamp, and having satisfied herself that molly's wants in the shape of needles and thread, thimble, etc., were supplied for the next half-hour at least, she began as follows:-- "a christmas adventure. "on the twenty-second of december, in the year eighteen hundred and fifty----" "no," said aunty, stopping short, "i can't tell you the year. molly would make all sorts of dreadful calculations on the spot, as to my exact age, and the date at which the first grey hairs might be looked for--i will only say eighteen hundred and _something_." "_fifty_ something," said molly promptly. "you did say that, aunty." "terrible child!" said aunty. "well, never mind, i'll begin again. on the twenty-second of december, in a certain year, i, laura berkeley, set out with my elder sister mary, on a long journey. we were then living on the western coast of england, or wales rather; we had to cross the whole country, for our destination was the neighbourhood, a few miles inland, of a small town on the _eastern_ coast. our journey was not one of pleasure--we were not going to spend 'a merry christmas' with near and dear friends and relations. we were going on business, and our one idea was to get it accomplished as quickly as possible, and hurry home to our parents again, for otherwise their christmas would be quite a solitary one. and as former christmases--before we children had been scattered, before there were vacant chairs round the fireside--had been among the happiest times of the year in our family, as in many others, we felt doubly reluctant to risk spending it apart from each other, we four--all that were left now! "'it is dreadfully cold, mary,' i said, when we were fairly off, dear mother gazing wistfully after us, as the train moved out of the station and her figure on the platform grew smaller and smaller, till at last we lost sight of it altogether. 'it is dreadfully cold, isn't it?' "we were tremendously well wrapped up--there were hot-water tins in the carriage, and every comfort possible for winter travellers. yet it was true. it was, as i said, bitterly cold. "'don't say that already, laura,' said mary anxiously, 'or i shall begin to wish i had stood out against your coming with me.' "'oh, dear mary, you couldn't have come alone,' i said. "i was only fifteen. my accompanying mary was purely for the sake of being a companion to her, though in my own mind i thought it very possible that, considering the nature of the 'business' we were bent upon, i might prove to be of practical use too. i must tell you what this same 'business' was. it was to choose a house. owing to my father's already failing health, we had left our own old home more than a year before, and till now we had been living in a temporary house in south wales. but my father did not like the neighbourhood, and fancied the climate did not suit him, and besides this we could not have had the house after the following april, had we wished it. so there had been great discussions about what we should do, where we should go rather, and much consultation of advertisement sheets and agents' lists. already mary had set off on several fruitless expeditions in quest of delightful 'residences' which turned out very much the reverse. but she had never before had to go such a long way as to east hornham, which was the name of the post-town near which were two houses to let, each seemingly so desirable that we really doubted whether it would not be difficult to resist taking _both_. my father had known east hornham as a boy, and though its neighbourhood was not strikingly picturesque, it was considered to be eminently healthy, and he was full of eagerness about it, and wishing he himself could have gone to see the houses. but that was impossible--impossible too for my mother to leave him even for three days; there was nothing for it but for mary to go, and at once. our decision in the case of one of the houses must not be delayed a day, for a gentleman had seen it and wanted to take it, only as the agent in charge of it considered that we had 'the first refusal,' he had written to beg my father to send some one to see it at once. "and thus it came about that mary and i set off by ourselves in this dreary fashion only two days before christmas! mother had proposed our taking a servant, but as we knew that the only one who would have been any use to us was the one of _most_ use to mother, we declared we should much prefer the 'independence' of going by ourselves. "by dint of much examination of bradshaw we had discovered that it was possible, just possible, to get to east hornham the same night about nine o'clock. "'that will enable us to get to bed early, after we have had some supper, and the next day we can devote to seeing the two houses, one or other of which _must_ suit us,' said mary, cheerfully. 'and starting early again the next day we may hope to be back with you on christmas eve, mother dear.' "the plan seemed possible enough,--one day would suffice for the houses, as there was no need as yet to go into all the details of the apportionment of rooms, and so on. that would be time enough in the spring, when we proposed to stay at east hornham for a week or two at the hotel there, and arrange our new quarters at leisure. it was running it rather close, however; the least hitch, such as failing to catch one train out of the many which mary had cleverly managed to fit in to each other, would throw our scheme out of gear; so mother promised not to be anxious if we failed to appear, and we, on our part, promised to telegraph if we met with any detention. "for the first half--three-quarters, i might say--of our journey we got on swimmingly. we caught all the trains; the porters and guards were civility itself; and as our only luggage was a small hand-bag that we carried ourselves, we had no trouble of any kind. when we got to fexel junction, the last important station we were to pass, our misfortunes began. here, by rights, we should have had a full quarter of an hour to wait for the express which should drop us at east hornham on its way north; but when the guard heard our destination he shook his head. "'the train's gone,' he said. 'we are more than half an hour late.' "and so it proved. a whole hour and a half had we to sit shivering, in spite of the big fire, in the fexel waiting-room, and it was eleven at night before, in the slowest of slow trains, we at last found ourselves within a few miles of east hornham. "our spirits had gone down considerably since the morning. we were very tired, and that has _very_ much more to do with people's spirits than almost any one realises. "'it wouldn't matter if we were going to friends,' said mary. 'but it does seem very strange and desolate--we two poor things, two days before christmas, arriving at midnight in a perfectly strange place, and nowhere to go to but an inn.' "'but think how nice it will be, getting home to mother again--particularly if we've settled it all nicely about the house,' i said. "and mary told me i was a good little thing, and she was very glad to have me with her. it was not usual for me to be the braver of the two, but you see i felt my responsibilities on this occasion to be great, and was determined to show myself worthy of them. "and when we did get to the inn, the welcome we received was worthy of dr. johnson's praise of inns in general. the fire was so bright, the little table so temptingly spread that the spirits--seldom long depressed--of one-and-twenty and fifteen rose at the sight. for we were hungry as well as tired, and the cutlets and broiled ham which the good people had managed to keep beautifully hot and fresh for us--possibly they were so accustomed to the railway eccentricities that they had only cooked them in time for our arrival by the later train, for we were told afterwards that no one ever _did_ catch the express at fexel junction,--the cutlets and ham, as i was saying, and the buttered toast, and all the other good things, were _so_ good that we made an excellent supper, and slept the sleep of two tired but perfectly healthy young people till seven o'clock the next morning. "we awoke refreshed and hopeful. but alas! when mary pulled up the blind what a sight met her eyes! snow--snow everywhere. "'what _shall_ we do?' she said. 'we can never judge of the houses in this weather. and how are we to get to them? dear me! how unlucky!' "'but it has left off, and it can't be very thick in these few hours,' i said, 'if only it keeps off now, we could manage.' "we dressed quickly, and had eaten our breakfast by half-past eight; for at nine, by arrangement, the agent was to call for us to escort us on our voyage of discovery. the weather gave promise of improving, a faint wintry sunshine came timidly out, and there seemed no question of more snow. when mr. turner, the agent, a respectable fatherly sort of man, made his appearance, he altogether pooh-poohed the idea of the roads being impassable; but he went on to say that, to his great regret, it was perfectly impossible for him to accompany us. mr. h----, mr. walter h----, that is to say, the younger son of the owner of the grange, the larger of the two houses we were to see, had arrived unexpectedly, and mr. turner was obliged to meet him about business. "'i have managed the business about here for them since they left the grange, and mr. walter is only here for a day,' said the communicative mr. turner. 'it is most unfortunate. but i have engaged a comfortable carriage for you, miss berkeley, and a driver who knows the country thoroughly, and is a very steady man. and, if you will allow me, i will call in this evening to hear what you think of the houses--which you prefer.' he seemed to be quite sure we should fix for one or other. "'thank you, that will do very well,' said mary,--not in her heart, to tell the truth, sorry that we were to do our house-hunting by ourselves. 'we shall get on quite comfortably, i am sure, mr. turner. which house shall we go to see first?' "'the farthest off, i would advise,' said mr. turner. 'that is hunter's hall. it is eight miles at least from this, and the days are so short.' "'is that the old house with the terraced garden?' i asked. "mr. turner glanced at me benevolently. "'oh no, miss,' he said. 'the terraced garden is at the grange. hunter's hall is a nice little place, but much smaller than the grange. the gardens at the grange are really quite a show in summer.' "'perhaps they will be too much for us,' said mary. 'my father does not want a very large place, you understand, mr. turner--not being in good health he does not wish to have the trouble of looking after much.' "'i don't think you would find it too much,' said mr. turner. 'the head gardener is to be left at mr. h----'s expense, and he is very trustworthy. but i can explain all these details this evening if you will allow me, after you have seen the house,' and, so saying, the obliging agent bade us good morning. "'i am sure we shall like the grange the best,' i said to mary, when, about ten o'clock, we found ourselves in the carriage mr. turner had provided for us, slowly, notwithstanding the efforts of the two fat horses that were drawing us, making our way along the snow-covered roads. "'i don't know,' said mary. 'i am afraid of its being too large. but certainly hunter's hall is a long way from the town, and that is a disadvantage.' "a _very_ long way it seemed before we got there. "'i could fancy we had been driving nearly twenty miles instead of eight,' said mary, when at last the carriage stopped before a sort of little lodge, and the driver informed us we must get out there, there being no carriage drive up to the house. "'objection number one,' said mary, as we picked our steps along the garden path which led to the front door. 'father would not like to have to walk along here every time he went out a drive. dear me!' she added, 'how dreadfully difficult it is to judge of any place in snow! the house looks so dirty, and yet very likely in summer it is a pretty bright white house.' "it was not a bad little house: there were two or three good rooms downstairs and several fairly good upstairs, besides a number of small inconvenient rooms that might have been utilised by a very large family, but would be no good at all to us. then the kitchens were poor, low-roofed, and straggling. "'it might do,' said mary doubtfully. 'it is more the look of it than anything else that i dislike. it does not look as if gentle-people had lived in it--it seems like a better-class farm-house.' "and so it proved to be, for on inquiry we learnt from the woman who showed us through, that it never had been anything but a farm-house till the present owner had bought it, improved it a little, and furnished it in a rough-and-ready fashion for a summer residence for his large family of children. "'we should need a great deal of additional furniture,' said mary. 'much of it is very poor and shabby. the rent, however, is certainly very low--to some extent that would make up.' "then we thanked the woman in charge, and turned to go. 'dear me!' said mary, glancing at her watch, 'it is already half-past twelve. i hope the driver knows the way to the grange, or it will be dark before we get there. how far is it from here to east hornham?' she added, turning again to our guide. "'ten miles good,' said the woman. "'i thought so,' said mary. 'i shall have a crow to pluck with that mr. turner for saying it was only eight. and how far to the grange?' "'which grange, miss? there are two or three hereabouts.' "mary named the family it belonged to. "'oh it is quite seven miles from here, though not above two from east hornham.' "'seven and two make nine,' said mary. 'why didn't you bring us here past the grange? it is a shorter way,' she added to the driver, as we got into the carriage again. "the man touched his hat respectfully, and replied that he had brought us round the other way that we might see more of the country. "we laughed to ourselves at the idea of seeing the country, shut up in a close carriage and hardly daring to let the tips of our noses peep out to meet the bitter, biting cold. besides, what was there to see? it was a flat, bare country, telling plainly of the near neighbourhood of the sea, and with its present mantle of snow, features of no kind were to be discerned. roads, fields, and all were undistinguishable. "'i wonder he knows his way,' we said to each other more than once, and as we drove on farther we could not resist a slight feeling of alarm as to the weather. the sky grew unnaturally dark and gloomy, with the blue-grey darkness that so often precedes a heavy fall of snow, and we felt immensely relieved when at last the carriage slackened before a pair of heavy old-fashioned gates, which were almost immediately opened by a young woman who ran out from one of the two lodges guarding each a side of the avenue. "the drive up to the house looked very pretty even then--or rather as if it would be exquisitely so in spring and summer time. "'i'm sure there must be lots and lots of primroses and violets and periwinkles down there in those woody places,' i cried. 'oh mary, mary, _do_ take this house.' "mary smiled, but i could see that she too was pleased. and when we saw the house itself the pleasant impression was not decreased. it was built of nice old red stone, or brick, with grey mullions and gables to the roof. the hall was oak wainscotted all round, and the rooms that opened out of it were home-like and comfortable, as well as spacious. certainly it was too large, a great deal too large, but then we could lock off some of the rooms. "'people often do so,' i said. 'i think it is a delicious house, don't you, mary?' "one part was much older than the other, and it was curiously planned, the garden, the terraced garden behind which i had heard of, rising so, that after going upstairs in the house you yet found yourself on a level with one part of this garden, and could walk out on to it through a little covered passage. the rooms into which this passage opened were the oldest of all--one in particular, tapestried all round, struck me greatly. "'i hope it isn't haunted,' i said suddenly. mary smiled, but the young woman looked grave. "'you don't mean to say it _is_?' i exclaimed. "'well, miss, i was housemaid here several years, and i certainly never saw nor heard nothing. but the young gentlemen did used to say things like that for to frighten us, and for me i'm one as never likes to say as to those things that isn't for us to understand.' "'i do believe it _is_ haunted,' i cried, more and more excited, and though mary checked me i would not leave off talking about it. "we were turning to go out into the gardens when an exclamation from mary caught my attention. "'it is snowing again and _so_ fast,' she said, 'and just see how dark it is.' "''twill lighten up again when the snow leaves off, miss,' said the woman. 'it is not three o'clock yet. i'll make you a bit of fire in a minute if you like, in one of the rooms. in here----' she added, opening the door of a small bedroom next to the tapestry room, 'it'll light in a minute, the chimney can't be cold, for there was one yesterday. i put fires in each in turns.' "we felt sorry to trouble her, but it seemed really necessary, for just then our driver came to the door to tell us he had had to take out the horses and put them into the stable. "'they seemed dead beat,' he said, 'with the heavy roads. and besides it would be impossible to drive in the midst of such very thick falling snow. 'twould be better to wait an hour or two, till it went off. there was a bag in the carriage--should he bring it in?' "we had forgotten that we had brought with us some sandwiches and buns. in our excitement we had never thought how late it was, and that we must be hungry. now, with the prospect of an hour or two's enforced waiting with nothing to do, we were only too thankful to be reminded of our provisions. the fire was already burning brightly in the little room--'mr. walter's room' the young woman called it--'that must be the gentleman that was to be with mr. turner to-day,' i whispered to mary--and she very good-naturedly ran back to her own little house to fetch the necessary materials for a cup of tea for us. "'it is a fearful storm,' she informed us when she ran back again, white from head to foot, even with the short exposure, and indeed from the windows we could see it for ourselves. 'the snow is coming that thick and fast, i could hardly find my own door,' she went on, while she busied herself with preparations for our tea. 'it is all very well in summer here, but it is lonesome-like in winter since the family went away. and my husband's been ill for some weeks too--i have to sit up with him most nights. last night, just before the snow began, i did get such a fright--all of a sudden something seemed to come banging at our door, and then i heard a queer breathing like. i opened the door, but there was nothing to be seen, but perhaps it was that that made me look strange when miss here,' pointing to me, 'asked me if the house was haunted. whatever it was that came to our door certainly rushed off this way.' "'a dog, or even a cat, perhaps,' said mary. "the woman shook her head. "'a cat couldn't have made such a noise, and there's not a dog about the place,' she said. "i listened with great interest--but mary's thoughts were otherwise engaged. there was not a doubt that the snow-storm, instead of going off, was increasing in severity. we drank our tea and ate our sandwiches, and put off our time as well as we could till five o'clock. it was now of course perfectly dark but for the light of the fire. we were glad when our friend from the lodge returned with a couple of tallow candles, blaming herself for having forgotten them. "'i really don't know what we should do,' said mary to her. 'the storm seems getting worse and worse. i wonder what the driver thinks about it. is he in the house, do you know?' "'he's sitting in our kitchen, miss,' replied the young woman. 'he seems very much put about. shall i tell him to come up to speak to you?' "'thank you, i wish you would,' said mary. 'but i am really sorry to bring you out so much in this dreadful weather.' "the young woman laughed cheerfully. "'i don't mind it a bit, miss,' she said; 'if you only knew how glad i shall be if you come to live here. nothing'd be a trouble if so be as we could get a kind family here again. 'twould be like old times.' "she hastened away, and in a few minutes returned to say that the driver was downstairs waiting to speak to us----" "laura, my dear," said grandmother, "do you know it is a quarter to ten. how much more is there?" aunty glanced through the pages-- "about as much again," she said. "no, scarcely so much." "well then, dears, it must wait till to-morrow," said grandmother. "_oh_, grandmother!" remonstrated the children. "aunty said it was a shorter story than yours, grandmother," said molly in a half reproachful voice. "and are you disappointed that it isn't?" said aunty, laughing. "i really didn't think it was so long as it is." "oh! aunty, i only wish it was _twenty_ times as long," said molly. "i shouldn't mind hearing it all over again this minute, only you see i do dreadfully want to hear the end. i am sure they had to stay there all night, and that something frightens them. oh it's 'squisitely delicious," she added, "jigging" up and down on her chair. "you're a 'squisitely delicious little humbug," said aunty, laughing. "now good-night all three of you, and get to bed as fast as you can, as i don't want 'grandmother dear' to scold me for your all being tired and sleepy to-morrow." chapter xiii. a christmas adventure.--part ii. "and as for poor old rover, i'm sure he meant no harm." old doggie. "molly is too sharp by half," said aunty, the following evening, when she was preparing to go on with her story. "we _had_ to stay there all night--that was the result of mary's conversation with the driver, the details of which i may spare you. let me see, where was i? 'the driver scratched his head,'--no,--ah, here it is! 'he was waiting downstairs to speak to us; 'and the result of the speaking i have told you, so i'll go on from here---- "it was so cold downstairs in the fireless, deserted house, that mary and i were glad to come upstairs again to the little room where we had been sitting, which already seemed to have a sort of home-like feeling about it. but once arrived there we looked at each other in dismay. "'isn't it dreadful, mary?' i said. "'and we shall miss the morning train from east hornham--the only one by which we can get through the same day--that is the worst of all,' she said. "'can't we be in time? it is only two or three miles from here to east hornham,' i said. "'yes, but you forget i _must_ see mr. turner again. if i fix to take this house, and it seems very likely, i must not go away without all the particulars for father. there are ever so many things to ask. i have a list of father's, as long as my arm, of questions and inquiries.' "'ah, yes,' i agreed; 'and then we have to get our bag at the hotel, and to pay our bill there.' "'and to choose rooms there to come to at first,' said mary. 'oh yes, our getting away by that train is impossible. and then the christmas trains are like sunday. even by travelling all night we cannot get home, i fear. i must telegraph to mother as soon as we get back to east hornham.' "the young woman had not returned. we were wondering what had become of her when she made her appearance laden with everything she could think of for our comfort. the bed, she assured us, could not be damp, as it had been 'to the fire' all the previous day, and she insisted on putting on a pair of her own sheets, coarse but beautifully white, and fetching from another room additional blankets, which in their turn had to be subjected to 'airing,' or 'firing' rather. to the best of her ability she provided us with toilet requisites, apologising, poor thing, for the absence of what we 'of course, must be used to,'--as she expressed it, in the shape of fine towels, perfumed soap, and so on. and she ended by cooking us a rasher of bacon and poached eggs for supper, all the materials for which refection she had brought from her own cottage. she was so kind that i shrank from suggesting to mary the objection to the proposed arrangement, which was all this time looming darkly before me. but when our friend was about to take her leave for the night i could keep it back no longer. "'mary,' i whispered, surprised and somewhat annoyed at my sister's calmness, 'are you going to let her go away? you and i _can't_ stay here all night alone.' "'do you mean that you are frightened, laura dear?' she said kindly, in the same tone. 'i don't see that there is anything to be frightened of; and if there were, what good would another girl--for this young woman is very little older than i--do us?' "'she knows the house, any way, and it wouldn't seem so bad,' i replied, adding aloud, 'oh, mrs. atkins'--for i had heard the driver mention her name--'can't you stay in the house with us? we shall feel so dreadfully strange.' "'i would have done so most gladly, miss,' the young woman began, but mary interrupted her. "'i know you can't,' she said; 'your husband is ill. laura, it would be very wrong of us to propose such a thing.' "'that's just how it is,' said mrs. atkins. 'my husband has such bad nights he can't be left, and there's no one i could get to sit with him. besides, it's such a dreadful night to seek for any one.' "'then the driver,' i said; 'couldn't he stay somewhere downstairs? he might have a fire in one of the rooms.' "mrs. atkins wished it had been thought of before. 'giles,'--which it appeared was the man's name--would have done it in a minute, she was sure, but it was too late. he had already set off to seek a night's lodging and some supper, no doubt, at a little inn half a mile down the road. "'an inn?' i cried. 'i wish we had gone there too. it would have been far better than staying here.' "'oh, it's a very poor place--'the drover's rest,' they call it. it would never do for you, miss,' said mrs. atkins, looking distressed that all her efforts for our comfort appeared to have been in vain. 'giles might ha' thought of it himself,' she added, 'but then you see it would never strike him but what here--in the grange--you'd be as safe as safe. it's not a place for burglaries and such like, hereabouts.' "'and of course we shall be quite safe,' said mary. 'laura dear, what has made you so nervous all of a sudden?' "i did not answer, for i was ashamed to speak of mrs. atkins' story of the strange noises she had heard the previous night, which evidently mary had forgotten, but i followed the young woman with great eagerness, to see that we were at least thoroughly well defended by locks and bolts in our solitude. the tapestry room and that in which we were to sleep could be locked off from the rest of the empty house, as a door stood at the head of the little stair leading up to them--so far, so well. but mrs. atkins proceeded to explain that the door at the _outside_ end of the other passage, leading into the garden, could not be locked except from the outside. "'i can lock you in, if you like, miss,' she said, 'and come round first thing in the morning;' but this suggestion did not please us at all. "'no, thank you,' said mary, 'for if it is fine in the morning i mean to get up very early and walk round the gardens.' "'no, thank you,' said i, adding mentally, 'supposing we _were_ frightened it would be too dreadful not to be able to get out.'--'but we can lock the door from the tapestry room into the passage, from our side, can't we?' i said, and mrs. atkins replied 'oh yes, of course you can, miss,' turning the key in the lock of the door as she spoke. 'master never let the young gentlemen lock the doors when they were boys,' she added, 'for they were always breaking the locks. so you see, miss, there's a hook and staple to this door, as well as the lock.' "'thank you, mrs. atkins,' said mary, 'that will do nicely, i am sure. and now we must really not keep you any longer from your husband. good-night, and thank you very much.' "'good-night,' i repeated, and we both stood at the door of the passage as she made her way out into the darkness. the snow was still falling very heavily, and the blast of cold wind that made its way in was piercing. "'oh, mary, come back to the fire,' i cried. 'isn't it _awfully_ cold? oh, mary dear,' i added, when we had both crouched down beside the welcome warmth for a moment, 'won't it be _delicious_ to be back with mother again? we never thought we'd have such adventures, did we? can you fancy this house ever feeling _home-y_, mary? it seems so dreary now.' "'yes, but you've no idea how different it will seem even to-morrow morning, if it's a bright day,' said mary. 'let's plan the rooms, laura. don't you think the one to the south with the crimson curtains will be best for father?' "so she talked cheerfully, more, i am sure--though i did not see it at the time--to encourage me than to amuse herself. and after awhile, when she saw that i was getting sleepy, she took a candle into the outer room, saying she would lock the door and make all snug for the night. i heard her, as i thought, lock the door, then she came back into our room and also locked the door leading from it into the tapestry room. "'you needn't lock that too,' i said sleepily; 'if the tapestry door is locked, we're all right!' "'i think it's better,' said mary quietly, and then we undressed, so far as we could manage to do so in the extremely limited state of our toilet arrangements, and went to bed. "i fell asleep at once. mary, she afterwards told me, lay awake for an hour or two, so that when she did fall asleep her slumber was unusually profound. i think it must have been about midnight when i woke suddenly, with the feeling--the indescribable feeling--that something had awakened me. i listened, first of all with _only_ the ear that happened to be uppermost--then, as my courage gradually returned again, i ventured to move slightly, so that both ears were uncovered. no, nothing was to be heard. i was trying to compose myself to sleep again, persuading myself that i had been dreaming, when again--yes most distinctly--there _was_ a sound. a sort of shuffling, scraping noise, which seemed to come from the direction of the passage leading from the tapestry room to the garden. fear made me selfish. i pushed mary, then shook her gently, then more vigorously. "'mary,' i whispered. 'oh, mary, _do_ wake up. i hear such a queer noise.' "mary, poor mary awoke, but she had been very tired. it was a moment or two before she collected her faculties. "'where are we? what is it?' she said. then she remembered. 'oh yes--what is the matter, laura?' "'listen,' i said, and mary, calmly self-controlled as usual, sat up in bed and listened. the sound was quite distinct, even louder than i had heard it. "'oh, mary!' i cried. 'somebody's trying to get in. oh, mary, what _shall_ we do? oh, i am so frightened. i shall die with fright. oh, i wish i had never come!' "i was on the verge of hysterics, or something of the kind. "mary, herself a little frightened, as she afterwards confessed--in the circumstances what young girl could have helped being so?--turned to me quietly. something in the very tone of her voice seemed to soothe me. "'laura dear,' she said gravely, 'did you say your prayers last night?' "'oh yes, oh yes, indeed i did. but i'll say them again now if you like,' i exclaimed. "even then, mary could hardly help smiling. "'that isn't what i meant,' she said. 'i mean, what is the _good_ of saying your prayers if you don't believe what you say?' "'but i do, i do,' i sobbed. "'then why are you so terrified? you asked god to take care of you. when you said it you believed he would. why not believe it now? _now_, when you are tried, is the time to show if you do mean what you say. i am sure god _will_ take care of us. now try, dear, to be reasonable, and i will get up and see what it is.' "'but don't leave me, and i will try to be good,' i exclaimed, jumping out of bed at the same moment that she did, and clinging to her as she moved. 'oh, mary, don't you think perhaps we'd better go back to bed and put our fingers in our ears, and by morning it wouldn't seem anything.' "'and fancy ever after that there had been something mysterious, when perhaps it is something quite simple,' said mary. 'no, i shouldn't like that at all. of course i won't do anything rash, but i would like to find out.' "'the fire, fortunately, was not yet quite out. mary lighted one of the candles with a bit of paper from a spark which she managed to coax into a flame. the noise had, in the meantime, subsided, but just as we had got the candle lighted, it began again. "'now,' said mary, 'you stay here, laura, and i'll go into the next room and listen at the passage door.' she spoke so decidedly that i obeyed in trembling. mary armed herself with the poker, and, unlocking our door, went into the tapestry room, first lighting the second candle, which she left with me. she crossed the room to the door as she had said. _i_ thought it was to listen; in reality her object was to endeavour to turn the key in the lock of the tapestry room door, which she had _not_ been able to do the night before, for once the door was shut the key would not move, and she had been obliged to content herself with the insecure hold of the hook and staple. now it had struck her that by inserting the poker in the handle of the key she might succeed in turning it, and thus provide ourselves with a double defence. for if the intruder--dog, cat, whatever it was--burst the outer door and got into the tapestry room, my fears, she told me afterwards, would, she felt sure, have become uncontrollable. it was a brave thing to do--was it not? she deserved to succeed, and she did. with the poker's help she managed to turn the key, and then with a sigh of relief she stood still for a moment listening. the sounds continued--whatever it was it was evidently what mrs. atkins had heard the night before--a shuffling, rushing-about sound, then a sort of impatient breathing. mary came back to me somewhat reassured. "'laura,' she said, 'i keep to my first opinion. it is a dog, or a cat, or some animal.' "'but suppose it is a _mad_ dog?' i said, somewhat unwilling to own that my terrors had been exaggerated. "'it is possible, but not probable,' she replied. 'any way it can't get in here. now, laura, it is two o'clock by my watch. there is candle enough to last an hour or two, and i will make up the fire again. get into bed and _try_ to go to sleep, for honestly i do not think there is any cause for alarm.' "'but mary, i _can't_ go to sleep unless you come to bed too, and if you don't, i can't believe you think it's nothing,' i said. so, to soothe me, she gave up her intention of remaining on guard by the fire, and came to bed, and, wonderful to relate, we both went to sleep, and slept soundly till--what o'clock do you think? "it was _nine_ o'clock when i awoke; mary was standing by me fully dressed, a bright frosty sun shining into the room, and a tray with a cup of tea and some toast and bacon keeping hot by the fire. "'oh, mary!' i cried, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. "'are you rested?' she said. 'i have been up since daylight--not so very early _that_, at this season--mrs. atkins came and brought me some breakfast, but we hadn't the heart to waken you, you poor child.' "'and oh, mary, what about the noise? did she hear it?' "'she wasn't sure. she half fancied she did, and then she thought she might have been imagining it from the night before. but get up, dear. it is hopeless to try for the early train; we can't leave till to-night, or to-morrow morning; but i am anxious to get back to east hornham and see mr. turner. and before we go i'd like to run round the gardens.' "'but, mary,' i said, pausing in my occupation of putting on my stockings, 'are you still thinking of taking this house?' "'still!' said mary. 'why not?' "'because of the noises. if we can't find out what it is, it would be very uncomfortable. and with father being so delicate too, and often awake at night!' "mary did not reply, but my words were not without effect. we ran round the gardens as she had proposed--they were lovely even then--took a cordial farewell of mrs. atkins, and set off on our return drive to east hornham. i must not forget to tell you that we well examined that part of the garden into which the tapestry room passage led, but there were no traces of footsteps, the explanation of which we afterwards found to be that the snow had continued to fall till much later in the night than the time of our fright. "mr. turner was waiting for us in considerable anxiety. we had done, he assured us, the most sensible thing possible in the circumstances. he had not known of our non-arrival till late in the evening, and, but for his confidence in giles, would have set off even then. as it was, he had sent a messenger to hunter's hall, and was himself starting for the grange. "mary sent me out of the room while she spoke to him, at which i was not over well pleased. she told him all about the fright we had had, and that, unless its cause were explained, it would certainly leave an uncomfortable feeling in her mind, and that, considering our father's invalid state, till she had talked it over with our mother she could not come to the decision she had hoped. "'it may end in our taking hunter's hall,' she said, 'though the grange is far more suitable.' "mr. turner was concerned and perplexed. but mary talked too sensibly to incline him to make light of it. "'it is very unfortunate,' he said; 'and i promised an answer to the other party by post this evening. and you say, miss berkeley, that mrs. atkins heard it too. you are _sure_, miss, you were not dreaming?' "'_quite_ sure. it was my sister that heard it, and woke me,' she replied; 'and then we both heard it.' "mr. turner walked off, metaphorically speaking, scratching his head, as honest giles had done literally in his perplexity the night before. he promised to call back in an hour or two, when he had been to the station and found out about the trains for us. "we packed our little bag and paid the bill, so that we might be quite ready, in case mr. turner found out any earlier train by which we might get on, for we had telegraphed to mother that we should do our best to be back the next day. i was still so sleepy and tired that mary persuaded me to lie down on the bed, in preparation for the possibility of a night's journey. i was _nearly_ asleep when a tap came to the door, and a servant informed mary that a gentleman was waiting to speak to her. "'mr. turner,' said she carelessly, as she passed into the sitting-room. "but it was not mr. turner. in his place she found herself face to face with a very different person--a young man, of seven or eight and twenty, perhaps, tall and dark--dark-haired and dark-eyed that is to say--grave and quiet in appearance, but with a twinkle in his eyes that told of no lack of humour. "'i must apologise for calling in this way, miss berkeley,' he said at once, 'but i could not help coming myself to tell how _very_ sorry i am about the fright my dog gave you last night at the grange. i have just heard of it from mr. turner.' "'your dog?' repeated mary, raising her pretty blue eyes to his face in bewilderment. "'yes,' he said, 'he ran off to the grange--his old home, you know--oh, i beg your pardon! i am forgetting to tell you that i am walter h----,--in the night, and must have tried to find his way into my room in the way he used to do. i always left the door unlatched for him.' "instead of replying, mary turned round and flew straight off into the room where i was. "'oh, laura,' she exclaimed, 'it _was_ a dog; mr. walter h---- has just come to tell us. are you not delighted? now we can fix for the grange at once, and it will all be right. come quick, and hear about it.' "i jumped up, and, without even waiting to smooth my hair, hurried back into the sitting-room with mary. our visitor, very much amused at our excitement, explained the whole, and sent downstairs for 'captain,' a magnificent retriever, who, on being told to beg our pardon, looked up with his dear pathetic brown eyes in mary's face in a way that won her heart at once. his master, it appeared, had been staying at east hornham the last two nights with an old friend, the clergyman there. both nights, on going to bed late, he had missed 'captain,' whose usual habit was to sleep on a mat at his door. the first night he was afraid the dog was lost, but to his relief he reappeared again early the next morning; the second night, also, his master happening to be out late at mr. turner's, with whom he had a good deal of business to settle, the dog had set off again on his own account to his former quarters, with probably some misty idea in his doggy brain that it was the proper thing to do. "'but how did you find out where he had been?' said i. "'i went out early this morning, feeling rather anxious about 'captain,'' said our visitor; 'and i met him coming along the road leading from the grange. where he had spent the night after failing to get into his old home i cannot tell; he must have sheltered somewhere to get out of the snow and the cold. later this morning i walked on to the grange, and, hearing from ruth atkins of your fright and her own, i put 'two and two together,' and i think the result quite explains the noises you heard.' "'quite,' we both said; 'and we thank you so much for coming to tell us.' "'it was certainly the very least i could do,' he said; 'and i thank you very much for forgiving poor old captain.' "so we left east hornham with lightened hearts, and, as our new friend was travelling some distance in our direction, he helped us to accomplish our journey much better than we could have managed it alone. and after all we _did_ get back to our parents on christmas day, though not on christmas eve." aunty stopped. "then you did take the grange, aunty?" said the children. aunty nodded her head. "and you never heard any more noises?" "never," said aunty. "it was the pleasantest of old houses; and oh, we were sorry to leave it, weren't we, mother?" "why did you leave it, grandmother dear?" said molly. "when your grandfather's health obliged him to spend the winters abroad; then we came here," said grandmother. "oh yes," said molly, adding after a little pause, "i _would_ like to see that house." aunty smiled. "few things are more probable than that you will do so," she said, "provided you can make up your mind to cross the sea again." "why? how do you mean, aunty?" said molly, astonished, and ralph and sylvia listened with eagerness to aunty's reply. "because," said aunty,--then she looked across to grandmother. "won't you explain to them, mother?" she said. "because, my darlings, that dear old house will be your home--your happy home, i trust, some day," said grandmother. "is my father thinking of buying it?" asked ralph, pricking up his ears. "no, my boy, but some day it will be his. it is your uncle's now, but he is _much_ older than your father, and has no children, so you see it will come to your father some day--sooner than we have thought, perhaps, for your uncle is too delicate to live in england, and talks of giving it up to your father." "but _still_ i don't understand," said ralph, looking puzzled. "did my _uncle_ buy it?" "no, no. did you never hear of old alderwood grange?" "alderwood," said ralph. "of _course_, but we never speak of it as 'the grange,' you know, and i have never seen it. it has always been let since i can remember. i never even heard it described. papa does not seem to care to speak of it." "no, dear," said aunty. "the happiest part of his life began there, and you know how all the light seemed to go out of his life when your mother died. it was there he--captain's master--got to know her, the 'mary' of my little adventure. you understand it all now? he was a great deal in the neighbourhood--at the little town i called east hornham--the summer we first came to alderwood. and there they were married; and there, in the peaceful old church-yard, your dear mother is buried." the children listened with sobered little faces. "poor papa!" they said. "but some day," said grandmother, "some day i hope, when you three are older, that alderwood will again be a happy home for your father. it is what your mother would have wished, i know." "well then, you and aunty must come to live with us there. you must. promise now, grandmother dear," said molly. grandmother smiled, but shook her head gently. "grandmother will be a _very_ old woman by then, my darling," she said, "and perhaps----" molly pressed her little fat hand over grandmother's mouth. "i know what you're going to say, but you're _not_ to say it," she said. "and _every_ night, grandmother dear, i ask in my prayers for you to live to be a hundred." grandmother smiled again. "do you, my darling?" she said. "but remember, whatever we _ask_, god knows best what to _answer_." chapter xiv. how this book came to be written. "ring out ye merry, merry bells, your loudest, sweetest chime; tell all the world, both rich and poor, 'tis happy christmas time." "grandmother," said ralph, at breakfast on what molly called "the morning of christmas eve," "i was going to ask you, only the story last night put it out of my head, if i might ask prosper to spend to-morrow with us. his uncle and aunt are going away somewhere, and he will be quite alone. besides he and i have made a plan about taking the shawl to the old woman quite early in the morning. you don't know _how_ pleased he was when i told him you had got it for her, grandmother--just as pleased as if he had bought it for her with his own money." "then he is a really unselfish boy," said grandmother. "certainly you may ask him. i had thought of it too, but somehow it went out of my head. and, as well as the shawl, i shall have something to send to prosper's old friend. she must have a good dinner for once." "that'll be awfully jolly," said ralph. sylvia and molly listened with approval, for of course they had heard all about the mystery of ralph's wood-carrying long ago. "at christmas time we're to try to make other people happy," said molly, meditatively. "_i_ thought of something that would make a great lot of people happy, if you and aunty would do it, grandmother dear?" "i don't think you did _all_ the thinking about it, molly," said sylvia, with a slight tone of reproach. "i do think i did some." "well, i daresay you did. we did it together. it couldn't be for _this_ christmas, but for another." "but what is it?" asked grandmother. "it is that you and aunty should make a book out of the stories you've told us, and then you see lots and lots of other children would be pleased as well as us," said molly. "of course you'd have to put more to it, to make it enough. i don't _mind_ if you put some in about me, grandmother dear, if you would _like_ to very much." "no," said sylvia, "that would be very stupid. grandmother couldn't make a book about _us_. we're not uncommon enough. we couldn't be _heroines_, molly." "but children don't care about heroines," said molly. "children like to hear about other children, just really what they do. now, don't they, grandmother dear? and _isn't_ my plan a good one?" * * * * * will _you_ answer little molly's question, children dear? for dear you all are, whoever and wherever you be. boys and girls, big and little, dark and fair, brown-eyed and blue-eyed, merry and quiet--all of you, dear unknown friends whose faces i may never see, yet all of whom i love. i shall be so glad--so very glad, if this little simple story-book of mine helps to make this christmas day a happy and merry one for you all. the end. * * * * * _macmillan's prize library_ a carefully selected series of illustrated books suitable for presentation. _baker, sir samuel w._ cast up by the sea. _besant, sir walter._ life of captain cook. _bradley, a. g._ life of wolfe. _buckland, frank._ curiosities of natural history. vols. i.-iii. _buckley, a. b._ through magic glasses. _butler, sir william._ general gordon. _cooper, j. fenimore._ the last of the mohicans. the deerslayer. the pathfinder. the pioneers. _corbett, sir julian._ for god and gold. sir francis drake. _creasy, sir e._ the fifteen decisive battles of the world. _dickens, charles._ oliver twist. the old curiosity shop. christmas books. barnaby rudge. _edgeworth, maria._ lazy lawrence and other stories. _eliot, george._ scenes of clerical life. _finny, violet geraldine._ revolt of the young maccormacks. _fowler, w. warde._ a year with the birds. tales of the birds. more tales of the birds. _fraser, edward._ famous fighters of the fleet. _gilmore, rev. john._ storm warriors; or life-boat work on the goodwin sands. _grimm, the bros._ household stories. _henley, w. e._ lyra heroica. a book of verse for boys. _hooper, g._ life of wellington. _hughes, t._ tom brown's school days. alfred the great. _keary, a. and e._ heroes of asgard. _kingsley, charles._ hereward the wake. westward ho! the heroes. the water-babies. madam how and lady why. glaucus. _kipling, rudyard._ selected stories. _laughton, sir j. k._ life of nelson. _marryat, captain._ newton forster. the pirate and the three cutters. peter simple. japhet in search of a father. mr. midshipman easy. masterman ready. the phantom ship. _metelerkamp, sanni._ outa karel's stories. _mitchell, s. weir._ the adventures of françois. _molesworth, mrs._ carrots. tell me a story. the tapestry room. the cuckoo clock. grandmother dear. herr baby. us. the rectory children. two little waifs. four winds farm. the ruby ring. mary. nurse heatherdale's story. the woodpigeons and mary. the story of a year. edmée. a tale of the french revolution. _morier, james._ the adventures of hajji baba. _norton, h. e._ a book of courtesy. _oman, sir c. w._ warwick the kingmaker. _perry, w. c._ the boy's iliad. the boy's odyssey. _scott, sir walter._ kenilworth. count robert of paris. _sharp, evelyn._ micky. the children who ran away. the other boy. the youngest girl in the school. _thackeray, w. m._ henry esmond. _yonge, charlotte m._ little duke. the prince and the page. unknown to history. the dove in the eagle's nest. the chaplet of pearls. teddy: the story of a little pickle by john conran hutcheson ________________________________________________________________ this short book is probably of more interest to ten or eleven year olds, rather than any other age group, for much of the book is taken up with describing sundry very juvenile misdemeanours. it is well written, but my personal opinion is that it is quite inconsequential. still, it was quite amusing to scan it, ocr it, and edit it. n.h. ________________________________________________________________ teddy: the story of a little pickle by john conran hutcheson. chapter one. an independent young gentleman. "i want do d'an'ma!" this sudden and unexpected exclamation, uttered as it was in a shrill little voice like that of a piping bullfinch, and coming from nowhere in particular, as far as he could make out, for he had fancied himself all alone on the platform, made the tall railway porter almost jump out of his skin, as he expressed it, startling him out of his seven senses. he was a stalwart, good-natured, black-bearded giant of a man, clad in a suit of dunduckety-mud-coloured velveteens, rather the worse for wear, and smeary with oil and engine-grease, which gave them a sort of highly- burnished appearance resembling that of a newly-polished black-leaded stove. doing nothing, and thinking of nothing specially, for the three-forty up-train had gone through the station, and it was a good hour yet before the five-ten down express was due, he had been lazily leaning in a half- dreamy and almost dozing state against the side of the booking-office. from this coign of vantage, he was, as well as his blinking eyes would allow, gazing out over the rails at the fast-falling flakes of feathery snow that were quickly covering up the metals and permanent way with a mantle of white; when, all at once, without a "by your leave," or seeing or hearing anyone approach, his attention was summarily brought back to the present by the strange announcement of the shrill little voice, while, at the same time, he felt the clutch of tiny fingers twitching at one of the legs of his shiny velveteen trousers, evidently as a further means of attracting his notice. the touch made the porter look downwards, when, perceiving that his unknown interlocutor was a small mite barely reaching up to his knees, he became more reassured; and, bending his big body so as to bring his face somewhat on a level with the young person, he proceeded to interrogate him in familiar fashion. "well, my little man," he said, desiring to learn how he might be of service, for he was a genial willing fellow, and always anxious to oblige people when he knew how--"what's the matter?" "i want do d'an'ma!" repeated the small mite in the same piping tones as before, speaking with the utmost assurance and in the most matter-of- fact way. it seemed as if, having now explicitly notified his wants and wishes, he confidently looked forward, in all the innocent trust of childhood, to their being instantly acted upon and carried out without any demur or hesitation. jupp, the porter, was quite flabbergasted by the little chap's sang- froid; so, in order the better to collect his ideas and enable him to judge what was best to be done under the circumstances, he took off his flat-peaked uniform cap with one hand and scratched his head reflectively with the fingers of the other, as is frequently the wont of those possessed of thick skulls and wits that are apt to go wool- gathering. the operation appeared to have the effect desired; for, after indulging in this species of mental and physical cogitation for a moment or two, jupp ventured upon asking the mite another question which had brilliantly suggested itself to him as opportune. "where is your grandma, sir?" he inquired with more deference than he had used before. "don-don," replied the small person nonchalantly, as if the point was quite immaterial, looking the porter calmly and straight in the eyes unflinchingly, without turning a hair as the saying goes. jupp had never come across such a self-possessed young mannikin in his life before. why, he might have been the station-master or traffic- manager, he appeared so much at his ease! but, he was a little gentleman all the same, jupp could readily see, in spite of the fact that his costume was not quite suited for travelling, the mite being attired in a very prominent and dirty pinafore, while his chubby face was tear-stained, and he had the look of having come out in a hurry and being perhaps unprepared for the journey he contemplated; although, mind you, he had his luggage with him all right--a small bundle tied up in a large pocket-handkerchief of a bright-red colour, which he held tightly clasped to his little stomach as if afraid of its being taken from him. jupp hardly knew off-hand how to deal with the case, it being of a more perplexing nature than had previously come within range of his own personal experience; still, he had his suspicions, and thought it best to entertain the young person in conversation for a bit, until he should be able to find out something about his belongings and where he came from. "london's a large place, sir," he therefore observed tentatively, by way of drawing the mite out and getting some clue towards his identity. the little chap, however, was quite equal to the occasion. "don't tare," he said defiantly, checking the porter's artful attempt at cross-examination. "i want do d'an'ma!" certainly, he was a most independent young gentleman. jupp was at a nonplus again; however, he tried to temporise with the mite, the more especially from his noticing that his little legs were quite mottled and his tiny fingers blue with cold. "well, come in here, sir, at all events, and warm yourself, and then we can talk the matter over comfortably together," he said, throwing open the door of the waiting-room as he spoke, and politely motioning the little chap to enter. the mite made no reply to the invitation, but he tacitly accepted it by following the porter into the apartment he had indicated, and the two were presently seated before a glowing fire, on which jupp immediately emptied the scuttleful of coals, there being no stint of the fuel by reason of the company standing all expense. thawed by the genial warmth, rendered all the more enjoyable by the wintry scene outside, where the snow was now swirling down faster and faster as the afternoon advanced, the little chap began to get more communicative, egged on by jupp in a series of apparently innocent questions. "nussy bad ooman," he blurted out after a long silence, looking up at jupp and putting his hand on his knee confidingly. "indeed, sir?" said the other cautiously, leading him on. "ess, man," continued the mite. "see want take way my kitty." "you don't mean that, sir!" exclaimed jupp with well-feigned horror at such unprincipled behaviour on the part of the accused nurse. "ess, man, see did," replied the little chap, nodding his small curly head with great importance; but the next instant his little roguish blue eyes twinkled with suppressed intelligence, and his red rosebud of a mouth expanded into a happy smile as he added, with much satisfaction in his tones, "but i dot kitty all wite now!" "have you really, sir?" said jupp, pretending to be much surprised at the information, the little chap evidently expecting him to be so. "ess, man," cried the mite with a triumphant shout; "i'se dot po' 'ittle kitty here!" "never, sir!" ejaculated jupp with trembling eagerness, as if his life depended on the solution of the doubt. the little chap became completely overcome with merriment at having so successfully concealed his treasured secret, as he thought, that the porter had not even guessed it. "kitty's in dundle!" he exclaimed gleefully, hugging his handkerchief parcel tighter to his little stomach as he spoke. "i dot kitty here, all wite!" "you don't mean that, sir--not in that bundle o' yours surely, sir?" repeated jupp with deep fictitious interest, appearing still not quite convinced on the point and as if wishing to have the difficulty cleared up. this diplomatic course of procedure on the part of the porter removed any lingering scruples the mite had in respect of his good faith. "ess, man. i dot kitty here in dundle all wite," he repeated earnestly in his very impressive little way. "oo musn't tell nobody and i'll so her to 'oo!" "i won't breathe a word of it to a soul, sir," protested jupp as solemnly and gravely as if he were making his last dying deposition; whereupon the mite, quite convinced of the porter's trustworthiness and abandoning all further attempt at concealment, deposited his little bundle tenderly on the floor in front of the fireplace, and began to open it with much deliberation. the little fellow appeared so very serious about the matter, that jupp could not help trying to be serious too; but it required the exercise of all the self-command he possessed to refrain from laughing when the motley contents of the red handkerchief were disclosed. before the last knot of the bundle was untied by the mite's busy fingers there crawled out a tiny tortoise-shell kitten, with its diminutive little tail erect like a young bottle-brush, which gave vent to a "phiz- phit," as if indignant at its long confinement, and then proceeded to rub itself against jupp's leg, with a purring mew on recognising a friend. "so that's kitty," said jupp, holding the little thing up on his knee and stroking it affectionately, the animal signifying its satisfaction by licking the back of his hand with its furry little red tongue, and straightening its tiny tail again as stiff as a small poker. "ess, man. dat's kitty," murmured the mite, too much occupied undoing the last knots of the bundle to waste time in further speech for the moment, struggling as he was at the job with might and main. in another second, however, he had accomplished his task; and, lifting up the corners of the red handkerchief, he rolled out the whole stock of his valued possessions on to the floor. "dere!" he exclaimed with much complacency, looking up into jupp's face in expectation of his admiring surprise. the porter was again forced to act a part, and pretend that he could not guess anything. "dear me!" he said; "you have brought a lot of things! going to take 'em with you to london, sir?" "ess. da'n'ma tate tare of zem." "no doubt, sir," replied jupp, who then went on to inspect gingerly the different articles of the collection, which was very varied in character. they consisted, in addition to the tortoise-shell kitten fore-mentioned, of a musical snuff-box, a toy model of a ship, a small noah's ark, a half-consumed slice of bread and butter, an apple with a good-sized bite taken out of one side, a thick lump of toffee, and a darkish-brown substance like gingerbread, which close association in the bundle, combined with pressure, had welded together in one almost indistinguishable mass. "i suppose, sir," observed jupp inquiringly, picking up all the eatables and putting them together apart on the seat next the little man--"i suppose as how them's your provisions for the journey?" "ess. i ate dindin; an', dat's tea." "indeed, sir! and very nice things for tea too," said jupp, beaming with admiration and good-humoured fun. "i touldn't det any milk, or i'd bought dat too," continued the mite, explaining the absence of all liquid refreshment. "ah! that's a pity," rejoined the porter, thinking how well half a pint of milk would have mixed up with the other contents of the bundle; "but, perhaps, sir, the kitty would have lapped it up and there would have been none left. would you like a cup of tea now, sir? i'm just agoing to have mine; and if you'd jine me, i'd feel that proud you wouldn't know me again!" "dank 'oo, i'm so dirsty," lisped the little man in affable acquiescence; and, the next moment, jupp had spirited out a rough basket from under the seat in the corner, when extracting a tin can with a cork stopper therefrom, he put it on the fire to warm up. from a brown-paper parcel he also turned out some thick slices of bread that quite put in the shade the half-eaten one belonging to the mite; and as soon as the tea began to simmer in the tin over the coals, he poured out some in a pannikin, and handed it to his small guest. "now, sir, we'll have a regular picnic," he said hospitably. "all wite, dat's jolly!" shouted the other in great glee; and the two were enjoying themselves in the highest camaraderie, when, suddenly, the door of the waiting-room was opened from without, and the face of a buxom young woman peered in. "my good gracious!" exclaimed the apparition, panting out the words as if suffering from short breath, or from the effects of more rapid exertion than her physique usually permitted. "if there isn't the young imp as comfortably as you please; and me a hunting and a wild-goose chasing on him all over the place! master teddy, master teddy, you'll be the death of me some day, that you will!" jupp jumped up at once, rightly imagining that this lady's unexpected appearance would, as he mentally expressed it, "put a stopper" on the mite's contemplated expedition, and so relieve him of any further personal anxiety on his behalf, he having been puzzling his brains vainly for the last half hour how to discover his whereabouts and get him home to his people again; but, as for the little man himself, he did not seem in the least put out by the interruption of his plans. "dat nussy," was all he said, clutching hold of jupp's trouser leg, as at first, in an appealing way: "don't 'et her, man, tate away poor kitty!" "i won't sir, i promise you," whispered jupp to comfort him; however, before he could say any more, the panting female had drawn nearer from the doorway and come up close to the fireplace, the flickering red light from which made her somewhat rubicund countenance appear all the ruddier. chapter two. tells all about him. "pray, don't 'ee be angry wi' him, mum," said jupp appealingly, as the somewhat flustered female advanced towards the mite, laying hands on his collar with apparently hostile intentions. "i ain't a going to be angry," she replied a trifle crossly, as perhaps was excusable under the circumstances, carrying out the while, however, what had evidently been her original idea of giving the mite "a good shaking," and thereby causing his small person to oscillate violently to and fro as if he were crossing the bay of biscay in a dutch trawler with a choppy sea running. "i ain't angry to speak of; but he's that tormenting sometimes as to drive a poor creature a'most out of her mind! didn't i tell 'ee," she continued, turning round abruptly to the object of her wrath and administering an extra shake by way of calling him to attention. "didn't i tell 'ee as you weren't to go outdoors in all the slop and slush--didn't i tell 'ee now?" but in answer the mite only harked back to his old refrain. "i want do d'an'ma," he said with stolid defiance, unmoved alike by his shaking or the nurse's expostulation. "there, that's jest it," cried she, addressing jupp the porter again, seeing that he was a fine handsome fellow and well-proportioned out of the corner of her eye without looking at him directly, in that unconscious and highly diplomatic way in which women folk are able to reckon up each other on the sly and take mental stock of mankind. "ain't he aggravating? it's all that granma of his that spoils him; and i wish she'd never come nigh the place! when master teddy doesn't see her he's as good as gold, that he is, the little man!" she then, with the natural inconsequence and variability of her sex, immediately proceeded to hug and kiss the mite as affectionately as she had been shaking and vituperating him the moment before, he putting up with the new form of treatment as calmly and indifferently as he had received the previous scolding. "he's a fine little chap," said jupp affably, conceiving a better opinion of the nurse from her change of manner as well as from noticing, now that her temporary excitement had evaporated, that she was a young and comely woman with a very kindly face. "he told me as how he were going to lun'non." "did he now?" she exclaimed admiringly. "he's the most owdacious young gen'leman as ever was, i think; for he's capable, young as he is, not long turned four year old, of doin' a'most anything. look now at all them things of his as he's brought from home!" "that were his luggage like," observed jupp, smiling and showing his white teeth, which contrasted well with his black beard, making him appear very nice-looking really, the nurse thought. "the little rogue!" said she enthusiastically, hugging the mite again with such effusion that jupp wished he could change places with him, he being unmarried and "an orphan man," as he described himself, "without chick or child to care for him." "he ought to be a good 'un with you a looking after him," he remarked with a meaning glance, which, although the nurse noticed, she did not pretend to see. "so he is--sometimes, eh, master teddy?" she said, bending down again over the mite to hide a sudden flush which had made her face somehow or other crimson again. "ess," replied the hero of the occasion, who, soothed by all these social amenities passing around him, quickly put aside his stolid demeanour and became his little prattling self again. however, such was his deep foresight that he did not forget to grasp so favourable an opportunity for settling the initial difficulty between himself and nurse in the matter of the kitten, which had led up logically to all that had happened, and so prevent any misunderstanding on the point in future. "oo won't tate way kitty?" he asked pleadingly, holding up with both hands the struggling little animal, which jupp had incontinently dropped from his knee when he rose up, on the door of the waiting-room being suddenly opened and the impromptu picnic organised by the mite and himself brought to an abrupt termination, by the unexpected advent of the nurse on the scene. "no, master teddy, i promise you i won't," she replied emphatically. "you can bathe the poor little brute in the basin and then put it all wet in your bed afterwards, as you did this morning, or anything else you like. bless you, you can eat it if it so please you, and i shan't interfere!" "all wite, den; we frens 'dain," lisped the mite, putting up his little rosebud mouth so prettily for a kiss, in token of peace and forgiveness on his part, that the nurse could not help giving him another hug. this display of affection had unfortunately the same effect on jupp as before, causing the miserable porter to feel acute pangs of envy; although, by rights, he had no direct interest in the transaction, and was only an outside observer, so to speak! by way of concealing his feelings, therefore, he turned the conversation. "and have you come far arter him, miss, if i may make so bold as to ax the question?" he said hesitatingly, being somewhat puzzled in his mind as to whether "miss" or "mum" was the correct form in which to address such a pleasant young woman, who might or might not be a matron for all he could tell. he evidently hit upon the right thing this time; for, she answered him all the more pleasantly, with a bright smile on her face. "why, ever so far!" she exclaimed. "don't you know that large red brick house t'other side of the village, where mr vernon lives--a sort of old-fashioned place, half covered with ivy, and with a big garden?" "parson vernon's, eh?" "yes, master teddy's his little son." "lor', i thought he were a single man, lone and lorn like myself, and didn't have no children," said jupp. "that's all you know about it," retorted the nurse. "you must be a stranger in these parts; and, now i come to think on it, i don't believe as i ever saw you here before." "no, miss, i was only shifted here last week from the junction, and hardly knows nobody," said jupp apologetically. "for the rights o' that, i ain't been long in the railway line at all, having sarved ten years o' my time aboard a man-o'-war, and left it thinking i'd like to see what a shore billet was like; and so i got made a porter, miss, my karacter being good on my discharge." "dear me, what a pity!" cried the nurse. "i do so love sailors." "if you'll only say the word, miss, i'll go to sea again to-morrow then!" ejaculated jupp eagerly. "oh no!" laughed the nurse; "why, then i shouldn't see any more of you; but i was telling you about master teddy. parson vernon, as you call him, has four children in all--three of them girls, and master teddy is the only boy and the youngest of the lot." "and i s'pose he's pretty well sp'ilt?" suggested jupp. "you may well say that," replied the other. "he was his mother's pet, and she, poor lady, died last year of consumption, so he's been made all the more of since by his little sisters, and the grandmother when she comes down, as she did at christmas. you'd hardly believe it, small as he looks he almost rules the house; for his father never interferes, save some terrible row is up and he hears him crying--and he can make a noise when he likes, can master teddy!" "ess," said the mite at this, thinking his testimony was appealed to, and nodding his head affirmatively. "and he comed all that way from t'other side o' the village by hisself?" asked jupp by way of putting a stop to sundry other endearments the fascinating young woman was recklessly lavishing on the little chap. "why, it's more nor a mile!" "aye, that he has. just look at him," said she, giving the mite another shake, although this time it was of a different description to the one she had first administered. he certainly was not much to look at in respect of stature, being barely three feet high; but he was a fine little fellow for all that, with good strong, sturdy limbs and a frank, fearless face, which his bright blue eyes and curling locks of brown hair ornamented to the best advantage. as before mentioned, he had evidently not been prepared for a journey when he made his unexpected appearance at the station, being without a hat on his head and having a slightly soiled pinafore over his other garments; while his little feet were encased in thin house shoes, or slippers, that were ill adapted for walking through the mud and snow. now that the slight differences that had arisen between himself and the nurse had been amicably settled, he was in the best of spirits, with his little face puckered in smiles and his blue eyes twinkling with fun as he looked up at the two observing him. "he is a jolly little chap!" exclaimed jupp, bending down and lifting him up in his strong arms, the mite the while playfully pulling at his black beard; "and i tell you what, miss, i think he's got a very good nurse to look after him!" "do you?" said she, adding a moment afterwards as she caught jupp's look of admiration, "ah, that's only what you say now. you didn't think so when i first came in here after him; for you asked me not to beat him-- as if i would!" "lor', i never dreamt of such a thing!" cried he with much emphasis, the occasion seeming to require it. "i only said that to coax you like, miss. i didn't think as you'd hurt a hair of his head." "well, let it be then," replied she, accepting this amende and setting to work gathering together the mite's goods and chattels that were still lying on the floor of the waiting-room--with the exception of the kitten, which he had himself again assumed the proprietorship of and now held tightly in his arms, even as he was clasped by jupp and elevated above the porter's shoulder. "i must see about taking him home again." "shall i carry him for you, miss?" asked jupp. "the down-train ain't due for near an hour yet, and i dessay i can get my mate to look out for me while i walks with you up the village." "you are very kind," said she; "but, i hardly like to trouble you?" "no trouble at all, miss," replied jupp heartily. "why, the little gentleman's only a featherweight." "that's because you're such a fine strong man. i find him heavy enough, i can tell you." jupp positively blushed at her implied compliment. "i ain't much to boast of ag'in a delicate young 'ooman as you," he said at last; "but, sartenly, i can carry a little shaver like this; and, besides, look how the snow's a coming down." "well, if you will be so good, i'd be obliged to you," interposed the nurse hurriedly as if to stop any further explanations on jupp's part, he having impulsively stepped nearer to her at that moment. "all right then!" cried he, his jolly face beaming with delight at the permission to escort her. "here, grigson!" "that's me!" shouted another porter appearing mysteriously from the back of the office, in answer to jupp's stentorian hail. "just look out for the down-train, 'case i ain't back in time. i'm just agoin' to take some luggage for this young woman up to the village." "aye, just so," replied the other with a sly wink, which, luckily for himself, perhaps, jupp did not see, as, holding the mite tenderly in his arms, with his jacket thrown over him to protect him from the snow, he sallied out from the little wayside station in company with the nurse, the latter carrying all master teddy's valuables, which she had re- collected and tied up again carefully within the folds of the red pocket-handkerchief bundle wherein their proprietor had originally brought them thither. strange to say, the mite did not exhibit the slightest reluctance in returning home, as might have been expected from the interruption of his projected plan of going to london to see his "d'an'ma." on the contrary, his meeting with jupp and introduction to him as a new and estimable acquaintance, as well as the settlement of all outstanding grievances between himself and his nurse, appeared to have quite changed his views as to his previously-cherished expedition; so that he was now as content and cheerful as possible, looking anything but like a disappointed truant. indeed, he more resembled a successful conqueror making a triumphal entry into his capital than a foiled strategist defeated in the very moment of victory! "i like oo," he said, pulling at jupp's black beard in high glee and chuckling out aloud in great delight as they proceeded towards the village, the nurse clinging to the porter's other and unoccupied arm to assist her progress through the snow-covered lane, down which the wind rushed every now and then in sudden scurrying gusts, whirling the white flakes round in the air and blinding the wayfarers as they plodded painfully along. "i don't know what i should have done without your help," she observed fervently after a long silence between the two, only broken by master teddy's shouts of joy when a snow-flake penetrating beneath jupp's jacket made the kitten sneeze. "i'm sure i should never have got home to master's with the boy!" "don't name it," whispered jupp hoarsely beneath his beard, which the snow had grizzled, lending it a patriarchal air. "i'm only too proud, miss, to be here!" and he somehow or other managed to squeeze her arm closer against his side with his, making the nurse think how nice it was to be tall and strong and manly like the porter! "they'll be in a rare state about master teddy at the vicarage!" she said after they had plodded on another hundred yards, making but slow headway against the drifting snow and boisterous wind. "i made him angry by taking away his kitten, i suppose, and so he determined to make off to his gran'ma; for we missed him soon after the children's dinner. i thought he was in the study with mr vernon; but when i came to look he wasn't there, and so we all turned out to search for him. master made sure we'd find him in the village; but i said i thought he'd gone to the station, far off though it was, and you see i was right!" "you're a sensible young woman," said jupp. "i'd have thought the same." "go on with your nonsense; get along!" cried she mockingly, in apparent disbelief of jupp's encomiums, and pretending to wrench her arm out of his so as to give point to her words. "i'll take my davy, then," he began earnestly; but, ere he could say any more, a voice called out in front of them, amid the eddying flakes: "hullo, mary! is that you?" "that's my master," she whispered to jupp; and then answered aloud, "yes, sir, and i've found master teddy." "is mary your name?" said jupp to her softly in the interlude, while scrunching footsteps could be heard approaching them, although no one yet could be perceived through the rifts of snow. "i think it the prettiest girl's name in the world!" "go 'long!" cried she again; but she sidled up to him and held on to his arm once more as she spoke, the blasts of the storm at the moment being especially boisterous. "is that you, mary?" repeated the voice in front, now much nearer, her answer not having been heard apparently, on account of the wind blowing from the speaker towards them. "yes, sir," she screamed out. "i've found master teddy, and he's all right." she was heard this time. "thank god!" returned the voice in trembling accents, nearer still; and then a thin, haggard, careworn-looking man in clergyman's dress rushed up to them. he was quite breathless, and his face pale with emotion. "padie! padie!" exclaimed the mite, raising himself up on jupp's shoulder and stretching out one of his little hands to the new-comer while the other grasped the kitten. "i'se turn back, i'se turn back to oo!" "my boy, my little lamb! god be praised for his mercy!" cried the other; and the next instant teddy was locked in his father's arms in a close embrace, kitten and all. "say, miss mary," whispered jupp, taking advantage of the opportunity while mr vernon's back was turned. "what?" she asked, looking up into his face demurely. "this ought to be passed round." "go 'long!" she replied; but, she didn't budge an inch when jupp put his arm round her, and nobody knows what happened before mr vernon had composed himself and turned round again! chapter three. at the vicarage. three little girls were flattening their respective little noses against the panes of glass as they stood by one of the low french windows of the old red brick house at the corner of the lane commanding the approach from the village; and three little pairs of eager eyes, now big with expectation, were peering anxiously across the snow-covered lawn through the gathering evening gloom towards the entrance gate beyond--the only gap in the thick and well-nigh impenetrable laurel hedge, some six feet high and evenly cropped all round at the top and square at the sides, which encircled the vicarage garden, shutting it in with a wall of greenery from the curious ken of all passers-by without. with eager attention the little girls were watching to see who would be the first of the trio to herald the return of the missing master teddy and those who had gone forth in search of him; but, really, seekers and sought alike had been so long absent that it seemed as if they were all lost together and never coming back! the little girls were weary almost of waiting, and being thus kept in suspense with hope deferred. besides that, they were overcome with a sense of loneliness and desertion, everyone in the house but old molly the cook and themselves having started off early in the afternoon in different directions in quest of the truant teddy; so, as the time flew by and day drew to a close, without a sight or sound in the distance to cheer their drooping spirits, their little hearts grew heavy within them. presently, too, their whilom bright eyes got so dimmed with unshed tears which would well up, that they were unable to see clearly had there been anything or anyone for them to see; while their little putty noses, when they removed them occasionally from close contact with the glass, bore a suspiciously red appearance that was not entirely due to previous pressure against the window panes. nor were their surroundings of a sufficiently enlivening character to banish the little maidens' despondency, the fire in the drawing-room grate having died out long since from inattention, making them feel cold and comfortless, and it had got so dark within that they could not distinguish the various articles of furniture, even papa's armchair in the chimney-corner; while, outside, in the gloaming, the snow-flakes were falling slowly and steadily from a leaden-hued sky overhead. the only thing breaking the stillness of the murky air was the melancholy "chirp, churp! chirp, churp" uttered at intervals by some belated sparrow who had not gone to bed in good time like all sensible bird-folk, and whose plaintive chirp was all the more aggravating from its monotonous repetition. "i'm sore sumtin d'eadfill's happened," whimpered little cissy, the youngest of the three watchers, after a long silence between them. "pa sood have been back hours and hours and hours ago." "nonsense, cissy!" said miss conny, her elder sister, who by virtue of her seniority and the fact of her having reached the mature age of ten was rather prone to giving herself certain matronly airs of superiority over the others, which they put up with in all good faith, albeit they were most amusing to outside onlookers. "you are always imagining something terrible is going to befall everybody, instead of hoping for the best! why don't you learn to look on the bright side of things, child? every cloud, you know, has its silver lining." "but not dat one up dere!" retorted cissy, unconvinced by the proverb, pointing to the sombre pall of vapour that now enveloped the whole sky overhead; when, struck more than ever with the utter dismalness of the scene, she drew out a tiny sort of doll's handkerchief from as tiny a little pocket in her tiny pinafore-apron, and began wiping away the tears from her beady eyes and blowing her little red nose vigorously. "it's all black, and no light nowhere; and i'm sore poor pa and teddy and all of dem are lost!" with that, completely overcome by her own forebodings, the little thing all at once broke down, sobbing in such a heart-broken way that it was as much as conny could do to comfort her; the elder sister drawing her to her side and hugging her affectionately, rocking her small person to and fro the while with a measured rhythm-like movement as if little cissy were a baby and she her mother, hushing her to sleep! at this moment, liz, who occupied the middle step between the two, and was of a much more sedate and equable nature than either of her sisters, suddenly effected a diversion that did more to raise cissy's spirits than all conny's whispered consolation and kisses. "i think i see a black speck moving in the lane," she exclaimed, removing her face a second from the glass to look round at the others as she spoke, and then hastily glueing it to the pane again. "yes, somebody's coming. there's an arm waving about!" conny and cissy were instantly on the alert; and before liz had hardly got out the last words they had imitated her example, wedging their little noses once more against the window, looking down the lane, and trying somewhat vainly to pierce the haze obscuring the distance. "no," said conny, after a prolonged observation of the object liz had pointed out; "it's only a branch of the lilac tree blown about by the wind." a minute later, however, and liz began to clap her hands triumphantly, although still keeping her face fixed to the window. "i was right, i was right!" she exclaimed in triumph. "the speck is getting nearer, and, see, there are two more behind." "i believe you are right," said conny, after another steady glance down the lane. "there are three people approaching the house, and--" "dat's pa in front, i know," shouted out cissy, interrupting her and clapping her hands like liz, her whilom sad little face beaming with gladness. "i see him, i see him, and he's dot teddy in his arms!" "so he has," said conny, carried away by the excitement out of her ordinarily staid and decorous demeanour. "let us all run down and meet him!" her suggestion was hailed with a shout of exclamation; and, the next moment, forgetful of the falling flakes and the risk of getting damp feet, which conny the careful was ever warning the others against, the three had run out into the hall, opened the outside door of the porch, which the wind banged against the side of the passage with a thump that shook the house, and were racing towards the entrance gate over the white expanse of lawn, now quite covered with some six inches of snow. just as the little girls reached the gate, all breathless in a batch, it was opened from without, and they were confronted by their father with master teddy on his shoulder, still holding the kitten in his arms; while, close behind, followed jupp taking care of mary the nurse. "oh, papa!" cried conny, cissy, and liz in chorus, hanging on to their father's coat-tails as if afraid he would get away from them again; and so, in a motley procession, teddy apparently king of the situation and jupp and mary still bringing up the rear, they marched into the hall, where molly the cook, having heard the door bang when the little girls rushed out, was waiting with a light to receive them. "take the porter to the kitchen, molly," said mr vernon, "and give him, mind, a good cup of tea for bringing home master teddy. but for his kindness we might not perhaps have seen the little truant again--to- night, at all events." "lawks a mercy, sir!" ejaculated molly with open-mouth astonishment, curtseying and smiling: "you doant mean that?" "yes, i do," went on mr vernon. "mind you take every care of him, for the porter is a right good fellow." "why, sir, i didn't do nothing to speak of, sir," said jupp, quite abashed at being made so much of. "the young gen'leman commed to me, and in course, seeing as how he were such a little chap and all alone out in the cold, i couldn't do nothing else." "never mind that; i'm very much obliged to you, and so are all of us. what you've got to do now is to go with molly and have a good cup of tea, the same as we are going to have after that long tramp in the snow," said the vicar cordially, shaking hands with jupp; while teddy, who was still perched on his father's shoulder, came out with a "tank oo, my dood man," which made everybody laugh. jupp hesitatingly attempted to decline the proffered hospitality, murmuring something about being wanted down at the station; but the vicar wouldn't hear of his refusal, the more especially as mary reminded him that he had asked in her hearing his fellow-porter to look after his work in his absence. so, presently, in heart nothing loth in spite of his excuses, he was following molly the cook down the passage into her warm kitchen at the back of the house; while mr vernon, opening a door on the opposite side of the hall to the drawing-room, entered the parlour, where fortunately the fire, thanks to molly's care, had not been allowed to go out, but was dancing merrily in the grate-lighting up the bright-red curtains that were closely drawn across the windows, shutting out the gloomy prospect outside, and throwing flickering shadows against the walls of the apartment as the jets of flame rose and fell. nurse mary at first wanted to march off master teddy to bed, on the plea that he must be wet through and tired out with all the exposure he had undergone during his erratic escapade; but the young gentleman protesting indignantly against his removal whilst there was a chance of his sitting up with the rest, and his clothes having been found on examination to be quite dry on the removal of the porter's protecting jacket, he was allowed to remain, seated on the hearth-rug in state, and never once leaving hold of the tabby kitten that had indirectly led to his wandering away from home, with conny and liz and little cissy grouped around him. here by the cosy fireside the reunited family had quite a festive little meal together, enlivened by the children's chatter, miss conny pouring out the tea with great dignity as her father said laughingly, and teddy, unchecked by the presence of his nurse, who was too prone to calling him to account for sundry little breaches of etiquette for him to be comfortable when she was close by. while the happy little party were so engaged, jupp was being regaled sumptuously in the kitchen with both molly the cook and mary to minister to his wants, the latter handmaiden having returned from the parlour after carrying in the tea-tray. jupp was in a state of supreme satisfaction ensconced between the two, munching away at the pile of nice hot buttered toast which the cook had expressly made for his delectation, and recounting between the mouthfuls wonderful yarns connected with his seafaring experiences for mary's edification. joe the gardener, who had also come back to the house shortly after the others, with the report that he "couldn't see nothing of master teddy nowheres," sat in the chimney-corner, gazing at the porter with envious admiration as he told of his hairbreadth scapes at sea and ashore when serving in the navy. joe wished that he had been a sailor too, as then perhaps, he thought, the nurse, for whom he had a sneaking sort of regard, might learn to smile and look upon him in the same admiring way, in which, as he could see with half an eye, she regarded the stalwart black-bearded jupp. bye and bye, however, a tinkle of the parlour bell summoning the household to prayers brought the pleasant evening to a close, too soon so far as jupp was concerned, although joe the gardener did not regard the interruption with much regret; and while mary took off the children to bed on the termination of the vicar's heart-felt thanks to the father above for the preservation of his little son, mr vernon wished him good-night, trying to press at the same time a little money present into his hand for his kind care of teddy. but this jupp would not take, declining the douceur with so much natural dignity that the vicar honoured him the more for refusing a reward, for only doing his duty as he said. mr vernon apologised to him for having hurt his feelings by offering it, adding, much to jupp's delight, that he would always be pleased to see him at the vicarage when he had an hour or so to spare if he liked to come; and, on the porter's telling him in return that he was only free as a rule on sundays, as then only one train passed through the station early in the morning, between which and the mail express late at night he had nothing to do, and being a stranger in the place and without any relations the time somewhat hung on his hands, mr vernon asked him to come up to the house after church and have dinner with the servants, saying that he could go to the evening service in company with the family. this invitation jupp gladly accepted in the same spirit in which it was given; and then, with another hearty "good-night" from the vicar, to which he responded by touching his cap and giving a salute in regular blue-jacket fashion, he went on his way back to the little railway- station beyond the village where master teddy had first made his acquaintance--much to their mutual benefit as things now looked! chapter four. in a scrape again. the winter was a long and severe one, covering the range of downs that encircle endleigh with a fleecy mantle of white which utterly eclipsed the colour of the woolly coats of the sheep for which they were famous, and heaping the valleys with huge drifts that defied locomotion; so that master teddy, being unable to get out of doors much, was prevented from wandering away from home again, had he been in that way inclined. it may be added, too, that beyond breaking one of his arms in a tumble downstairs through riding on the banisters in defiance of all commands to the contrary, he managed for the next few months to keep pretty free from scrapes--something surprising in such a long interval. during all this time jupp had been a very regular sunday visitor at the vicarage, coming up to the house after morning-service and being entertained at dinner in the kitchen, after which meal he served as a playfellow for the children until the evening, when he always accompanied the vicar to church. he had now come to be looked upon by all as a tried and valued friend, mr vernon being almost as fond of chatting with him about his old sea life as was mary, the nurse; while conny would consult him earnestly on geographical questions illustrative of those parts of the globe he had visited. as for the younger ones, he was their general factotum, teddy and cissy regarding him as a sort of good-natured giant who was their own especial property and servant. with all a sailor's ingenuity, he could carve the most wonderful things out of the least promising and worthless materials that could be imagined; while, as for making fun out of nothing, or telling thrilling stories of fairies and pirates and the different folk amongst whom he had mixed in his travels--some of them, to be sure, rather queer, as conny said--why, he hadn't an equal, and could make the dreariest afternoon pass enjoyably to young and old alike, even joe the gardener taking almost as great pleasure in his society as molly and mary. this was while the snow lay on the ground and jack frost had bound the little river running through the village and the large pond in the water meadow beyond with chains of ice, and life out of doors seemed at a standstill; but, anon, when the breath of spring banished all the snow and ice, and cowslips and violets began to peep forth from the released hedgerows, and the sparrows chuckled instead of chirped, busying themselves nest-building in the ivy round the vicarage, and when the thrush sang to the accompaniment of the blackbird's whistle, the children found that jupp was even a better playfellow in the open than he had been indoors, being nearly as much a child in heart as themselves. whenever he had half a day given him in the week free from duty he would make a point of coming up to take "master teddy and the young ladies" out into the woods, fern-hunting and flower-gathering, the vicar frequently popping upon the little picnickers unawares, whilst they were watching the rabbits and rabbitikins combing out their whiskers under the fir-trees, and jupp and mary getting an al fresco tea ready for the party. the little tabby kitten had long since been eclipsed in teddy's affections by a small maltese terrier with a white curly coat of hair, which his fond grandmother had rather foolishly given him, the poor little animal being subjected to such rough treatment in the way of petting that it must have over and over again wished itself back in its mediterranean home. "puck" was the little dog's name, and he appeared in a fair way of "putting a girdle round the earth," if not in forty minutes like his elfish namesake, at least in an appreciable limited space of time, teddy never being content except he carried about the unfortunate brute with him everywhere he went, hugging it tightly in his arms and almost smothering its life out by way of showing his affection. having once had his hair cut, too, unluckily by mary, teddy seized an opportunity, when alone in the nursery, to treat poor puck in similar fashion, the result of which was that the little animal, deprived of his long curly coat, not only shivered constantly with cold, but looked, in his closely-shorn condition, like one of those toy lambs sold in the shops in lieu of dolls for children, which emit a bleating sort of sound when pressed down on their bellows-like stands. of course, puck was as invariable an attendant at the picnic excursions in the woods as master teddy himself, and, having developed sufficient interest in the rabbits to summon up courage to run after them, which teddy graciously permitted him to do, these outings perhaps gave the little animal the only pleasure he had in existence, save eating; for he was then allowed, for a brief spell at all events, to use his own legs instead of being carried about in baby fashion. one day at the beginning of may, when the birds were gaily singing in the branches of the trees overhead, through which an occasional peep of blue sky could be had, the grass below being yellow with buttercups or patched in white with daisies, jupp and mary were grouped with the children beneath a spreading elm in the centre of a sort of fairy ring in the wood, a favourite halting-place with them all. the porter for once in a way had a whole holiday, and had spent the morning helping joe the gardener in mowing the lawn and putting out plants in the flower-beds in front of the vicarage; so after their early dinner, the children under mary's care came out with him for a regular picnic tea in the woods, carrying a kettle with them to make a fire, with plenty of milk and cakes and bread and butter, for it was intended to have quite a feast in honour of "papa's birthday," the vicar having promised to come and join them as soon as he had finished his parish work. the little ones had been romping with jupp all the way to the wood under the downs, running races with him and making detours here and there in search of wild anemones and meadow-sweet, or else chasing butterflies and the low-flying swallows that heralded the advent of summer, so they were rather tired and glad to lie down on the grass and rest when they reached their old elm-tree; albeit, on jupp setting to work to pick up sticks for the fire that was to boil the kettle, first one and then another jumped up to help, for, really, they could not be quiet very long. the sticks being collected and jupp having slung the camp-kettle over them by the means of two forked props, in campaigning fashion, as he well knew how to do as an old sailor, a match was quickly applied, and there was soon a pleasant crackling sound of burning wood, accompanied with showers of sparks like fireworks as the wind blew the blaze aside. soon, too, a nice thick column of smoke arose that reminded conny of what she had read of indian encampments, although jupp told her that if he were abroad and near any of such dark-skinned gentry he would take precious good care when making a fire to have as little smoke as possible. "why?" asked conny, always anxious for information in order to improve her mind. "because i shouldn't like them to discover my whereabouts, unless, miss, i knew 'em to be friends," said jupp in answer. "and how would you manage to have no smoke?" she next pertinently inquired, like the sensible young lady she was. "by always burning the very driest wood i could find, miss," replied jupp. "it is only the green branches and such as has sap in it that makes the smoke." "oh!" ejaculated conny, "i shall remember that. thank you, mr jupp, for telling me. i often wondered how they contrived to conceal their camp-fires." teddy, with cissy and liz, had meanwhile been lying on the grass, overcome with their exertions in stick-gathering, and were intently watching a little glade in front of the elm-tree, some distance off under a coppice. here they knew there were lots of rabbit-burrows, and they were waiting for some of the little animals to come out and perform their toilets, as they usually did in the afternoon and early evening, preparing themselves for bed-time, as the children said; but, for a long while, not one appeared in sight. "dere's a bunny at last," whispered cissy as one peeped out from its hiding-place; and, seeing no cause for alarm in the presence of the little picnic party, with whom no doubt it was now well acquainted, it came further out from the coppice, sitting up on its haunches in the usual free-and-easy fashion of rabbitikins, and beginning to comb out its whiskers with its paws. at the sight of this, puck, who of course was cuddled up tightly in teddy's arms, began to bark; but it was such a feeble little bark that not even the most timid of rabbits would have been frightened at it, while as for the one puck wished to terrify, this simply treated him with the utmost contempt, taking no notice either of bark or dog. three or four other rabbits, too, impressed with the beauty of the afternoon and the advantages of the situation, now followed their comrade's example, coming out from their burrows and squatting on the turf of the sloping glade in a semicircle opposite the children; while, the more poor puck tried to express his indignation at their free-and- easiness, the more nonchalantly they regarded him, sitting up comfortably and combing away, enjoying themselves as thoroughly as if there was no such thing as a dog in existence, puck's faint coughing bark being utterly thrown away upon them. "imp'dent tings!" said teddy, unloosing the small terrier; "do and lick 'em, puck!" the little woolly lamb-like dog, who certainly possessed a larger amount of courage than would reasonably have been imagined from his attenuated appearance, at once darted after the rabbits, who, jerking their short tails in the funniest way possible and throwing up their hind-legs as if they were going to turn somersaults and come down on the other side, darted off down the glade, making for the holes of their burrows under the coppice. the artful puck, however, having chased the gentry before, was up to all their little dodges, so, instead of running for the rabbits directly, he attacked their flank, endeavouring to cut off their retreat; and, in this object succeeding, away went the hunted animals, now scared out of their lives, down the side of the hill to the bottom, with puck charging after them, and teddy following close behind, and cissy and liz bringing up the rear. miss conny was much too dignified to chase rabbits. "stop, master teddy! stop!" cried mary. "come back, miss liz and cissy--come back at once!" the little girls immediately obeyed their nurse; but teddy, who perhaps in the ardour of the chase might not have heard her call, continued on racing down the hill after puck, as fast as his stumpy little legs could carry him, his hat flying off and his pinafore streaming behind him in the wind. "stop, master teddy, stop!" called out mary again. "why can't you let him be?" said jupp. "he's only enj'ying hisself with the rabbits, and can't come to no harm on the grass." "little you know about it," retorted mary, rather crossly it seemed to jupp. "why, the river runs round just below the coppice; and if master teddy runs on and can't stop himself, he'll fall into it--there!" "my stars and stripes!" ejaculated jupp starting up in alarm. "i'll go after him at once." "you'd better," said mary as he set off running down the hill after teddy, singing out loudly for him to stop in a sort of reef-topsails-in- a-heavy-squall voice that you could have heard more than a cable's length ahead! the momentum teddy had gained, however, from the descent of the glade prevented him from arresting his rapid footsteps, although he heard jupp's voice, the slope inclining the more abruptly towards the bottom of the hill. besides, puck in pursuit of the rabbits was right in front of him, and the dog, unable or unwilling to stop, bounded on into the mass of rushes, now quite close, that filled the lower part of the valley, and disappeared from teddy's sight. the next moment there was a wild yelp from puck as he gripped the rabbit, and both tumbled over the bank of the river into the water, which was previously concealed from view; the dog's bark being echoed immediately afterwards by a cry of alarm from teddy and a heavy plunge, as he, too, fell into the swiftly-flowing stream, and was borne out from the bank by the rapid current away towards the mill-dam below! chapter five. blown up. "well, i never!" panted out jupp as he raced down the incline at a headlong speed towards the spot where he had seen teddy disappear, and whence had come his choking cry of alarm and the splash he made as he fell into the water. "the b'y'll be drownded 'fore i can reach him!" but, such was his haste, that, at the same instant in which he uttered these words--more to himself than for anyone else's benefit, although he spoke aloud--the osiers at the foot of the slope parted on either side before the impetuous rush of his body, giving him a momentary glimpse of the river, with teddy's clutching fingers appearing just above the surface and vainly appealing for help as he was sinking for the second time; so, without pausing, the velocity he had gained in his run down the declivity carrying him on almost in spite of himself, jupp took a magnificent header off the bank. then,--rising after his plunge, with a couple of powerful strokes he reached the unconscious boy, whose struggles had now ceased from exhaustion, and, gripping fast hold of one of his little arms, he towed him ashore. another second and jupp would have been too late, teddy's nearly lifeless little form having already been caught in the whirling eddy of the mill-race. even as it was, the force of the on-sweeping current was so great that it taxed all jupp's powers to the utmost to withstand being carried over the weir as he made for the side slanting-wise, so as not to weary himself out uselessly by trying to fight against the full strength of the stream, which, swollen with the rains of april, was resistless in its flow and volume. swimming on his side, however, and striking out grandly, jupp succeeded at length in vanquishing the current, or rather made it serve his purpose; and, presently, grasping hold of the branch of an alder that hung over the river at the point of the bend, he drew himself up on the bank with one hand, holding poor teddy still with the other, to find himself at the same moment confronted by nurse mary, with cissy and liz, who had all hurried down the slope to the scene of the disaster. "oh, dear! oh, dear!--he's dead, he's dead!" wailed mary, taking the little fellow from jupp and lifting him up in her arms, preparing to start off at a run for the vicarage, while the little girls burst into a torrent of tears. "you just bide there!" said jupp, preventing her from moving, and looking like a giant triton, all dripping with water, as he stepped forward. "you just bide there!" "but he'll die if something's not done at once to restore him," expostulated mary, vainly trying to get away from the other's restraining hold. "so he might, if you took him all that long way 'fore doin' anything," replied jupp grimly. "you gie him to me; i knows what's best to be done. i've seed chaps drounded afore aboard ship, and brought to life ag'in by using the proper methods to git back the circularation, as our doctor in the _neptune_ used to call it. you gie him to me!" impressed with his words, and knowing besides now from long acquaintance that jupp was what she called "a knowledgeable man," mary accordingly surrendered the apparently lifeless body of little teddy; whereupon the porter incontinently began to strip off all the boy's clothing, which of course was wringing wet like his own. "have you got such a thing as a dry piece of flannel now, miss?" he then asked mary, hesitating somewhat to put his request into words, "like, like--" "you mean a flannel petticoat," said the girl promptly without the least embarrassment in the exigencies of the case. "just turn your back, please, mr jupp, and i'll take mine off and give it to you." no sooner was this said than it was done; when, teddy's little naked body being wrapped up warmly in the garment mary had surrendered, and turned over on the right side, she began under jupp's directions to rub his limbs, while the other alternately raised and depressed the child's arms, and thus exercising--a regular expansion and depression of his chest. after about five minutes of this work a quantity of water that he had swallowed was brought up by the little fellow; and next, mary could feel a slight pulsation of his heart. "he's coming round! he's coming round!" she cried out joyously, causing little cissy's tears to cease flowing and liz to join mary in rubbing teddy's feet. "go on, mr jupp, go on; and we'll soon bring him to." "so we will," echoed her fellow-worker heartily, redoubling his exertions to promote the circulation; and, in another minute a faint flush was observable in teddy's face, while his chest rose and fell with a rhythmical motion, showing that the lungs were now inflated again and in working order. the little fellow had been brought back to life from the very gates of death! "hooray!" shouted jupp when teddy at length opened his eyes, staring wonderingly at those bending over him, and drawing away his foot from liz as if she tickled him, whereat mary burst into a fit of violent hysterical laughter, which terminated in that "good cry" customary with her sex when carried away by excess of emotion. then, all at once, teddy appeared to recollect what had happened; for the look of bewilderment vanished from his eyes and he opened his mouth to speak in that quaint, formal way of his which jupp said always reminded him of a judge on the bench when he was had up before the court once at portsmouth for smuggling tobacco from a troopship when paid off! "were's puck an' de bunny?" he asked, as if what had occurred had been merely an interlude and he was only anxious about the result of the rabbit hunt that had so unwittingly led to his unexpected immersion and narrow escape from drowning. no one in the greater imminence of teddy's peril had previously thought of the dog or rabbit; but now, on a search being made, puck was discovered shivering by the side of the river, having managed to crawl out somehow or other. as for the rabbit, which was only a young one or the little woolly terrier could never have overtaken it in the chase down the glade, no trace could be seen of it; and, consequently, it must have been carried over the weir, where at the bottom of the river it was now safe enough from all pursuit of either puck or his master, and free from all the cares of rabbit life and those ills that even harmless bunnies have to bear! when this point was satisfactorily settled, much to the dissatisfaction, however, of master teddy, a sudden thought struck mary. "why, wherever can miss conny be all this time?" she exclaimed, on looking round and not finding her with the other children. "see's done home," said cissy laconically. "gone home!" repeated mary. "why?" "done fets dwy c'o's for teddy," lisped the little girl, who seemed to have been well informed beforehand as to her sister's movements, although she herself had hurried down with the nurse to the river bank in company with the others immediately jupp had rushed to teddy's rescue. "well, i never!" ejaculated mary, laughing again as she turned to jupp. "who would have thought the little puss would have been so thoughtful? but she has always been a funny child, older than her years, and almost like an old woman in her ways." "bless you, she ain't none the worse for that!" observed jupp in answer. "she's a real good un, to think her little brother 'ud want dry things arter his souse in the water, and to go and fetch 'em too without being told." "i expect you'd be none the worse either for going back and changing your clothes," said mary, eyeing his wet garments. "lor', it don't matter a bit about me," he replied, giving himself a good shake like a newfoundland dog, and scattering the drops about, which pleased the children mightily, as he did it in such a funny way. "i rayther likes it nor not." "but you might catch cold," suggested mary kindly. "catch your grandmother!" he retorted. "sailors ain't mollycoddles." "wat's dat?" asked teddy inquiringly, looking up at him. "why, sir," said jupp, scratching his head reflectively--he had left his cap under the elm-tree on top of the hill, where he had taken it off when he set about building the fire for the kettle--"a mollycoddle is a sort of chap as always wraps hisself up keerfully for fear the wind should blow upon him and hurt his complexion." "oh!" said teddy; but he did not seem any the wiser, and was about to ask another question which might have puzzled jupp, when liz interrupted the conversation, and changed the subject. "there's conny coming now, and pa with her," she called out, pointing to the top of the glade, where her father and elder sister could be seen hurrying swiftly towards them, followed closely by joe the gardener bearing a big bundle of blankets and other things which the vicar thought might be useful. "my! master must have been scared!" cried mary, noticing in the distance the anxious father's face. "master teddy do cause him trouble enough, he's that fond of the boy!" but, before jupp could say anything in reply, the new arrivals had approached the scene of action, conny springing forward first of all and hugging teddy and cissy and liz all round. in the exuberance of her delight, too, at their being safe and sound, when in her nervous dread she had feared the worst, she extended the same greeting to mary and jupp; for, she was an affectionate little thing, and highly emotional in spite of her usually staid demeanour and retiring nature. the vicar, too, could hardly contain himself for joy, and broke down utterly when he tried to thank jupp for rescuing his little son; while joe the gardener, not to be behindhand in this general expression of good-will and gratitude, squeezed his quondam rival's fist in his, ejaculating over and over again, with a broad grin on his bucolic face, "you be's a proper sort, you be, hey, meaister?" thereby calling upon the vicar, as it were, to testify to the truth of the encomium. he was a very funny man, joe! when the general excitement had subsided, and teddy, who had in the meantime been stalking about, a comical little figure, attired in mary's flannel petticoat, was re-dressed in the fresh suit of clothes joe had brought for him amidst the blankets, the whole party adjourned up the hill to their old rendezvous under the elm-tree. here they found, greatly to their surprise and gratification, that jupp's well-built fire had not gone out, as all expected, during the unforeseen digression that had occurred to break the even tenor of their afternoon's entertainment, although left so long unattended to. on the contrary, it was blazing away at a fine rate, with the kettle slung on the forked sticks above it singing and sputtering, emitting clouds of steam the while, "like an engine blowing off," as the porter observed; so, all their preparations having been already completed, the children carried out their original intention of having a festal tea in honour of "pa's birthday," he being set in their midst and told to do nothing, being the guest of the occasion. never did bread and butter taste more appetisingly to the little ones than when thus eaten out in the woods, away from all such stuck-up surroundings as tables and chairs, and plates, and cups and saucers, and the other absurd conventionalities of everyday life. they only had three little tin pannikins for their tea, which they passed round in turn, and a basket for their dish, using a leaf when the luxury of a plate was desired by any sybarite of the party--those nice broad ones of the dock making splendid platters. now, besides bread and butter, molly the cook had compounded a delicious dough-cake for them, having plums set in it at signal distances apart, so conspicuous that any one could know they were there without going to the trouble of counting them, which indeed would not have taken long to do, their number being rather limited; and, what with the revulsion of feeling at teddy's providential escape, and the fact of having papa with them, and all, they were in the very seventh heaven of enjoyment. conny and cissy, who were the most active of the sprites, assisted by the more deliberate teddy and liz, acted as "the grown-up people" attending as hostesses and host to the requirements of "the children," as they called their father and mary and jupp, not omitting joe the gardener, who, squatting down on the extreme circumference of their little circle, kept up a perpetual grin over the acres of bread and butter he consumed, just as if he were having a real meal and not merely playing! the worthy gardener was certainly the skeleton, or cormorant, so to speak, of the banquet, eating them almost out of house and home, it must be mentioned in all due confidence; and, taking watch of his depravity of behaviour in this respect, the thoughtful conny registered an inward determination never to invite joe to another of their al fresco feasts, if she could possibly avoid doing so without seriously wounding his sensibilities. the way he walked into that dough-cake would have made anyone almost cry. the fete, however, excepting this drawback, passed off successfully enough without any other contretemps; and after the last crumb of cake had been eaten by joe, and the things packed up, the little party wended their way home happily in the mellow may evening, through the fields green with the sprouting corn, with the swallows skimming round them and the lark high in the sky above singing her lullaby song for the night and flopping down to her nest. towards the end of the month, however, teddy managed somehow or other to get into another scrape. "there never was such a boy," as mary said. he was "always in hot water." the queen's birthday coming round soon after the vicar's, jupp, remembering how it used to be kept up when he was in the navy, great guns banging away at royal salutes while the small-arm men on board fired a _feu de joie_, or "fire of joy," as he translated it by the aid of miss conny, who happened just then to be studying french, he determined to celebrate the anniversary as a loyal subject in similar fashion at the vicarage, with the aid of a couple of toy cannon and a small bag of powder which he purchased for the purpose. teddy, of course, was taken into his confidence, the artillery experiments being planned for his especial delectation; so, coming up to the house just about noon on the day of the royal anniversary, when he was able to get away from the station for an hour, leaving his mate grigson in charge, he set about loading the ordnance and getting ready for the salute, with a train laid over the touch-holes of the cannon to set light to the moment it was twelve o'clock, according to the established etiquette in the navy, a box of matches being placed handy for the purpose. as ill luck would have it, though, some few minutes before the proper time, mary, who was trying to sling a clothes-line in the back garden, called jupp to her assistance, and he being her attentive squire on all occasions, and an assiduous cavalier of dames, hastened to help her, leaving teddy in charge of the loaded cannon, the gunpowder train, and lastly, though by no means least, the box of matches. the result can readily be foreseen. hardly had jupp reached mary's side and proceeded to hoist the obstreperous clothes-line, when "bang! bang!" came the reports of distant cannonading on the front lawn, followed by an appalling yell from the little girls, who from the safe point of vantage of the drawing-room windows were looking on at the preparations of war. to rush back through the side gate round to the front was but the work of an instant with jupp, and, followed by mary, he was almost as quickly on the spot as the sound of the explosion had been heard. he thought that master teddy had only prematurely discharged the cannon, and that was all; but when he reached the lawn what was his consternation to observe a thick black cloud of smoke hanging in the air, much greater than could possibly have been produced by the little toy cannon being fired off, while teddy, the cause of all the mischief, was nowhere to be seen at all! chapter six. the pond in the meadow. not a trace of the boy could be seen anywhere. the cause of the explosion was apparent enough; for, the little wooden box on which jupp had mounted the toy cannons, lashing them down firmly, and securing them with breechings in sailor-fashion, to prevent their kicking when fired, had been overturned, and a jug that he had brought out from the house containing water to damp the fuse with, was smashed to atoms, while of the box of matches and the bag of powder only a few smouldering fragments remained--a round hole burned in the grass near telling, if further proof were needed, that in his eagerness to start the salute, master teddy, impatient as usual, had struck a light to ignite the train, and this, accidentally communicating with the bag of powder, had resulted in a grand flare-up of the whole contents. this could be readily reasoned out at a glance; but, where could teddy be, the striker of the match, the inceptor of all the mischief? jupp could not imagine; hunt high, hunt low, as he might and did. at first, he thought that the young iconoclast, as nothing could be perceived of him on the lawn or flower-beds, had been blown up in the air over the laurel hedge and into the lane; as, however, nothing could be discovered of him here, either, after the most careful search, this theory had to be abandoned, and jupp was fairly puzzled. teddy had completely vanished! it was very strange, for his sisters had seen him on the spot the moment before the explosion. mary, of course, had followed jupp round to the front of the house, while the little girls came out on to the lawn; and molly the cook, as well as joe the gardener, attracted by the commotion, had also been assisting in the quest for the missing teddy, prying into every hole and corner. but all their exertions were in vain; and there they stood in wondering astonishment. "p'aps," suggested cissy, "he's done upstairs?" "nonsense, child!" said conny decisively; "we would have seen him from the window if he had come in." "still, we'd better look, miss," observed mary, who was all pale and trembling with anxiety as to the safety of her special charge. "he may have been frightened and rushed to the nursery to hide himself, as he has done before when he has been up to something!" so saying, she hurried into the passage, and the rest after her. it was of no use looking into the drawing-room or kitchen, the little girls having been in the former apartment all the time, and molly in the latter; but the parlour was investigated unsuccessfully, and every nook and cranny of the study, a favourite play-ground of the children when the vicar was out, as he happened to be this evening, fortunately or unfortunately as the case might be, visiting the poor of his parish. still, there was not a trace of teddy to be found. the search was then continued upstairs amongst the bed-rooms by mary and molly, accompanied by the three little girls, who marched behind their elders in silent awe, jupp and joe remaining down in the hall and listening breathlessly for some announcement to come presently from above. the nursery disclosed nothing, neither did the children's sleeping room, nor the vicar's chamber, although the beds were turned up and turned down and looked under, and every cupboard and closet inspected as cautiously as if burglars were about the premises; and mary was about to give up the pursuit as hopeless, when all at once, she thought she heard the sound of a stifled sob proceeding from a large oak wardrobe in the corner of the spare bed-room opposite the nursery, which had been left to the last, and where the searchers were all now assembled. "listen!" she exclaimed in a whisper, holding up her finger to enjoin attention; whereupon cissy and liz stopped shuffling their feet about, and a silence ensued in which a pin might have been heard to drop. then, the noise of the stifled sobs that had at first attracted mary's notice grew louder, and all could hear teddy's voice between the sobs, muttering or repeating something at intervals to himself. "i do believe he's saying his prayers!" said mary, approaching the wardrobe more closely with stealthy steps, so as not to alarm the little stowaway, a smile of satisfaction at having at last found him crossing her face, mingled with an expression of amazement--"just hear what he is repeating. hush!" they all listened; and this was what they heard proceeding from within the wardrobe, a sob coming in as a sort of hyphen between each word of the little fellow's prayer. "dod--bess pa--an' conny an' liz--an' 'ittle ciss--an' jupp, de porter man, an' mary--an'--an'--all de oders--an' make me dood boy--an' i'll neber do it again, amen!" "the little darling!" cried mary, opening the door of the wardrobe when teddy had got so far, and was just beginning all over again; but the moment she saw within, she started back with a scream which at once brought jupp upstairs. joe the gardener still stopped, however, on the mat below in the passage, as nothing short of a peremptory command from the vicar would have constrained him to put his heavy clod-hopping boots on the soft stair-carpet. indeed, it had needed all mary's persuasion to make him come into the hall, which he did as gingerly as a cat treading on a hot griddle! as jupp could see for himself, when he came up to the group assembled round the open door of the wardrobe there was nothing in the appearance of poor teddy to frighten mary, although much to bespeak her pity and sympathy--the little fellow as he knelt down in the corner showing an upturned face that had been blistered by the gunpowder as it exploded, besides being swollen to more than twice its ordinary size. his clothing was also singed and blackened like that of any sweep, while his eyelashes, eyebrows, and front hair had all been burnt off, leaving him as bare as a coot. altogether, master teddy presented a very sorry spectacle; and the little girls all burst into tears as they looked at him, even jupp passing his coat-sleeve over his eyes, and muttering something about its being "a bad job" in a very choky sort of voice. it was but the work of an instant, however, for mary to take up the unfortunate sufferer in her arms, and there he sobbed out all his woes as she cried over him on her way to the nursery, sending off jupp promptly for the doctor. "i'se not do nuzzin," explained teddy as he was being undressed, and his burns dressed with oil and cotton-wool, pending the arrival of medical advice. "i'se only zust light de match an' den dere was a whiz; an' a great big black ting lift me up an' trow me down, and den i climb up out of de smoke an' run 'way here. i was 'fraid of black ting comin' an' hide!" "there was no black thing after you, child," said conny. "it was only the force of the explosion that knocked you down, and the cloud of smoke you saw, which hid you from us when you ran indoors." "it was a black ting," repeated teddy, unconvinced by the wise miss conny's reasoning. "i see him, a big black giant, same as de jinny in story of de fairies; but i ran 'way quick!" "all right, dear! never mind what it was now," said mary soothingly. "do you feel any better now?" "poor mou's so sore," he whimpered, "an' 'ittle nosey can't breez!" "well, you shouldn't go meddling with matches and fire, as i've told you often," said mary, pointing her moral rather inopportunely. still she patted and consoled the little chap as much as she could; and when doctor jolly came up from endleigh presently, he said that she had done everything that was proper for the patient, only suggesting that his face might be covered during the night with a piece of soft rag dipped in goulard water, so as to ease the pain of the brows and let the little sufferer sleep. the vicar did not return home until some time after the doctor had left the house and jupp gone back to his duties at the railway-station; but although all traces of the explosion had been removed from the lawn and the grass smoothed over by joe the gardener, he knew before being told that something had happened from the unusual stillness around, both without and within doors, the little girls being as quiet as mice, and teddy, the general purveyor of news and noise, being not to the fore as usual. it was not long before he found out all about the accident; when there was a grand to-do, as may be expected, mr vernon expressing himself very strongly anent the fact of jupp putting such a dangerous thing as gunpowder within reach of the young scapegrace, and scolding mary for not looking after her charge better. jupp, too, got another "blowing up" from the station-master for being behind time. so, what with the general upset, and the dilapidated appearance of master teddy, with his face like a boiled vegetable marrow, when the bandages had been removed from his head and he was allowed to get up and walk about again, the celebration of the queen's birthday was a black day for weeks afterwards in the chronicles of the vicar's household! during the rest of the year, however, and indeed up to his eighth year, the course of teddy's life was uneventful as far as any leading incident was concerned. of course, he got into various little scrapes, especially on those occasions when his grandmother paid her periodic visits to the vicarage, for the old lady spoiled him dreadfully, undoing in a fortnight all that mary had effected by months of careful teaching and training in the way of obedience and manners; but, beyond these incidental episodes, he did not distinguish himself by doing anything out of the common. teddy leisurely pursued that uneven tenor of way customary to boys of his age, exhibiting a marked preference for play over lessons, and becoming a great adept at field sports through jupp's kindly tuition, albeit poor puck was no longer able to assist him in hunting rabbits, the little dog having become afflicted with chronic asthma ever since his immersion in the river when he himself had so narrowly escaped from drowning. if water, though, had worked such ill to puck, the example did not impress itself much on teddy; for, despite his own previous peril, he was for ever getting himself into disgrace by going down to the river to catch sticklebacks against express injunctions to the contrary, when left alone for any length of time without an observant and controlling eye on his movements. he was also in the habit of joining the village boys at their aquatic pranks in the cattle-pond that occupied a prominent place in the meadows below endleigh--just where the spur of one of the downs sloped before preparing for another rise, forming a hollow between the hills. here master teddy had loved to go on the sly, taking off his shoes and stockings and paddling about as the shoe and stockingless village urchins did; and this summer, not satisfied with simple paddling as of yore, he bethought himself of a great enterprise. the pond was of considerable extent, and when it was swollen with rain, as happened at this period, the month of june being more plentiful than usual of moisture, its surface covered several acres, the water being very deep between its edge and the middle, where it shallowed again, the ground rising there and forming a sort of island that had actually an alder-tree growing on it. now, teddy's ambition was to explore this island, a thing none of the village boys had dreamed of, all being unable to swim; so, as the wished-for oasis could not be reached in that fashion, the next best thing to do was to build a boat like robinson crusoe and so get at it in that way. as a preliminary, teddy sounded the ex-sailor as to the best way of building a boat, without raising jupp's suspicions--for, the worthy porter, awed by the vicar's reprimand anent the _feu de joie_ affair and mary's continual exhortations, had of late exhibited a marked disinclination to assist him in doing anything which might lead him into mischief--artfully asking him what he would do if he could find no tree near at hand large enough that he could hollow out for the purpose; but, jupp could give him no information beyond the fact that he must have a good sound piece of timber for the keel, and other pieces curved in a particular fashion for the strakes, and the outside planking would depend a good deal whether he wanted the boat clinker-built or smooth- sided. "but how then," asked teddy--he could speak more plainly now than as a five-year old--"do people get off from ships when they have no boat?" "why, they builds a raft, sir," answered jupp. "a raft--what is that?" "why, sir, it means anything that can swim," replied jupp, quite in his element when talking of the sea, and always ready to spin a yarn or tell what he knew. "it might be made of spare spars, or boards, or anything that can float. when i was in the _neptune_ off terra del faygo i've seed the natives there coming off to us seated on a couple of branches of a tree lashed together, leaves and all." "oh, thank you," said teddy, rejoiced to hear this, the very hint he wanted; "but what did they do for oars?" "they used sticks, in course, sir," answered the other, quite unconscious of what the result of his information would be, and that he was sowing the seeds of a wonderful project; and teddy presently leading on the conversation in a highly diplomatic way to other themes, jupp forgot bye and bye what he had been talking about. not so, however, master teddy. the very next day, taking up puck in his arms, and getting away unperceived from home soon after the early dinner, which the children always partook of at noon, he stole down to the pond, where, collecting some of the little villagers to assist him, a grand foray was made on the fencing of the fields and a mass of material brought to the water's edge. teddy had noted what jupp had said about the tierra del fuegans lashing their rude rafts together, so he took down with him from the house a quantity of old clothes-lines which he had discovered in the back garden. these he now utilised in tying the pieces of paling from the fences together with, after which a number of small boughs and branches from the hedges were laid on top of the structure, which was then pushed off gently from the bank on to the surface of the pond. hurrah, it floated all right! teddy therefore had it drawn in again, and stepped upon the raft, which, although it sank down lower in the water and was all awash, still seemed buoyant. he also took puck with him, and tried to incite some others of the boys to venture out in company with him. the little villagers, however, were wiser in their generation, and being unused to nautical enterprise were averse to courting danger. "you're a pack of cowards!" teddy exclaimed, indignant and angry at their drawing back thus at the last moment. "i'll go by myself." "go 'long, master," they cried, noways abashed by his comments on their conduct; "we'll all watch 'ee." naturally plucky, teddy did not need any further spurring, so, all alone on his raft, with the exception of the struggling puck, who did not like leaving _terra firma_, and was more of a hindrance than an aid, he pushed out into the pond, making for the islet in the centre by means of a long pole which he had thinned off from a piece of fencing, sticking it into the mud at the bottom and pushing against it with all his might. meanwhile, the frail structure on which he sat trembled and wobbled about in the most unseaworthy fashion, causing him almost to repent of his undertaking almost as soon as he had started, although he had the incense of popular admiration to egg him on, for the village boys were cheering and hooraying him like--"like anything," as he would himself have said! chapter seven. father and son. the road from the vicarage to the village and station beyond passed within a hundred yards or so of the pond; but from the latter being situated in a hollow and the meadows surrounding it inclosed within a hedge of thick brushwood, it could only be seen by those passing to and fro from one point--where the path began to rise above the valley as it curved round the spur of the down. it was saturday also, when, as teddy well knew, his father would be engaged on the compilation of his sunday sermon, and so not likely to be going about the parish, as was his custom of an afternoon, visiting the sick, comforting the afflicted, and warning those evil-doers who preferred idleness and ale at the "lamb" to honest toil and uprightness of living; consequently the young scapegrace was almost confident of non-interruption from any of his home folk, who, besides being too busy indoors to think of him, were ignorant of his whereabouts. it was also jupp's heaviest day at the station, so _he_ couldn't come after him he thought; and he was enjoying himself to his heart's content, when as the fates frequently rule it, the unexpected happened. miss conny, now a tall slim girl of thirteen, but more sedate and womanly even than she had been at ten, if that were possible, was occupied in the parlour "mending the children's clothes," as she expressed it in her matronly way, when she suddenly missed a large reel of darning cotton. wondering what had become of it, for, being neat and orderly in her habits, her things seldom strayed from their proper places, she began hunting about for the absent article in different directions and turning over the piles of stockings before her. "have you seen it?" she asked liz, who was sitting beside her, also engaged in needlework, but of a lighter description, the young lady devoting her energies to the manufacture of a doll's mantilla. "no," said liz abstractedly, her mouth at the time being full of pins for their more handy use when wanted, a bad habit she had acquired from a seamstress occasionally employed at the vicarage. "dear me, i wonder if i left the reel upstairs," said conny, much concerned at the loss; and she was just about prosecuting the search thither when cissy threw a little light on the subject, explaining at once the cause of the cotton's disappearance. "don't you recollect, con," she observed, "you lent it to teddy the other day? i don't s'pose he ever returned it to you, for i'm sure i saw it this morning with his things in the nursery." "no more he did," replied conny. "please go and tell him to bring it back. i know where you'll find him. mary is helping molly making a pie, and he's certain to be in the kitchen dabbling in the paste." "all right!" said cissy; and presently her little musical voice could be heard calling through the house, "teddy! teddy!" as she ran along the passage towards the back. bye and bye, however, she returned to the parlour unsuccessful. "i can't see him anywhere," she said. "he's not with mary, or in the garden, or anywhere!" "oh, that boy!" exclaimed conny. "he's up to some mischief again, and must have gone down to the village or somewhere against papa's orders. do you know where he is, liz?" "no," replied the young sempstress, taking the pins out of her mouth furtively, seeing that conny was looking at her. "he ran out of the house before we had finished dinner, and took puck with him." "then he has gone off on one of his wild pranks," said her elder sister, rising up and putting all the stockings into her work-basket. "i will go and speak to papa." the vicar had just finished the "thirdly, brethren," of his sermon; and he was just cogitating how to bring in his "lastly," and that favourite "word more in conclusion" with which he generally wound up the weekly discourse he gave his congregation, when conny tapped at the study door timidly awaiting permission to enter. "what's the matter?" called out mr vernon rather testily, not liking to be disturbed in his peroration. "i want to speak to you, papa," said conny, still from without. "then come in," he answered in a sort of resigned tone of voice, it appearing to him as one of the necessary ills of life to be interrupted, and he as a minister bound to put up with it; but this feeling of annoyance passed off in a moment, and he spoke gently and kindly enough when conny came into the room. "what is it, my dear?" he asked, smiling at his little housekeeper, as he called her, noticing her anxious air; "any trouble about to-morrow's dinner, or something equally serious?" "no, papa," she replied, taking his quizzing in earnest. "the dinner is ordered, and nothing the matter with it that i know of. i want to speak to you about teddy." "there's nothing wrong with him, i hope?" said he, jumping up from his chair and wafting some of the sheets of his sermon from the table with his flying coat-tails in his excitement and haste. "nothing wrong, i hope?" although a quiet easy-going man generally, the vicar was wrapt up in all his children, trying to be father and mother in one to them and making up as much as in him lay for the loss of that maternal love and guidance of which they were deprived at an age when they wanted it most; but of teddy he was especially fond, his wife having died soon after giving him birth, and, truth to say, he spoiled him almost as much as that grandmother whose visitations were such a vexed question with mary, causing her great additional trouble with her charge after the old lady left. "nothing wrong, papa dear, that i know of," replied conny in her formal deliberative sort of way; "but, i'm afraid he has gone off with those village boys again, for he's nowhere about the place." "dear me!" ejaculated the vicar, shoving up his spectacles over his forehead and poking his hair into an erect position like a cockatoo's crest, as he always did when fidgety. "can't you send somebody after him?" "mary is busy, and teddy doesn't mind joe, so there's no use in sending him." "dear me!" ejaculated her father again. "i'm afraid he's getting very headstrong--teddy, i mean, not poor joe! i must really get him under better control; but, i--i don't like to be harsh with him, conny, you know, little woman," added the vicar dropping his voice. "he's a brave, truthful little fellow with all his flow of animal spirits, and his eyes remind me always of your poor mother when i speak sternly to him and he looks at me in that straightforward way of his." "shall i go after him, papa?" interposed conny at this juncture, seeing that a wave of memory had carried back her father into the past, making him already forget the point at issue. "what? oh, dear me, no!" said the vicar, recalled to the present. "i'll go myself." "but your sermon, papa?" "it's just finished, and i can complete what has to be added when i come back. no--yes, i'll go; besides, now, i recollect, i have to call at job trotter's to try and get him to come to church to-morrow. yes, i'll go myself." so saying, the vicar put on the hat conny handed to him, for she had to look after him very carefully in this respect, as he would sometimes, when in a thinking fit, go out without any covering on his head at all! then, taking his stick, which the thoughtful conny likewise got out of the rack in the hall, he went out of the front door and over the lawn, through the little gate beyond. he then turned into the lane that led across the downs to the village, miss conny having suggested this as the wisest direction in which to look for teddy, from the remembrance of something the young scapegrace had casually dropped in conversation when at dinner. as he walked along the curving lane, the air was sweet with the scent of dry clover and the numerous wild flowers that twined amongst the blackberry bushes of the hedgerows. insects also buzzed about, creating a humming music of their own, while flocks of starlings startled by his approach flew over the field next him to the one further on, exhibiting their speckled plumage as they fluttered overhead, and the whistle of the blackbird and coo of the ring-dove could be heard in the distance. but the vicar was thinking of none of these things. conny's words about teddy not minding joe the gardener, or anybody else indeed, had awakened his mind to the consciousness that he had not given proper consideration to the boy's mental training. teddy's education certainly was not neglected, for he repeated his lessons regularly to his father and displayed the most promising signs of advancement; but, lessons ended, he was left entirely to the servants. the vicar reflected, that this ought not to be permitted with a child at an age when impressions of right and wrong are so easily made, never to be effaced in after life, once the budding character is formed. he would correct this error, the vicar determined; in future he would see after him more personally! just as he arrived at this sound conclusion the vicar reached the bend of the lane where it sloped round by the spur of the down, a bustling bumblebee making him notice this by brushing against his nose as he buzzed through the air in that self-satisfied important way that all bumblebees affect in their outdoor life; and, looking over the hedge that sank down at this point, he saw a group of boys gathered round the edge of the pond. he did not recognise teddy amongst them; but, fancying the urchins might be able to tell him something of his movements, he made towards them, climbing through a gap in the fence and walking down the sloping side of the hill to the meadow below. the boys, catching sight of him, immediately began to huddle together like a flock of sheep startled by the appearance of some strange dog; and he could hear them calling out some words of warning, in which his familiar title "t'parson" could be plainly distinguished. "the young imps must be doing something wrong, and are afraid of being found out," thought the vicar. "never mind, though, i sha'n't be hard on them, remembering my own young truant!" as he got nearer, he heard the yelp of a dog as if in pain or alarm. "they're surely not drowning some poor animal," said the vicar aloud, uttering the new thought that flashed across his mind. "if so, i shall most certainly be severe with them; for cruelty is detestable in man or boy!" hurrying on, he soon obtained a clear view of the pond, and he could now see that not only were a lot of boys clustered together round the edge of the water, but towards the centre something was floating like a raft with apparently another boy on it, who was holding a struggling white object in his arms, from which evidently the yelps proceeded--his ears soon confirming the supposition. "hullo! what are you doing there?" shouted the vicar, quickening his pace. "don't hurt the poor dog!" to his intense astonishment the boy on the floating substance turned his face towards him, answering his hail promptly with an explanation. "it's puck, padie, and i ain't hurting him." both the face and the voice were teddy's! the vicar was completely astounded. "teddy!" he exclaimed, "can i believe my eyes?--is it really you?" "yes, it's me, padie," replied the young scapegrace, trying to balance himself upright on the unsteady platform as he faced his father, but not succeeding in doing so very gracefully. "why, how on earth--or rather water, that would be the most correct expression," said the vicar correcting himself, being a student of paley and a keen logician as to phraseology; "how did you get there?" "i made a raft," explained teddy in short broken sentences, which were interrupted at intervals through the necessary exertion he had to make every now and then to keep from tumbling into the water and hold puck. "i made a raft like--like robinson crusoe, and--and--i've brought puck-- uck with me, 'cause i didn't have a parrot or a cat. i--i--i wanted to get to the island; b-b-but i can't go any further as the raft is stuck, and--and i've lost my stick to push it with. oh--i was nearly over there!" "it would be a wholesome lesson to you if you got a good ducking!" said the vicar sternly, albeit the reminiscences of robinson crusoe and the fact of teddy endeavouring to imitate that ideal hero of boyhood struck him in a comical light and he turned away to hide a smile. "come to the bank at once, sir!" easy enough as it was for the vicar to give this order, it was a very different thing for teddy, in spite of every desire on his part, to obey it; for, the moment he put down puck on the leafy flooring of the raft, the dog began to howl, making him take it up again in his arms. to add to his troubles, also, he had dropped his sculling pole during a lurch of his floating platform, so he had nothing now wherewith to propel it either towards the island or back to the shore, the raft wickedly oscillating midway in the water between the two, like mahomet's coffin 'twixt heaven and earth! urged on, however, by his father's command, teddy tried as gallantly as any shipwrecked mariner to reach land again; but, what with puck hampering his efforts, and his brisk movements on the frail structure, this all at once separated into its original elements through the clothes-line becoming untied, leaving teddy struggling amidst the debris of broken rails and branches--puck ungratefully abandoning his master in his extremity and making instinctively for the shore. the vicar plunged in frantically to the rescue, wading out in the mud until he was nearly out of his depth, and then swimming up to teddy, who, clutching a portion of his dismembered raft, had managed to keep afloat; although, he was glad enough when his father's arm was round him and he found himself presently deposited on the bank in safety, where they were now alone, all the village boys having rushed off _en masse_, yelling out the alarm at the pitch of their voices the moment teddy fell in and the vicar went after him. both were in a terrible pickle though, with their garments soaking wet, of course; while the vicar especially was bedraggled with mud from head to foot, looking the most unclerical object that could be well imagined. however, he took the whole matter good-humouredly enough, not scolding teddy in the least. "the best thing we can do, my son," he said when he had somewhat recovered his breath, not having gone through such violent exercise for many a long day.--"the best thing we can do is to hurry off home as fast we can, so as to arrive there before they hear anything of the accident from other sources, or the girls will be terribly alarmed about us." teddy, without speaking, tacitly assented to this plan by jumping up immediately and clutching hold of the shivering puck, whose asthma, by the way, was not improved by this second involuntary ducking; and the two were hastening towards the vicarage when they heard a horse trotting behind them, doctor jolly riding up alongside before they had proceeded very far along the lane, after clambering out of the field where the pond was situated. "bless me!" cried the doctor; "why, here are you both safe and sound, when those village urchins said you and master teddy were drownded!" "ah! i thought these boys were up to something of the sort when they all scampered off in a batch without lending us a helping hand!" replied the vicar laughing. "i was just telling teddy this, thinking the report would reach home before us." "aye, all happen, vernon? 'pon my word, you're in a fine mess!" the vicar thereupon narrated all that had occurred, much to the doctor's amusement. "well," he exclaimed at the end of the story, "that boy of yours is cut out for something, you may depend. he won't be drowned at any rate!" "no," said the vicar reflectively; "this is the second merciful escape he has had from the water." "yes, and once from fire, too," put in the other, alluding to the gunpowder episode. "he's a regular young desperado!" "i hope not, jolly," hastily interposed the vicar. "i don't like your joking about his escapades in that way. i hope he will be good--eh, my boy?" and he stroked teddy's head as he walked along by his side, father and son being alike hatless, their headgear remaining floating on the pond, along with the remains of the raft, to frighten the frogs and fishes. teddy uttered no reply; but his little heart was full, and he made many inward resolves, which, alas! his eight-year-old nature was not strong enough to keep. chapter eight. unappreciated. he really did not mean any harm; but mischief is mischief whether intentional or not, and somehow or other he seemed continually to be getting into it. circumstances, over which, of course, he had no control, continually overruled his anxious desire to be good. as doctor jolly said, with his usual strident hearty laugh that could be heard half a mile off, and which was so contagious that it made people smile whose thoughts were the reverse of gay, teddy was always in hot water, "except, by jove, when he plunged into the cold, ho, ho!" with reference to this latter point, however, it may be mentioned here, that albeit he had twice been mercifully preserved from drowning, the vicar, while trustful enough in the divine workings of providence, did not think it altogether right to allow teddy's insurance against a watery grave to be entirely dependent on chance; and so, that very evening, when jupp came up to the house after he had done his work at the station, he broached the subject to him as soon as the worthy porter had been made cognisant of all the facts connected with the raft adventure. "no," said the vicar, so carried away by his feelings that he almost added "my brethren," fancying himself in the pulpit delivering a homily to his congregation generally, instead of only addressing one hearer, "we ought not to neglect any wise precaution in guarding against those dangers that beset our everyday lives. lightly spoken as the adage is, that `god helps those who help themselves,' it is true enough." "aye, aye, sir, and so say i," assented jupp, rather mystified as to "what the parson was a-driving at," as he mentally expressed it, by this grand beginning, and thinking it had some reference to his not being present at the pond to rescue teddy in his peril, which he keenly regretted. "this being my impression," continued the vicar, completing his period, as if rounding a sentence in one of his sermons, wherein he was frequently prone to digress, "and i'm glad to learn from your acquiescent reply that you agree with me on the main issue, eh?" jupp nodded his head again, although now altogether in a fog regarding the other's meaning. "well, then," said the vicar, satisfied with having at last cleared the ground for stating his proposition, "i want you to devote any leisure time you may have in the course of the next few weeks to teaching my son to swim; so that, in the event of his unhappily falling into the water again, when neither you nor i may be near, he may be able to save himself--under providence, that is." "i was just about a-thinking on the same thing, sir, when you began a- speaking," observed jupp thoughtfully, scratching his head in his reflective way as he stood before the vicar cap in hand at the door of the study, where the conference was being held. "i fancied you didn't like me taking him down to the river, or i'd have taught him to swim long ago, i would, sir!" "then i may depend on your doing so now, eh?" "sartenly, sir! i'll be proud, that i will, to show him," answered jupp eagerly, mightily pleased with the task intrusted to him, having long wished to undertake it; and so, he being willing, and his pupil nothing loth, teddy was in a comparatively short space so well instructed how to support himself in the water that he was quite capable of swimming across the river without fear of being sucked down into the mill-race-- although he made both his father and jupp a promise, which he honourably kept, of never bathing there unless accompanied by either of the two. not only this, but he could also essay the muddy depths of the pond in the meadow whenever the fancy seized him, exploring the little island in its centre at his own sweet will; and this accomplishment, as will be seen further on, stood him in good stead at one of the most critical periods of his life, although this is anticipating. but, learning swimming, and so lessening the risk attending peril by water, did not prevent him from getting into scrapes on land; for, he was a brave, fearless boy, and these very qualities, added to a natural impulsiveness of disposition, were continually leading him into rash enterprises which almost invariably ended in mishap and disaster, if not to himself, to those who unwittingly were involved in his ventures, alas! in his ninth year, jupp got a rise on the line, being promoted to be assistant station-master at a neighbouring town, which necessarily involved his leaving endleigh; and, being now also able to keep a wife in comfort, the long courtship which had been going on between him and mary was brought to a happy conclusion by matrimony, a contingency that involved the loss to the vicar's household of mary's controlling influence, leaving master teddy more and more to himself, with no one in authority to look after him. under these circumstances, the vicar, acting on doctor jolly's advice, sent him to a small private school in the village where the farmers' sons of the vicinity were taught the rudiments of their education, teddy going thither every morning and afternoon in company with his sisters liz and cissy, who received lessons from a retired governess dwelling hard by--the three children returning home in the middle of the day for their dinner, and again on the termination of their tasks in the evening. miss conny, who had passed through the same curriculum, had grown too old for her teacher, and now remained at the vicarage, installed as her father's housekeeper and head of the family in his absence. this arrangement worked very well for a time, although teddy did not make any very rapid progress at his studies, his mind being more turned to outdoor sports than book lore; but the association with others made him, if more manly, less tractable, developing his madcap propensities to a very considerable extent, if merely from his desire to emulate his companions. one day, when going homewards with liz and cissy across the fields from endleigh, the trio came upon a group of the idle boys of the village who were assembled in front of an inclosed paddock containing farmer giles's brindled bull, a savage animal, whose implacable viciousness was the talk of the place; not even the ploughman, with whom he was more familiar than anyone else, daring to approach him without the protection of a long-handled pitchfork. neither farmer giles nor any of his men were about, and the boys, taking advantage of the opportunity, were baiting the bull by shying clods at him and otherwise rousing his temper, when teddy and his sisters came along. teddy fired up at once at the sight. "you cowards!" he cried; "you stand there behind the fence pelting the poor animal, but none of you have the pluck to go inside and do it!" "no more have you, meaister," retorted one of the biggest of the boys, a rustic lout of sixteen. "you ain't got the plook t' go inside yoursen!" "haven't i?" said teddy in answer to this taunt; and before his sisters could prevent him he had darted over to where the boys were standing, and climbing over the stout five-barred gate that gave admittance to the inclosure, let himself down into the paddock--confronting the bull without even a stick in his hand. the savage animal appeared so much surprised at the temerity of such a little fellow as teddy invading his domain, that he allowed him to advance several steps without making a movement; when, putting down his head, as if trying the points of his horns, and pawing the ground, he uttered a wild bellow that brought forth a responsive shriek from cissy. "come back, teddy, come back!" she screamed, turning quite pale with fright. "he's coming after you, and will toss you on his cruel horns. oh, do come back!" teddy, however, still continued advancing towards the infuriated brute, waving his arms and shouting in the endeavour to intimidate it. he was sorry he had gone into the paddock; but he had some idea that if he retreated the bull would make a rush at him, and thought that by showing he was not afraid, he might presently retire with all the honours of war, so he preserved a courageous front, although his heart went pit-a- pat all the while. again, the bull lowered his horns and tossed up his head. he was quite close to him now; and teddy stopped, the bull eyeing him and he looking at it steadfastly. the situation was alarming, so he stepped back gingerly, whereupon the bull advanced at the same moment, with another loud bellow, the smoke coming out of his red nostrils, and his little eyes flaming with fire. this caused all teddy's courage to evaporate, and the next moment, forgetting all his previous caution, he turned and ran as hard as he could for the gate; but, the bull, in two strides, catching him up on his horns like a bundle of hay, tossed him high in the air, amidst the screams and shouts of cissy and liz and all the village boys commingled, the triumphant roar of the animal overtopping them all as it bellowed forth a paean of victory. fortunately for teddy, a pollard elm stood just within the paddock, breaking his fall as he tumbled towards the ground, where the bull was looking up awaiting him, with the intention of catching him again on his horns; and the branches receiving his body in their friendly shelter, he was saved from tumbling down, when he would have been at the mercy of his enemy. still, there he hung, like absalom, another naughty boy before him, suspended by his clothes if not by his hair, the bull bellowing and keeping guard round the tree to prevent his further escape; and it was not until the ploughman had been called by one of the village boys and driven away the animal that teddy was able to climb down from his insecure perch and regain the others. he was glad enough to get out of the paddock, it may be safely asserted; and then, when he was examined, it was discovered, much to the wonder of everybody, including himself, that, beyond a scratch or two from the branches of the elm, he was quite unhurt, in spite of the toss the bull gave him and his unexpected flight through the air! but his daring, if unproductive of any evil consequences towards himself personally, caused harm to others, the ploughman being badly gored while driving off the violent animal through his missing his footing when aiming a blow at it with his pitchfork; while poor cissy was in such a fright at the mishap, that after screaming herself hoarse she went off in hysterics, the attack ending in a fit of convulsions on her getting home, making her so ill that the doctor had to be summoned to bring her back to consciousness. teddy in consequence had a serious lecture from the vicar, who pointed out to him the difference between real courage and foolhardiness; but the lesson did not strike very deep, and soon he was his wayward self again, his sister conny being too near his own age to have any authority over him, while his father was too much of a student and dreamer to exercise any judicious control in restraining his exuberant nature. by the time he was twelve years of age he was like a wild unbroken colt, although he had still the same honest outspoken look in his bright blue eyes, and was a fine manly little fellow who would not have, told a lie to save himself from punishment, or wilfully hurt chick or child; but, scapegrace he was still, as he had been almost from his earliest infancy. he really could not help it. when jupp and mary paid their periodical visit at the vicarage to see how the family were getting on, bringing anon another little jupp with them, they were certain to hear of something terrible that master teddy had done; for all the village talked of him now and took heed of his misdeeds, the recital of which, as is usual in such cases, lost nothing by the telling. they were only ordinary boyish freaks; but they seemed awful to the quiet, sleepy countryfolk who inhabited endleigh. once, his grandmother rather unwisely brought down a pistol for him from london; and teddy thereupon having his imagination excited by what he had read of pirates and highwaymen in the works of romance which he devoured whenever he could get hold of them, went about fancying himself a bold buccaneer and freebooter, firing at everything moving within as well as out of range, along the solitary country lanes and hedgerows-- thereby frightening passers-by frequently with untimely shots close to their ears, and making them believe their last hour had come. it was in this way that he peppered old stokes's sow, which was taking a quiet walk abroad seeking a convenient wallowing place, when the squeals of the unlucky beast were a nine days' wonder, albeit "it was all cry and little wool," as the irishman said when he shaved his pig, the animal being not much hurt. still, old stokes did not like it, and complained to the squire, who remonstrated with the vicar, and the latter in his turn lectured teddy-- the matter ending there as far as he was concerned, although the squeals of the afflicted sow were treasured up and remembered against him in the chronicles of endleigh. the place was so dull, that having nothing particular to keep him occupied--for he had long since learned all the village schoolmaster could teach him, and it was a mere farce his remaining any longer under his tutelage--the wonder was, not that teddy got into any mischief at all, but that he did not fall into more; and doctor jolly was continually speaking to his father about neglecting him in that way, urging that he should be sent to some good boarding-school at a distance to prepare him for the university, mr vernon intending that the boy should follow in his own footsteps and go into the church, having the same living after him that he had inherited from his father. but the vicar would not hear of this. "no," said he, "he shall stop here and be educated by me in the same way as i was educated by my poor father before going to oxford. he's a bright intelligent boy--you don't think him an ignoramus, jolly, eh?" "not by any means, by jove," laughed the doctor. "he knows too much already. what i think he wants is a little proper restraint and control. master teddy has too much his own way." "ah! i can't be hard with him, jolly," sighed the vicar. "whenever i try to speak to him with severity he looks me in the face with those blue eyes of his, and i think of my poor wife, his mother. he's the very image of her, jolly!" "well, well," said the doctor, putting the subject away, considering it useless to press the point; "i'm afraid you'll regret it some day, though i hope not." "i hope not, indeed," replied the vicar warmly. "teddy isn't a bad boy. he has never told me a falsehood in his life, and always confesses to any fault he has committed." "that doesn't keep him out of mischief though," said the doctor grimly as he went off, atoning to himself for having found fault with teddy by giving him a drive out to the squire's, and allowing him to take his horse and gig back by himself, an indulgence that lifted teddy into the seventh heaven of delight. however, as events turned out, the very means by which the doctor thought to clear the reproach from his own soul of having advised the vicar about teddy, indirectly led to his advice being followed. on alighting at the squire's and handing him the reins, he told teddy to be very particular in driving slowly, the horse being a high-spirited one, and apt to take the bit in his teeth if given his head or touched with the whip; so, as long as he was in sight teddy obeyed these injunctions, coaxing the bay along as quietly as if he were assisting at a funeral procession. directly he got beyond range of observation from the house, though, he made amends for his preliminary caution, shaking the reins free, and giving the horse a smart cut under the loins that made it spring forward like a goat, almost jumping out of the traces; and then, away it tore along the road towards the village at the rate of twenty miles an hour, the gig bounding from rut to rut as if it were a kangaroo, and shaking teddy's bones together like castanets. once the animal had got its head, the boy found it useless to try and stop him; while, as for guidance, the horse no more cared about his pulling at the bit than if he were a fly, plunging onward in its wild career, and whisking the gig from side to side, so that teddy was fully employed in holding on without attempting to pull the reins at all. for a mile or two the roadway was pretty clear, but on nearing endleigh it became narrower; and here, just in front, teddy could see a loaded farm wagon coming along. to have passed it safely either he or the wagoner would have had to pull up on one side; but with him now it was impossible to do this, while the driver of the other vehicle was half asleep, and nodding from amidst the pile of straw with which the wagon was loaded, letting the team jingle along at a slow walk. a collision, therefore, was inevitable, and hardly had teddy come to this conclusion than smash, bang, it followed! there was a terrible jolt, and he suddenly felt himself doing a somersault, waking up the wagoner by tumbling on top of him above the straw, whither he had hurled as from a catapult by the sudden stoppage of the gig in its mad career; and when he came to himself he saw that the fragments of the vehicle lay scattered about under the front of the wagon, against which it had been violently impelled, the bay cantering down to its own stable with its broken traces dangling behind it. teddy was thunderstruck at the mishap. he had not thought there was any danger in disobeying the doctor's instructions, and yet here was the gig smashed up and the wagoner's horses injured irreparably, one poor brute having to be shot afterwards; besides which he did not know what had become of the runaway animal. all the mishap had arisen through disobedience! he went home at once and told his father everything; but the vicar, though comforting him by saying that he would get the doctor a new gig, and recompense the farmer to whom the wagon belonged for the loss of his team, seemed to have his eyes awakened at last to the evil to which doctor jolly had so vainly tried to direct his attention. he determined that teddy should go to school. but, before this intention could be carried out, there was a most unexpected arrival at the vicarage. this was no less a personage than uncle jack, whom neither teddy nor his sisters had ever seen before, he having gone to sea the same year the vicar had married, and never been heard of again, the vessel in which he had sailed having gone down, and all hands reported lost. uncle jack hadn't foundered, though, if his ship had, for here he was as large as life, and that was very large, he weighing some fourteen or fifteen stone at the least! what was more, he had passed through the most wonderful adventures and been amongst savages. these experiences enabled him to recount the most delightful and hairbreadth yarns--yarns that knocked all poor jupp's stories of the cut-and-dried cruises he had had in the navy into a cocked hat, teddy thought, as he hung on every utterance of this newly- found uncle, longing the while to be a sailor and go through similar experiences. uncle jack took to him amazingly, too, and when he had become domesticated at the vicarage, asked one day what he was going to be. "what, make a parson of him, brother-in-law!" exclaimed the sailor in horrified accents. "you'd never spoil such a boy as that, who's cut out for a sailor, every inch of him--not, of course, that i wish to say a word against your profession. still, he can't go into the church yet; what are you going to do with him in the meantime, eh?" "send him to school," replied the other. "why, hasn't he been yet?" "oh, yes, he's not altogether ignorant," said the vicar. "i think he's a very fair scholar for his years." "then why dose him any more with book learning, eh? when you fill a water-cask too full it's apt to run over!" "i quite agree with you about cramming, jack," said the vicar, smiling at the nautical simile; "but, i'm sending teddy to a leading school more for the sake of the discipline than for anything more that i want him to learn at present." "discipline, eh! is that your reason, brother-in-law? then allow me to tell you he'll get more of that at sea than he ever will at school." "oh, father!" interrupted teddy, who had been present all the time during the confab, listening as gravely as any judge to the discussion about his future, "do let me be a sailor! i'd rather go to sea than anything." "but you might be drowned, my boy," said the vicar gravely, his thoughts wandering to every possible danger of the deep. "no fear of that," answered teddy smiling. "why, i can swim like a fish; and there's uncle jack now, whom you all thought lost, safe and sound after all his voyages!" "aye and so i am!" chorused the individual alluded to. "well, well, we'll think of it," said the vicar. "i'll hear what my old friend jolly has to say to the plan first." but he could not have consulted a more favourable authority as far as teddy was concerned. "the very thing for him!" said the doctor approvingly. "i don't think you could ever turn him into a parson, vernon. he has too much animal spirits for that; think of my gig, ho! ho!" overcome by the many arguments brought forward, and the general consensus of judgment in favour of the project, the vicar at last consented that teddy might be allowed to go to sea under the aegis of uncle jack, who started off at once to london to see about the shipping arrangements; when the rest of the household set to work preparing the young sailor's outfit in the meantime, so that no time might be lost-- little cissy making him a wonderful anti-macassar, which, in spite of all ridicule to the contrary, she asserted would do for the sofa in his cabin! of course, jupp and mary came over to wish teddy good-bye; but, albeit there was much grief among the home circle at the vicarage when they escorted him to the little railway-station, on the day he left there were not many tears shed generally at his going, for, to paraphrase not irreverently the words of the psalmist, "endleigh, at heart, was glad at his departing, and the people of the village let him go free!" chapter nine. at sea. "well, here we are, my hearty!" said uncle jack, who was on the watch for him at london bridge station, and greeted him the moment the train arrived; "but, come, look sharp, we've a lot to do before us, and precious little time to do it in!" teddy, however, was not inclined at first to "look sharp." on the contrary, he looked extremely sad, being very melancholy at leaving home, and altogether "down in the mouth," so to speak. this arose, not so much from the fact of his parting with his father and sisters, dearly as he loved them all in his way; but, on account of poor puck, who, whether through grief at his going away, which the intelligent little animal seemed quite as conscious of through the instinct of his species as if he were a human being, or from his chronic asthma coming to a crisis, breathed his last in teddy's arms the very morning of his departure from home! the doggy, faithful to the end, was buried in the garden, conny, cissy, and liz attending his obsequies, and the two latter weeping with teddy over his grave, for all were fond of puck; but none lamented him so deeply as he, and all the journey up to town, as the train sped its weary way along, his mind was busy recalling all the incidents that attended their companionship from the time when his grandmother first gave him as a present. he was a brisk young dog then, he remembered, the terror of all strange cats and hunter of rabbits, but his affection had not swerved down to the last year of their association, when, toothless and wheezy, he could hunt no more, and cats came fearlessly beneath his very nose when he went through the feeble pretence of trying to gnaw a bone on the lawn. poor puck--_requiescat in pace_! still, doggy or no doggy, uncle jack was not the sort of fellow to let teddy remain long in the dumps, especially as he had said there was a good deal to be done; and, soon, teddy was in such a whirl of excitement, with everything new and strange around him, that he had no time left to be melancholy in. first, uncle jack hailed a hansom, all teddy's belongings in the shape of luggage being left in the cloak-room at the terminus, and the two jumping in were driven off as rapidly as the crowded state of the streets would allow, to tower hill, where the offices of the shipping agents owning the _greenock_ were situated. here uncle jack deposited a cheque which the vicar had given him, and master teddy was bound over in certain indentures of a very imposing character as a first-class apprentice to the said firm, the lad then signing articles as one of the crew of the _greenock_, of which vessel, it may be mentioned, uncle jack had already been appointed chief officer, so that he would be able to keep a watchful eye over his nephew in his future nautical career. "now that job's done," said uncle jack when all the bothersome writing and signing were accomplished and the vicar's cheque paid over, "we'll have a run down to look at the ship; what say you to that, eh?" "all right!" responded teddy, much delighted at the idea; and the pair then were driven from tower hill to the fenchurch street railway- station, where they dismissed their cab and took train for the docks, the state of locomotion in the neighbourhood of which does not readily permit of the passage of wheeled vehicles, a hansom running the risk of being squashed into the semblance of a pancake against the heavy drays blocking the narrow streets and ways, should it adventure within the thoroughfares thereof. on their arrival at poplar, uncle jack threaded his way with amazing ease and familiarity through a narrow lane with high walls on either hand, and then into a wide gateway branching off at right angles. entering within this teddy found himself in a vast forest of masts, with ships loading and unloading at the various quays and jetties alongside the wharves, opposite to lines of warehouses that seemed to extend from one end of the docks to the other. uncle jack was not long in tumbling across the _greenock_, which had nearly completed taking in her cargo and was to "warp out next morning," as he told teddy, who didn't know what on earth he meant by the phrase, by the way. there appeared to be a great deal of confusion going on in front of the jetty to which she was moored; but uncle jack took him on board and introduced him to mr capstan, the second officer, as a future messmate, who showed him the cabins and everything, telling him to "make himself at home!" the _greenock_ was a fine barque-rigged vessel of some two thousand tons, with auxiliary steam-power; and she gained her living or earned her freight, whichever way of putting it may please best, by sailing to and fro in the passenger trade between the ports of london and melbourne, but doing more in the goods line on the return journey, because colonials bent on visiting the mother country generally prefer the mail steamers as a speedier route. emigrants, however, are not so squeamish, contenting themselves in getting out to australia, that land of promise to so many hard-up and despairing people at home, by whatever means they can--so long only as they may hope to arrive there at some time or other! teddy was surprised at the gorgeousness of the _greenock's_ saloons and cabins, and the height of her masts, and the multitude of ropes about running in every conceivable direction, crossing and recrossing each other with the bewildering ingenuity of a spider's web; but uncle jack took all these wonders as a matter of course, and rather pooh-poohed them. "wait till you see her at gravesend," he said. "she's all dismantled now with these shore lumpers and lubbers aboard, and won't be herself till she's down the river and feels herself in sailors' hands again. why, you won't know her! but come along, laddie, we've got to buy a sea-chest and a lot of things to complete your kit; and then, we'll go to granny's and try to see something of the sights of london." so, back they trudged again to the poplar station and were wafted once more to fenchurch street, where uncle jack dived within the shop of a friendly outfitter, who had a mackintosh and sextant swinging in front of his establishment to show his marine leanings and dealings. here, a white sea-chest, whose top was made like a washing-stand, and several other useful articles, were purchased by uncle jack without wasting any time, as he had made up his mind what he wanted before going in and knew what he was about; and these things being ordered to be forwarded to the cloak-room at the london bridge station, to be placed with teddy's other luggage, uncle jack rubbed his hands gleefully. "now that business is all settled," he said, "we can enjoy ourselves a bit, as the ship won't be ready for us till next monday. come along, my hearty! let us bear up for granny's--you haven't been to her place before, have you, eh?" no, teddy explained. granny had often been down to endleigh to see him, but he had never been up to town to see her; that first attempt of his, which had been frustrated by mary's pursuit and the machinations of jupp, having deterred him, somehow or other, from essaying the journey a second time. indeed, he had never been to london at all. "_my_!" exclaimed uncle jack. "what a lot there'll be for you to see, my hearty, eh?" what is more, he showed him, too, all that was to be seen, taking teddy to monuments and exhibitions, to galleries and even to the theatre. the time passed by rapidly enough--too rapidly, granny thought, when the day came for her to say good-bye to teddy; but he was nothing loth to go, longing to be on board the _greenock_ as one belonging to her of right, and feel himself really at sea. granny wanted him to have another little dog in place of puck; however, he couldn't make up his mind to a substitute to supersede the former animal's hold on his affections. besides this, uncle jack said the captain did not allow anybody to have dogs on board, and that was a clincher to the argument at once. monday morning came, and with it another railway journey. it really seemed to teddy as if he were "on the line," like jupp! the _greenock_, having taken in all her cargo, had been warped out of dock and then towed down the river to gravesend, where she was now lying moored in the stream off the lobster. "there she is!" cried uncle jack when they got down to the beach. "where?" asked teddy, not recognising the dirty untidy hulk he had seen in the docks, as she first appeared to him before he was taken on board and noticed the elegance of her cabins, in the thing of beauty he saw now before him; with every spar in its place and snow-white canvas extended in peaceful folds from the yards, as the vessel lay at anchor with her topsails dropped and her courses half clewed up, ready to spread her wings like an ocean bird. what a change there was in her! "look, right in front there, laddie," said uncle jack. "can't you see? she's just about making-sail, so we'd better get on board as soon as possible. hi, boatman, seen any one belonging to the _greenock_ ashore?" "aye, aye, sir," answered the man addressed, "her boat's just over there by the p'int, just agoin' to shove off." "thank you, my hearty," said uncle jack, giving him a trifle for the information; and in another minute or so teddy found himself in the _greenock's_ jolly-boat in company with a lot of the new hands, like himself, going off to join the ship. here on his arrival on board, he was introduced to captain lennard, the monarch of all he surveyed as far as the deck of the _greenock_ was concerned, and his future commander. teddy liked the look of him; while he, on his part, seemed to like the look of teddy, smiling kindly when he saw him come over the gangway after uncle jack. he had the general appearance of a brown jupp, being of the same height and with just such a smiling good-humoured face, with the exception that his hair and beard, instead of being black, was of a lighter and ruddier hue. oh, yes, teddy thought, captain lennard was the man for him. he looked easy and kind-hearted and would not bully people, as he had read of some brutal captains doing. "this your nephew?" he asked uncle jack politely. "yes, sir," replied the other, touching his cap, being in regular nautical rig now, as also was teddy, who, clad in spick-and-span reefer costume, felt as proud as punch. "ah! then, if he's like you i think we'll get along very well together, mr althorp," said the captain with a bow and smile. "he looks like a chip of the old block too!" "you're very good to say that, sir," stammered uncle jack, blushing at the compliment. "the youngster's very like my poor sister, and i suppose resembles me, as she and i were twins. i've no doubt, though, you'll find him teachable when he's licked into shape; for, he isn't a bad lad from what i have seen of him as yet, and is plucky enough, if all i've heard of him down at endleigh be true." "well, master vernon, i hope you'll justify the character your uncle gives of you. if you only obey orders there'll be no fear of our falling out. but, mind, i'm captain of this ship; so look out for squalls if you shirk duty or try on any tricks!" the captain said this pleasantly, but there was a stern look combined in the twinkle of his hazel eyes beneath their thick brown eyebrows, like penthouses overshadowing them; and teddy felt that, with all his gentleness and joking way, he was a man who intended to command and likewise to be obeyed. a moment later captain lennard changed the conversation by asking uncle jack if all the hands were on board. "aye, aye, sir," said the other. "the whole batch, i think, came out with us. isn't that so, mr capstan?" he asked, turning to the second- mate, who was standing close by. "yes, all hands aboard," replied the second-mate laconically. "then make sail at once," said captain lennard, going aft on the poop; while mr capstan bustled forwards, shouting out as he scrambled up on the windlass bitts and thence to the fo'c's'le, "all hands make sa-i- il!" drawling out the last word as if it were a chorus to some mariner's ditty he were singing. the crew were all picked men, the majority having been in the ship on one or two previous voyages; so they were quite at home, and sprang into the rigging long before the second-mate had got to the end of his refrain. in a second, the topsails were dropped and sheeted home, and the rattling of the clewgarnet blocks told of the courses following their example; after which the hands aloft then loosed the topgallant, there being a fine breeze fair for the downs. teddy was puzzled for a moment by all the seeming confusion that reigned in the ship, with ropes flying about and cordage cracking, while the hoarse orders issued by mr capstan and uncle jack were answered by the cheery cry of the men, singing out lustily as they hoisted and pulled at the halliards with a will. but, the confusion was only momentary and in appearance only; for, hardly had he begun to realise what all the bustle was about, than the ship was clothed in canvas from truck to deck, like a lady attired for a ball all in white! the headyards were then backed, and captain lennard's voice rang through the vessel fore and aft as clear as a bell-- "hands up anchor!" then, the windlass was wound; and, slip, slap, click, clack, it went round the pawl belaying every inch of cable got in. "cheerily, men! heave with a will!" urged the second-mate; and the brawny fellows bent all their strength to the handspikes, heaving them down with sheer brute force. "hove short!" presently sang out mr capstan. "up with it!" responded captain lennard from the poop, where the pilot now appeared by his side awaiting all these preparations to be completed before taking charge of the ship. half-a-dozen more heaves and the anchor-stock showed above the water. "hook cat!" cried the second-mate. "i wonder what that means!" thought teddy. "i hope they won't hurt the poor thing!" but, the next moment, he was undeceived. nothing in the shape of cruelty to animals was about to be perpetrated. mr capstan only ordered the men to hook on the tackle by which the head of the anchor was to be braced up; and, before he could say "jack robinson," if he had been that way inclined, the falls were manned and the anchor run up to the cathead with a rousing chorus as the men scampered aft with the tail-end of the rope. the headyards were then filled, and the ship bowed her head as if in salute to father neptune, the next instant gathering way as the sails began to draw. "port!" sang out the pilot from the bridge. "port it is," responded the man at the wheel, shifting the spokes with both hands like a squirrel in a cage, it seemed to teddy, who was looking at him from the break of the poop, where he had taken up his station by captain lennard's orders so that he might the more easily see all that was going on. "steady!" "steady it is," repeated the helmsman in parrot fashion. and so, conning and steering along, the _greenock_ was soon bounding on her way down channel, passing deal and rounding the south foreland before noon. teddy at last was really at sea! chapter ten. taking french leave. the weather was beautifully fine for october, with a bright warm sun shining down and lighting up the water, which curled and crested before the spanking nor'-east breeze, that brought with it that bracing tone which makes the month, in spite of its autumnal voice warning us of the approach of winter, one of the most enjoyable in our changeable climate--especially to those dwelling along the south coast, which the good ship _greenock_ now trended by on her passage out of the channel. teddy as yet, although this was his first experience of "a life on the ocean wave," was not sea-sick; for, although the vessel heeled well over to the wind on the starboard tack she did not roll, but ploughed through the little wavelets as calmly as if on a mill-pond, only rising now and again to make a graceful courtesy to some cross current that brought a swell over from the opposite shore of france, for after passing beachy head she kept well off the land on the english side. a west-nor'-west course brought the _greenock_ off saint catharine's point; but the evening had drawn in too much for teddy to see anything of the isle of wight, and when he woke up next morning the ship was abreast of the start point. from thence, he had a fair view of the devon and cornish coasts in the distance all the way to the lizard, the scene being like an ever- changing panorama, with plenty of life and movement about in the vessels the _greenock_ was continually passing either outwards or homewards bound; while the little trawlers and fishing-boats clustered in groups here and there, and there was the occasional smoke from some steamer steaming along the horizon, like a dark finger-post above the level of the sea in the distance. he enjoyed it all, as, although he had found his bunk in the cabin rather close and stuffy after his nice airy bed-room at the vicarage, he was still not sea-sick; and, as he leant over the taffrail, watching the creamy wake the ship left behind her, spreading out broader and broader until it was lost in the surrounding waste of waters, what with the sniff of the saline atmosphere and the bracing breeze, he began to feel hungry, longing for breakfast-time to come and wondering when he would hear the welcome bell sound to tell that the meal was ready. no one was on deck, at least on the poop, when he came up, save the helmsman, and mr capstan, the latter walking up and down briskly on the windward side and exchanging a word now and again with the pilot on the bridge; so teddy felt a little forlorn. presently, the second-mate, taking a longer turn in his quarterdeck walk, came up and spoke to him. "well, young shaver," he said, "how are you getting on?" "very well, thank you, sir," replied teddy, touching his cap, as uncle jack had told him he must always do to his superior officer. "ah! you're like a young bear, and have all your troubles before you," the other next remarked consolingly, adding immediately afterwards the query: "seen any of your messmates yet?" "no, sir," replied teddy, looking a bit puzzled--"that is, excepting yourself and the captain, and uncle jack, of course. are there any other midshipmen like myself?" "aye, if you call the apprentices so, young shaver," said mr capstan with an ironical grin which did not improve his rather ugly face. "there are two more of you; and the lazy young hounds must be snoozing below, for they haven't shown a leg yet. however, i'll soon rouse 'em up!" so saying, he shouted out to one of the hands in the waist forwards: "here, bill summers!" "aye, aye, sir," replied the man, looking up towards the break of the poop, whence the second-mate had hailed him, leaning over the rail. "just go and call jones and maitland. tell 'em to turn out sharp or i'll stop their grog," cried mr capstan. "aye, aye, sir," said the man, proceeding towards the deck-house, which occupied a middle position in the ship between the poop and fo'c's'le; and presently, although hidden from the gaze of those aft, he could be heard rapping at one of the doors, repeating in whispered tones the order the second-mate had given him. ere long, a couple of striplings appeared, dressed in dirty uniforms which presented a marked difference to that of teddy; and he noticed besides that one was considerably taller than he was while the second was shorter and a little slimmer. "here, you, jones and maitland, i won't have you caulking away this bright morning when the sun ought to be scorching the sleep out of your eyes. what do you mean by it, eh?" began mr capstan as if lashing himself into a passion, but had not quite got enough steam up yet. "i thought, sir, as this is our first day out and the ship still in charge of the pilot, we needn't turn out so early," said jones, the biggest of the two, acting as spokesman. "you thought!" snarled the second-mate, catching up a rope's-end with the apparent intention of laying it across the shoulders of jones, only he kept a wary distance away. "i've half a mind to give you something for answering me like that! no one has any business to think on board ship." "aye, where you're boss!" said the offender speaking aside. "what is that you're jabbering?" quickly interposed mr capstan--"some impudence, i reckon. now, just you pull off those patent-leather pumps of yours and set to work washing decks. it's gone six bells, and it ought to have been done half an hour ago." teddy thought this was a very unkind cut of the mate at poor jones's boots, which were a dilapidated pair of bluchers that needed mending badly; still, he couldn't help smiling, which didn't seem to please mr capstan, who, turning round, now addressed him: "and you, my fine young shaver, with your dandy rig, you'd better be doing something to earn your salt, and not be a useless lubber, looking on like a fine lady! you just put off and go and help jones." teddy, though he didn't relish the job, obeyed willingly; and soon he was paddling about in bare feet with his trousers rolled up to the knee, while the crew under jones's direction rigged the head pump and sluiced the decks down from end to end of the ship, beginning with the poop and ending with the midship section in the waist, where all the water was collected in a sort of small lake and had to be swabbed out of the scuttles. young maitland meanwhile had been sent up the main royal mast to clear the dog vane, which had somehow or other got fouled; so mr capstan, satisfied at seeing everybody busily employed but himself, paced contentedly up and down the poop, sniffing about and snorting occasionally like an old grampus, as if in satisfaction at "taking it out of the youngsters." the man was naturally a bully, and loved to display the little authority he had by "hazing" those under him, to use the technical sea phrase. by dint of continually nagging at the men below from his commanding position above, the second-mate hurried them up so with their work that in a very short space of time the decks were scrubbed and washed, the sun drying them almost without the use of the swab. mr capstan then set them to work coiling down the loose ropes lying about, there being nothing else to do, as the ship had not altered her course but remained on the starboard tack with the wind well on her quarter; and, although everything had been made snug before leaving the downs, he was just going to tell the hands to unship the motley contents of the long-boat and stow it again afresh in default of some other task, when eight bells struck, and uncle jack came up from below to relieve him from his watch--a relief, it may be added, to all hands in more than one sense! presently, captain lennard came on deck too; although he must not be thought lazy for being so late, for he had remained up with the pilot on the bridge all night conning the ship, only turning in for a short nap at daylight. then, the passengers, of whom there were some sixty in the first-class saloon, began to creep up the companion, one by one as if not yet accustomed to the somewhat unsteady footing of a ship's deck at sea; as for the steerage emigrants they remained below, and even after they had been weeks afloat it required almost force to drive them up into the fresh air. teddy was looking at the queer figures some of the gentlemen and ladies presented on the poop, when all at once the breakfast gong sounded, and they all scuttled down much faster than they had come up, the sea air having given those able to get out of their bunks fresh appetites after they had paid homage to neptune. he was not invited to go down with these, however, having to mess along with jones and maitland in the deck-house close to the galley, where the three mids consoled themselves with the reflection that if they were excluded from the saloon, at all events they were nearer the place where their meals were cooked, and so had the advantage of getting them hotter! after breakfast the pilot left the ship, a boat putting out for him from the land when they were near saint michael's; and then captain lennard, hauling round a bit, shaped a west-south-west course, steering out into the broad atlantic until he had reached longitude degrees west, when the vessel's head was turned to the south for madeira and the canaries. strange to say, teddy up to now had not been once sick. it is true they had not as yet had any rough weather; but the sea was brisk enough to try the stomachs of all the landsmen on board, so it was curious he was not affected in any way by the ship's motion. as uncle jack said at the first, he was a born sailor! soon he began, too, to understand his duties; and being naturally quick of intellect and active, he after a time became handier on the yards and up aloft than little maitland, who had been two voyages out and home before; while jones had to exert himself to hold his own with him--with uncle jack, besides, coaching him up in seamanship, teddy ere the vessel had reached madeira was a greenhand no longer. at teneriffe captain lennard put in to coal, the ship being, as formerly mentioned, an auxiliary screw, and able to enlist the aid of steam when she came to the calm latitudes, which they were now approaching. the passengers being allowed to go on shore for a few hours, teddy received permission to accompany those taking advantage of the opportunity of landing. there was no time to try and climb up the celebrated peak, which can be seen so far out at sea that it looks like an island in the clouds; but there was much amusement gained in donkey riding and studying the manners and customs of the natives. the garments, teddy noticed, of the ladies were rather limited in dimensions; but what they lacked in quantity they made up for in style, all the dresses being provided with those "improvers" of late fashion in england. these made the skirts of the portuguese damsels stick out all round, giving them a very funny appearance with their brown skins and bare feet! it was well they coaled here, for while they were yet in sight of the huge cloud-cap't mountain above santa cruz, the wind that had favoured them so well up to now dropped to a dead calm; so, captain lennard, ordering the sails to be furled and the screw-propeller lowered, the vessel was able to proceed under steam across the equator, making almost as good time as when sailing before a good breeze--almost, but not quite, as she was a clipper under canvas. they touched once more at the cape of good hope, to fill up the coal they had expended in case of another emergency necessitating their steaming again; but, the wind being favourable when the _greenock_ got below the forties, she bowled along steadily before it under canvas, reaching melbourne within sixty days. altogether, the voyage was uneventful except for one thing, and that was the persistent bullying of mr capstan the second-mate, who, whether from his relationship to uncle jack, his superior officer, or from some other cause, had apparently conceived such a dislike to teddy that he tyrannised over him more than he seemed to think necessary either with little maitland or jones--although they suffered, too, at his hands! teddy would not complain, though, to the captain; and as for his uncle jack, he would have thought it dishonourable to breathe a word to him. he would rather have suffered the crudest torture the bully could inflict than that! however, he and little maitland matured their plans together, and coming to the conclusion that they could not very well have any satisfaction from mr capstan without telling tales, they determined to steal away from the ship when she got into harbour, and run away ashore up into the bush, val maitland retailing for teddy's benefit the most wonderful stories anent gold-digging and bush-ranging--stories that cordially agreed with his own fancy. not long, therefore, after the _greenock_ had entered within port philip heads and got up to sandridge pier, the two boys, mixing amongst the crowd of passengers landing, touters touting for various boarding- houses, and all the different sorts of people that throng round the newly-arrived at the colonial metropolis, especially at its harbour mouth, managed easily to get into the town unobserved, giving the slip most successfully to their ship and all its belongings. "and what shall we do now?" asked teddy, his companion, although smaller than himself, taking the lead, from being an older sailor and having been previously in australia. "do! why, go into the bush, of course!" promptly answered the other. "and how shall we get there?" next inquired teddy cheerfully, wishing to start off that very moment for the golden land he had dreamt of. "why, by train," said val. "by train!" echoed teddy in a voice of consternation, the idea was such a terrible come down to what he had imagined. "yes, by train; come along with me," repeated little maitland, catching hold of his arm; and turning into collins street he soon made his way to the railway depot and took a couple of tickets for ballarat. chapter eleven. the wreck. "i say," began val presently when the train was in motion. "well?" said teddy rather grumpily. he could not stomach the fact that here they were journeying along by the aid of an ordinary railway, just as they would have done in england. when val had suggested their going to the diggings he had imagined they would tramp thither through the bush, with their blankets and swag on their shoulders, as he had often read of men doing; and that they would end by picking up a big nugget of gold that would make all their fortunes! the train disposed of all these dreams in a moment; for, how could they pick up nuggets along a line of "permanent way," as jupp would have called it--a beaten track that thousands traversed every day by the aid of the potent iron-horse and a bucket of hot water? it was scandalous that val hadn't told him of the railroad! it dispelled all the romance of the expedition at once, he thought grumblingly. despite all mr capstan's bullying, he had not run away from the ship for that; so he was not at all in a mood to have any conversation with such an unprincipled fellow as val, who ought to have enlightened him before. "well?" he said again, seeing that young maitland hesitated about proceeding, his grumpy tone acting as a sort of damper to his contemplated eloquence. "i say, old fellow," then began val again, making a fresh start and blurting out his question, "have you got any money?" teddy was all sympathy now. a comrade in distress should never appeal to him in vain! so he commenced searching his pockets. "i ought to have some," he said. "father gave me a five-pound note before i left home, and uncle jack when i was in london with him tipped me a sovereign, and i haven't spent or changed either for that matter; but, now i come to think of it, they're both in my chest in the cabin. i never thought of taking them out before we left the _greenock_." "that's precious unlucky," observed val, searching his pockets too, and trying each vainly in turn. "i've only a couple of shillings left now after paying for the railway tickets. whatever shall we do?" "oh, bother that!" replied teddy sanguinely; "we sha'n't want any. the fellows i've read about who went to the diggings never had a halfpenny, but they always met with a friendly squatter or tumbled into luck in some way or other." "that was in the old days," said val in a forlorn way. "the squatters have all been cleared out, and there are only hotels and boarding-houses left, where they expect people to pay for what they have to eat." "they're a stingy lot then, and quite unlike what i've read in books about the customs in australia; but what can you expect when they have a railway!" teddy spoke in such a scornful manner of this sign of civilisation that he made val laugh, raising his spirits again. "all right, old chap!" said the little fellow. "i daresay we'll get along very well although we haven't any money to speak of with us. two shillings, you know, is something; and no doubt it will keep us from starving till we come across luck." teddy cheerfully acquiesced in this hopeful view of things; and then the two, being alone in the carriage, chatted away merrily on all sorts of subjects until they arrived at their station, which a porter sang out the name of exactly in the same fashion as if they were at home. this quite exasperated teddy, who, when he got down and looked about him, opened his eyes with even greater wonder. surely this large town couldn't be ballarat! why, that place ought to be only a collection of hastily-run-up wooden shanties, he thought, with perhaps one big store where they sold everything, provisions, and picks and shovels, with cradles for rocking the gold-dust out of the quartz and mud. where were the canvas tents of the diggers, and the claims, and all? but, yes, ballarat it was; although the only diggings were quarries worked by public mining companies with an immense mass of machinery that crushed the rock and sent streams of water through the refuse, using quicksilver to make an amalgam with--companies that were satisfied to get a grain of gold for every ton of quartz they excavated and pounded into powder, and realised a handsome dividend at that, where ordinary diggers wouldn't have had a chance of keeping themselves from starving. he and little maitland wandered about; and then, feeling hungry, exhausted all their capital in one meal, "burning their boats," like the old athenians. they would now have either to find something to do to get lodging or food, or else tramp it back to the ship. they slept that night in the open air, under some scaffolding round a new building that was being run up on the outskirts of the town; and the next morning were wandering about again, feeling very miserable and wishing they were safely back on board the _greenock_, it being just breakfast-time, when they were accosted by a stout, hairy sort of man, dressed in a species of undress uniform. "hullo, my young friends!" the man said, his voice being much pleasanter than his looks, "where do you hail from? i don't think i've ever seen you in ballarat before." "you wouldn't again if we could help it," replied teddy so heartily that the hairy man laughed as jollily as might have been expected from his musical voice. "ah! i think i know who you are," he observed, eyeing them both critically. "well, you must be a conjuror if you do," answered little maitland, who had a good deal of native impudence about him, "considering we haven't been twenty-four hours in australia!" "what say you to maitland being your name and vernon that of your companion, eh, my young cocksparrow?" said the man with a quizzical look. "am i conjuror or not?" the boys stared at each other in amazement. "well," exclaimed teddy at length, "this is certainly the funniest country i have ever been in. the diggings that i've read about in print over and over again have all vanished into nothing, and here there are railways running through the bush, with people knowing who you are twenty thousand miles away from home. it is wonderful!" "not so very wonderful after all, master teddy vernon," suggested the hairy man at this juncture. "i'm an inspector of police here, and we received a telegram last night which had been circulated in all directions from the chief office at melbourne, saying that you two young gentlemen were missing from the ship _greenock_, just arrived from england, and that any information about you would be gladly received and rewarded by captain lennard, the commander of the vessel." "i'm very glad," said teddy, interrupting any further remark the inspector might have made. "we came away suddenly because of something that occurred on board; and now i sha'n't be at all sorry to go back again, for we have no money or anything to eat. besides, the place isn't a bit like what i expected--there!" "ah! you're hungry, my young friends, and that soon takes the pluck out of a body," observed the inspector kindly. "come along with me and have some breakfast, after which i'll see you into the train for melbourne." "but we haven't got any money," said teddy, looking at him frankly in the face. "never mind that," he replied jokingly. "i daresay i can put my hand on an odd sixpence or so, and this i've no doubt your captain will pay me back." "that he will," cried teddy and val together in one breath; "besides, we've got money of our own on board the ship, only we forgot to bring it with us." "and a very good job too," said the inspector laughing, "otherwise, you might not perhaps have been so glad to meet me this morning; but come on now, lads. let us go into the town to some restaurant, and then i will see you to the depot, if i can depend on your going back." "that you can, sir," replied val drily, "if you buy the tickets for us." "oh, i'll see about that," said the inspector; and so, under his escort, they went into the nearest restaurant and had a good meal, after which the inspector took tickets for them, seeing them into the railway- carriage. the worthy policeman must also have said something to the guard, for after he had given teddy his name, at the lad's especial request, and wished them good-bye, some official or other came up and locked the door of the compartment, so that they could not have got out again if they had wished save by climbing through the window. "he needn't have been alarmed at our giving him the slip," observed little maitland. "i am only too glad to be sent back in any fashion, ignominious though it may be to be under charge of the police." "so am i," said teddy; "but the inspector is a nice fellow after all, and has behaved very well to us." he had been even more thoughtful, however, than the boys imagined; for, on the train arriving once more at the melbourne terminus, who should be there to meet them but uncle jack! "well, you're a nice pair of young scamps," was his exclamation when the door of the carriage was opened by another policeman, and they got out right in front of where he was standing. "what have you got to say for yourselves, eh, for taking leave in french fashion like that? why, you ought to be keel-hauled both of you!" but he saved them a long explanation by telling them that jones, the other midshipman, having been knocked down with a marlinespike by the second-mate, captain lennard had both him and mr capstan brought before him, when, sifting the matter to the bottom, jones had made a clean breast of the way in which he and the other youngsters had been bullied. "and the upshot of the whole affair is," continued uncle jack, "captain lennard has dismissed capstan from his ship, giving him such a discharge certificate that i don't think he'll get another second-mate's place in a hurry! as for you, my young scamps, i don't think the skipper will be very hard on you; but, teddy, you ought to have told me of the treatment you three poor beggars were receiving at that ruffian's hands all the voyage. old bill summers, the boatswain, confirmed every word that jones said, and was quite indignant about it." "i didn't like to tell, you being my uncle and over mr capstan," said teddy; "i thought it would be mean." "it is never mean to complain of injustice," replied uncle jack gravely; "still, the matter now rests with the skipper." captain lennard gave the boys a good talking to for running away, saying that it wasn't manly for young sailors to shirk their work in that way for any reason. however, considering all the circumstances of the case and the lesson they had learnt, that boys couldn't be absolutely independent of those in authority over them, he said that he had made up his mind to forgive them, telling them they might return to their duty. the passengers having all landed and the ship cleared of her home cargo, she began immediately taking in wool for her return voyage, and in a few weeks' time set sail from the heads for england--though _via_ cape horn this time, as is generally the routine with vessels sailing to australia when coming back to the channel. there were only two passengers on board, the captain and mate of a vessel that had been sold at melbourne, she having only been navigated out by these officers for the purpose, and the vessel being unencumbered by emigrants the sailors had more room to move about. teddy found it much pleasanter than on the passage out, as captain lennard was able to spare more time in teaching him his duty, a task which he was ably backed up in by uncle jack and robins, the new second-mate, a smart young seaman whom the captain had promoted from the fo'c's'le to take capstan's vacant place, and a wonderful improvement in every way to that bully. after leaving port philip, they had a fair enough passage till they got about midway between new zealand and the american continent, captain lennard taking a more northerly route than usual on account of its being the summer season in those latitudes, and the drift-ice coming up from the south in such quantities as to be dangerous if they had run down below the forties. when the _greenock_ was in longitude somewhere about west and latitude south a fierce gale sprung up from the north-east, right in their teeth, causing the lighter sails of the ship to be handed and the topgallants to be taken in. at midnight on the same day, the wind having increased in force, the upper topsails were handed and the foresail reefed, the ship running under this reduced canvas, and steering east-south-east, the direction of the wind having shifted round more to the northward. the next evening, the wind veered to the westward, and was accompanied with such terrific squalls and high confused sea that captain lennard, who had thought at first he could weather out the storm under sail, determined to get up steam, and lowered the propeller so that the ship might lay-to more easily. later on in the afternoon, however, another shift of wind took place, the gale veering to sou'-sou'-west in a squall heavier than any of its predecessors; while a heavy sea, flooding the decks, broke through the hatchway and put out the engine fires. being a smart seaman, the captain had sail set again as soon as possible, hoisting reefed topsails and foresail to lift the vessel out of the trough of the following seas, in which she rolled from side to side like a whale in its death flurry. all seemed going on well for a short time after this; and he and uncle jack thought they had weathered the worst of it, when the foresheet parted and the clew of the foresail, going through the lower foretopsail, split it in ribbons. the barque was then brought to the wind on the port tack under the lower maintopsail, and she lay-to pretty well; but the wind kept on veering and beating with frequent squalls from sou'-sou'-west to west, so that at noon a strong gale prevailed again fiercer than before. teddy had not seen anything like this; but he wasn't a bit frightened, and he was as active as the oldest sailor in lending help to carry out the captain's orders, jumping here, there, and everywhere like a monkey. the skipper was so pleased with his behaviour that he complimented him by telling uncle jack he was as good as his right hand! later on, the weather seemed calming down and all were very busy repairing damages; but, in the evening, a tremendous sea broke on board carrying away the bulwarks and chain-plates fore and aft on the port side, the accompanying violent gust of wind jerking the maintopsail as if it had been tissue paper out of the ship. immediately after this, with the first lee roll, the foremast broke off almost flush with the deck and fell with a crash over the side, taking with it everything that stood but the lower main and mizzen masts, leaving the _greenock_ rolling a hopeless wreck on the waste of raging waters. chapter twelve. easter island. the gale suddenly ceased during the night, but all hands remained on deck; for, the sea was still rolling mountains high and coming in occasionally over the broken bulwarks, causing captain lennard much anxiety about the boats, which, fortunately, the broken top hamper kept from being washed overboard. in the morning it was quite calm again; but the poor old ship presented a piteous scene of desolation, with her broken sides, and her gay array of towering masts and spreading yards and spread of canvas all swept away. teddy could nearly have cried at the sorry sight; not reflecting that through the merciful care of a divine providence watching over all not a life had been lost. with the daylight, captain lennard took a rapid review of their position. he had caused a stout tarpaulin to be lashed over the engine-room hatch, thus preventing any more water from passing down into the hold there in any perceptible quantity; still, the carrying away of the bulwarks and chain-plates had strained the ship very much on the port side, and when the carpenter sounded the well at eight bells the ship was found to be leaking fast, having already a depth of two feet in her. "man the pumps!" cried the captain; when uncle jack lending a willing hand, the crew under his encouragement were soon working away steadily with a clink-clank, clink-clank, the water pouring out through the scuppers in a continuous stream. however, on the well being sounded again presently, it was found to be flowing in equally steadily, having risen already six inches more in spite of all their pumping! what was to be done? the captain and uncle jack deliberated together, summoning the new third mate to assist their counsels; but, they could only arrive at one opinion. the ship was sinking fast, and all hands knew it as well as they themselves; for, in addition to the damage done to the sides and bulwarks, the heavy propeller had aided the waves in wrenching away the rudder, which carried with it the greater portion of the stern-post. "we must take to the boats," said captain lennard. "thank god, they are all right, and haven't been washed away in the storm!" leaving the useless pumps, therefore, for it was of no avail fatiguing the men with the unnecessary exertion any longer, all the pumping in the world being idle to save the vessel, the hands were at once set to work clearing the boats and getting them over the side. it was a ticklish job, the long-boat especially being very heavy, and there being no means, now they had lost their masts, of rigging a tackle aloft to hoist it off the chocks amidships. still, necessity teaches men alternatives in moments of great peril; so, now, knocking away the under fastenings of the boat by main force, the crew managed at last to get it free. then, improvising rollers out of pieces of the broken topmast, they contrived by pulling and hauling and shoving, all working with a will together, to launch it over the side through the hole in the bulwarks. the jolly-boat followed suit, an easier task; and then, the two being deemed sufficient to accommodate all on board, just sixty-one in number including the two passengers, captain lennard gave the order to provision them, telling the steward to bring out all the cabin stores for this purpose, there being now no further use for them on board the ship, and officers and men being entitled to share alike without distinction. the captain himself, while this was being done, saw to the ship's log and other papers, taking also out of the cabin his best chronometer and a chart or two, as well as a sextant and some mathematical instruments. these preparations for departure, though, were abruptly cut short by a warning cry from bill summers, the boatswain. "we'd better look sharp, sir," he called out to uncle jack, who was busily engaged superintending the stowage of the provisions in the two boats. "the water is arising rapidly, and is now nearly up to the 'tween-decks!" uncle jack passed on the word to the captain, who instantly came up the companion. seeing the truth of the boatswain's statement from the deeper immersion of the ship since he had gone below, he at once ordered the men down into the boats, the passengers going first; then the foremast hands; and, lastly, the officers. "mr althorp," said the captain, "you will take charge of the jolly-boat and shove off as soon as she's got her complement. i will command the long-boat myself." "aye, aye, sir," responded uncle jack, descending into the boat when she had as many in her as she could safely hold; when, shoving off from the ship's side and rowing a few strokes, the men lay on their oars, remaining some twenty yards off so as to be out of the whirlpool or eddy that would be formed when the vessel presently foundered. the long-boat now received its quota of passengers, all descending into it and seating themselves on the thwarts and in the bottom so as not to be in the way of those rowing, captain lennard waiting till the last to get into her. just as he got in, however, he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten a compass, and hastily climbed back on board to get it. "look sharp, cap'en!" shouted bill summers from the bow as the ship gave a quiver all over. "she's just about to founder." the captain was quick enough, racing back to the companion and down the stairs in two bounds, where, although the cabin was half full of water, he contrived to wrench away the "tell-tale" compass that swung over the saloon-table; and he was on the poop again with it in an instant. the instrument, however, was heavy, but he had hard work to carry it with both hands; and he managed to get to the side with it, when bending down handed it to bill summers, who stood up in the bow of the boat to receive it. at that instant, the ship gave a violent lurch, and some one sang out to shove off; when, the oars being dropped in the water, the boat was impelled some yards from the side, leaving captain lennard still on board. "what, men, abandon your captain!" teddy cried, his voice quivering with emotion. "you cowards, row back at once!" "we can't," sang out the same voice that had before ordered the men to shove off. who it was no one noticed in the general flurry, nor knew afterwards; but, while the men were hesitating which course to adopt, teddy, without saying another word, plunged overboard and swam back to the sinking _greenock_, having no difficulty in getting up the side now for it was almost flush with the water. "come on board, sir!" said he jokingly, touching his forehead with his finger, his cap having been washed off as he dived. "my poor boy!" cried captain lennard, overcome with emotion at the gallant lad's devotion; "you have only sacrificed two lives instead of one! why did you not stay in the boat?" "because," began teddy; but ere he could complete the sentence there was a violent rush of air upwards from the hold, and a loud explosion, the decks having burst. at the same time, the ship made a deep bend forwards. then, her bows rose high in the air above the waves as the stern sank with a gurgling moan; and, the next moment, teddy and captain lennard were drawn below the surface with the vessel as she foundered! teddy was nearly suffocated; but, holding his breath bravely, as jupp had taught him, and striking downwards with all his force, he presently got his head above water, inhaling the delicious air of heaven, which he thought would never more have entered his nostrils. when he came to himself, he saw the captain's body floating face downwards amongst a lot of broken planks and other debris of the wreck, by some fragment of which he must have been struck as the _greenock_ foundered. to swim forwards and seize poor captain lennard, turning him face upwards again and supporting his head above the water, was the work of a moment only with teddy; and then, holding on to a piece of broken spar, he awaited the coming up of the launch, which, now that all danger was over from the eddy rowed up to the scene, when he and the captain were lifted on board--all hands enthusiastic about the courageous action of the little hero, and none more so than captain lennard when he recovered his consciousness. "you have saved my life!" he said. "had you not been close by to turn me over when i rose to the surface i should have been drowned before the boat could have come up. i will never forget it!" nor did he, as teddy's subsequent advancement showed; but, there was no time now for congratulation or passing compliments. the peril of those preserved from the wreck was not yet over, for, they were thousands of miles away from land floating on the wide ocean! hailing the jolly-boat, captain lennard announced what he thought the proper course should be. "the best place for us to make for now is valparaiso," he said; "and if we steer to the east-nor'-east we ought to fetch it in three weeks or so under sail; that is, if our provisions hold out so long." uncle jack approving, this course was adopted; and, day after day, the boats, setting their sails, which bill summers had not forgotten to place on board, made slow but steady progress towards the wished-for goal. one morning, all were wakened up by the welcome cry of "land ho!" from the look-out forwards in the bow of the long-boat, which kept a little ahead of the jolly-boat, although always reducing sail if she forged too much forward so as not to lose her. a signal was made, therefore, telling the glad news to uncle jack and those with him; while the boat pressed onwards towards the spot where the hazy outline of a mountain could be dimly seen in the distance. "that is not the american continent," said captain lennard to the men, in order to allay any future disappointment that might be afterwards felt. "we are nearly a thousand miles off that yet. it must be easter island. that is the only land i know of hereabouts in the pacific; and, although i have never visited the place myself, i have heard that the natives are friendly to strangers. at all events we'll pay them a call; it will be a break in our long journey!" bye and bye the boats approached the shore and all landed, when a lot of copper-coloured savages came down to the beach waving branches of trees in sign of welcome. the islanders had not much to eat; but captain lennard, seeing that their provisions were well-nigh expended, determined to stop here, while sending on uncle jack with a small party to valparaiso to charter some vessel to come and fetch them all, the boats being so crowded that misfortune might await them all if they continued the voyage in such small craft. for months and months all awaited in constant expectation uncle jack's return; but, he came not, and they at length believed that he and those with him must have been lost in some hurricane that had sprung up off the chilian coast, and so had never reached valparaiso at all! they had no fear of starvation, however, the islands abounding in poultry in a semi-wild state, which they had to hunt down for themselves; for the natives lent them no assistance. indeed they were rather hostile after a time; although the englishmen were too numerous for them to attack, especially as they were always on their guard against surprise. in wandering over the island, which is only some thirty miles round, teddy was surprised, like the others, by the numbers of stone obelisks, rudely carved into the semblance of human faces and statues, which could not possibly have been executed by the present inhabitants. it is believed by geographers that easter island must have formed a portion of a vast polynesian continent peopled by some kindred race to those that designed the colossal monuments of an extinct civilisation, now almost overgrown with vegetation, that are yet to be found as evidences of a past age amidst the forests of central america. one day, more than a year after uncle jack had left, and when they had almost given up all hope of ever seeing him again, or of being relieved from their island prison--the long-boat being dashed to pieces in the surf soon after he started--a schooner in full sail was discovered making for the island. presently, she came nearer and nearer. then she hove to, and a boat was seen to be lowered from her side, and shortly afterwards being pulled in to the shore. a moment later, and uncle jack's well-known face could be seen in the stern-sheets, a glad hurrah being raised by the shipwrecked men at the sight of him. soon, uncle jack landed, and he had a long tale to tell of the jolly- boat losing her sail, and being tossed about on the ocean till picked up by an american whaler, which first took a cruise down the south seas, there detaining him many weary months before landing him at sandy point, in the straits of magellan, from whence he got finally to valparaiso after awaiting a passage for weeks. arrived here, however, he at once got in communication with the british consul, and chartered a schooner to go to easter island and fetch his comrades. uncle jack, too, mentioned that he had written home to the owners of the _greenock_, telling of her loss and the safety of all hands on their temporary island home; and he had also sent a letter to endleigh, he said, narrating all about master teddy's adventures, and saying that he was safe and well. captain lennard did not long delay the embarkation of his little band, who were glad enough to leave easter island; so, in a couple of weeks' time all landed safely in valparaiso, where they luckily caught the outgoing mail steamer as they arrived, and started off to england, rejoicing in their timely rescue and preservation from peril amid all the dangers of the deep. chapter thirteen. at home again. it was a bright august day at endleigh. there was a scent of new-mown hay in the air, and gangs of reapers were out in the fields getting in the harvest, the whirr of the threshing- machine, which the squire had lately brought down from london, making a hideous din in the meadows by the pond, where it had been set up; puffing and panting away as if its very existence were a trial, and scandalising the old-fashioned village folk--who did not believe in such new-fangled notions, and thought a judgment would come on those having to do with the machine, depriving, as it did, honest men who could wield the flail of a job! in the garden of the vicarage, the warm sun seemed to incubate a dreamy stillness, the butterflies hardly taking the trouble to fly, and the very flowers hanging down their lazy heads; while the trees drooping their leaves, as if faint and exhausted with the heat. everything out of doors looked asleep, taking a mid-day siesta. everything, that is, but the bees, which carried on their honey- gathering business as briskly as ever, utterly impervious to the warmth. indeed, perhaps they got on all the better for it, probing the petals of the white lilies yet in bloom, and investigating the cavities of the foxglove and wonderful spider-trap of the australian balsam, or else sweeping the golden dust off the discs of the gorgeous sunflowers, a regular mine of mellifluent wealth; a host of gnats and wasps and other idle insects buzzing round them all the time and pretending to be busy too, but really doing nothing at all! the heat-laden atmosphere was so still that it had that oily sort of haze that distinguishes the mirage in the east, when the air appears composed of little waving lines wavering to and fro that dazzle your eyes with their almost-imperceptible motion as you look at them; and the silence was unbroken save by the chuck-chuck-chuck of some meddlesome blackbird in the shrubbery annoying the sparrows in their nap, and the answering click-clink-tweedle-deedle-dum-tum-tweedle-um of the yellow- hammer, telling as plainly as the little songster could tell that he at all events was wide awake, while, in the far distance, there could be heard the coo of ring-doves and the melancholy lament of the cuckoo investigating the hedgerows in quest of other birds' nests wherein to lay its solitary egg, and finding itself forestalled at every turn! but if everything was so quiet without, such was not the case indoors at the vicarage. a telegram had been received from uncle jack, saying that he and teddy, having reached london in safety, would be down by the afternoon train; so, all in the house were in a state of wild excitement at meeting again those they had thought lost for ever. even the vicar was roused out of his usual placidity, although uncle jack's letter from valparaiso had told all about the wonderful escape of the survivors of the _greenock_; while, as for miss conny, who was now a perfectly grown-up young lady of eighteen, all her sedateness was gone for the moment and she was every bit as wild as the rest. "dear me, i'm sure the afternoon will never come!" exclaimed cissy, walking to the window after arranging and re-arranging the flowers in the vases on the little table in the centre of the drawing-room and on the mantel-piece for about the one-and-twentieth time. "it's the longest day i ever knew." "don't be so impatient, dear," said conny, trying to appear cool and tranquil as usual, but failing utterly in the attempt as she followed cissy to the window and looked out over the lawn; "the time will soon pass by if you'll only try and think of something else but the hour for the train to come in." "you're a fine counsellor," cried cissy laughing, as she watched conny's hands nervously twisting within each other. "why, you are as bad as i am, and can't keep still a moment! only liz is calm--as if nothing had happened or was going to happen. i declare i could bang her, as teddy used to say, for sitting there in the corner reading that heavy-looking book. i believe it must be a treatise on metaphysics or something of that sort." "mistaken for once, miss ciss," said the student, looking up with a smile. "it's a volume of travels telling all about the pacific ocean and easter island, where teddy and uncle jack stopped so long with the natives; so, it is very interesting." "well, i'd rather for my part wait and hear about the place from our own travellers," rejoined cissy impatiently. "i do wish they would come! i think i will go and see how molly is getting on with the dinner. i'm sure she'll be late if somebody doesn't look after her." "you had better leave her alone, cissy," remonstrated conny. "molly, you know, doesn't like being interfered with; and, besides, it is very early yet, for they can't be here before three o'clock at the earliest." "oh, she won't mind me, con," replied cissy as she whisked out of the room, gaily singing now, the idea of having an object or doing something banishing her ennui; "molly and i are the best of friends." however, on entering the cook's domain cissy found the old servant the reverse of amiable, for her face was red and hot with basting a little sucking-pig that was slowly revolving on the spit before a glowing fire that seemed to send out all the more heat from the fact of its being august, as if in rivalry of the sun without. "well, how are you getting on?" asked cissy cheerfully, the sight of the little roasting piggy which molly had selected for the repast that was to welcome teddy, with some dim association of the fatted calf that was killed on the return of the prodigal son, making her feel more assured that the time was speeding on, and that the expected ones would arrive soon. but, molly was not amenable to friendly overtures at the moment. "excuse me, miss, i don't want to be bothered now," she replied, turning her perspiring countenance round an instant from her task and then instantly resuming it again and pouring a ladleful of gravy over the blistering crackling of her charge. "there, now--you almost made me burn it by interrupting me!" "i'm very sorry, i'm sure, molly," said cissy apologetically; and seeing that her room was preferred to her company, she went out into the kitchen-garden to seek solace for her listlessness there. it was a vain task, though. the bees were still busily engaged hovering from flower to flower and mixing up in their pouches the different sorts of sweet flavours they extracted with their mandibles from the scabius, whose many-hued blossoms of brown, and olive, and pink, and creamy-white, scented one especial patch near the greenhouse. this corner the industrious little insects made the headquarters of their honey campaign, sallying out from thence to taste a sweet-pea or scarlet-runner and giving a passing kiss to a gaudy fuchsia, who wore a red coat and blue corporation sort of waistcoat, as they went homeward to their hive. on the ground below quite a crowd of sparrows were taking baths in turn in a flat earthenware pan which was always kept filled with water for their particular delectation; and the butterflies, too, waking up, were poising themselves in graceful attitudes on the nasturtiums that twined over the gooseberry bushes, which were running a race with the broad- leaved pumpkins and vegetable marrow plants to see who would first clamber over the wall, the red tomatoes laughing through the greenery at the fun. but there was little amusement for cissy in all this at such a period of expectancy, when her pulses throbbed with excitement; so, she turned back towards the house with a yawn, uttering her longing wish aloud, "why can't teddy come?" it being summer time, all the doors and windows were wide open to let in all the air possible, and as she retraced her steps slowly and disconsolately from the bottom of the garden at the back she heard a noise in front like the sound of wheels in the lane. to dart through the side gate instead of returning by way of the kitchen was the work of a moment; and she reached the front of the house almost as soon as conny and liz, who had only to step out on to the smooth turf from the low french windows of the drawing-room. it was only a false alarm, though, doctor jolly having driven up from visiting a patient to know when the travellers were expected. "by the three o'clock train, eh?" he said on being told; then looking at his watch he added: "why, it's close on two now. any of you going down to the station to meet them?" "yes," answered miss conny in her prim way, "i was thinking of taking the children, if you do not consider it too warm to venture out in the heat of the sun? poor papa is not so well to-day and unable to walk so far." "pooh, pooh!" ejaculated the doctor, with his hearty laugh. "call this fine day too warm; you ought to be ashamed of yourself! you need not any of you walk. go and put on your bonnets, and tell the vicar, and i'll cram you all into my old shanderadan and drive you down." the reverend mr vernon, however, besides suffering from one of his usual nervous headaches, which always came on when he was excited by anything as he was now, wished to be alone on first meeting with his lost son again, so that none might witness his emotion, being a particularly shy man amongst strangers; so, although he came out of his study on hearing doctor jolly's voice he begged him to excuse his going, while accepting his kind offer for the girls--who were ready in less than no time, miss conny losing her primness in her anxiety not to keep the doctor waiting, and the generally slow liz being for once quick in her movements. in another minute they were all packed within the hybrid vehicle, half gig, half wagonette, which the doctor only used on state occasions, and must have brought out this afternoon with the preconceived idea of its being specially wanted. "this _is_ jolly!" exclaimed cissy as they all drove off gaily down the sleepy lane, passing neither man nor beast on their way. "you are very good to us, doctor!" "ho, ho, ho! miss cissy," laughed he; "you're getting extremely familiar to address me like that. jolly, indeed! why, that's my name, ho, ho!" "i--i didn't think," stammered poor cissy rather abashed, blushing furiously, while conny took advantage of the opportunity to point out to her the evil effects of using slang words; but the little lecture of the elder sister was soon joked away by the doctor, and they arrived at the station in the best of spirits. here they met with a wonderful surprise. some one who must have heard the news somehow or other of teddy's return home had decorated the front of the old waiting-room with evergreens and sunflowers; and a sort of triumphal arch also being erected on the arrival platform of the same floral pattern. who could have done it? why, no less a person than jupp, whose black beard seemed all the blacker, surrounding his good-humoured face, as he came out of the office with mary on his arm, and a young master jupp and another little mary toddling behind them--the whilom porter no longer dressed in grimy velveteens, but in a smart black frock-coat, his sunday best, while his wife was equally spruce. "i know it's ag'in the rules, miss," he explained to conny; "but i see the telegram as said master teddy'd be here this arternoon, god bless him, and i'm thankful, that i am, he's restored safe and sound from the bottom of the sea and davy jones's locker, as we all on us thought. so says i to grigson, my old mate as was, who's in charge here now, and we detarmined as how we'd make a kind of show like to welcome of him home." "you're a right-down brick, jupp!" said doctor jolly, shaking him by the hand, while mary kissed her former nurse children all round; and, while they were all exchanging congratulations, up came the train rumbling and whistling and panting and puffing into the station, the engine bearing a union jack tied to the funnel, for jupp's interest in two of the special passengers being brought to endleigh was well-known on the line. hardly had the train come to a standstill than out jumped teddy, a trifle taller and broader across the shoulders as might have been expected from his two years of absence, but the same open-faced boy with the curly brown hair and blue eyes that all remembered so well. what a meeting it was, to be sure, and how he hugged his sisters and dr jolly and jupp and mary all round--uncle jack almost being unnoticed for the moment, although he did not appear to mind it, looking on with a sympathetic grin of delight at the general joy expressed in every countenance present! the doctor's "shanderadan" had a full cargo back to the vicarage, everybody talking to everybody all at once and none being able to finish a complete sentence--little cissy keeping tight hold of teddy's arm the while as if fearful of losing him again and thinking it might be all a dream. when they got to the house teddy was through the gate and across the lawn in two bounds, tapping at the door of the study before his father knew that he had come. like another father, the vicar was overcome with glad emotion, clasping him in his arms and embracing him, weeping as he cried in a broken voice: "this, my son, was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!" only a word more. the terrible experiences teddy had had, and the sense of discipline inculcated in him during his short training at sea, made such a change in his character that henceforth he lost his former justly-earned titles, being never more called either "pickle" or "scapegrace." he has not, however, abandoned the profession he originally adopted, in spite of its many perils and dangers, and the fact that a sailor's life is not altogether of that rose-coloured nature which story-writers usually make out. no, he still sails under his old captain in the same line, and voyages backwards and forwards between melbourne and london with praiseworthy punctuality, in the new ship captain lennard commands in place of the old _greenock_. the vessel, too, is a regular clipper in her way, beating everything that tries to compete with her, whether outwards or inwards bound. teddy looks forward some day to taking his skipper's place when he retires from active life afloat, and following the example of uncle jack, who is already a captain too in his own right; for he is as steady and trustworthy now as he was formerly impetuous and headstrong. but, mind you, he has lost none of his pluck or fearless spirit, and is the same genial, good-tempered, and happy-dispositioned boy he was in earliest childhood--knowing now the difference between true courage and mere bravado, and the value of obedience to those in authority over him. as for miss conny, in spite of her ordinary sedateness of demeanour and constant asseveration that she would only marry a clergyman like her father, she is, to use teddy's expressive diction, "spliced to a sodger," having become engaged some time since to a gallant captain in a marching regiment that was quartered for a while at bigton, within easy access of endleigh. cissy and liz are both growing up nice girls; while the vicar is still hale and hearty, giving his parishioners the benefit every sunday of a "thirdly" and sometimes "fourthly, brethren," in addition to the first and second divisions of his sermon; and never omitting his favourite "lastly" with "a word in conclusion" to wind up with. doctor jolly, to complete our list of characters, is yet to the fore with his catching laugh, as "jolly" as ever; and, jupp and mary have likewise been so tenderly dealt with by time that they hardly look a day older than on that memorable occasion when master teddy introduced himself to public notice. don't you remember? why, when he casually mentioned to the porter and reader alike, and all whom it might concern, in the most matter-of-fact way in the world, that he wanted to "do dan'ma!" the end. polly a new-fashioned girl by l. t. meade author of "a world of girls," "daddy's girl," "light of the morning," "palace beautiful," "a girl in ten thousand," etc. new york the new york book company ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [illustration: polly] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "but if thou wilt be constant then, and faithful of thy word, i'll make thee glorious by my pen and famous by my sword. i'll serve thee in such noble ways was never heard before: i'll crown and deck thee all with bays and love thee evermore." --james graham. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ contents part i chapter i. a great misfortune. chapter ii. all about the family. chapter iii. "be brave, dear." chapter iv. quite a new sort of scheme. chapter v. a safety-valve. chapter vi. polly's raid. chapter vii. the grown-ups. chapter viii. should the strangers come? chapter ix. limits. chapter x. indigestion week. chapter xi. a--was an apple pie. chapter xii. potatoes--minus point. chapter xiii. in the attic. chapter xiv. aunt maria. chapter xv. punishment. chapter xvi. dr. maybright _versus_ scorpion. chapter xvii. where are the children? chapter xviii. the wife of micah jones. chapter xix. distressed heroines. chapter xx. limits. chapter xxi. the high mountains. part ii chapter i. a couple of barbarians. chapter ii. a young queen. chapter iii. not like others. chapter iv. a young australian. chapter v. forsaken. chapter vi. without her treasure. chapter vii. maggie to the rescue. chapter viii. the hermit's hut. chapter ix. an old song. chapter x. looking at herself. chapter xi. the worth of a diamond. chapter xii. relics and a welcome. chapter xiii. very rough weather. chapter xiv. a novel hiding-place. chapter xv. a dilemma. chapter xvi. firefly. chapter xvii. to the rescue. chapter xviii. oh, fie! polly. chapter xix. one year after. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ polly: a new-fashioned girl. chapter i. a great misfortune. it was an intensely hot july day--not a cloud appeared in the high blue vault of the sky; the trees, the flowers, the grasses, were all motionless, for not even the gentlest zephyr of a breeze was abroad; the whole world seemed lapped in a sort of drowsy, hot, languorous slumber. even the flowers bowed their heads a little weariedly, and the birds after a time ceased singing, and got into the coolest and most shady parts of the great forest trees. there they sat and talked to one another of the glorious weather, for they liked the heat, although it made them too lazy to sing. it was an open plain of country, and although there were clumps of trees here and there, great clumps with cool shade under them, there were also acres and acres of common land on which the sun beat remorselessly. this land was covered with heather, not yet in flower, and with bracken, which was already putting on its autumn glory of yellow and red. neither the bracken nor the heather minded the july heat, but the butterflies thought it a trifle uncomfortable, and made for the clumps of trees, and looked longingly and regretfully at what had been a noisy, babbling little brook, but was now a dry and stony channel, deserted even by the dragon-flies. at the other side of the brook was a hedge, composed principally of wild roses and hawthorn bushes, and beyond the hedge was a wide dyke, and at the top of the dyke a wire paling, and beyond that again, a good-sized vegetable garden. from the tops of the trees, had any one been energetic enough to climb up there, or had any bird been sufficiently endowed with curiosity to glance his bright eyes in that direction, might have been seen smoke, ascending straight up into the air, and proceeding from the kitchen chimneys of a square-built gray house. the house was nearly covered with creepers, and had a trellis porch, sheltering and protecting its open hall-door. pigeons were cooing near, and several dogs were lying flat out in the shade which the wide eaves of the house afforded. there was a flower garden in front, and a wide gravel sweep, and a tennis court and croquet lawn, and a rose arbor, and even a great, wide, cool-looking tent. but as far as human life was concerned the whole place looked absolutely deserted. the pigeons cooed languidly, and the dogs yapped and yawned, and made ferocious snaps at audacious and troublesome flies. but no one handled the tennis bats, nor took up the croquet mallets; no one stopped to admire the roses, and no one entered the cool, inviting tent. the whole place might have been dead, as far as human life was concerned; and although the smoke did ascend straight up from the kitchen chimney, a vagrant or a tramp might have been tempted to enter the house by the open hall door, were it not protected by the lazy dogs. up, however, by the hedge, at the other side of the kitchen garden, could be heard just then the crackle of a bough, the rustle of a dress, and a short, smothered, impatient exclamation. and had anyone peered very close they would have seen lying flat in the long grasses a tall, slender, half-grown girl, with dark eyes and rosy cheeks, and tangled curly rebellious locks. she had one arm raised, and was drawing herself deliberately an inch at a time along the smooth grass. several birds had taken refuge in this fragrant hedge of hawthorn and wild roses. they were talking to one another, keeping up a perpetual chatter; but whenever the girl stirred a twig, or disturbed a branch, they stopped, looking around them in alarm, but none of them as yet seeing the prone, slim figure, which was, indeed, almost covered by the grasses. perfect stillness once more--the birds resumed their conversation, and the girl made another slight movement forward. this time she disturbed no twig, and interrupted none of the bird gossip. she was near, very near, a tempting green bough, and on the bough sat two full-grown lovely thrushes; they were not singing, but were holding a very gentle and affectionate conversation, sitting close together, and looking at one another out of their bright eyes, and now and then kissing each other with that loving little peck which means a great deal in bird life. the girl felt her heart beating with excitement--the birds were within a few inches of her--she could see their breasts heaving as they talked. her own eyes were as bright as theirs with excitement; she got quite under them, made a sudden upward, dexterous movement, and laid a warm, detaining hand on each thrush. the deed was done--the little prisoners were secured. she gave a low laugh of ecstasy, and sitting upright in the long grass, began gently to fondle her prey, cooing as she talked to them, and trying to coax the terrified little prisoners to accept some kisses from her dainty red lips. "poll! where's polly parrot?--poll--poll--poll!" came a chorus of voices. "poll, you're wanted at the house this minute. where are you hiding?--you're wanted at home this minute! polly parrot--where are you, polly?" "oh, bother!" exclaimed the girl under her breath; "then i must let you go, darlings, and i never, never had two of you in my arms at the same moment before. it's always so. i'm always interrupted when i'm enjoying ecstasy. well, good-by, sweets. be happy--bless you, darlings!" she blew a kiss to the released and delighted thrushes, and stood upright, looking very lanky and cross and disreputable, with bits of grass and twig sticking in her hair, and messing and staining her faded, washed cotton frock. "now, what are you up to, you scamps?--can't you let a body be?" "oh, polly!" two little figures came tumbling down the gravel walk at the other side of the wire fence. they were hot and panting, and both destitute of hats. "polly, you're wanted at the house. helen says so; there's a b-b-baby come. polly perkins--poll parrot, you'd better come home at once, there's a new b-b-baby just come!" "a _what_?" said polly. she vaulted the dyke, cleared the fence, and kneeling on the ground beside her two excited, panting little brothers, flung a hot, detaining arm round each. "a baby! it isn't true, bunny? it isn't true, bob? a real live baby? not a doll! a baby that will scream and wriggle up its face! but it can't be. oh, heavenly! oh, delicious! but it can't be true, it can't! you're always making up stories, bunny!" "not this time," said bunny. "you tell her, bob--she'll believe you. i heard it yelling--oh, didn't it yell, just! and helen came, and said to send polly in. helen was crying, i don't know what about, and she said you were to go in at once. why, what is the matter, poll parrot?" "nothing," said polly, "only you might have told me about helen crying before. helen never cries unless there's something perfectly awful going to happen. stay out in the garden, you two boys--make yourselves sick with gooseberries, if you like, only don't come near the house, and don't make the tiniest bit of noise. a new baby--and helen crying! but mother--i'll find out what it means from mother!" polly had long legs, and they bore her quickly in a swift race or canter to the house. when she approached the porch the dogs all got up in a body to meet her; there were seven or eight dogs, and they surrounded her, impeding her progress. "not a bark out of one of you," she said, sternly, "lie down--go to sleep. if you even give a yelp i'll come out by and by and beat you. oh, alice, what is it? what's the matter?" a maid servant was standing in the wide, square hall. "what is it, alice? what is wrong? there's a new baby--i'm delighted at that. but why is helen crying, and--oh!--oh!--what does it mean--you are crying, too, alice." "it's--miss polly, i can't tell you," began the girl. she threw her apron over her head, and sobbed loudly. "we didn't know where you was, miss--it's, it's--we have been looking for you everywhere, miss. why, miss polly, you're as white, as white--don't take on now, miss, dear." "you needn't say any more," gasped polly, sinking down into a garden chair. "i'm not going to faint, or do anything silly. and i'm not going to cry either. where's helen? if there's anything bad she'll tell me. oh, do stop making that horrid noise, alice, you irritate me so dreadfully!" alice dashed out of the open door, and polly heard her sobbing again, and talking frantically to the dogs. there was no other sound of any sort. the intense stillness of the house had a half-stunning, half-calming effect on the startled child. she rose, and walked slowly upstairs to the first landing. "polly," said her sister helen, "you've come at last. where were you hiding?--oh, poor polly!" "where's mother?" said polly. "i want her--let me go to her--_let_ me go to her at once, nell." "oh, polly----" helen's sobs came now, loud, deep, and distressful. there was a new baby--but no mother for polly any more. chapter ii. all about the family. dr. maybright had eight children, and the sweetest and most attractive wife of any man in the neighborhood. he had a considerable country practice, was popular among his patients, and he and his were adored by the villagers, for the maybrights had lived in the neighborhood of the little village of tyrsley dale for many generations. dr. maybright's father had ministered to the temporal wants of the fathers and mothers of these very same villagers; and his father before him had also been in the profession, and had done his best for the inhabitants of tyrsley dale. it was little wonder, therefore, that the simple folks who lived in the little antiquated village on the borders of one of our great southern moors should have thought that to the maybrights alone of the whole race of mankind had been given the art of healing. for three or four generations the maybright family had lived at sleepy hollow, which was the name of the square gray house, with its large vegetable garden, its sheltered clump of forest trees, and its cultivated flower and pleasure grounds. here, in the old nursery, polly had first opened her bright blue-black eyes; in this house dr. maybright's eight children had lived happily, and enjoyed all the sunshine of the happiest of happy childhoods to the full. they were all high-spirited and fearless; each child had a certain amount of individuality. perhaps polly was the naughtiest and the most peculiar; but her little spurt of insubordination speedily came to nothing, for mother, without ever being angry, or ever saying anything that could hurt polly's sensitive feelings, had always, with firm and gentle hand, put an extinguisher on them. mother was really, then, the life of the house. she was young to have such tall slips of daughters, and such little wild pickles of sons; and she was so pretty and so merry, and in such ecstasies over a picnic, and so childishly exultant when helen, or polly, or katie, won a prize or did anything the least bit extraordinary, that she was voted the best playfellow in the world. mother was never idle, and yet she was always at leisure, and so she managed to obtain the confidences of all the children; she thoroughly understood each individual character, and she led her small brood with silken reins. dr. maybright was a great deal older than his wife. he was a tall man, still very erect in his figure, with square shoulders, and a keen, bright, kindly face. he had a large practice, extending over many miles, and although he had not the experience which life in a city would have given him, he was a very clever physician, and many of his brothers in the profession prophesied eminence for him whenever he chose to come forward and take it. dr. maybright was often absent from home all day long, sometimes also in the dead of night the children heard his carriage wheels as they bowled away on some errand of mercy. polly always thought of her father as a sort of angel of healing, who came here, there, and everywhere, and took illness and death away with him. "father won't let josie wilson die," polly used to say; or, "what bad toothache peter simpkins has to-day--but when father sees him he will be all right." polly had a great reverence for her father, although she loved her beautiful young mother best. the children never expected dr. maybright to join in their games, or to be sympathetic over their joys or their woes. they reverenced him much, they loved him well, but he was too busy and too great to be troubled by their little concerns. of course, mother was different, for mother was part and parcel of their lives. there were six tall, slim, rather straggling-looking maybright girls--all overgrown, and long of limb, and short of frock. then there came two podgy boys, greater pickles than the girls, more hopelessly disreputable, more defiant of all authority, except mother's. polly was as bad as her brothers in this respect, but the other five girls were docility itself compared to these black lambs, whose proper names were charley and john, but who never had been called anything, and never would be called anything in that select circle, but bunny and bob. this was the family; the more refined neighbors rather dreaded them, and even the villagers spoke of most of them as "wondrous rampageous!" but mrs. maybright always smiled when unfriendly comments reached her ears. "wait and see," she would say; "just quietly wait and see--they are all, every one of them, the sweetest and most healthy-minded children in the world. let them alone, and don't interfere with them. i should not like perfection, it would have nothing to grow to." mrs. maybright taught the girls herself, and the boys had a rather frightened-looking nursery-governess, who often was seen to rush from the school-room dissolved in tears; but was generally overtaken half-way up the avenue by two small figures, nearly throttled by two pairs of repentant little arms, while eager lips vowed, declared, and vociferated, that they would never, never be naughty again--that they would never tease their own sweet, sweetest of miss wilsons any more. nor did they--until the next time. polly was fourteen on that hot july afternoon when she lay on the grass and skillfully captured the living thrushes, and held them to her smooth, glowing young cheeks. her birthday had been over for a whole fortnight; it had been a day full of delight, love, and happiness, and mother had said a word or two to the exultant, radiant child at the close. something about her putting away some of the childish things, and taking up the gentler and nobler ways of first young girlhood now. she thought in an almost undefined way of mother's words as she held the fluttering thrushes to her lips and kissed their downy breasts. then had come the unlooked-for interruption. polly's life seemed cloudless, and all of a sudden there appeared a speck in the firmament--a little cloud which grew rapidly, until the whole heavens were covered with it. mother had gone away for ever, and there were now nine children in the old gray house. chapter iii. "be brave, dear." "wasn't father with her?" polly had said when she could find her voice late that evening. "wasn't father there? i thought father--i always thought father could keep death away." she was lying on her pretty white bed when she spoke. she had lain there now for a couple of days--not crying nor moaning, but very still, taking no notice of any one. she looked dull and heavy--her sisters thought her very ill. dr. maybright said to helen-- "you must be very careful of polly, she has had a shock, and she may take some time recovering. i want you to nurse her yourself, nell, and to keep the others from the room. for the present, at least, she must be kept absolutely quiet--the least excitement would be very bad for her." "polly never cries," said helen, whose own blue eyes were swollen almost past recognition; "she never cries, she does not even moan. i think, father, what really upset polly so was when she heard that you--you were there. polly thinks, she always did think that you could keep death away." here poor helen burst into fresh sobs herself. "i think," she added, choking as she spoke, "that was what quite broke polly down--losing mother, and losing faith in your power at the same time." "i am glad you told me this, helen," said dr. maybright, quietly. "this alters the case. in a measure i can now set polly's heart at rest. i will see her presently." "presently" did not mean that day, nor the next, nor the next, but one beautiful summer's evening just when the sun was setting, and just when its long low western rays were streaming into the lattice-window of the pretty little bower bedroom where polly lay on her white bed, dr. maybright opened the door and came in. he was a very tall man, and he had to stoop as he passed under the low, old-fashioned doorway, and as he walked across the room to polly's bedside the rays of the setting sun fell on his face, and he looked more like a beautiful healing presence than ever to the child. she was lying on her back, with her eyes very wide open; her face, which had been bright and round and rosy, had grown pale and small, and her tearless eyes had a pathetic expression. she started up when she saw her father come in, gave a glad little cry, and then, remembering something, hid her face in her hands with a moan. dr. maybright sat down in the chair which helen had occupied the greater part of the day. he did not take any notice of polly's moan, but sat quite still, looking out at the beautiful, glowing july sunset. wondering at his stillness, polly presently dropped her hands from her face, and looked round at him. her lips began to quiver, and her eyes to fill. "if i were you, polly," said the doctor, in his most matter-of-fact and professional manner, "i would get up and come down to tea. you are not ill, you know. trouble, even great trouble, is not illness. by staying here in your room you are adding a little to the burden of all the others. that is not necessary, and it is the last thing your mother would wish." "is it?" said polly. the tears were now brimming over in her eyes, but she crushed back her emotion. "i didn't want to get up," she said, "or to do anything right any more. she doesn't know--she doesn't hear--she doesn't care." "hush, polly--she both knows and cares. she would be much better pleased if you came down to tea to-night. i want you, and so does helen, and so do the other girls and the little boys. see, i will stand by the window and wait, if you dress yourself very quickly." "give me my pocket-handkerchief," said polly. she dashed it to her eyes. no more tears flowed, and by the time the doctor reached the window he heard a bump on the floor; there was a hasty scrambling into clothes, and in an incredibly short time an untidy, haggard-looking, but now wide-awake, polly stood by the doctor's side. "that is right," he said, giving her one of his quick, rare smiles. he took no notice of the tossed hair, nor the stained, crumpled, cotton frock. "take my arm, polly," he said, almost cheerfully. and they went down together to the old parlor where mother would never again preside over the tea-tray. it was more than a week since mrs. maybright had died, and the others were accustomed to helen's taking her place, but the scene was new to the poor, sore-hearted child who now come in. dr. maybright felt her faltering steps, and knew what her sudden pause on the threshold meant. "be brave, dear," he whispered. "you will make it easier for me." after that polly would have fought with dragons rather than shed a ghost of a tear. she slipped into a seat by her father, and crumbled her bread-and-butter, and gulped down some weak tea, taking care to avoid any one's eyes, and feeling her own cheeks growing redder and redder. in mother's time dr. maybright had seldom spoken. on many occasions he did not even put in an appearance at the family tea, for mother herself and the group of girls kept up such a chatter that, as he said, his voice would not be heard; now, on the contrary, he talked more than any one, telling the children one or two most interesting stories on natural history. polly was devoted to natural history, and in spite of herself she suspended her tea-cup in the air while she listened. "it is almost impossible, i know," concluded dr. maybright as he rose from the table. "but it can be done. oh, yes, boys, i don't want either of you to try it, but still it can be done. if the hand is very steady, and poised in a particular way, then the bird can be caught, but you must know how to hold him. yes--what is the matter, polly?" "i did it!" burst from polly, "i caught two of them--darlings--i was kissing them when--oh, father!" polly's face was crimson. all the others were staring at her. "i want you, my dear," said her father, suddenly and tenderly. "come with me." again he drew her hand protectingly through his arm, and led her out of the room. "you were a very good, brave child at tea-time," he said. "but i particularly wish you to cry. tears are natural, and you will feel much better if you have a good cry. come upstairs now to nurse and baby." "oh, no, i can't--i really can't see baby!" "why not?--she is a dear little child, and when your mother went away she left her to you all, to take care of, and cherish and love. i think she thought specially of you, polly, for you always have been specially fond of little children. come to the nursery now with me. i want you to take care of baby for an hour, while nurse is at her supper." polly did not say another word. the doctor and she went together into the old nursery, and a moment or two afterwards she found herself sitting in nurse's little straw arm-chair, holding a tiny red mite of a baby on her knee. mother was gone, and this--this was left in her place! oh, what did god mean? thought the woe-begone, broken-hearted child. the doctor did not leave the room. he was looking through some books, a pile of old ms. books in one corner by the window, and had apparently forgotten all about polly and the baby. she held the wee bundle without clasping it to her, or bestowing upon it any endearing or comforting little touch, and as she looked the tears which had frozen round her heart flowed faster and faster, dropping on the baby's dress, and even splashing on her tiny face. baby did not like this treatment, and began to expostulate in a fretful, complaining way. instantly polly's motherly instincts awoke; she wiped her own tears from the baby's face, and raising it in her arms, pressed its little soft velvet cheek to her own. as she did so, a thrill of warm comfort stole into her heart. "polly," said her father, coming suddenly up to her, "please take good care of baby till nurse returns. i must go out now, i have some patients to see, but i am going to prescribe a special little supper for you, which helen is to see you eat before you go to bed. good-night, dear. please ask nurse, too, if you can do anything in the morning to help her with baby. good-night, good-night, both of you. why the little creature is quite taking to you, polly!" dr. maybright was about to leave the room when polly called him back. "father, i must say one thing. i have been in a dreadful, dreadful dream since mother died. the most dreadful part of my dream, the blackest part, was about you." "yes, polly, yes, dear." "you were there, father, and you let her die." dr. maybright put his arm round the trembling child, and drew her and the baby too close to him. "not willingly," he said, in a voice which polly had never heard him use before. "not willingly, my child. it was with anguish i let your mother go away. but polly, there was another physician there, greater than i." "another?" said polly. "yes, another--and he prescribed rest, for evermore." all her life afterwards polly remembered these words of her father's. they calmed her great sorrow, and in many ways left her a different child. chapter iv. quite a new sort of scheme. on a certain sunny morning in august, four or five weeks after mrs. maybright's death, six girls stood round dr. maybright in his study. they were all dressed in deep mourning, but it was badly made and unbecoming, and one and all looked untidy, and a little run to seed. their ages were as varied as their faces. helen, aged sixteen, had a slightly plump figure, a calm, smooth, oval face, and pretty gentle blue eyes. her hair was fair and wavy; she was the tidiest of the group, and notwithstanding the heavy make of her ugly frock, had a very sweet and womanly expression. polly, all angles and awkwardness, came next in years; she was tall and very slim. her face was small, her hair nearly black and very untidy, and her big, dark, restless eyes reflected each emotion of her mind. polly was lolling against the mantelpiece, and restlessly changing her position from one leg to another; katie, aged eleven, was something in helen's style; then came the twins, dolly and mabel, and then a rather pale child, with a somewhat queer expression, commonly known in the family as "firefly." her real name was lucy, but no one ever dreamt of calling her by this gentle title. "firefly" was almost always in some sort of disgrace, and scarcely knew what it was not to live in a state of perpetual mental hot water. it was privately whispered in the family circle that polly encouraged her in her naughtiness. whether that was the case or not, these two had a kind of quaint, elfish friendship between them, firefly in her heart of hearts worshipping polly, and obeying her slightest nod or wish. "i have sent for you, girls," said the doctor, looking round tenderly at his six motherless daughters, "to say that i have talked over matters with helen, and for the present at least, i am willing to give her plan a trial. i think she is right when she tells me that if it turns out successful nothing would please your mother more. it entirely depends on yourselves whether it succeeds or fails. if you are agreeable to try it, you can come to me to-morrow at this hour and tell me so. now good-by, my dears. helen will explain everything to you. helen, i shall not be in for early dinner. good-by, good-by to you all." the doctor nodded, looked half-abstractedly at the upturned young faces, pushed his way through the little group, and taking up a parcel of papers and a surgical case which lay near, went straight to his carriage, which was heard immediately afterwards to bowl quickly down the avenue. the moment he was gone helen was surrounded by a clamorous group. "what is it, nell? oh, do tell us--tell us quickly," said they, one and all. "i thought helen looked very important these last few days," said dolly. "do tell us what it is, nell, and what the plan is we are all to agree to." "it sounds rather nice to be asked to agree to things," said firefly. "what's the matter, poll? you look grumpy." "i think helen may be allowed to speak," said polly. "go on, nell, out with the budget of news. and you young ones, you had better not interrupt her, for if you do, i'll pay you out by-and-by. now, nell. speak, nell." "it's this," said helen. she seated herself on the window-ledge, and polly stood, tall and defiant, at her back. firefly dropped on her knees in front, and the others lolled about anyhow. "it's this," she said. "father would like to carry on our education as much in mother's way as possible. and he says that he is willing, for a time at least, to do without having a resident elderly governess to live with us." "oh, good gracious!" exclaimed polly, "was there ever such an idea thought of?" "she'd have spectacles," said dolly. "and a hooked nose," remarked katie. "and she'd be sure to squint, and have false teeth, and i'd hate her," snapped firefly, putting on her most vindictive face. "well, it's what's generally done," said helen, in her grave, sad, steady, young voice. "you remember the brewsters when they--they had their great sorrow--how an elderly governess came, and aunt maria cameron has written to father about two already. she speaks of them as treasures; father showed me the letters. he says he supposes it is quite the usual thing, and he asked me what i'd like. poor father, you see he must be out all day with the sick folks." "of course," murmured polly. "well, what did you answer him about the old horrors, nell?" "one seemed rather nice," said helen. "she was about forty-five, and had thin grayish hair. aunt maria sent her photograph, and said that she was a treasure, and that father ought not to lose an hour in securing her. her name was miss jenkins." "jenkins or jones, i'd have given her sore bones," spitefully improvised firefly. "well, she's not to come," continued helen, "at least, not at present. for i have persuaded father to let us try the other plan. he says all our relations will be angry with him; of course, he is not likely to care for that. this is what we are to try, girls, if you are agreeable. father is going to get the very best daily governess from nettleship to come here every morning. she will stay until after early dinner, and then george will drive her back to town in the pony trap. and then mr. masters is to come twice a week, as usual, about our music, and mr. danvers for drawing. and miss wilson is to stay here most of the day to look after bunny and bob. that is a much better arrangement than having a resident governess, is it not?" "yes," said three or four voices, but polly was silent, and firefly, eagerly watching her face, closed her own resolute lips. "that is part of father's plan," continued helen. "but the other, and more important part is this. i am to undertake the housekeeping. father says he would like polly to help me a little, but the burden and responsibility of the whole thing rests on me. and also, girls, father says that there must be some one in absolute authority. there must be some one who can settle disputes, and keep things in order, and so he says that unless you are all willing to do what i ask you to do, the scheme must still fall through, and we must be like the brewsters or any other unhappy girls whose mothers are no longer with them, and have our resident governess." "i know you won't like to obey me," continued helen, looking anxiously round, "but i don't think i'll be hard on you. no, i am sure i shall not be hard on any of you." "that remains to be proved," said polly. "i don't think i like that plan. i won't give any answer at present--i'll think about it. come along, fly," she nodded to her younger sister, and then, lifting the heavy bottom sash of the window where helen had been sitting, stepped lightly out, followed by the obedient firefly. "i don't want to obey nell," said the little sister, clasping two of polly's fingers with her thin, small hand. "if it was you, poll parrot, it would be a different thing, but i don't want to obey nell. i don't think it's fair; she's only my sister, like the rest of them. there's nothing said in the catechism about obeying sisters. it's only fathers and mothers, and spiritual pastors and masters." "and all those put in authority over you," proceeded polly, shaking her fingers free, and facing round on firefly, in a way which caused that young person to back several inches. "if helen once gets the authority the catechism is on her side, not on yours." "but i needn't promise, need i?" pouted firefly. "if it was you, it would be different. i always did what you wanted me to do, polly perkins." "of course you did," responded polly, in a most contemptuous voice. "will a duck swim? i led you into mischief--of course you followed. well, fly, it rests with yourself. don't obey our dear, good, gentle nelly, and you'll have miss jenkins here. won't it be fun to see her squinting at you over her spectacles when she returns your spelling-lessons. bread and water will be your principal diet most of the week. well, good-by now; i'm off to baby." polly took to her heels, and firefly stood for a moment or two looking utterly miserable and irresolute on the wide gravel walk in the center of the flower-garden. she felt very much inclined to stamp her feet and to screw up her thin little face into contortions of rage. even very little girls, however, won't go into paroxysms of anger when there is no one there to see. firefly's heart was very sore, for polly, her idol, had spoken to her almost roughly. "i wish mother wasn't in heaven," she murmured in a grieved little voice, and then she turned and walked back to the house. the nearer she approached the study window the faster grew her footsteps. at last, like a little torrent, she vaulted back into the room, and flung her arms noisily round helen's neck. "i'll obey you, darling nell," she said. "i'd much rather have you than miss jenkins." and then she sobbed aloud, and really shook herself, for she felt still so angry with polly. "that's a good little fly," said helen, kissing her affectionately in return, and putting her arm round her waist, so as to establish her comfortably on her knee. the other girls were all lying about in different easy attitudes, and firefly joined in the general talk, and found herself much comforted. chapter v. a safety-valve. "fly caved in, didn't she?" said polly to her eldest sister that night. "yes, poor little mite, she did, in a touching way," said helen; "but she seemed in trouble about something. you know how reserved she is about her feelings, but when she sat on my knee she quite sobbed." "i was rather brutal to her," said polly, in a nonchalant tone, flinging up the sash of the bedroom window as she spoke, and indulging in a careless whistle. it was bed-time, but the girls were tempted by the moonlight night to sit up and look out at the still, sweet beauty, and chatter together. "how could you be unkind to her?" said helen, in a voice of dismay. "polly, dear, do shut that window again, or you will have a sore throat. how could you be unkind to poor little fly, poll, when she is so devoted to you?" "the very reason," said polly. "she'd never have gone over to you if i hadn't. i saw rebellion in that young 'un's eye--that was why i called her out. i was determined to nip it in the bud." "but you rebelled yourself?" "yes, and i mean to go on rebelling. i am not fly." "well, polly," said helen, suppressing a heavy sigh on her own account; "you know i don't want you a bit to obey me. i am not a mistressing sort of girl, and i like to consult you about things, and i want us both to feel more or less as equals. still father says there are quite two years between us, and that the scheme cannot be worked at all unless some one is distinctly at the head. he particularly spoke of you, polly, and said that if you would not agree we must go back to the idea of miss jenkins, or that he will let this house for a time, and send us all to school." "a worse horror than the other," said polly. "i wouldn't be a school-girl for all you could give me! why, the robin's nest might be discovered by some one else, and my grubs and chrysalides would come to perfection without me. no, no; rather than that--can't we effect a compromise, nell?" "what is it?" asked helen. "you know _i_ am willing to agree to anything. it is father." "oh, yes; poor nell, you're the meekest and mildest of mortals. now, look here, wouldn't this be fun?" polly's black eyes began to dance. "you know how fond i always was of housekeeping. let me housekeep every second week. give me the money and let me buy every single thing and pay for it, and don't interfere with me whatever i do. i'll promise to be as good as gold always, and obey you in every single thing, if only i have this safety-valve. let me expend myself upon the housekeeping, and i'll be as good, better than gold. i'll help you, and be your right hand, nell; and i'll obey you in the most public way before all the other girls, and as to fly, see if i don't keep her in hand. what do you think of this plan, nell? i, with my safety-valve, the comfort of your life, a sort of general to keep your forces in order." "but you really can't housekeep, polly. of course i'd like to please you, and father said himself you were to help me in the house. but to manage everything--why, it frightens me, and i am two years older." "but you have so very little spirit, darling. now it doesn't frighten me a bit, and that's why i'm so certain i shall succeed splendidly. look here, nell, let me speak to father, myself; if he says 'yes,' you won't object, will you?" "of course not," said helen. "you are a darling--i'll soon bring father round. now, shall we go to bed?--i am so sleepy." the next morning at breakfast polly electrified her brothers and sisters by the very meek way in which she appealed to helen on all occasions. "do you think, nell, that i ought to have any more of this marmalade on fresh bread? i ate half a pot yesterday on three or four slices of hot bread from the oven, and felt quite a dizzy stupid feeling in my head afterwards." "of course, how could you expect it to agree with you, polly?" said helen, looking up innocently from her place at the tea-tray. "had better have a little of this stale bread-and-butter then, dear?" proceeded polly in a would-be anxious tone. "yes, if you will, dear. but you never like stale bread-and-butter." "i'll eat it if you wish me to, helen," answered polly, in a very meek, good little voice. the two boys began to chuckle, and even dr. maybright looked at his second daughter in a puzzled, abstracted way. helen, too, colored slightly, and wondered what polly meant. but the young lady herself munched her stale bread with the most immovable of faces, and even held up the slice for helen to scrutinize, with the gentle, good little remark--"have i put too much butter on it, nell? it isn't right to waste nice good butter, is it?" "oh, polly, how dreadful you are?" said fly. "what do you mean?" said polly, fiercely. she dropped her meek manners, gave one quick glare at the small speaker, and then half turning her back on her, said in the gentlest of voices, "what would you like me to do this morning, helen? shall i look over my history lesson for an hour, and then practise scales on the piano?" "you may do just as you please, as far as i am concerned," replied helen, who felt that this sort of obedience was far worse for the others than open rebellion. "i thought you wanted to see father, polly. he has just gone into his study, and perhaps he will give you ten minutes, if you go to him at once." this speech of helen's caused polly to forget her role of the meek, obedient martyr. her brow cleared. "thank you for reminding me, nell," she said, in her natural voice, and for a moment later she was knocking at the doctor's study door. "come in," he said. and when the untidy head and somewhat neglected person of his second daughter appeared, dr. maybright walked towards her. "i am going out, polly, do you want me?" he said. "yes, it won't take a minute," said polly, eagerly. "may i housekeep every second week instead of nell? will you give me the money instead of her, and let me pay for everything, and buy the food. i am awfully interested in eggs and butter, and i'll give you splendid puddings and cakes. please say yes, father--nell is quite willing, if you are." "how old are you, polly?" said dr. maybright. he put his hand under polly's chin and raised her childish face to scrutinize it closely. "what matter about my age," she replied; "i'm fourteen in body--i'm twenty in mind--and as to housekeeping, i'm thirty, if not forty." "that head looks very like thirty, if not forty," responded the doctor significantly. "and that dress," glancing at where the hem was torn, and where the body gaped open for want of sufficient hooks, "looks just the costume i should recommend for the matron of a large establishment. do you know what it means to housekeep for this family, polly?" "buy the bread and butter, and the meat, and the poultry, and the tea, and the sugar, and the citron, and raisins, and allspice, and nutmegs, and currants, and flour, and brick-bat, and hearthstone, and--and----" dr. maybright put his fingers to his ears. "spare me any more," said he, "i never ask for items. there are in this house, polly, nine children, myself, and four servants. that makes in all fourteen people. these people have to be fed and clothed, and some of them have to be paid wages too; they have to be warmed, they have to be kept clean, in short, all their comforts of body have to be attended to; one of them requires one thing, one quite another. for instance, the dinner which would be admirably suited to you would kill baby, and might not be best for firefly, who is not strong, and has to be dieted in a particular way. i make it a rule that servants' wages and all articles consumed in the house are paid for weekly. whoever housekeeps for me has to undertake all this, and has to make a certain sum of money cover a certain expenditure. now do you think, polly--do you honestly think--that you, an ignorant little girl of fourteen, a very untidy and childish little girl, can undertake this onerous post? i ask you to answer me quite honestly--if you undertake it, are you in the least likely to succeed?" "oh, father, i know you mean to crush me when you speak like that; but you know you told helen that you would like her to try to manage the housekeeping." "i did--and, as i know you are fond of domestic things, i meant you to help her a little. helen is two years older than you, and--not the least like you, polly." polly tossed her head. "i know that," she said. "helen takes twice as long learning her lessons. try my french beside hers, father; or my german, or my music." "or your forbearance--or your neatness," added the doctor. here he sighed deeply. "i miss your mother, polly," he said. "and poor, poor child! so do you. there, i can't waste another minute of my time with you now. come to my study this evening at nine, and we will discuss the matter further." chapter vi. polly's raid. polly spent some hours of that day in a somewhat mysterious occupation. instead of helping, as she had done lately, in quite an efficient way, with the baby, for she was a very bright child, and could be most charming and attractive to the smallest living creature when she chose, she left nurse and the little brown-eyed baby to their own devices, and took up a foraging expedition through the house. she called it her raid, and polly's raid proved extremely disturbing to the domestic economy of the household. for instance, when susan, the very neat housemaid, had put all the bedrooms in perfect order, and was going to her own room to change her dress and make herself tidy, it was very annoying to hear polly, in a peremptory tone, desiring her to give her the keys of the linen-press. "for," said that young lady, "i'm going to look through the towels this morning, susan, to see which of them want darning, and you had better stay with me, to take away those that have thin places in them." "oh, dear me, miss polly," said susan, rather pertly, "the towels is seen to in the proper rotation. you needn't be a fretting your head about 'em, miss. this ain't the morning for the linen-press, miss. it's done at its proper time and hour." "give me the key at once, susan, and don't answer," said polly. "there, hold your apron--i'll throw the towels in. what a lot--i don't believe we want half as many. when i take the reins of office next week, i'll put away quite half of these towels. there can't be waste going on in the house--i won't have it, not when i housekeep, at any rate. susan, wasn't that a little round speck of a hole in that towel? ah, i thought so. you put it aside, susan, you'll have to darn it this afternoon. now then, let me see, let me see." polly worked vigorously through the towels, holding them up to the light to discover their thin places, pinching them in parts, and feeling their texture between her finger and thumb. in the end she pronounced about a dozen unworthy of domestic service, and susan was desired to spend her afternoon in repairing them. "i can't, then, miss polly," said the much injured housemaid. "it ain't neither the day nor the hour, and i haven't got one scrap of proper darning thread left." "i'll go to the village, then, and get some," said polly. "it's only a mile away. things can't be neglected--it isn't right. take the towels, susan, and let me find them mended to-morrow morning;" and the young lady tripped off with a very bright color in her cheeks, and the key of the linen-press in her pocket. her next visit was to the kitchen regions. "oh, mrs. power," she said to the cook, "i've come to see the stores. it isn't right that they shouldn't be looked into, is it, in case of anything falling short. fancy if you were run out of pearl barley, mrs. power, or allspice, or nutmegs, or mace. oh, dear, it makes me quite shiver to think of it! what a mess you would be in, if you hadn't all your ingredients handy, in case you were making a plum-cake, or some of those dear little tea-cakes, or a custard, or something of that sort. now, if you'll just give me the keys, we'll pay a visit to the store-room, and see what is likely to be required. i have my tablet here, and i can write the order as i look through." mrs. power was a red-faced and not a very good-humored woman. she was, however, an excellent cook and a careful, prudent servant. mrs. maybright had found her, notwithstanding her very irascible temper, a great comfort, for she was thoroughly honest and conscientious, but even from her late mistress mrs. power would never brook much interference; it is therefore little to be wondered at that polly's voluminous speech was not very well received. mrs. power's broad back was to the young lady, as she danced gleefully into the kitchen, and it remained toward her, with one ear just slightly turned in her direction, all the time she was speaking. mrs. power was busy at the moment removing the fat from a large vessel full of cold soup. she has some pepper and salt, and nutmegs and other flavoring ingredients on the table beside her, and when polly's speech came to a conclusion she took up the pepper canister and certainly flavored the soup with a very severe dose. "if i was you, i'd get out of the hot kitchen, child--i'm busy, and not attending to a word you're talking about." no answer could have been more exasperating to polly. she, too, had her temper, and had no idea of being put down by twenty mrs. powers. "take care, you're spoiling the soup," she said. "that's twice too much pepper--and oh, what a lot of salt! don't you know, mrs. power, that it's very wicked to waste good food in that way--it is, really, perhaps you did not think of it in that light, but it is. i'm afraid you can't ever have attended any cookery classes, mrs. power, or you'd know better than to put all that pepper into that much soup. why it ought to be--it ought to be--let me see, i think it's the tenth of an ounce to half a gallon of soup. i'm not quite sure, but i'll look up the cookery lectures and let you know. now, where's the key of the store-room--we'd better set to work for the morning is going on, and i have a great deal on my hands. where's the key of the store-room, mrs. power?" "there's only one key that i know much about at the present moment," replied the exasperated cook, "and that's the key of the kitchen-door; come, child--i'm going to put you on the other side of it;" and so saying, before polly was in the least aware of her intention, she was caught up in mrs. power's stalwart arms, and placed on the flags outside the kitchen, while the door was boldly locked in her face. this was really a check, almost a checkmate, and for a time polly quite shook with fury, but after a little she sufficiently recovered herself to reflect that the reins of authority had not yet been absolutely placed in her hands, and it might be wisest for her to keep this defeat to herself. "poor old power! you won't be here long when i'm housekeeper," reflected polly. "it would not be right--you're not at all a good servant. why, i know twice as much already as you do." she went slowly upstairs, and going to the school-room, where the girls were all busying themselves in different fashions, sat down by her own special desk, and made herself very busy dividing a long old-fashioned rosewood box into several compartments by means of stout cardboard divisions. she was really a clever little maid in her own way, and the box when finished looked quite neat. each division was labeled, and polly's cheeks glowed as she surveyed her handiwork. "what a very queer box," said dolly, coming forward. "what are you so long about, poll parrot? and, oh, what red cheeks!" "never you mind," said polly, shutting up her box. "it's finished now, and quite ready for father to see to-night. i'm going to become a very important personage, miss doll--so you'd better begin to treat me with respect. oh, dear, where's the cookery book? helen, do you know where the "lectures on elementary cookery" is? just fancy, nell, cook doesn't know how much pepper should go to a gallon of soup! did you ever hear of such shameful ignorance?" "why, you surely have not been speaking to her on the subject?" said helen, who was busily engaged darning bunny's socks; she raised her head and looked at polly in some surprise as she spoke. "oh, have i not, though?" polly's charming, merry face twinkled all over. "i saw susan crying just now," interposed mabel. "she said polly had been--why, what is the matter, poll?" "nothing," said poll, "only if i were you, mabel, i wouldn't tell tales out of school. i'm going to be a person of importance, so if you're wise, all of you, you'll keep at my blind side. oh dear! where is that cookery book? girls, you may each tell me what puddings you like best, and what cake, and what dish for breakfast, and----" but here the dinner gong put an end to a subject of much interest. chapter vii. the grown-ups. in the evening polly had her interview with her father. dr. maybright had gone through a long and fatiguing day; some anxious cases caused him disquiet, and his recent sorrow lay heavily against his heart. how was the father of seven daughters, and two very scampish little sons, to bring them up alone and unaided? how was a man's own heart to do without the sympathy to which it had turned, the love which had strengthened, warmed, and sustained it? dr. maybright was standing by the window, looking out at the familiar garden, which showed shadowy and indistinct in the growing dusk, when polly crept softly into the room, and, going up to his side, laid her pretty dimpled hand on his arm. "now, father," she said, eagerly, "about the housekeeping? i'm all prepared--shall we go into the subject now?" dr. maybright sighed, and with an effort roused himself out of a reverie which was becoming very painful. "my little girl," he said, pushing back the tumbled hair from polly's sunshiny face. then he added, with a sudden change of manner, "oh, what a goose you are, polly--you know as much about housekeeping as i do, and that is nothing at all." "i wouldn't make bold assertions," replied polly, saucily--"i wouldn't really, father dear; i couldn't cure a sick person, of course not, but i could make a very nice cake for one." "well, let's go into the matter," said the doctor moving to his study table. "i have a quarter of an hour to give you, my dear, then i want to go into the village to see mrs. judson before she settles for the night; she has a nasty kind of low fever about her, and her husband is anxious, so i promised to look in. by the way, polly, don't any of you go nearer the judsons' house until i give you leave; walk at the other side of the village, if you must go there at all. now, my dear, about this housekeeping. are you seriously resolved to force your attentions upon us for a week? we shall certainly all be most uncomfortable, and severe attacks of indigestion will probably be the result. is your heart set on this, polly, child? for, if so--well, your mother never thwarted you, did she?" "no, father, never--but don't talk of mother, for i don't think i can bear it. when i was with mother somehow or other, i don't know why, i, never wished for anything she did not like." "just so, my dear child. turn up the lamp, if you please, polly--sit there, will you--i want to see your face. now i will reply to the first part of your last remark. you asked me not to speak of your mother, my dear; i certainly will mention her name to her children. she has gone away, but she is still one with us. why should our dearest household word be buried? why should not her influence reach you and helen and dolly from where she now is? she is above--she has gone into the higher life, but she can lead you up. you understand me, polly. thoughts of your mother must be your best, your noblest thoughts from this out." "yes, father, yes," said polly. her lips were trembling, her eyes were brimful, she clasped and unclasped her hands with painful tension. dr. maybright bent forward and kissed her on her forehead. "your mother once said to me," he continued, in a lighter tone, "polly is the most peculiar and difficult to manage of all my children. she has a vein of obstinacy in her which no persuasion will overcome. it can only be reached by the lessons which experience teaches. if possible, and where it is not absolutely wrong, i always give polly her own way. she is a truthful child, and when her eyes are opened she seldom asks to repeat the experiment." "mother was thinking of the hive of honey," said polly, gravely. "when i worried her dreadfully she let me go and take some honey away. i thought i could manage the bees just as cleverly as hungerford does, but i got nervous just at the end, and i was stung in four places. i never told any one about the stings, only mother found out." "you did not fetch any more honey from that hive, eh, polly?" asked the doctor. "no, father. and then there was another time--and oh, yes, many other times. but i did not know mother was just trying to teach me, when she seemed so kind and sympathizing, and used to say in that voice of hers--you remember mother's cheerful voice, father?--'well, polly, it is a difficult thing, but do your best.'" "all right, child," said the doctor, "i perceive that your mother's plan was a wise one. tell me quickly what ideas you have with regard to keeping this establishment together, for it is almost time for me to run away to mrs. judson. i allow eight pounds a week for all household expenses, servants' wages, coal, light, food, medicine. i shall not allow you to begin with so much responsibility, but for a week you may provide our table." "and see after the servants, please, father?" interrupted polly, in an eager voice. "well, i suppose so, just for one week, that is, after helen has had her turn. your mother always managed, with the help of the vegetables and fruit from the garden, to bring the mere table expenses into four pounds a week; but _she_ was a most excellent manager." "oh, father, i can easily do it too. why it's a lot of money! four pounds--eighty shillings! i shouldn't be a bit surprised if i did it for less." "remember, polly, i allow no stinting; we must have a plentiful table. no stinting, and no running in debt. those are the absolute conditions, otherwise i do not trust you with a penny." "i'll keep them, father--never fear! oh, how delighted i am! i know you'll be pleased; i know what you'll say by-and-by. i'm certain i won't fail, certain. i always loved cooking and housekeeping. fancy making pie-crust myself, and cakes, and custards! mrs. power is rather cross, but she'll have to let me make what things i choose when i'm housekeeper, won't she, father?" "manage it your own way, dear, i neither interfere nor wish to interfere. oh, what a mess we shall be in! but thank heaven it is only for a week. my dear child, i allow you to have your way, but i own it is with trepidation. now i must really go to mrs. judson." "but one moment, please, father. i have not shown you my plan. you think badly of me now, but you won't, indeed you won't presently. i am all system, i assure you. i see my way so clearly. i'll retrench without being mean, and i'll economize without being stingy. don't i use fine words, father? that's because i understand the subject so thoroughly." "quite so, polly. now i must be going. good-night, my dear." "but my plan--you must stay to hear it. do you see this box? it has little divisions. i popped them all in before dinner to-day. there is a lock and key to the box, and the lock is a strong one." "well, polly?" the doctor began to get into his overcoat. "look, father, dear, please look. each little division is marked with a name. this one is groceries, this one is butcher, this is milk, butter, and eggs, this is baker, this is cheesemonger, and this is sundries--oh yes, and laundress, i must screw in a division for laundress somehow. now, father, this is my delightful plan. when you give me my four pounds--my eighty shillings--i'll get it all changed into silver, and i'll divide it into equal portions, and drop so much into the grocery department, so much into the butcher's, so much into the baker's. don't you see how simple it will be?" "very, my dear--the game of chess is nothing to it. good-night, polly. i sincerely hope no serious results will accrue from these efforts on my part to teach you experience." the doctor walked quickly down the avenue. "i'm quite resolved," he said to himself, "to bring them all up as much as possible on their mother's plan, but if polly requires many such lessons as i am forced to give her to-night, there is nothing for it but to send her to school. for really such an experience as we are about to go through at her hands is enough to endanger health, to say nothing of peace and domestic quiet. the fact is, i really am a much worried man. it's no joke bringing up seven motherless girls, each of them with characters; the boys are a simple matter--they have school before them, and a career of some sort, but the girls--it really is an awful responsibility. even the baby has a strong individuality of her own--i see it already in her brown eyes--bless her, she has got her mother's eyes. but my queer, wild, clever polly--what a week we shall have with you presently! now, who is that crying and sobbing in the dark?" the doctor swooped suddenly down on a shadowy object, which lay prone under an arbutus shrub. "my dear little firefly, what _is_ the matter? you ought to be in bed ages ago--out here in the damp and cold, and such deep-drawn sobs! what has nurse been about? this is really extremely careless." "it wasn't nurse's fault," sobbed firefly, nestling her head into her father's cheek. "i ran away from her. i hided from her on purpose." "then you were the naughty one. what is the matter, dear? why do you make things worse for me and for us all just now?" firefly's head sank still lower. her hot little cheek pressed her father's with an acute longing for sympathy. instinct told him of the child's need. he walked down the avenue, holding her closely. "wasn't you going the other way, father?" asked firefly, squeezing her arms tight around his neck. "no matter, i must see you home first. now what were those sobs about? and why did you hide yourself from nurse?" "'cause i wanted to be downstairs, to listen to the grown-ups." "the grown-ups? my dear, who are they?" "oh, nell, and poll parrot, and katie; i don't mind about nell and polly, but it isn't fair that katie should be made a grown-up--and she is--she is, really, father. she is down in the school-room so important, and just like a regular grown-up, so i couldn't stand it." "i see. you wanted to be a grown-up too--you are seven years old, are you not?" "i'm more. i'm seven and a half--katie is only eleven." "quite so! katie is young compared to you, isn't she, firefly. still, i don't see my way. you wished to join the grown-ups, but i found you sobbing on the damp grass under one of the shrubs near the avenue. is it really under a damp arbutus shrub that the grown-ups intend to take counsel?" "oh no, father, no--" here the sobs began again. "they were horrid, oh they were horrid. they locked me out--i banged against the door, but they wouldn't open. it was then i came up here. i wouldn't have minded if it hadn't been for katie." "i see, my child. well, run to bed now, and leave the matter in father's hands. ask nurse to give you a hot drink, and not to scold, for father knows about it." "_darling_ father--oh, how good you are! don't i love you! just another kiss--_what_ a good father you are!" firefly hugged the tall doctor ecstatically. he saw her disappear into the house, and once more pursued his way down the avenue. "good!" he echoed to himself. "never did a more harassed man walk. how am i to manage those girls?" chapter viii. should the strangers come? helen and polly were seated together in the pleasant morning-room. helen occupied her mother's chair, her feet were on a high footstool, and by her side, on a small round table, stood a large basket filled with a heterogeneous collection of odd socks and stockings, odd gloves, pieces of lace and embroidery, some wool, a number of knitting needles, in short, a confused medley of useful but run-to-seed-looking articles which the young housekeeper was endeavoring to reduce out of chaos into order. "oh, polly, how you have tangled up all this wool; and where's the fellow of this gray glove? and--polly, polly--here's the handkerchief you had such a search for last week. now, how often do you intend me to put this basket in order for you?" "once a week, dear, if not oftener," answered polly, in suave tones. "please don't speak for a moment or two, nell. i'm so much interested in this new recipe for pie-crust. you melt equal portions of lard and butter in so much boiling water--that's according to the size of the pie; then you mix it into the flour, kneading it very well--and--and--and--" polly's voice dropped to a kind of buzz, her head sank lower over the large cookery-book which she was studying; her elbows were on the table, her short curling hair fell over her eyes, and a dimpled hand firmly pressed each cheek. helen sighed slightly, and returned with a little gesture of resignation to the disentangling of polly's work-basket. as she did so she seated herself more firmly in her mother's arm-chair. her little figure looked slight in its deep and ample dimensions, and her smooth fair face was slightly puckered with anxiety. "polly," she said, suddenly; "polly, leave that book alone. there's more in the world than housekeeping and pie-crust. do you know that i have discovered something, and i think, i really do think, that we ought to go on with it. it was mother's plan, and father will always agree to anything she wished." polly shut up mrs. beaton's cookery-book with a bang, rose from her seat at the table, and opening the window sat down where the wind could ruffle her hair and cool her hot cheeks. "this is friday," she said, "and my duties begin on monday. helen, pie-crust is not unimportant when success or failure hangs upon it; puddings may become vital, helen, and, as to cheesecakes, i would stake everything i possess in the world on the manner in which father munches my first cheesecake. well, dear, never mind; i'll try and turn my distracted thoughts in your direction for a bit. what's the discovery?" "only," said helen, "that i think i know what makes father look so gray, and why he has a stoop, and why his eyes seem so sunken. of course there is the loss of our mother, but that is not the only trouble. i think he has another, and i think also, polly, that he had this other trouble before mother died, and that she helped him to bear it, and made plans to lighten it for him. you remember what one of her plans was, and how we weren't any of us too well pleased. but i have been thinking lately, since i began to guess father's trouble, that we ought to carry it out just the same as if our mother was with us." "yes," said polly. "you have a very exciting way of putting things, nell, winding one up and up, and not letting in the least little morsel of light. what is father's trouble, and what was the plan? i can't remember any plan, and i only know about father that he's the noblest of all noble men, and that he bears mother's loss--well, as nobody else would have borne it. what other trouble has our dear father, nell? god wouldn't be so cruel as to give him another trouble." "god is never cruel," said helen, a beautiful, steadfast light shining in her eyes. "i couldn't let go the faith that god is always good. but father--oh, polly, polly, i am dreadfully afraid that father is going to lose his sight." "what?" said polly. "_what?_ father lose his sight? no, i'm not going to listen to you, nell. you needn't talk like that. it's perfectly horrid of you. i'll go away at once and ask him. father! why, his eyes are as bright as possible. i'll go this minute and ask him." "no, don't do that, polly. i would never have spoken if i wasn't really sure, and i don't think it would be right to ask him, or to speak about it, until he tells us about it himself. but i began to guess it a little bit lately, when i saw how anxious mother seemed. for she was anxious, although she was the brightest of all bright people. and after her death father said i was to look through some of her letters; and i found one or two which told me that what i suspected was the case, and father may--indeed, he probably will--become quite blind, by-and-by. that was--that was--what's the matter, polly?" "nothing," said polly. "you needn't go on--you needn't say any more. it's a horrid world, nothing is worth living for; pie-crust, nor housekeeping, nor nothing. i hate the world, and every one in it, and i hate _you_ most of all, nell, for your horrid news. father blind! no, i won't believe it; it's all a lie." "poor polly," said helen. "don't believe it, dear, i wish _i_ didn't. i think i know a little bit how you feel. i'm not so hot and hasty and passionate as you, and oh, i'm not half, nor a quarter, so clever, but still, i do know how you feel; i--polly, you startle me." "only you don't hate me at this moment," said polly. "and i--don't i hate you, just! there, you can say anything after that. i know i'm a wretch--i know i'm hopeless. even mother would say i was hopeless if she saw me now, hating you, the kindest and best of sisters. but i do, yes, i do, most heartily. so you see you aren't like me, helen." "i certainly never hated any one," said helen. "but you are excited, polly, and this news is a shock to you. we won't talk about it one way or other, now, and we'll try as far as possible not to think of it, except in so far as it ought to make us anxious to carry out mother's plan." polly had crouched back away from the window, her little figure all huddled up, her cheeks with carnation spots on them, and her eyes, brimful of the tears which she struggled not to shed, were partly hidden by the folds of the heavy curtain which half-enveloped her. "you were going to say something else dreadfully unpleasant," she remarked. "well, have it out. nothing can hurt me very much just now." "it's about the strangers," said helen. "the strangers who were to come in october. you surely can't have forgotten them, polly." like magic the thunder-cloud departed from polly's face. the tears dried in her bright eyes, and the curtain no longer enveloped her slight, young figure. "why, of course," she said. "the strangers, how could i have forgotten! how curious we were about them. we didn't know their names. nothing, nothing at all--except that there were two, and that they were coming from australia. i always thought of them as paul and virginia. dear, dear, dear, i shall have more housekeeping than ever on my shoulders with them about the place." "they were coming in october," said helen, quietly. "everything was arranged, although so little was known. they were coming in a sailing vessel, and the voyage was to be a long one, and mother, herself, was going to meet them. mother often said that they would arrive about the second week in october." "in three weeks from now?" said polly, "we are well on in september, now. i can't imagine how we came to forget paul and virginia. why, of course, poor children, they must be quite anxious to get to us. i wonder if i'd be a good person to go and meet them. you are so shy with strangers, you know, nell, and i'm not. mother used to say i didn't know what _mauvaise honte_ meant. i don't say that i _like_ meeting them, poor things, but i'll do it, if it's necessary. still, helen, i cannot make out what special plan there is in the strangers coming. nor what it has to do with father, with that horrid piece of news you told me a few minutes ago." "it has a good deal to say to it, if you will only listen," said helen. "i have discovered by mother's letters that the father of the strangers is to pay to our father £ a year as long as his children live here. they were to be taught, and everything done for them, and the strangers' father was to send over a check for £ for them every quarter. now, polly, listen. our father is not poor, but neither is he rich, and if--if what we fear is going to happen, he won't earn nearly so much money in his profession. so it seems a great pity he should lose this chance of earning £ a year." "but nobody wants him to lose it," said polly. "paul and virginia will be here in three weeks, and then the pay will begin. £ a year--let me see, that's just about eight pounds a week, that's what father says he spends on the house, that's a lot to spend, i could do it for much less. but no matter. what are you puckering your brows for, helen? of course the strangers are coming." "father said they were not to come," replied helen. "he told me so some weeks ago. when they get to the docks he himself is going to meet them, and he will take them to another home which he has been inquiring about. he says that we can't have them here now." "but we must have them here," said polly. "what nonsense! we must both of us speak to our father at once." "i have been thinking it over," said helen, in her gentle voice, "and i do really feel that it is a pity to lose this chance of helping father and lightening his cares. you see, polly, it depends on us. father would do it if he could trust us, you and me, i mean." "well, so he can trust us," replied polly, glibly. "everything will be all right. there's no occasion to make a fuss, or to be frightened. we have got to be firm, and rather old for our years, and if either of us puts down her foot she has got to keep it down." "i don't know that at all," said helen. "mother sometimes said it was wise to yield. oh, polly, i don't feel at all wise enough for all that is laid on me. we have to be examples in everything. i do want to help father, but it would be worse to promise to help him and then to fail." "i'm not the least afraid," said polly. "the strangers must come, and father's purse must be filled in that jolly manner. i don't believe the story about his eyes, nell, but it will do him good to feel that he has got a couple of steady girls like us to see to him. now i'm arranging a list of puddings for next week, so you had better not talk any more. we'll speak to father about paul and virginia after dinner." chapter ix. limits. even the wisest men know very little of household management, and never did an excellent and well-intentioned individual put, to use a well-known phrase, his foot more completely into it than dr. maybright when he allowed polly to learn experience by taking the reins of household management for a week. except in matters that related to his own profession, dr. maybright was apt to be slightly absent-minded; here he was always keenly alive. when visiting a patient not a symptom escaped him, not a flicker of timid eyelids passed unnoticed, not a passing shade of color on the invalid's countenance but called for his acute observation. in household matters, however, he was apt to overlook trifles, and very often completely to forget what seemed to his family important arrangements. he was the kind of man who was sure to be very much beloved at home, for he was neither fretful nor fussy, but took large views of all things. such people are appreciated, and if his children thought him the best of all men, his servants also spoke of him as the most perfect of masters. "you might put anything before him," mrs. power would aver. "bless his 'art, _he_ wouldn't see, nor _he_ wouldn't scold. ef it were rinsings of the tea-pot he would drink it instead of soup; and i say, and always will say, that ef a cook don't jelly the soup for the like of a gentleman like the doctor what have no mean ways and no fusses, she ain't fit to call herself a cook." so just because they loved him, dr. maybright's servants kept his table fairly well, and his house tolerably clean, and the domestic machinery went on wheels, not exactly oiled, but with no serious clog to their progress. these things of course happened since mrs. maybright's death. in her day this gentlest and firmest of mistresses, this most tactful of women, kept all things in their proper place, and her servants obeyed her with both will and cheerfulness. on the saturday before polly's novitiate poor dr. maybright's troubles began. he had completely forgotten all about his promise to polly, and was surprised when the little girl skipped into his study after breakfast, with her black frock put on more neatly than usual, her hair well brushed and pushed off her face, and a wonderful brown holland apron enveloping her from her throat to her ankles. the apron had several pockets, and certainly gave polly a quaint and original appearance. "here i am, father," she said. "i have come for the money, please." "the--the what, my dear?" dr. maybright put up his eye-glass, and surveyed the little figure critically. "are these pockets for your school-books?" he said. "it is not a bad idea; only don't lose them, polly. i don't like untidy books scattered here and there." polly took the opportunity to dart a quick, anxious glance into her father's eyes--they were bright, dark, clear. of course helen's horrid story was untrue. her spirits rose, she gave a little skip, and clasped her hands on the doctor's arm. "these are housekeeping pockets, father," she said. "nothing at all to say to books. i'm domestic, not intellectual; my housekeeping begins on monday, you know, and i've come for the eighty shillings now. can you give it to me in silver, not in gold, for i want to divide it, and pop it into the little box with divisions at once?" "bless me," said the doctor, "i'd forgotten--i did not know that indigestion week was so near. well, here you are, polly, two pounds in gold and two pounds in silver. i can't manage more than two sovereigns' worth of silver, i fear. now my love, as you are strong, be merciful--give us only small doses of poison at each meal. i beseech of you, polly, be temperate in your zeal." "you laugh at me," said polly, "well, never mind. i'm too happy to care. i don't expect you'll talk about poisoning when you have eaten my cheesecakes. and father, dear father, you _will_ let paul and virginia come? nell and i meant to speak to you yesterday about them, but you were out all day. with me to housekeep, and nell to look after everybody, you needn't have the smallest fear about paul and virginia; they can come and they can line your pockets, can't they?" "my dear child, i have not an idea what you are talking about. who _are_ paul and virginia--have i not a large enough family without taking in the inhabitants of a desert island? there, i can't wait to hear explanations now; that is my patients' bell--run away, my dear, run away." dr. maybright always saw his poorer patients gratis on saturday morning from ten to twelve. this part of his work pleased him, for he was the sort of man who thought that the affectionate and grateful glance in the eye, and the squeeze of the hand, and the "god bless you, doctor," paid in many cases better than the guinea's worth. he had an interesting case this morning, and again polly and her housekeeping slipped from his mind. he was surprised, therefore, in the interim between the departure of one patient and the arrival of another, to hear a somewhat tremulous tap at his study door, and on his saying "come in," to see the pretty but decidedly ruffled face of his housemaid alice presenting herself. "ef you please, doctor, i won't keep you a minute, but i thought i'd ask you myself ef it's your wish as miss polly should go and give orders that on monday morning i'm to turn the linen-press out from top to bottom, and to do it first of all before the rooms is put straight. and if i'm to unpick the blue muslin curtains, and take them down from where they was hung by my late blessed mistress's orders, in the spare room, and to fit them into the primrose room over the porch--for she says there's a miss virginy and a master paul coming, and the primrose room with the blue curtains is for one of them, she says. and i want to know from you, please, doctor, if miss polly is to mistress it over me? and to take away the keys of the linen-press from me, and to follow me round, and to upset all my work, what i never stood, nor would stand. i want to know if it's your wish, doctor?" "the fact is, alice," began the doctor--he put his hand to his brow, and a dim look came over his eyes--"the fact is--ah, that is my patients' bell, i must ask you to go, alice, and to--to moderate your feelings. i have been anxious to give miss polly a lesson in experience, and it is only for a week. you will oblige me very much, alice, by helping me in this matter." the doctor walked to the door as he spoke, and opened it courteously. "come in, johnson," he said, to a ruddy-faced farmer, who was accompanied by a shy boy with a swelled face. "come in; glad to see you, my friend. is tommy's toothache better?" alice said afterwards that she never felt smaller in her life than when dr. maybright opened the study door to show her out. "ef i'd been a queen he couldn't have done it more elegant," she remarked. "eh, but he's a blessed man, and one would put up with two miss pollys for the sake of serving him." the doctor having conquered alice, again forgot his second daughter's vagaries, but a much sterner and more formidable interview was in store for him; it was one thing to conquer alice, who was impressionable, and had a soft heart, and another to encounter the stony visage and rather awful presence of mrs. power. "it's to give notice i've come, dr. maybright," she said, dropping a curtsey, and twisting a corner of her large white apron round with one formidable red hand. "it's to give notice. this day month, please, doctor, and, though i says it as shouldn't, you won't get no one else to jelly your soups, nor feather your potatoes, nor puff your pastry, as jane power has done. but there's limits, dr. maybright; and i has come to give you notice, though out of no disrespect to you, sir." "then why do you do it, mrs. power?" said the doctor. "you are an honest and conscientious servant, i know that from your late mistress's testimony. you cook very good dinners too, and you make suitable puddings for the children, and pastry not too rich. why do you want to leave? i don't like change; and, if it is a question of wages, perhaps i may be able to meet you." "i'm obligated to you, doctor; but it ain't that. i has my twenty-two pounds paid regular, and all found. i ain't grumbling on that score, and jane power was never havaricious nor grasping. i'm obligated too by what you says with respect to the pastry; but, doctor, it ain't in mortal woman to stand a chit of a child being put over her. so i'm going this day month; and, with your leave, i'll turn the key in the kitchen-door next week, or else i'll forfeit my wage and go at once." "dear, dear," said the doctor. "this is really embarrassing. i never thought that polly's experience would upset the household economy in so marked a manner. i am really annoyed, for i certainly gave her leave to housekeep for a week." "it isn't as i minds youth, dr. maybright," continued mrs. power. "i makes due allowances for the young, for i says to myself, 'jane power, you was once, so to speak, like an unfledged chick yourself;' but there's youth _and_ youth, dr. maybright; and miss polly's of the kind as makes your 'air stand on hend." "poor polly," said the doctor. "no, sir, begging your parding, if you was in the kitchen, it's 'poor mrs. power' you'd be a-saying. now i don't say nothing agin miss nelly--she's the elder, and she have nice ways with her--she takes a little bit after my poor dear mistress; oh, what a nature was hers, blessed angel!" here mrs. power rolled her eyes skywards, and the doctor, turning his back, walked to the window. "be brief," he said, "i am pressed for time." "sir, i was never one for long words; agen' miss helen i haven't a word to say. she comes down to the kitchen after breakfast as pretty as you please, and she says, 'power,' says she, 'you'll advise me about the dinner to-day,' says she. 'shall we have minced collops, or roast beef? and shall we have fruit tart with custard?' pretty dear, she don't know nothink, and she owns it, and i counsel her, as who that wasn't the most hard-hearted would. but miss polly, she's all on wires like, and she bounds in and she says that i pepper the soup too strong, and that i ought to go to cookery schools, and ef i'll go with her that blessed minit she'll tell me what i wants in my own store-room. there's limits. dr. maybright, and miss polly's my limits; so, ef you'll have no objection, sir, i'll go this day month." "but i have an objection," replied dr. maybright. "even polly's experiment must not cost me a valuable servant. mrs. power, i have promised my little girl, and i feel more than convinced that her week's trial will ensure to you the freedom you desire and deserve in the future. listen, i have a plan. suppose you go for a week's holiday on monday?" "oh, my word, sir! and are you to be poisoned hout and hout?" "that is unlikely. maggie, your kitchen-maid, is fond of cooking, and she won't quarrel with miss polly. let us consider it arranged, then. a week's holiday won't do you any harm, cook, and your expenses i will defray. now, excuse me, i must go out at once. the carriage has been at the door for some time." chapter x. indigestion week. it was quite early on the following monday morning when a light tap was heard outside the door of the room where helen and polly slept. it was a very light, modest, and uncertain tap, and it has not the smallest effect upon helen, who lay in soft slumber, her pretty eyes closed, her gentle face calm and rounded and child-like, and the softest breathing coming from her rosy, parted lips. another little girl, however, was not asleep. at that modest tap up sprang a curly head, two dark, bright eyes opened wide, two white feet sprang quickly but noiselessly on to the floor, and polly had opened the bedroom door wide to admit the short, dumpy, but excited little person of maggie, the kitchen-maid. "she's a-going, miss polly--she's a-packing her bandbox now, and putting the strap on. she's in a hawful temper, but she'll be out of the house in less than half an hour. there's a beautiful fire in the kitchen, miss, and the pan for frying bacon is polished up so as you could 'most see yourself in it. and the egg-saucepan is there all 'andy, and the kettle fizzing and sputtering. i took cook up her breakfast, but she said she didn't want none of our poisonous messes, and she'd breakfast with her cousin in the village if we'd no objection. she'll be gone in no time now, miss polly, and i'm a-wanting to know when you'll be a-coming down stairs." "i'm going to dress immediately, maggie," said polly. "i've scarcely slept all night, for this is an anxious moment for me. i'll join you in half an hour at the latest, maggie, and have lots of saucepans and frying-pans and gridirons ready. keep the fire well up too, and see that the oven is hot. there, fly away, i'll join you soon." maggie, who was only sixteen herself, almost skipped down the passage. after the iron reign of mrs. power, to work for polly seemed like play to her. "she's a duck," she said to herself, "a real cozy duck of a young lady. oh, my word, won't we spin through the stores this week! won't we just!" meanwhile polly was hastily getting into her clothes. she did not wish to wake helen, for she was most anxious that no one should know that on the first morning of her housekeeping she had arisen soon after six o'clock. her plans were all laid beforehand, and a wonderfully methodical and well arranged programme, considering her fourteen years, was hers; she was all agog with eagerness to carry it out. "oh, won't they have a breakfast this morning," she said to herself. "won't they open their eyes, and won't bob and bunny look greedy. and firefly--i must watch firefly over those hot cakes, or she may make herself sick. poor father and nell--they'll both be afraid at first that i'm a little too lavish and inclined to be extravagant, but they'll see by-and-by, and they'll acknowledge deep down in their hearts that there never was such a housekeeper as polly." as the little maid dreamed these pleasant thoughts she scrambled somewhat untidily into her clothes, gave her hair a somewhat less careful brush than usual, and finally knelt down to say her morning prayer. helen still slept, and polly by a sudden impulse chose to kneel by helen's bed and not her own. she pressed her curly head against the mattress, and eagerly whispered her petitions. she was excited and sanguine, for this was to her a moment of triumph; but as she prayed a feeling of rest and yet of longing overpowered her. "oh, i am happy to-day," she murmured--"but oh, mother, oh, mother, i'd give everything in all the wide world to have you back again! i'd live on bread and water--i'd spend years in a garret just for you to kiss me once again, mother, mother!" helen stirred in her sleep, for polly's last impulsive words were spoken aloud. "has mother come back?" she asked. her eyes were closed, she was dreaming. polly bent down and answered her. "no," she said. "it is only me--the most foolish of all her children, who wants her so dreadfully." helen sighed, and turned her head uneasily, and polly, wiping away some moisture from her eyes, ran out of the room. her housekeeping apron was on, her precious money box was under her arm, the keys of the linen-press jingled against a thimble and a couple of pencils in the front pocket of the apron. polly was going down stairs to fulfill her great mission; it was impossible for her spirits long to be downcast. the house was deliciously still, for only the servants were up at present, but the sun sent in some rays of brightness at the large lobby windows, and the little girl laughed aloud in her glee. "good morning, sun! it is nice of you to smile at me the first morning of my great work. it is very good-natured of you to come instead of sending that disagreeable friend of yours, mr. rain. oh, how delicious it is to be up early. why, it is not half-past six yet--oh, what a breakfast i shall prepare for father!" in the kitchen, which was a large, cheerful apartment looking out on the vegetable garden, polly found her satellite, maggie, on the very tiptoe of expectation. "i has laid the servants' breakfast in the 'all, miss polly; i thought as you shouldn't be bothered with them, with so to speak such a lot on your hands this morning. so i has laid it there, and lit a fire for them, and all jane has to do when she's ready is to put the kettle on, for the tea's on the table in the small black caddy, so there'll be no worriting over them. and ef you please, miss polly, i made bold to have a cup of tea made and ready for you, miss--here it is, if you please, miss, and a cut off the brown home-made loaf." "delicious," said polly; "i really am as hungry as possible, although i did not know it until i saw this nice brown bread-and-butter. why, you have splendid ideas in you, maggie; you'll make a first-rate cook yet. but now"--here the young housekeeper thought it well to put on a severe manner--"i must know what breakfast you have arranged for the servants' hall. it was good-natured of you to think of saving me trouble, maggie, but please understand that during this week you do nothing on your own responsibility. _i_ am the housekeeper, and although i don't say i am old, i am quite old enough to be obeyed." "very well, miss," said maggie, who had gone to open her oven, and poke up the fire while polly was speaking; "it's a weight off my shoulders, miss, for i wasn't never one to be bothered with thinking. mother says as i haven't brains as would go on the top of a sixpenny-bit, so what's to be expected of me, miss. there, the oven's all of a beautiful glow, and 'ull bake lovely. you was asking what breakfast i has put in the servants' 'all--well, cold bacon and plenty of bread, and a good pat of the cooking butter. why, miss polly, oh, lor, what is the matter, miss?" "only that you have done very wrong, maggie," said polly. "you would not like to have lots of good things going up to the dining-room, and have no share yourself. i call it selfish of you, maggie, for of course you knew you would be in the kitchen with me, and would be sure to come in for bits. cold bacon, indeed! poor servants, they're not likely to care for my housekeeping if that is all i provide for them! no, maggie, when i made out my programme, i thought of the servants as well as the family. i will just refer to my tablets, maggie, and see what breakfast i arranged for the hall for monday morning." while polly was speaking maggie opened her eyes and mouth wider and wider and when the young lady read aloud from her tablets she could not suppress an expostulatory "oh!" "monday--kitchen breakfast," read polly--"bacon, eggs, marmalade, sardines. hot coffee, fresh rolls, if possible." "my word, but that is wasteful," said maggie. polly's cheeks flushed. she glanced at her small handmaid, raised her hand in a reproving manner, and continued to read-- "dining-room breakfast: hot scones, baked muffins, eggs and bacon, deviled kidneys, scrambled eggs, a dish of kippered herrings, marmalade, honey, jam, tea and coffee. oh, and chocolate for firefly." "my word, miss," again exclaimed maggie. "it's seven o'clock now, and the doctor likes his breakfast sharp on the table at eight. if we has to get all this ready in an hour we had better fly round and lose no more time. i'll see to the 'all, bless your kind 'eart, miss polly, but we'd better get on with the dining-room breakfast, or there'll be nothing ready in anything like time. will you mix up the cakes, miss polly, while i sees to the kidneys, and to the bacon and eggs, and the scrambled eggs, and the kippers. my word, but there'll be a power more sent up than can be eaten. but whatever goes wrong we should have the cakes in the oven, miss polly." polly did not altogether approve of maggie's tone, but time did press; the kitchen clock already pointed to five minutes past seven; it was much easier to write out a programme upstairs at one's leisure in the pleasant morning-room than to carry it out in a hurry, in the hot kitchen, particularly when one's own knowledge was entirely theoretical, not practical. yes, the kitchen was very hot, and time never seemed to fly so fast. "first of all, open the window, maggie; it is wrong to have rooms so hot as this," said the young housekeeper, putting on her most authoritative air. "no, miss, that i mustn't," said maggie, firmly. "you'd cool down the oven in less than five minutes. now, shall i fetch you the flour and things from the store-room, miss? why, dear me, your cheeks has peonyed up wonderful. you're new to it yet, miss, but you'll soon take it quiet-like. cold bacon is a very nice breakfast for the 'all, miss, and cooking butter's all that servants is expected to eat of. now shall i fetch you the flour and the roller, and the milk, miss polly?" "yes, get them," said polly. she felt decidedly annoyed and cross. "i wish you would not talk so much, maggie," she said, "go and fetch the materials for the hot cakes." "but i don't know yet what i'm to get, miss. is it a dripping cake, or is it a cream cake, or is it a butter-and-egg cake? i'll bring you things according, miss polly, if you'll be so good as to instruct me." "oh dear, oh dear," said polly, "you make my head go round, when you mention so many kinds of cake, maggie. i really thought you knew something of cooking. i just want _hot cakes_. i don't care what kind they are; oh, i suppose we had better have the richest to-day. get the material for the butter-and-egg cake, maggie, and do be quick." thus admonished, maggie did move off with a dubious look on her face in the direction of the store-room. "she don't know nothing, poor dear," she said to herself; "she aims high--she's eat up with ambition, but she don't know nothing. it's lucky we in the 'all is to have the cold bacon. _i_ don't know how to make a butter-and-egg hot cake--oh, my word, a fine scolding mrs. power will give us when she comes back." here maggie approached the store-room door. then she uttered a loud and piercing exclamation and flew back to polly. "she's gone and done us, miss polly," she exclaimed. "she's gone and done us! cook's off, and the key of the store-room in her pocket. there's nothing for breakfast, miss polly--no eggs, no butter, no marmalade, no sugar, no nothing." poor polly's rosy, little face turned white. "it can't be true," she said. and she flew down the passage to the store-room herself. alas! only to peep through the key-hole, for the inhospitable door was firmly locked, and nowhere could the key be discovered. chapter xi. a--was an apple pie. the first day of polly's housekeeping was long remembered in the household. in the first place, the breakfast, though fairly abundant, was plain. a large piece of cold bacon graced one end of the board, a brown loaf stood on a trencher in the center, and when helen took her place opposite the tea-tray she found herself provided with plenty of milk and sugar, certainly, and a large tea-pot of strong tea, but the sugar was brown. no butter, no marmalade, no jams, no hot cakes, graced the board. the children spoke of the fare as severe, and the doctor's dark brown eyes twinkled as he helped his family to abundant slices of cold bacon. "not a word," he said, in a loud aside to his boys and girls. "i did not think it was in polly to be so sensible. why, we shall get through indigestion week quite comfortably, if she provides us with plain, wholesome fare like this." polly took her own place at the table rather late. her cheeks were still peonyed, as maggie expressed it, her eyes were downcast, her spirits were decidedly low, and she had a very small appetite. after breakfast she beat a hasty retreat, and presently the boys rushed in in great excitement, to announce to helen and katie the interesting fact that polly was walking across the fields accompanied by maggie, each of them laden with a large market-basket. "they are almost running, both of them," exclaimed bunny, "and pretty poll is awful cross, for when we wanted to go with her she just turned round and said we'd have a worse dinner than breakfast if we didn't leave her alone." "we ran away quickly enough after that," continued bob, "for we didn't want no more cold-bacon and no-butter meals. we had a nasty breakfast to-day, hadn't we, nell? and poll is a bad housekeeper, isn't she?" "oh, leave her alone, do," said helen. "she is trying her very best. run out and play, boys, and don't worry about the meals." the two boys, known in the family as "the scamps," quickly took their departure, and katie began to talk in her most grown-up manner to helen. katie was a demure little damsel, she was fond of using long words, and thought no one in the world like helen, whom she copied in all particulars. "poll is too ambitious, and she's sure to fail," she began. but helen shut her up. "if polly does fail, you'll be dreadfully sorry, i'm sure, katie," she said. "i know i shall be sorry. it will make me quite unhappy, for i never saw any one take more pains about a thing than polly has taken over her housekeeping. yes, it will be very sad if polly fails; but i don't think she will, for she is really a most clever girl. now, katie, will you read your english history lesson aloud?" katie felt crushed. in her heart of hearts she thought even her beloved helen a little too lenient. "never mind," she said to herself, "won't dolly and mabel have a fine gossip with me presently over the breakfast polly gave us this morning." meanwhile the anxious, small housekeeper was making her way as rapidly as possible in the direction of the village. "we haven't a minute to lose, maggie," she said, as they trudged along. "can you remember the list of things i gave you to buy at the grocery shop? it is such a pity you can't read, maggie, for if you could i'd have written them down for you." "it wasn't the board's fault, nor my mother's," answered maggie, glibly. "it was all on account of my brain being made to fit on the top of a sixpence. yes, miss, i remembers the list, and i'll go to watson's and the butcher's while you runs on to the farm for the butter and eggs." "you have got to get ten things," proceeded polly; "don't forget, ten things at the grocer's. you had better say the list over to me." "all right, miss polly, ten; i can tick one off on each finger: white sugar, coffee, rice, marmalade, strawberry jam, apricot jam, mustard, pickles--is they mixed or plain, miss polly?--raisins, currants. there, miss, i has them all as pat as possible." "well, stop a minute," said polly. "i'm going to unlock my box now. hold it for me, maggie, while i open it. here, i'm going to take half-a-sovereign out of the grocery division. you must take this half-sovereign to watson's, and pay for the things. i have not an idea how much they cost, but i expect you'll have a good lot of change to give me. after that, you are to go on to the butcher's, and buy four pounds of beef-steak. here is another half-sovereign that you will have to pay the butcher out of. be sure you don't mix the change, maggie. pop the butcher's change into one pocket, and the grocer's change into another. now, do you know what we are going to have for dinner?" "no, miss, i'm sure i don't. i expect it'll sound big to begin with, and end small, same as the breakfast did. why, miss polly, you didn't think cold bacon good enough for the servants, and yet you set it down in the end afore your pa." polly looked hard at maggie. she suddenly began to think her not at all a nice girl. "i was met by adversity," she said. "it is wrong of you to speak to me in that tone, maggie; mrs. power behaved very badly, and i could not help myself; but she need not think she is going to beat me, and whatever i suffer, i scorn to complain. to-night, after every one is in bed, i am going to make lots of pies and tarts, and cakes, and cheesecakes. you will have to help me; but we will talk of that by-and-by. now, i want to speak about the dinner. it must be simple to-day. we will have a beef-steak pudding and pancakes. do you know how to toss pancakes, maggie?" "oh, lor', miss," said maggie, "i did always love to see mother at it. she used to toss 'em real beautiful, and i'm sure i could too. that's a very nice dinner, miss, 'olesome and good, and you'll let me toss the pancakes, won't you, miss polly?" "well, you may try, maggie. but here we are at the village. now, please, go as quickly as possible to watson's, and the butcher's, and meet me at this stile in a quarter of an hour. be very careful of the change, maggie, and be sure you put the butcher's in one pocket and the grocer's in another. don't mix them--everything depends on your not mixing them, maggie." the two girls parted, each going quickly in opposite directions. polly had a successful time at the farm, and when she once again reached the turnstile her basket contained two dozen new-laid eggs, two or three pounds of delicious fresh butter, and a small jug of cream. the farmer's wife, mrs. white, had been very pleased to see her, and had complimented her on her discernment in choosing the butter and eggs. her spirits were now once again excellent, and she began to forget the sore injury mrs. power had done her by locking the store-room door. "it's all lovely," she said to herself; "it's all turning out as pleasant as possible. the breakfast was nothing, they'd have forgotten the best breakfast by now, and they'll have such a nice dinner. i can easily make a fruit tart for father, as well as the pancakes, and won't he enjoy mrs. white's nice cream? it was very good of her to give it to me; and it was very cheap, too--only eighteenpence. but, dear me, dear me, how i wish maggie would come!" there was no sign, however, of any stout, unwieldy young person walking down the narrow path which led to the stile. strain her eyes as she would, polly could not see any sign of maggie approaching. she waited for another five minutes, and then decided to go home without her. "for she may have gone round by the road," she said to herself, "although it was very naughty of her if she did so, for i told her to be sure to meet me at the turnstile. still i can't wait for her any longer, for i must pick the fruit for my tart, and i ought to see that alice is doing what i told her about the new curtains." off trotted polly with her heavy basket once again across the fields. it was a glorious september day, and the soft air fanned her cheeks and raised her already excited spirits. she felt more cheerful than she had done since her mother died, and many brilliant visions of hope filled her ambitious little head. yes, father would see that he was right in trusting her; nell would discover that there was no one so clever as polly; mrs. power would cease to defy her; alice would obey her cheerfully; in short, she would be the mainstay and prop of her family. on her way through the kitchen-garden polly picked up a number of fallen apples, and then she went quickly into the house, to be met on the threshold by firefly. "oh, poll parrot, may i come down with you to the kitchen? i'd love to see you getting the dinner ready, and i could help, indeed i could. the others are all so cross; that is, all except nell. katie _is_ in a temper, and so are dolly and mabel; but i stood up for you, poll parrot, for i said you didn't mean to give us the very nastiest breakfast in the world. i said it was just because you weren't experienced enough to know any better--that's what i said, poll." "well, you made a great mistake then," said polly. "not experienced, indeed! as if i didn't know what a good breakfast was like. i had a misfortune; a dark deed was done, and i was the victim, but i scorn to complain, i let you all think as you like. no, you can't come to the kitchen with me, firefly; it isn't a fit place for children. run away now, _do_." poor fly's small face grew longing and pathetic, but polly was obdurate. "i can't have children about," she said to herself, and soon she was busy peeling her apples and preparing her crust for the pie. she succeeded fairly well, although the water with which she mixed her dough would run all over the board, and her nice fresh butter stuck in the most provoking way to the rolling-pin. still, the pie was made, after a fashion, and polly felt very happy, as she amused herself cutting out little ornamental leaves from what remained of her pastry to decorate it. it was a good-sized tart, and when she had crowned it with a wreath of laurel leaves she thought she had never seen anything so handsome and appetizing. alas, however, for poor polly, the making of this pie was her one and only triumph. the morning had gone very fast, while she was walking to the village securing her purchases, and coming home again. she was startled when she looked at the kitchen clock to find that it pointed to a quarter past twelve. at the same time she discovered that the kitchen fire was nearly out, and that the oven was cold. father always liked the early dinner to be on the table sharp at one o'clock; it would never, never do for polly's first dinner to be late. she must not wait any longer for that naughty maggie; she must put coals on the fire herself, and wash the potatoes, and set them on to boil. this was scarcely the work of an ordinary lady-like housekeeper; but polly tried to fancy she was in canada, or in even one of the less civilized settlements, where ladies put their hands to anything, and were all the better for it. she had a great hunt to find the potatoes, and when she had washed them--which it must be owned she did not do at all well--she had still greater difficulty in selecting a pot which would hold them. she found one at last, and with some difficulty placed it on the kitchen-range. she had built up her fire with some skill, but was dismayed to find that, try as she would, she could get no heat into the oven. the fact was, she had not the least idea how to direct the draught in the right direction; and although the fire burned fiercely, and the potatoes soon began to bubble and smoke, the oven, which was to cook poor polly's tart, remained cold and irresponsive. well, cold as it was, she would put her pie in, for time was flying as surely it had never flown before and it was dreadful to think that there would be nothing at all for dinner but potatoes. oh, why did not that wicked maggie come! really polly did not know that any one could be quite so depraved and heartless as maggie was turning out. she danced about the kitchen in her impatience, and began to think she understood something of the wickedness of those cities described in the bible, which were destroyed by fire on account of their sins, and also of the state of the world before the flood came. "they were all like maggie," she said to herself. "i really never heard of any one before who was quite so hopelessly bad as maggie." the kitchen clock pointed to the half hour, and even to twenty minutes to one. it was hopeless to think of pancakes now--equally hopeless to consider the possibilities of a beef-steak pudding. they would be very lucky if they had steak in any form. still, if maggie came at once that might be managed, and nice potatoes, beef-steak, apple-tart and cream would be better than no dinner at all. just at this moment, when polly's feelings were almost reduced to despair, she was startled by a queer sound, which gradually came nearer and nearer. it was the sound of some one sobbing, and not only sobbing, but crying aloud with great violence. the kitchen door was suddenly burst open, and dishevelled, tear-stained, red-faced maggie rushed in, and threw herself on her knees at polly's feet. "i has gone and done it, miss polly," she exclaimed. "i was distraught-like, and my poor little bit of a brain seemed to give way all of a sudden. mother's in a heap of trouble, miss polly. i went round to see her, for it was quite a short cut to watson's, round by mother's, and mother she were in an awful fixing. she hadn't nothing for the rent, miss polly, 'cause the fruit was blighted this year; and the landlord wouldn't give her no more grace, 'cause his head is big and his heart is small, same as 'tis other way with me, miss polly, and the bailiffs was going to seize mother's little bits of furniture, and mother she was most wild. so my head it seemed to go, miss polly, and i clutched hold of the half-sovereign in the butcher's pocket, and the half-sovereign in the grocer's pocket, and i said to mother, 'miss polly'll give 'em to you, 'cause it's a big heart as miss polly has got. they was meant for the family dinner, but what's dinner compared to your feelings.' so mother she borrowed of the money, miss polly, and i hasn't brought home nothink; i hasn't, truly, miss." maggie's narrative was interspersed with very loud sobs, and fierce catches of her breath, and her small eyes were almost sunken out of sight. "oh, i know you're mad with me," she said, in conclusion. "but what's dinner compared with mother's feelings. oh, miss polly, don't look at me like that!" "get up," said polly, severely. "you are just like the people before the flood; i understand about them at last. i cannot speak to you now, for we have not a moment to lose. can you make the oven hot? there are only potatoes for dinner, unless the apple tart can be got ready in time." "oh, lor'! miss polly, i'll soon set that going--why, you has the wrong flue out, miss. see now, the heat's going round it lovely. oh, what an elegant pie you has turned out, miss polly! why, it's quite wonderful! you has a gift in the cookery line, miss. oh, darling miss polly, don't you be a-naming of me after them flooders; it's awful to think i'm like one of they. it's all on account of mother, miss polly. it would have gone to your heart, miss polly, if you seen mother a-looking at the eight-day clock and thinking of parting from it. her tears made channels on her cheeks, miss polly, and it was 'eart-piercing to view her. oh, do take back them words, miss polly. don't say as i'm a flooder." polly certainly had a soft heart, and although nothing could have mortified her more than the present state of affairs, she made up her mind to screen maggie, and to be as little severe to her as she could. chapter xii. potatoes--minus point. dr. maybright had reason again to congratulate himself when he sat down to a humble dinner of boiled potatoes. "if this regimen continues for a week," he said, under his breath, "we must really resort to tonics. i perceive i did polly a gross injustice. she does not mean to make us ill with rich living." the doctor ate his potatoes with extreme cheerfulness, remarking as he did so on their nutritive qualities, and explaining to his discontented family how many people lived on these excellent roots. "the only thing we want," he said, "is a red herring; we might then have that most celebrated of all irish dishes--'potatoes and point.'" "do tell us what that is, father," said helen, who was anxious to draw the direful glances of the rest of the family from poor polly. "'potatoes and point,'" said dr. maybright, raising his head for a moment, while a droll glance filled his eye, "is a simple but economical form of diet. the herring is hung by a string over the center of the board, and each person before he eats his potato points it at the herring; by so doing a subtle flavor of herring is supposed to be imparted to the potato. the herring lasts for some time, so the diet is really a cheap one. poll, dear, what is the matter? i never saw these excellent apples of the earth better cooked." polly was silent; her blushing cheeks alone betrayed her. she was determined to make a good meal, and was sustained by the consciousness that she had not betrayed maggie, and the hope that the apple-tart would prove excellent. it certainly was a noble apple-pie, and the faces of the children quite cheered up at the sight of it. they were very hungry, and were not particular as to the quality of the crust. mrs. white's cream, too, was delicious, so the second part of polly's first dinner quite turned out a success. after the meal had come to an end, helen called her second sister aside. "polly," she said, "i think we ought to speak to father now about the strangers' coming. time is going on, and if they come we ought to begin to prepare for them, and the more i think of it the more sure i am that they ought to come." "all right," said polly. "only, is this a good time to speak to father? for i am quite sure he must be vexed with me." "you must not think so, polly," said helen, kissing her. "father has given you a week to try to do your best in, and he won't say anything one way or another until the time is up. come into his study now, for i know he is there, and we really ought to speak to him." polly's face was still flushed, but the doctor, who had absolutely forgotten the simplicity of his late meal, received both the girls with equal affection. "well, my loves," he said, "can i do anything for you? i am going for a pleasant drive into the country this afternoon. would you both like to come?" "i should very much," said helen; but polly, with a somewhat important little sigh, remarked that household matters would keep her at home. "well, my dear, you must please yourself. but can i do anything for either of you now? you both look full of business." "we are, father," said polly, who was always the impetuous one. "we want to know if paul and virginia may come." "my dear, this is the second time you have spoken to me of those deserted orphans. i don't understand you." "it is this, father," explained helen. "we think the children from australia--the children mother was arranging about--might come here still. we mean that polly and i would like them to come, and that we would do our best for them. we think, polly and i do, that mother, even though she is not here, would still like the strangers to come." "sit down, helen," said the doctor; the harassed look had once again come across his face, and even polly noticed the dimness in his eyes. "you must not undertake too much, you two," he said. "you are only children. you are at an age to miss your mother at every turn. we had arranged to have a boy and girl from australia to live here, but when your mother--your mother was taken--i gave up the idea. it was too late to stop their coming to england, but i think i can provide a temporary home for them when they get to london. you need not trouble your head about the strange children, nell." "it is not that," said polly. "we don't know them yet, so of course we don't love them, but we wish them to come here, because we wish for their money. it will be eight pounds a week; just what you spend on the house, you know, father." "what a little economist!" said dr. maybright, stretching out his hand and drawing polly to him. "yes, i was to receive £ a year for the children, and it would have been a help, certainly it would have been a help by and by. still, my dear girls, i don't see how it is to be managed." "but really, father, we are so many that two more make very little difference," explained helen. "polly and i are going to try hard to be steady and good, and we think it would certainly please mother if you let the strangers come here, and we tried to make them happy. if you would meet them, father, and bring them here just at first, we might see how we got on." "i might," said the doctor in a meditative voice, "and £ is a good deal of money. it is not easily earned, and with a large family it is always wanted. that's what your mother said, and she was very wise. still, still, children, i keep forgetting how old you are. in reality you are, neither of you, grown up; in reality polly is quite a child, and you, my wise little nell, are very little more. i have offended your aunt, mrs. cameron, as it is, and what will she say if i yield to you on this point? still, still----" "oh, father, don't mind what that tiresome aunt maria says or thinks on any subject," said polly. "why should we mind her, she wasn't mother's real sister. we scarcely know her at all, and she scarcely knows us. we don't like her, and we are sure she doesn't like us. why should she spoil our lives, and prevent our helping you? for it would help you to have the strangers here, wouldn't it, father?" "by and by it would," answered the doctor. "by and by it would help me much." again the troubled expression came to his face and the dimness was perceptible in his eyes. "you will let us try it, father," said helen. "we can but fail; girls as young as us have done as much before. i am sure girls as young as we are have done harder things before, so why should not we try?" "i am a foolish old man," said the doctor. "i suppose i shall be blamed for this, not that it greatly matters. well, children, let it be as you wish. i will go and meet the boy and girl in london, and bring them to the hollow. we can have them for a month, and if we fail, children," added the doctor, a twinkle of amusement overspreading his face, "we won't tell any one but ourselves. it is quite possible that in the future we shall be comparatively poor if we cannot manage to make that boy and girl from australia comfortable and happy; but polly there has taught us how to economize, for we can always fall back on potatoes and point." "oh--oh--oh, father," came from polly's lips. "that is unkind, dear father," said helen. but they both hung about his neck and kissed him, and when dr. maybright drove away that afternoon on his usual round of visits, his heart felt comparatively light, and he owned to himself that those girls of his, with all their eccentricities, were a great comfort to him. chapter xiii. in the attic. there is no saying how polly's week of housekeeping might have ended, nor how substantial her castle in the air might have grown, had not a catastrophe occurred to her of a double and complex nature. the first day during which polly and maggie, between them, catered for and cooked the family meals, produced a plain diet in the shape of cold bacon for breakfast, and a dinner of potatoes, minus "point." but on the tuesday, wednesday, and thursday of that week maggie quite redeemed her character of being a flooder, and worked under polly with such goodwill that, as she herself expressed it, her small brains began to grow. fortunately, mrs. ricketts, maggie's mother, was not obliged to meet her rent every day of the week, therefore no more of polly's four pounds went in that direction. and polly read mrs. beaton's cookery-book with such assiduity, and maggie carried out her directions with such implicit zeal and good faith, that really most remarkable meals began to grace the doctor's board. pastry in every imaginable form and guise, cakes of all descriptions; vegetables, so cooked and so flavored, that their original taste was completely obliterated; meats cooked in german, italian, and american styles; all these things, and many more, graced the board and speedily vanished. the children became decidedly excited about the meals, and polly was cheered and regarded as a sort of queen. the doctor sighed, however, and counted the days when nell and mrs. power should once more peacefully reign in polly's stead. nurse asked severely to have all the nursery medicine bottles replenished. firefly looked decidedly pasty, and, after one of polly's richest plum-cakes, with three tiers of different colored icings, bunny was heard crying the greater part of one night. still the little cook and housekeeper bravely pursued her career of glory, and all might have gone well, and polly might have worn a chastened halo of well-earned success round her brow for the remainder of her natural life, but for the catastrophe of which i am about to speak. tuesday, wednesday, and thursday the family fared richly, and the household jogged along somehow, but on friday morning dr. maybright suddenly surprised his girls by telling them that unexpected business would call him to london immediately. he could not possibly return before monday, but he would get a certain dr. strong to see after his patients, and would start for town by the mid-day train. the doctor's portmanteau was quickly packed, and in what seemed a moment of time after the receipt of the letter he had kissed his family and bidden them good-by. then her four younger sisters and the boys came round polly with a daring suggestion. "let's sit up late, to-night, and have a real, jolly supper," they begged. "let's have it at nine o'clock, up in the large garret over the front of the house; let it be a big supper, all kinds of good things; ginger-beer and the rest, and let's invite some people to come and eat it with us. do poll--do poll, darling." "but," said polly--she was dazzled by this glorious prospect--"i haven't got a great deal of money," she said, "and nurse will be very angry, and helen won't like it. for you know, children, you two boys and firefly, you are never allowed to sit up as late as nine o'clock." "but for once, poll parrot," exclaimed the three victims; "just for once. we are sure father would not care, and we can coax nell to consent; and nurse, as to nurse, she thinks of no one but baby; we won't choose the garret over baby. do, do, do say 'yes,' darling poll." "the dearest cook in all the world!" exclaimed bunny, tossing his cap in the air. "the queen of cake-makers," said bob, turning head over heels. "the darlingest princess of all housekeepers," echoed firefly, leaping on her sister, and half-strangling her with a fierce embrace. "and we'll all subscribe," said the twins. "and it will really be delightfully romantic; something to remember when you aren't housekeeper," concluded katie. "i'd like it awfully," said polly, "i don't pretend that i wouldn't, and i've just found such a recipe for whipped cream. do you know, girls, i shouldn't be a bit surprised--i really shouldn't--if i turned out some meringues made all by myself for supper. the only drawback is the money, for mrs. white does charge a lot for cream, and i don't mind owning to you all, now that you are nice and sympathetic, that the reason you had only potatoes for dinner on monday was because maggie and i met with a misfortune; it was a money trouble," continued polly, with an important air, "and of course children like you cannot understand what money troubles mean. they are wearing, very, and maggie says she thinks i'm beginning to show some crow's feet around my eyes on account of them. but never mind, i'm not going to cast the shadows of money troubles on you all, and this thing is not to be spoken of, only it makes me very short now." "but we'll help you, poll," said all the eager voices. "let's fetch our purses and see what we can spare." in a twinkling many odd receptacles for holding money made an appearance, and the children between them found they could muster the noble sum of six shillings. all this was handed to polly, who said, after profound deliberation, that she thought she could make it go furthest and make most show in the purchase of cream and ginger-beer. "i'll scrape the rest together, somehow," she said, in conclusion, "and maggie will help me fine. maggie's a real brick now, and her brains are growing beautifully." but there was another point to be decided--who were to be invited to partake of the supper, and was nurse to be told, and was helen to be consulted? certainly polly would not have ventured to carry out so daring a scheme without helen's consent and cooperation, if it had not happened that she was away for the day. she had taken the opportunity to drive into the nearest town five miles away with her father, and had arranged to spend the day there, purchasing several necessary things, and calling on one or two friends. "and it will be much too late to tell nell when she comes back," voted all the children. "if she makes a fuss then, and refuses to join, she will spoil everything. we are bound too, to obey helen, so we had much better not give her the chance of saying 'no.' let us pretend to go to bed at our usual hour, and say nothing to either nurse or helen. we can tell them to-morrow if we like, and they can only scold us. yes, that is the only thing to do, for it would never, never do to have such a jolly plan spoilt." a unanimous vote was therefore carried that the supper in the garret was to be absolutely secret and confidential, and, naughty as this plan of carrying out their pleasure was, it must be owned that it largely enhanced the fun. the next point to consider was, who were to be the invited guests? there were no boys and girls of the children's own class in life within an easy distance. "therefore there is no one to ask," exclaimed katie, in her shortest and most objectionable manner. but here firefly electrified her family by quoting scripture. "when thou makest a supper," she began. all the others rose in a body and fell upon her. but she had started a happy idea, and in consequence, mrs. ricketts' youngest son and daughter, and the three very naughty and disreputable sons of mrs. jones, the laundress, were invited to partake of the coming feast. the rest of the day passed to all appearance very soberly. helen was away. the doctor's carriage neither came nor went; the doctor himself, with his kindly voice, and his somewhat brusque, determined manner, awoke no echoes in the old house. nurse was far away in the nursery wing, with the pretty, brown-eyed baby and the children; all the girls and the little boys were remarkably good. to those who are well acquainted with the habits and ways of young folks, too much goodness is generally a suspicious circumstance. there is a demure look, there is an instant obedience, there is an absence of fretfulness, and an abnormal, although subdued, cheerfulness, which arouses the watchful gaze of the knowing among mothers, governesses, and nurses. had nurse been at dinner that day she might have been warned of coming events by bunny's excellent behavior; by bob's rigid refusal to partake twice of an unwholesome compound, which went by the name of iced pudding; by firefly's anxiety to be all that a good and proper little girl should be. but nurse, of course, had nothing to say to the family dinner. helen was away, the doctor was nearing the metropolis, and the little boys' daily governess was not dining with the family. these good children had no one to suspect them, and all went smoothly; in short, the wheels of the house machinery never seemed more admirably oiled. true, had any one listened very closely there might have been heard the stealthy sound of shoeless feet ascending the rickety step-ladder which led to the large front garret. shoeless feet going up and down many, many times. trays, too, of precious crockery were carried up, baskets piled with evergreens and flowers were conveyed thither, the linen cupboard was ruthlessly rifled for snowy tablecloths and table napkins of all descriptions. then later in the day a certain savory smell might have been perceived by any very suspicious person just along this special passage and up that dusty old ladder. for hot bread and hot pastry and hot cakes were being conveyed to the attic, and the sober twins themselves fetched the cream from the farm, and the ginger beer from the grocer's. no one was about, however, to suspect, or to tell tales if they did suspect. helen came home about seven o'clock, rather tired, and very much interested in her purchases, to find a cozy tea awaiting her, and polly anxious to serve her. the twin girls were supposed to be learning their lessons in the school-room, katie was nowhere to be seen, and helen remarked casually that she supposed the young ones had gone to bed. "oh, yes," said polly, in her quickest manner. she turned her back as she spoke, and the blush which mantled her brown face was partly hidden by her curly dark hair. "i am very hungry," said helen. "really, polly, you are turning out an excellent housekeeper--what a nice tea you have prepared for me. how delicious these hot cakes are! i never thought, poll, you would make such a good cook and manager, and to think of your giving us such delicious meals on so little money. but you are eating nothing yourself, love, and how hot your cheeks are!" "cooking is hot work, and takes away the appetite," said polly. she was listening in agony that moment, for over helen's head certain stealthy steps were creeping; they were the steps of children, leaving their snug beds, and gliding as quietly as possible in the direction of the savory smells and the dusty ladder and the large dirty, spidery--but oh, how romantic, how fascinating--front attic. never before did polly realize how many creaky boards there were in the house; oh, surely helen would observe those steps; but, no, she cracked her egg tranquilly, and sipped her tea, and talked in her pleasantest way of polly's excellent cooking, and of her day's adventures. time was going on; it would soon be eight o'clock. oh, horrors, why would the rickettses and mrs. jones's three boys choose the path through the shrubbery to approach the house! the morning room, where helen was taking her tea, looked out on the shrubbery, and although it was now quite dark in the world of nature, those dreadful rough boys would crack boughs, and stumble and titter as they walked. polly's face grew hotter and her hands colder; never did she bless her sister's rather slow and unsuspicious nature more than at this moment, for helen heard no boughs crack, nor did the stealthy, smothered laughter, so distinctly audible to poor polly, reach her ears. at ten minutes to eight helen rose from the table. "i'm going up to nurse to show her what things i have bought for baby," she said. "we are going to short-coat baby next week, so i have a good deal to show her, and i won't be down again for a little bit." "all right," said polly, "i have plenty to do; don't worry about me till you see me, nell." she danced out of the room, and in excellent spirits joined a large and boisterous party in the front attic. now, she assured her family and her guests, all would go well; they were safely housed in a distant and unused part of the establishment, and might be as merry and as noisy as they pleased; no one would hear them, no one would miss them, no one would suspect them. and all might have gone according to polly's programme, and to this day that glorious feast in the attic might have remained a secret in the private annals of the house of maybright, but for that untoward thing which i am about to tell. at that very moment while the maybrights, the rickettses, and the joneses were having delightful and perfectly untrammeled intercourse with each other, a very fidgety old lady was approaching the hollow, being carefully conducted thither in a rickety fly. a large traveling trunk was on the box seat of the fly, and inside were two or three bandboxes, a couple of baskets, a strap bursting with railway rugs, cloaks, and umbrellas, and last, but not least, a snarling little toy terrier, who barked and whined, and jumped about, and licked his mistress's hand. "down, scorpion," exclaimed mrs. cameron; "behave yourself, sir. you really become more vicious every day. get in that corner, and don't stir till i give you leave. now, then, driver," opening the window and poking her head out, "when are we getting to sleepy hollow? oh! never, never have i found myself in a more outlandish place." "we be a matter of two miles from there, ma'am," said the man. "you set easy, and keep yourself quiet, for the beast won't go no faster." mrs. cameron subsided again into the depths of the musty old fly with a groan. "outlandish--most outlandish!" she remarked again. "scorpion, you may sit in my lap if you like to behave yourself, sir. well, well, duty calls me into many queer quarters. scorpion, if you go on snarling and growling i shall slap you smartly. yes, poor helen; i never showed my love for her more than when i undertook this journey: never, never. oh! how desolate that great moor does look; i trust there are no robbers about. it's perfectly awful to be in a solitary cab, with anything but a civil driver, alone on these great moors. well, well, how could helen marry a man like dr. maybright, and come to live here? he must be the oddest person, to judge from the letter he wrote me. i saw at once there was nothing for me but to make the stupendous effort of coming to see after things myself. poor dear helen! she was a good creature, very handsome, quite thrown away upon that doctor. i was fond of her; she was like a child to me long ago. it is my duty to do what i can for her orphans. now, scorpion, what is the matter? you are quite one of the most vicious little dogs i have ever met. oh, do be quiet, sir." but at that moment the fly drew up with a jolt. the driver deliberately descended from his seat, and opened the door, whereupon scorpion, with a snarl and bound, disappeared into the darkness. "he's after a cat," remarked the man, laconically. "this be the hollow, ma'am, if you'll have the goodness to get out." "sleepy hollow," remarked mrs. cameron to herself, as she steadily descended. "truly i should think so; but i am much mistaken if i don't wake it up." chapter xiv. aunt maria. "ef you please, miss helen," said alice, the neat housemaid, putting in her head at the nursery door, "there's a lady downstairs, and a heap of luggage, and the nastiest little dog i ever saw. he has almost killed the persian kitten, miss, and he is snarling and snapping at every one. see, he took this bit out of my apron, miss. the old lady says as her name is mrs. cameron, and she has come to stay; and she'd be glad if you'd go down to her immediately, miss helen." "aunt maria!" said helen, in an aghast voice. "aunt maria absolutely come--and father away! nursie, i must fly down--you will understand about those flannels. oh! i am sorry aunt maria has come. what will polly say?" helen felt a curious sinking at her heart as she descended the stairs; but she was a very polite and well-mannered girl, and when she went up to mrs. cameron she said some pretty words of welcome, which were really not overdone. mrs. cameron was a short, stout person; she always wore black, and her black was always rusty. she stood now in the middle of the drawing-room, holding scorpion in her arms, with her bonnet-strings untied, and her full, round face somewhat flushed. "no, my dear, you are not particularly glad to see me," she said, in answer to helen's gentle dignified greeting. "i don't expect it, child, nor look for it; and you need not waste untruths upon me, for i always see through them. you are not glad to see me, and i am not surprised, for i assure you i intend to make myself disagreeable. helen, your father is a perfect fool. now, my dear, you need not fire up; you would say so if you were as old as me, and had received as idiotic an epistle from him." "but i am not as old as you, and he is my father," said helen, steadily. "i don't tell untruths, aunt maria, and i am glad to see you because--because you were fond of mother. will you come into the dining-room now, and let me get you some tea?" helen's lips were quivering, and her dark blue eyes were slightly lowered, so that aunt maria should not notice the tears that filled them. the old lady, however, had noticed these signs of emotion, and brave words always pleased her. "you aren't a patch on your mother, child," she said. "but you remind me of her. yes, take me to my room first, and then get me a good substantial meal, for i can tell you i am starving." helen rang the bell. "alice," she said to the parlor maid, who speedily answered the summons, "will you get the rose room ready as quickly as possible? my aunt, mrs. cameron, will stay here for the night. and please lay supper in the dining-room. tell mrs. power--oh, i forgot--see and get as nice a supper as you can, alice. you had better speak to miss polly." "yes, miss," said alice. then she paused, hesitated, colored slightly, and said, in a dubious manner, "is it the rose room you mean, miss helen? that's the room miss polly is getting ready for miss virginy, and there ain't no curtains to the window nor to the bed at present." "then i won't sleep in that bed," said mrs. cameron. "i must have a four-poster with curtains all round, and plenty of dark drapery to the windows. my eyes are weak, and i don't intend to have them injured with the cold morning light off the moor." "oh, aunt maria, the mornings aren't very light now," answered helen. "they are----" but mrs. cameron interrupted her. "don't talk nonsense, child. in a decent place like bath i own the day may break gradually, but i expect everything contrary to civilized existence here. the very thought of those awful commons makes me shiver. now, have you, or have you not, a four-poster, in which i can sleep?" helen smothered a slight sigh. she turned once again to alice. "will you get my father's room ready for mrs. cameron," she said, "and then see about supper as quickly as possible? father is away for a few days," she added, turning to the good lady. "please will you come up to polly's and my room now to take off your things?" "and where is polly?" said mrs. cameron. "and why doesn't she come to speak to her aunt? there's kate, too, she must be a well-grown girl by now, and scarcely gone to bed yet. the rest of the family are, i presume, asleep; that is, if there's a grain of sense left in the household." "yes, most of the children are in bed," replied helen. "you will see polly and katie, and perhaps the twins, later on, but first of all i want to make you comfortable. you must be very tired; you have had a long journey." "i'm beat out, child, and that's the truth. here, i'll lay scorpion down in the middle of your bed; he has been a great worry to me all day, and he wants his sleep. he likes to get between the sheets, so if you don't mind i'll open the bed and let him slip down." "if you want me to be truthful, i do mind very much," said helen. "oh, you are putting him into polly's bed. well, i suppose he must stay there for the present." mrs. cameron was never considered an unamiable person; she was well spoken of by her friends and relations, for she was rich, and gave away a great deal of money to various charities and benevolent institutions. but if ever any one expected her to depart in the smallest particular from her own way they were vastly mistaken. whatever her goal, whatever her faintest desire, she rode roughshod over all prejudices until she obtained it. therefore it was that, notwithstanding poor helen's protest, scorpion curled down comfortably between polly's sheets, and mrs. cameron, well pleased at having won her point, went down to supper. alas, and alas! the supper provided for the good lady was severe in its simplicity. alice, blushing and uncomfortable, called helen out of the room, and then informed her that neither polly nor maggie could be found, and that there was literally nothing, or next to nothing, in the larder. "but that can't be the case," said helen, "for there was a large piece of cold roast beef brought up for my tea, and a great plate of hot cakes, and an uncut plum cake. surely, alice, you must be mistaken." "no, miss, there's nothing downstairs. not a joint, nor a cake, nor nothing. if it wasn't that i found some new-laid eggs in the hen-house, and cut some slices from the uncooked ham, i couldn't have had nothing at all for supper--and--and----" "tut, tut!" suddenly exclaimed a voice in the dining-room. "what's all this whispering about? it is very rude of little girls to whisper outside doors, and not to attend to their aunts when they come a long way to see them. if you don't come in at once, miss helen, and give me my tea, i shall help myself." "find polly, then, as quick as you can, alice," exclaimed poor, perplexed helen, "and tell her that aunt maria cameron has come and is going to stay." alice went away, and helen, returning to the dining-room, poured out tea, and cut bread-and-butter, and saw her aunt demolishing with appetite three new-laid eggs, and two generous slices of fried ham. "your meal was plain; but i am satisfied with it," she said in conclusion. "i am glad you live frugally, helen; waste is always sinful, and in your case peculiarly so. you don't mind my telling you, my dear, that i think it is a sad extravagance wearing crape every day, but of course you don't know any better. you are nothing in the world but an overgrown child. now that i have come, my dear, i shall put this and many other matters to rights. tell me, helen, how long does your father intend to be away?" "until monday, i think, aunt maria." "very well; then you and i will begin our reforms to-morrow. i'll take you round with me, and we'll look into everything. your father won't know the house when he comes back. i've got a treasure of a woman in my eye for him--a miss grinsted. she is fifty, and a strict disciplinarian. she will soon manage matters, and put this house into something like order. i had a great mind to bring her with me; but i can send for her. she can be here by monday or tuesday. i told her to be in readiness, and to have her boxes packed. my dear, i wish you would not poke out your chin so much. how old are you? oh, sixteen--a very gawky age. now then, that i am refreshed and rested, i think that we'll just go round the house." "will you not wait until to-morrow, aunt maria? the children are all asleep and in bed now, and nurse never likes them to be disturbed." "my dear, nurse's likes or dislikes are not of the smallest importance to me. i wish to see the children asleep, so if you will have the goodness to light a candle, helen, and lead the way, i will follow." helen, again stifling a sigh, obeyed. she felt full of trepidation and uneasiness. why did not polly come in? why had all the supper disappeared? where were katie and the twins? how strangely silent the house was. "i will see the baby first," said mrs. cameron. "in bed? well, no matter, i wish to look at the little dear. ah, this is the nursery; a nice, cheerful room, but too much light in it, and no curtains to the windows. very bad for the dear baby's eyes. how do you do, nurse? i have come to see baby. i am her aunt, her dear mother's sister, maria cameron." nurse curtseyed. "baby is asleep, ma'am," she said. "i have just settled her in her little crib for the night. she's a good, healthy child, and no trouble to any one. yes, ma'am, she has a look of her dear blessed ma. i'll just hold down the sheet, and you'll see. please, ma'am, don't hold the light full in the babe's eyes, you'll wake her." "my good woman, i handled babies before you did. i had this child's mother in my arms when she was a baby. yes, the infant is well enough; you're mistaken in there being any likeness to your late mistress in her. she seems a plain child, but healthy. if you don't watch her sight, she may get delicate eyes, however. i should recommend curtains being put up immediately to these windows, and you're only using night-lights when she sleeps. it is not _i_ that am likely to injure the baby with too much light. good evening, nurse." nurse muttered something, her brow growing black. "now, helen," continued mrs. cameron, "we will visit the other children. this is the boys' room, i presume. i am fond of boys. what are your brothers' names, my dear?" "we call them bob and bunny." "utterly ridiculous! i ask for their baptismal names, not for anything so silly. ah! oh--i thought you said they were in bed: these beds are empty." so they were; tossed about, no doubt, but with no occupants, and the bedclothes no longer warm; so that it could not have been quite lately that the truants had departed from their nightly places of rest. on further investigation, firefly's bed was also found in a sad state of _déshabillé_, and it was clearly proved, on visiting their apartments, that the twins and katie had not gone to bed at all. "then, my dear, where are the family?" said mrs. cameron. "you and that little babe are the only ones i have yet seen. where is mary? where is katharine? where are your brothers? my dear helen, this is awful; your brothers and sisters are evidently playing midnight pranks. oh, there is not a doubt of it, you need not tell me. what a good thing it is that i came! oh! my poor dear sister; what a state her orphans have been reduced to! there is nothing whatever for it but to telegraph for miss grinsted in the morning." "but, my dear auntie, i am sure, oh! i am sure you are mistaken," began poor helen. "the children are always very well behaved--they are, indeed they are. they don't play pranks, aunt maria." "allow me to use my own eyesight, helen. the beds are empty--not a child is to be found. come, we must search the house!" helen never to her dying day forgot that eerie journey through the deserted house, accompanied by aunt maria. she never forgot the sickening fear which oppressed her, and the certainty which came over her that polly, poor, excitable polly, was up to some mischief. sleepy hollow was a large and rambling old place, and it was some time before the searchers reached the neighborhood of the festive garret. when they did, however, there was no longer any room for doubt. wild laughter, and high-pitched voices singing many favorite nursery airs and school-room songs made noise enough to reach the ears even of the deafest. "john peel" was having a frantic chorus as helen and her aunt ascended the step-ladder. "for the sound of his horn brought me from my bed, and the cry of his hounds which he ofttimes led, peel's 'view hulloo!' would awaken the dead, or the fox from his lair in the morning." "_very_ nice, indeed," said aunt maria, as she burst open the garret door. "very nice and respectful to the memory of your dear mother! i am glad, children, that i have come to create decent order in this establishment. i am your aunt, maria cameron." chapter xv. punishment. there are occasions when people who are accused wrongfully of a fault will take it patiently: there was scarcely ever known to be a time when wrongdoers did so. the children in the garret were having a wild time of mirth and excitement. there was no time for any one to think, no time for any one to do aught but enjoy. the lateness of the hour, the stealthy gathering, the excellent supper, and, finally, the gay songs, had roused the young spirits to the highest pitch. polly was the life of everything; maggie, her devoted satellite, had a face which almost blazed with excitement. her small eyes twinkled like stars, her broad mouth never ceased to show a double row of snowy teeth. she revolved round her brothers and sisters, whispering in their ears, violently nudging them, and piling on the agony in the shape of cups of richly creamed and sugared tea, of thick slices of bread-and-butter and jam, and plum cake, topped with bumpers of foaming ginger-beer. repletion had reached such a pass in the case of the ricketts brother and sister that they could scarcely move; the jones brothers were also becoming slightly heavy-eyed; but the maybright children fluttered about here and there like gay butterflies, and were on the point of getting up a dance when aunt maria and the frightened helen burst upon the scene. it required a much less acute glance than aunt maria's to point out polly as the ringleader. she headed the group of mirth-seekers, every lip resounded with her name, all the other pairs of young eyes turned to her. when the garret door was flung open, and aunt maria in no measured tones announced herself, the children flew like frightened chickens to hide under polly's wing. the rickettses and joneses scrambled to their feet, and ran to find shelter as close as possible to headquarters. thus, when polly at last found her voice, and turned round to speak to aunt maria, she looked like the flushed and triumphant leader of a little victorious garrison. she was quite carried away by the excitement of the whole thing, and defiance spoke both in her eyes and manner. "how do you do, aunt maria?" she said. "we did not expect you. we were having supper, and have just finished. i would ask you to have some with us, only i am afraid there is not a clean plate left. is there, maggie?" maggie answered with a high and nervous giggle, "oh, lor', miss polly! that there ain't; and there's nothing but broken victuals either on the table by now. we was all hungry, you know, miss polly." "so perhaps," continued polly, "you would go downstairs again, aunt maria. helen, will you take aunt maria to the drawing-room? i will come as soon as i see the supper things put away. helen, why do you look at me like that? what's the matter?" "oh, polly!" said helen, in her most reproachful tones. she was turning away, but aunt maria caught her rather roughly by the shoulder. "do _all_ this numerous party belong to the family?" she said. "i see here present thirteen children. i never knew before that my sister had such an enormous family." helen felt in far too great a state of collapse to make any reply; but polly's saucy, glib tones were again heard. "these are our visitors, aunt maria. allow me to introduce them. master and miss ricketts, masters tom, jim, and peter jones. this is maggie, my satellite, and devoted friend, and--and----" but aunt maria's patience had reached its tether. she was a stout, heavily made woman, and when she walked into the center of polly's garrison she quickly dispersed it. "march!" she said, laying her hand heavily on the girl's shoulder. "to your room this instant. come, i shall see you there, and lock you in. you are a very bad, wicked, heartless girl, and i am bitterly ashamed of you. to your room this minute. while your father is away you are under my control, and i _insist_ on being obeyed." "oh, lor'!" gasped maggie. "run," she whispered to her brother and sister. "make for the door, quick. oh, ain't it awful! oh, poor dear miss polly! why, that dreadful old lady will almost kill her." but no, polly was still equal to the emergency. "you need not hold me, aunt maria," she said, in a quiet voice, "i can go without that. good night, children. i am sorry our jolly time has had such an unpleasant ending. now then, i'll go with you, aunt maria." "in front, then," said aunt maria. "no loitering behind. straight to your room." polly walked down the dusty ladder obediently enough; aunt maria, scarlet in the face, stumped and waddled after her; helen, very pale, and feeling half terrified, brought up the rear. all went well, and the truant exhibited no signs of rebellion until they reached the wide landing which led in one direction to the girl's bedroom, in the other to the staircase. here polly turned at bay. "i'm not going to my room at present," she said. "if i've been naughty, father can punish me when he comes home. you can tell anything you like to father when he comes back on monday. but i'm not going to obey you. you have no authority over me, and i'm not responsible to you. father can punish me as much as he likes when you have told him. i'm going downstairs, now; it's too early for bed. i've not an idea of obeying you." "we will see to that," said aunt maria. "you are quite the naughtiest child i ever came across. now then, miss, if you don't go patiently, and on your own feet, you shall be conveyed to your room in my arms. i am quite strong enough, so you can choose." polly's eyes flashed. "if you put it in that way, i don't want to fuss," she said. "i'll go there for the present, but you can't keep me there, and you needn't try." aunt maria and polly disappeared round the corner, and poor helen stood leaning against the oak balustrade, silently crying. in three or four minutes aunt maria returned, her face still red, and the key of the bedroom in her pocket. "now, helen, what is the matter? crying? well, no wonder. of course, you are ashamed of your sister. i never met such a naughty, impertinent girl. can it be possible that helen should have such a child? she must take entirely after her father. now, helen, stop crying, tears are most irritating to me, and do no good to any one. i am glad i arrived at this emergency. matters have indeed come to a pretty crisis. in your father's absence, i distinctly declare that i take the rule of my poor sister's orphans, and i shall myself mete out the punishment for the glaring act of rebellion that i have just witnessed. polly remains in her room, and has a bread and water diet until monday. the other children have bread and water for breakfast in the morning, and go to bed two hours before their usual time to-morrow. the kitchen-maid i shall dismiss in the morning, giving her a month's wages in lieu of notice. now, helen, come downstairs. oh, there is just one thing more. you must find some other room to sleep in to-night. i forbid you to go near your sister. in fact, i shall not give you the key. you may share my bed, if you like." "i cannot do that, aunt maria," said helen. "i respect you, and will obey you as far as i can until father returns, and tells us what we really ought to do. but i cannot stay away from polly to-night for any one. i know she has been very naughty. i am as shocked as you can be with all that has happened, but i know too, aunt maria, that harsh treatment will ruin polly; she won't stand it, she never would, and mother never tried it with her. she is different from the rest of us, aunt maria; she is wilder, and fiercer, and freer; but mother often said, oh, often and often, that no one might be nobler than polly, if only she was guided right. i know she is troublesome, i know she was impertinent to you, and i know well she did very wrong, but she is only fourteen, and she has high spirits. you can't bend, nor drive polly, aunt maria, but gentleness and love can always lead her. i _must_ sleep in my own bed to-night, aunt maria. oh, don't refuse me--please give me up the key." "you are a queer girl," said aunt maria. "but i believe you are the best of them, and you certainly remind me of your mother when you speak in that earnest fashion. here, take the key, then, but be sure you lock the door when you go in, and when you come out again in the morning. i trust to you that that little wild, impertinent sister of yours doesn't escape--now, remember." "while i am there she will not," answered helen. "thank you, auntie. you look very tired yourself, won't you go to bed now?" "i will, child. i'm fairly beat out. such a scene is enough to disturb the strongest nerves. only what about the other children? are they still carousing in that wicked way in the garret?" "no. i am sure they have gone to bed, thoroughly ashamed of themselves. but i will go and see to them." "one thing more, child. before i go to bed i should like to fill in a telegraph form to miss grinsted. if she gets it the first thing in the morning she can reach here to-morrow night. well, helen, again objecting; you evidently mean to cross me in everything; now what is the matter? why has your face such a piteous look upon it?" "only this, aunt maria. until father returns i am quite willing to obey you, and i will do my best to make the others good and obedient. but i do think he would be vexed at your getting miss grinsted until you have spoken to him. won't you wait until monday before you telegraph for her?" "i'll sleep on it, anyhow," replied mrs. cameron. "good night, child. you remind me very much of your mother--not in appearance, but in the curious way you come round a person, and insist upon having everything done exactly as you like. now, my dear, good night. i consider you all the most demoralized household, but i won't be here long before matters are on a very different footing." the bedroom door really closed upon aunt maria, and helen drew a long breath. oh, for monday to arrive! oh, for any light to guide the perplexed child in this crisis! but she had no time to think now. she flew to the garret, to find only the wreck of the feast and one or two candles flickering in their sockets. she put the candles out, and went next to the children's bedrooms. bob and bunny, with flushed faces, were lying once more in their cribs, fast asleep. they were dreaming and tossing about, and nurse stood over them with a perplexed and grave face. "this means nightmare, and physic in the morning," said the worthy woman. "now, don't you fret and worry your dear head, miss helen, pet. oh, yes, i know all about it, and it _was_ a naughty thing to do, only children will be children. your aunt needn't expect that her old crabbed head and ways will fit on young shoulders. you might go to miss firefly, though, for a minute, miss helen, for she's crying fit to break her heart." helen went off at once. firefly was a very excitable and delicate child. she found the little creature with her head buried under the clothes, her whole form shaken with sobs. "lucy, darling," said helen. the seldom-used name aroused the weeping child; she raised her head, and flung two thin arms so tightly round helen's neck that she felt half strangled. "oh, it's so awful, nell; what will she do to poor polly! oh, poor polly! will she half kill her, nell?" "no, fly--how silly of you to take such an idea into your head. fly, dear, stop crying at once--you know you have all been naughty, and polly has hurt aunt maria, and hurt me, too. you none of you knew aunt maria was coming, but i did not think you would play such a trick on me, and when father was away, too." "it wasn't polly's fault," said firefly, eagerly. "she was tempted, and we were the tempters. we all came round her, and we did coax, so hard, and polly gave way, 'cause she wanted to make us happy. she's a darling, the dearest darling in all the world, and if aunt maria hurts her and she dies, i--i----" the little face worked in a paroxysm of grief and agony. "don't, fly," said helen. "you are much too tired and excited for me to talk calmly to you to-night. you have been naughty, darling, and so has polly, and real naughtiness is always punished, always, somehow or another. but you need not be afraid that any real harm will happen to polly. i am going to her in a moment or two, so you need not be in the least anxious. now fold your hands, fly, and say 'our father.' say it slowly after me." firefly's sobs had become much less. she now lay quiet, her little chest still heaving, but with her eyes open, and fixed with a pathetic longing on helen's face. "you're nearly as good as mother," she said. "and i love you. but polly always, always must come first. nell, i'll say 'our father,' only not the part about forgiving, for i can't forgive aunt maria." "my dear child, you are talking in a very silly way. aunt maria has done nothing but her duty, nothing to make you really angry with her. now, fly, it is late, and polly wants me. say those dear words, for mother's sake." there was no child at sleepy hollow who would not have done anything for mother's sake, so the prayer was whispered with some fresh gasps of pain and contrition, and before helen left the room, little lucy's pretty dark eyes were closed, and her small, sallow, excitable face was tranquil. chapter xvi. dr. maybright _versus_ scorpion. dr. maybright returned to his home on monday evening in tolerably good spirits. he had gone up to london about a money matter which caused him some anxiety; his fears were, for the present at least, quite lulled to rest, and he had taken the opportunity of consulting one of the greatest oculists of the day with regard to his eyesight. the verdict was more hopeful than the good doctor had dared to expect. with care, total blindness might be altogether avoided; at the worst it would not come for some time. a certain regimen was recommended, overwork was forbidden, all great anxiety was to be avoided, and then, and then--well, at least the blessed light of day might be enjoyed by the doctor for years to come. "but you must not overwork," said the oculist, "and you must not worry. you must read very little, and you must avoid chills; for should a cold attack your eyes now the consequences would be serious." on the whole this verdict was favorable, and the doctor returned to sleepy hollow with a considerable weight lifted from his mind. as the train bore him homeward through the mellow, ripened country with the autumn colors glorifying the landscape, and a rich sunlight casting a glow over everything, his heart felt peaceful. even with the better part of him gone away for ever, he could look forward with pleasure to the greeting of his children, and find much consolation in the love of their young hearts. "after all, there never were girls quite like helen and polly," he said to himself. "they both in their own way take after their mother. helen has got that calm which was always so refreshing and restful in her mother; and that little scapegrace of a polly inherits a good deal of her brilliancy. i wonder how the little puss has managed the housekeeping. by the way, her week is up to-day, and we return to nell's and mrs. power's steadier regime. poor poll, it was shabby of me to desert the family during the end of indigestion week, but doubtless matters have gone fairly well. nurse has all her medicine bottles replenished, so that in case of need she knew what to do. poor poll, she really made an excellent cake for my supper the last evening i was at home." the carriage rolled down the avenue, and the doctor alighted on his own doorsteps; as he did so he looked round with a pleased and expectant smile on his face. it was six o'clock, and the evenings were drawing in quickly; the children might be indoors, but it seemed scarcely probable. the little maybrights were not addicted to indoor life, and as a rule their gay, shrill voices might have been heard echoing all over the old place long after sunset. not so this evening; the place was almost too still; there was no rush of eager steps in the hall, and no clamor of gay little voices without. dr. maybright felt a slight chill; he could not account for it. the carriage turned and rolled away, and he quickly entered the house. "polly, where are you? nell, firefly, bunny," he shouted. still there was no response, unless, indeed, the rustling of a silk dress in the drawing-room, a somewhat subdued and half-nervous cough, and the unpleasant yelping of a small dog could have been construed into one. "have my entire family emigrated? and is sleepy hollow let to strangers?" murmured the doctor. he turned in the direction of the rustle, the cough, and the bark, and found himself suddenly in the voluminous embrace of his sister-in-law, mrs. cameron. "my dear andrew, i am pleased to see you. you have been in the deep waters of affliction, and if in my power i would have come to you sooner. i had rheumatism and a natural antipathy to solitude. still i made the effort, although a damper or more lonely spot would be hard to find. i don't wonder at my poor sister's demise. i got your letter, andrew, and it was really in reply to it that i am here. down, scorpion; the dog will be all right in a moment or two, my dear brother, he is only smelling your trousers." "he has a very marked way of doing so," responded the doctor, "as i distinctly feel his teeth. allow me, maria, to put this little animal outside the window--a dog's bite given even in play is not the most desirable acquisition. well, maria, your visit astonishes me very much. welcome to sleepy hollow. did you arrive to-day? how did you find the children?" "i came here on friday evening, andrew. the children are as well as such poor neglected lambs could be expected to be." dr. maybright raised his eyebrows very slightly. "i was not aware they were neglected," he said. "i am sorry they strike you so. i also have a little natural antipathy to hearing children compared to sheep. but where are they? i have been away for four days, and am in the house five minutes, and not the voice of a child do i hear? where is helen--where is my pretty poll? don't they know that their father has arrived?" "i cannot tell you, andrew. i have been alone myself for the last two or three hours, but i ordered your tea to be got ready. may i give you some? shall we come to the dining room at once? your family were quite well three hours ago, so perhaps you and i may have a quiet meal together before we trouble about them any further. i think i may claim this little indulgence, as only properly respectful to your wife's sister, andrew." "yes, maria, i will have tea with you," said the doctor. the pleased, bright look of anticipation had altogether now left his face; it was careworn, the brow slightly puckered, and many lines of care and age showed round the lips. "i will just go upstairs and wash my hands," said dr. maybright. "then i will join you in the dining-room." he ran up the low stairs to his own room; it was not only full of aunt maria's possessions, but was guarded by the faithful scorpion, who had flown there in disgust, and now again attacked the doctor's legs. "there is a limit," he murmured, "and i reach it when i am bitten by this toy terrier." he lifted scorpion by his neck, and administered one or two short slaps, which sent the pampered little animal yelping under the bed; then he proceeded down the passage in search of some other room where he might take shelter. alice met him; her eyes glowed, and the color in her face deepened. "we are all so glad you are back, sir," she said, with an affectionate tone in her voice. "and miss helen has got the room over the porch ready, if you'd do with it for a night or two, sir. i've took hot water there, sir, for i saw the carriage coming up the drive." "thank you, alice; the porch room will do nicely. by the way, can you tell me where all the children are?" but alice had disappeared, almost flown down the passage, and the doctor had an uncomfortable half suspicion that he heard her sob as she went. dr. maybright, however, was not a fanciful person--the children, with the exception of baby, were all probably out. it was certainly rather contrary to their usual custom to be away when his return was expected, still, he argued, consistency in children was the last thing to be expected. he went downstairs, therefore, with an excellent appetite for whatever meal mrs. cameron might have provided for him, and once more in tolerably good spirits. there are some people who habitually, and from a strong sense of duty, live on the shady side of life. metaphorically speaking, the sunshine may almost touch the very path on which they are treading, but they shrink from and avoid it, having a strong preference for the shade, but considering themselves martyrs while they live in it. mrs. cameron was one of these people. the circumstances of her life had elected plenty of sunshine for her; she had a devoted and excellent husband, an abundant income, and admirable health. it is true she had no children, and it is also true that she had brought herself by careful cultivation to a state of chronic ill-temper. every one now accepted the fact that mrs. cameron neither wished to be happy, nor was happy; and when the doctor sat down to tea, and found himself facing her, it was with very somber and disapproving eyes that she regarded him. "well, andrew, i must say you look remarkably well. dear, dear, there is no constancy in this world, that is, amongst the male sex." here she handed him a cup of tea, and sighed lugubriously. the doctor accepted the tea with a slight frown; he was a peaceable man, but as he said, when chastising scorpion, "there are limits." "if you have no objection, maria," he said, curtly, "we will leave the subject of my personal appearance and the moral question which you have brought forward out of our conversation." then his voice and manner changed; he put on a company smile, and continued, without any pause, "how is your husband? is he as great an antiquary as ever? and do you both continue to like living in bath?" mrs. cameron was a strong and determined woman, but she was no match for the doctor when he chose to have his own way. for the remainder of the meal conversation was languid, and decidedly commonplace; once only it brightened into animation. "i wonder where scorpion can be?" said the good lady; "i want to give him his cream." "i fear he is under punishment," said the doctor. "if i judge of him aright, scorpion is something of a coward, and is not likely to come into the same room where i am for some time." "what do you mean? surely you have not been cruel to him?" "cruel to be kind. once again he attempted to eat my legs, and i was obliged to administer one or two sharp slaps--nothing to hurt; you will find him under your bed. and now i really must go to look for my family." dr. maybright left the room, and mrs. cameron sat still, scarlet with annoyance and indignation. "how could helen have married such a man?" she said to herself. "i never can get on with him--never. how cowardly it was of him to hurt the little dog. if it was not for the memory of poor dear helen i should leave here by the first train in the morning; but as it is, i will not stir until i have established miss grinsted over this poor, misguided household. ah, well! duty is ever hard, but those who know maria cameron are well acquainted with the fact that she never shirked it. yes, i will stay; it will be very unpleasant, but i must go through it. what very abrupt manners the doctor has! i was just preparing to tell him all about that wicked polly when he jumped up and left the room. now, of course, he will get a wrong impression of the whole thing, for the other children all take her part. very bad manners to jump up from the tea table like that. and where _is_ helen?--where are they all? now that i come to think of it, i have seen nothing of any one of them since the early dinner. well, well, if it were not for poor helen i should wash my hands of the whole concern. but whoever suffers, dear little scorpion must have his cream." accordingly mrs. cameron slowly ascended the stairs, armed with a saucer and a little jug, and scorpion forgot the indignities to which he had been subjected as he lapped up his dainty meal. meanwhile, the doctor having explored the morning room and the schoolrooms, having peeped into the conservatory, and even peered with his rather failing sight into the darkness outside, took two or three strides upstairs, and found himself in the presence of nurse and baby. "well, pearl," he said, taking the little pure white baby into his arms, looking into its wee face earnestly, and then giving it a kiss, which was sad, and yet partook of something of the nature of a blessing. "baby goes on well, nurse," he said, returning the little creature to the kind woman's arms. then he looked into her face, and his own expression changed. "what is the matter?" he said, abruptly. "you have been crying. is anything wrong? where have all the children vanished to?" "you have had your tea, sir?" said nurse, her words coming out in jerks, and accompanied by fresh sobs. "you have had your tea, and is partial rested, i hope, so it's but right you should know. the entire family, sir, every blessed one of them, with the exception of the babe, has took upon themselves to run away." chapter xvii. where are the children? nurse's news astonished the doctor very much. he was not a man, however, to show all he felt. he saw that nurse was on the verge of hysterics, and he knew that if he did not take this startling and unpleasant piece of information in the most matter-of-fact way, he would get nothing out of her. "i hope matters are not as bad as you fear," he said. "sit down in this chair, and tell me what has occurred. don't hurry yourself; a few moments more or less don't signify. tell your tale quietly, in your own way." thus administered, nurse gasped once or twice, looked up at the doctor with eyes which plainly declared "there never was your equal for blessedness and goodness under the sun," and commenced her story in the long-winded manner of her class. the doctor heard a garbled account of the supper in the attic, of the arrival of mrs. cameron, of the prompt measures which that good lady took to crush polly, of firefly's grief, of the state of confusion into which the old house was thrown. she then went on to tell him further that polly, having refused to submit or repent in any way, mrs. cameron had insisted on her remaining in her own room, and had at last, notwithstanding all helen's entreaties, forbidden her to go near her sister. the housekeeping keys were taken away from polly, and mrs. cameron had further taken upon herself to dismiss maggie. she had sent a telegram to mrs. power, who had returned in triumph to sleepy hollow on saturday night. "miserable is no word for what this household has been," said nurse. "there was miss polly--naughty she may have been, dear lamb, but vicious she ain't--there was miss polly shut up in her room, and nobody allowed to go near her; and mrs. cameron poking her nose into this corner and into that, and ordering _me_ about what i was to do with the babe; and poor miss helen following her about, for all the world like a ghost herself, so still and quiet and pitiful looking, but like a dear angel in her efforts to keep the peace; and there was alice giving warning, and fit to fly out of the house with rage, and mrs. power coming back, and lording it over us all, more than is proper for a cook to do. oh, sir, we has been unhappy! and for the first time we really knew what we had lost in our blessed mistress, and for the first time the children, poor darlings, found out what it was to be really motherless. the meals she'd give 'em, and the way she'd order them--oh, dear! oh, dear! it makes me shiver to think of it!" "yes, nurse," interrupted the doctor. "it was unfortunate mrs. cameron arriving when i was absent. i have come back now, however, and all the troubles you have just mentioned are, of course, at an end. still you have not explained the extraordinary statement you made to me when i came into the room. why is it that the children have run away?" "i'm a-coming to that, sir; that's, so to speak, the crisis--and all brought about by mrs. cameron. i said that miss polly was kept in her room, and after the first day no one allowed to go near her. mrs. cameron herself would take her up her meals, and take the tray away again, and very little the poor dear would eat, for i often saw what come out. it would go to your heart, sir, that it would, for a healthier appetite than miss polly's there ain't in the family. well, sir, miss helen had a letter from you this morning, saying as how you'd be back by six o'clock, and after dinner she went up to miss polly's door, and i heard her, for i was walking with baby up and down the passage. it was beautiful to hear the loving way miss helen spoke, doctor; she was kneeling down and singing her words through the key-hole. 'father'll be home to-night, polly,' she said--'keep up heart, poll dear--father'll be home to-night, and he'll make everything happy again.' nothing could have been more tender than miss helen's voice, it would have moved anybody. but there was never a sound nor an answer from inside the room, and just then miss firefly and master bunny came rushing up the stairs as if they were half mad. 'o nell, come, come quick!' they said, 'there's the step-ladder outside poll's window, and a bit of rope and two towels fastened together hanging to the sill, and the window is wide open!' miss helen ran downstairs with a face like a sheet, and by and by alice came up and told me the rest. master bunny got up on the step-ladder, and by means of the rope and the bedroom towels managed to climb on to the window sill, and then he saw there wasn't ever a miss polly at all in the room. oh, poor dear! he might have broke his own neck searching for her, but--well, there's a providence over children, and no mistake. miss polly had run away, that was plain. when miss helen heard it, and knew that it was true, she turned to alice with her face like a bit of chalk, and tears in her eyes, and, 'alice,' she said, 'i'm going to look for polly. you can tell nurse i'll be back when i have found polly.' with that she walked down the path as fast as she could, and every one of the others followed her. alice watched them getting over the little turnstile, and down by the broad meadow, then she came up and let me know. i blamed her for not coming sooner, but--what's the matter, doctor?" "i am going to find polly and the others," said dr. maybright. "it's a pity no older person in the house followed them; but so many can scarcely come to harm. it is polly i am anxious about--they cannot have discovered her, or they would be home before now." the doctor left the nursery, ran downstairs, put on his hat, and went out. as he did so, he heard the dubious, questioning kind of cough which mrs. cameron was so fond of making--this cough was accompanied by scorpion's angry snarling little bark. the doctor prayed inwardly for patience as he hurried down the avenue in search of his family. he was absolutely at a loss where to seek them. "the broad meadow only leads to the high-road," he said to himself, "and the high-road has many twists and turns. surely the children cannot have ventured on the moor; surely polly cannot have been mad enough to try to hide herself there." it was a starlight night, and the doctor walked quickly. "i don't know where they are. i must simply let instinct guide me," he said to himself; and after walking for three quarters of an hour instinct did direct him to where, seated on a little patch of green turf at one side of the king's highway, were three solitary and disreputable-looking little figures. "father!" came convulsively from three little parched throats; there was a volume in the cry, a tone of rapture, of longing, of pain, which was almost indescribable. "father's come back again, it's all right now," sobbed firefly, and immediately the boys and the little girl had cuddled up to him and were kissing him, each boy taking possession of a hand, and firefly clasping her arms round his neck. "i know all about it, children," explained the doctor. "but tell me quickly, where are the others? where is polly?" "oh, you darling father!" said firefly, "you darling, you darling! let me kiss you once again. there, now i'm happy!" "but tell me where the others are, dear child." "just a little way off. we did get so tired, and helen said that polly must have gone on the moor, and she said she must and would follow her." "we were so tired," said bunny. "and there was a great nail running into my heel," explained bob. "so we sat down here, and tried to pretend we were gipsies," continued firefly. "the moon was shining, and that was a little wee bit of comfort, but we didn't like it much. father, it isn't much fun being a gipsy, is it?" "no, dear; but go on. how long is it since you parted from the others?" "half an hour; but it's all right. bunny, you can tell that part." bunny puffed himself out, and tried to speak in his most important manner. "nell gave me the dog-whistle," he said, "and i was to whistle it if it was real necessary, not by no means else. i didn't fancy that i was a gipsy. i thought perhaps i was the driver of a fly, and that when i blew my whistle nell would be like another driver coming to me. that's what i thought," concluded bunny. but as his metaphors were always extremely mixed and confusing, no one listened to him. "you have a whistle?" said the doctor. "give it to me. this is a very dangerous thing that you have done, children. now, let me see how far i can make the sound go. oh, that thing! i can make a better whistle than that with my hand." he did so, making the moor, on the borders of which they stood, resound with a long, shrill, powerful blast. presently faint sounds came back in answer, and in about a quarter of an hour helen and her three sisters, very tired and faint, and loitering in their steps, came slowly into view. oh, yes; they were all so glad to see father, but they had not seen polly; no, not a trace nor sound could be discovered to lead to polly's whereabouts. "but she must not spend the night alone on the moor," said the doctor. "no, that cannot be. children, you must all go home directly. on your way past the lodge, helen, desire simpkins and george to come with lanterns to this place. they are to wait for me here, and when they whistle i will answer them. after they have waited here for half an hour, and i do not whistle back, they are to begin to search the moor on their own account. now go home as fast as you can, my dears. i will return when i have found polly, not before." the moon was very brilliant that night, and helen's wistful face, as she looked full at her father, caused him to bend suddenly and kiss her. "you are my brave child, nell. be the bravest of all by taking the others home now. home, children; and to bed at once, remember. no visiting of the drawing-room for any of you to-night." the doctor smiled, and kissed his hand, and a very disconsolate little party turned in the direction of sleepy hollow. chapter xviii. the wife of micah jones. if ever there was a girl whose mind was in a confused and complex state, that girl was polly maybright. suddenly into her life of sunshine and ease and petting, into her days of love and indulgence, came the cold shadow of would-be justice. polly had done wrong, and a very stern judge, in the shape of aunt maria cameron, was punishing her. polly had often been naughty in her life; she was an independent, quick-tempered child; she had determination, and heaps of courage, but she was always supposed to want ballast. it was the fashion in the house to be a little more lenient to polly's misdemeanors than to any one else's. when a very little child, nurse had excused ungovernable fits of rage with the injudicious words, "poor lamb, she can't help herself!" the sisters, older or younger, yielded to polly, partly because of a certain fascination which she exercised over them, for she was extremely brilliant and quick of idea, and partly because they did not want her to get into what they called her tantrums. father, too, made a pet of her, and perhaps slightly spoiled her, but during mother's lifetime all this did not greatly matter, for mother guided the imperious, impetuous, self-willed child, with the exquisite tact of love. during mother's lifetime, when polly was naughty, she quickly became good again; now matters were very different. mrs. cameron was a woman who, with excellent qualities, and she had many, had not a scrap of the "mother-feel" within her. there are women who never called a child their own who are full of it, but mrs. cameron was not one of these. her rule with regard to the management of young people was simple and severe--she saw no difference between one child and another. "spare the rod and spoil the child," applied equally in every case, so now, constituting herself polly's rightful guardian in the absence of her father, she made up her mind on no account to spare the rod. until polly humbled herself to the very dust she should go unforgiven. solitary confinement was a most safe and admirable method of correction. therefore unrepentant polly remained in her room. the effects, as far as the culprit was concerned, were not encouraging. in the first place she would not acknowledge mrs. cameron's right to interfere in her life; in the next harshness had a very hardening effect on her. it was dull in polly's room. the naughtiest child cannot cry all the time, nor sulk when left quite to herself, and although, whenever mrs. cameron appeared on the scene, the sulks and temper both returned in full force, polly spent many long and miserable hours perfectly distracted with the longing to find something to do. the only books in the room were helen's little bible, a copy of "robinson crusoe," and the dictionary. for obvious reasons polly did not care to read the bible at present. "robinson crusoe" she knew already by heart, but found it slightly amusing trying to make something of the sentences read backwards. the dictionary was her final resource, and she managed to pass many tedious hours working straight through it page after page. she had got as far as m, and life was becoming insupportable, when about the middle of the day, on monday, she was startled by a cautious and stealthy noise, and also by a shadow falling directly on her page. she looked up quickly; there was the round and radiant face of maggie glued to the outside of the window, while her voice came in, cautious but piercing, "open the window quick, miss polly, i'm a-falling down." polly flew to the rescue, and in a moment maggie was standing in the room. in her delight at seeing a more genial face than aunt maria's, polly flung her arms round maggie and kissed her. "how good of you to come!" she exclaimed. "and you must not go away again. where will you hide when aunt maria comes to visit me? under the bed, or in this cupboard?" "not in neither place," responded maggie, who was still gasping and breathless, and whose brown winsey frock showed a disastrous tear from hem to waist. "not in neither place," she proceeded, "for i couldn't a-bear it any longer, and you ain't going to stay in this room no longer, miss polly; i nearly brained myself a-clinging on to the honeysuckle, and the ivy-roots, but here i be, and now we'll both go down the ladder and run away." "run away--oh!" said polly, clasping her hands, and a great flood of rose-color lighting up her face. she ran to the window. the housemaid's step-ladder stood below, but polly's window was two or three feet above. "we'll manage with a bit of rope and the bedroom towels," said maggie, eagerly. "it's nothing at all, getting down--it's what i did was the danger. now, be quick, miss polly; let's get away while they're at dinner." it did not take an instant for polly to decide. between the delights of roaming the country with maggie, and the pleasure of continuing to read through the m's in webster's dictionary, there could be little choice. on the side of liberty and freedom alone could the balance fall. the bedroom towels were quickly tied on to the old rope, the rope secured firmly inside the window-sill, and the two girls let themselves swing lightly on to the step-ladder. they were both agile, and the descent did not terrify them in the least. when they reached the ground they took each other's hands, and looked into each other's faces. "you might have thought of bringing a hat, miss polly." "oh, never mind, maggie. you do look shabby; your frock is torn right open." "well, miss, i got it a-coming to save you. miss polly, mrs. power's back in the kitchen. hadn't we better run? we'll talk afterwards." so they did, not meeting any one, for mrs. cameron and the children were all at dinner, and the servants were also in the house. they ran through the kitchen garden, vaulted over the sunken fence, and found themselves in the little sheltered green lane, where polly had lain on her face and hands and caught the thrushes on the july day when her mother died. she stood almost in the same spot now, but her mind was in too great a whirl, and her feelings too excited, to cast back any glances of memory just then. "well, maggie," she said, pulling up short, "now, what are your plans? where are we going to? where are we to hide?" "eh?" said maggie. she had evidently come to the end of her resources, and the intelligent light suddenly left her face. "i didn't think o' that," she said: "there's mother's." "no, that wouldn't do," interrupted polly. "your mother has only two rooms. i couldn't hide long in her house; and besides, she is poor, i would not put myself on her for anything. i'll tell you what, maggie, we'll go across peg-top moor, and make straight for the old hut by the belt of fir-trees. you know it, we had a picnic there once, and i made up a story of hermits living in the hut. well, you and i will be the hermits." "but what are we to eat?" said maggie, whose ideas were all practical, and her appetite capacious. polly's bright eyes, however, were dancing, and her whole face was radiant. the delight of being a real hermit, and living in a real hut, far surpassed any desire for food. "we'll eat berries from the trees," she said, "and we'll drink water from the spring. i know there's a spring of delicious water not far from the hut. oh! come along, maggie, do; this is delightful!" an old pony, who went in the family by the stately name of sultan, had been wont to help the children in their long rambles over the moor. they were never allowed to wander far alone, and had not made one expedition since their mother's death. it was really two years since polly had been to the hut at the far end of peg-top moor. this moor was particularly lonely, it was interspersed at intervals with thickets of rank undergrowth and belts of trees, and was much frequented on that account by gipsies and other lawless people. polly, who went last over the moor, carried the greater part of the way on sultan's friendly back, had very little idea how far the distance was. it was september now, but the sun shone on the heather and fern with great power, and as polly had no hat on her head, having refused to take maggie's from her; she was glad to take shelter under friendly trees whenever they came across her path. at first the little girls walked very quickly, for they were afraid of being overtaken and brought back; but after a time their steps grew slow, their movement decidedly languid, and maggie at least began to feel that berries from the trees and water from the spring, particularly when neither was to be found anywhere, was by no means a substantial or agreeable diet to dwell upon. "i don't think i like being a hermit," she began. "i don't know nought what it means, but i fancy it must be very thinning and running down to the constitootion." polly looked at her, and burst out laughing. "it is," she said, "that's what the life was meant for, to subdue the flesh in all possible ways; you'll get as thin as a whipping-post, mag." "i don't like it," retorted maggie. "maybe we'd best be returning home, now, miss polly." polly's eyes flashed. she caught maggie by the shoulder. "you are a mean girl," she said. "you got me into this scrape, and now you mean to desert me. i was sitting quietly in my room, reading through the m's in webster's dictionary, and you came and asked me to run away; it was your doing, maggie, you know that." "yes, miss! yes, miss!" maggie began to sob. "but i never, never thought it meant berries and spring-water; no, that i didn't. oh, i be so hungry!" at this moment all angry recriminations were frozen on the lips of both little girls, for rising suddenly, almost as it seemed from the ground at their feet, appeared a gaunt woman of gigantic make. "maybe you'll be hungrier," she said in a menacing voice. "what business have you to go through deadman's copse without leave?" maggie was much too alarmed to make any reply, but polly, after a moment or two of startled silence, came boldly to the rescue. "who are you?" she said. "maggie and i know nothing of deadman's copse; this is a wood, and we are going through it; we have got business on the other side of peg-top-moor." "that's as it may be," replied the woman, "this wood belongs to me and to my sons, nathaniel and patrick, and to our dogs, cinder and flinder, and those what goes through deadman's copse must pay toll to me, the wife of micah jones. my husband is dead, and he left the wood to me, and them as go through it must pay toll." the woman's voice was very menacing; she was of enormous size, and going up to the little girls, attempted to place one of her brawny arms on polly's shoulder. but polly with all her faults possessed a great deal of courage; her eyes flashed, and she sprang aside from the woman's touch. "you are talking nonsense," she said. "father has over and over told me that the moor belongs to the queen, so this little bit couldn't have been given to your husband, micah jones, and we are just as free to walk here as you are. come on, maggie, we'll be late for our business if we idle any longer." but the woman with a loud and angry word detained her. "highty-tighty!" she said. "here's spirit for you, and who may your respected papa be, my dear? he seems to be mighty wise. and the wife of micah jones would much like to know his name." "you're a very rude unpleasant woman," said polly. "don't hold me, i won't be touched by you. my father is dr. maybright, of sleepy hollow, you must know his name quite well." the wife of micah jones dropped a supercilious curtsey. "will you tell dr. maybright, my pretty little dear," she said, "that in these parts might is right, and that when the queen wants deadman's copse, she can come and have a talk with me, and my two sons, and the dogs, cinder and flinder. but, there, what am i idling for with a chit like you? you and that other girl there have got to pay toll. you have both of you got to give me your clothes. there's no way out of it, so you needn't think to try words, nor blarney, nor nothing else with me, i have a sack dress each for you, and what you have on is mine. that's the toll, you will have to pay it. my hut is just beyond at the other side of the wood, my sons are away, but cinder and flinder will take care of you until i come back, at nine o'clock. here, follow me, we're close to the hut. no words, or it will be the worse for you. on in front, the two of you, or you, little miss," shaking her hand angrily at polly, "will know what it means to bandy words with the wife of micah jones." the woman's face became now very fierce and terrible, and even polly was sufficiently impressed to walk quietly before her, clutching hold of poor terrified maggie's hand. the hut to which the woman took the little girls was the very hermit's hut to which their own steps had been bent. it was a very dirty place, consisting of one room, which was now filled with smoke from a fire made of broken faggots, fir-cones, and withered fern. two ugly, lean-looking dogs guarded the entrance to the hut. when they saw the woman coming, they jumped up and began to bark savagely; poor maggie began to scream, and polly for the first time discovered that there could be a worse state of things than solitary confinement in her room, with webster's dictionary for company. "sit you there," said the woman, pushing the little girls into the hut. "i'll be back at nine o'clock. i'm off now on some business of my own. when i come back i'll take your clothes, and give you a sack each to wear. cinder and flinder will take care of you; they're very savage dogs, and can bite awful, but they won't touch you if you sit very quiet, and don't attempt to run away." chapter xix. distressed heroines. if ever poor little girls found themselves in a sad plight it was the two who now huddled close together in the hermit's hut. even polly was thoroughly frightened, and as to maggie, nothing but the angry growls of cinder restrained the violence of her sobs. "oh, ain't a hermit's life awful!" she whispered more than once to her companion. "oh! miss polly, why did you speak of peg-top moor, and the hermit's hut, and berries and water?" "don't be silly, maggie," said polly, "i did not mention the wife of micah jones, nor these dreadful dogs. this is a misfortune, and we must bear it as best we can. have you none of the spirit of a heroine in you, maggie; don't you know that in all the story-books, when the heroines run away, they come to dreadful grief? if we look at it in that light, and think of ourselves as distressed heroines, it will help us to bear up. indeed," continued polly, "if it wasn't for my having been naughty a few days ago, and perhaps father coming back to-night, i think i'd enjoy this--i would really. as it is----" here the brave little voice broke off into a decided quaver. the night was falling, the stars were coming out in the sky, and polly, standing in the door of the hut, with her arm thrown protectingly round maggie's neck, found a great rush of loneliness come over her. during those weary days spent in her bedroom, repentance, even in the most transient guise, had scarcely come near her. she was too much oppressed with a sense of injustice done to herself to be sorry about the feast in the attic. in short, all her time was spent in blaming aunt maria. now with the lonely feeling came a great soreness of heart, and an intense and painful longing for her mother. those fits of longing which came to polly now and then heralded in, as a rule, a tempest of grief. wherever she was she would fling herself on the ground, and give way to most passionate weeping. her eyes swam in tears now, she trembled slightly, but controlled herself. on maggie's account it would never do for her to give way. the ugly dogs came up and sniffed at her hands, and smelt her dress. maggie screamed when they approached her, but polly patted their heads. she was not really afraid of them, neither was she greatly alarmed at the thought of the wife of micah jones. what oppressed her, and brought that feeling of tightness to her throat, and that smarting weight of tears to her eyes, were the great multitude of stars in the dark-blue heavens, and the infinite and grand solitude of the moors which lay around. the night grew darker; poor maggie, worn out, crouched down on the ground; polly, who had now quite made friends with cinder, sat by maggie's side, and when the poor hungry little girl fell asleep, polly let her rest her head in her lap. the dogs and the two children were all collected in the doorway of the hut, and now polly could look more calmly up at the stars, and the tears rolled silently down her cheeks. it was in this position that, at about a quarter to nine, dr. maybright found her. some instinct seemed to lead him to peg-top moor--a sudden recollection brought the hut to his memory, a ringing voice, and gay laugh came back to him. the laugh was polly's, the words were hers. "oh, if there could be a delightful thing, it would be to live as a hermit in the hut at the other side of peg-top moor!" "the child is there," he said to himself. and when this thought came to him he felt so sure that it was a true and guiding thought that he whistled for the men who were to help him in the search, and together they went to the hut. cinder and flinder had got accustomed to polly, whom they rather liked; maggie they barely tolerated; but the firm steps of three strangers approaching the hut caused them to bristle up, to call all their canine ferocity to their aid, and to bark furiously. but all their show of enmity mattered nothing in such a supreme moment as this to polly. no dogs, however fierce, should keep her from the arms of her father. in an instant she was there, cuddling up close to him, while the men he had brought with him took care of maggie, and beat off the angry dogs. "father, there never was any one as naughty as i have been!" "my darling, you have found that out?" "yes, yes, yes! and you may punish me just whatever way you like best, only let me kiss you now. punish me, but don't be angry." "i'm going to take you home," said doctor, who feared mischief from polly's present state of strong excitement. "i expect you have gone through a fright and have had some punishment. the minute, too, we find out that we are really naughty, our punishment begins, as well as our forgiveness. i shall very likely punish you, child, but be satisfied, i forgive you freely. now home, and to bed, and no talk of anything to-night, except a good supper, and a long restful sleep. come, polly, what's the matter? do you object to be carried?" "but not in your arms, father. i am so big and heavy, it will half kill you." "you are tall, but not heavy, you are as light as a reed. listen! i forbid you to walk a step. when i am tired there are two men to help me. simpkins, will you and george give maggie a hand, and keep close to us. now, we had better all get home as fast as possible." it was more than half-past ten that night before polly and the doctor returned to sleepy hollow. but what a journey home she had! how comforting were the arms that supported her, how restful was the shoulder, on which now and then in an ecstasy to love and repentance, she laid her tired head! the stars were no longer terrible, far-off, and lonely, but near and friendly, like the faces of well-known friends. the moor ceased to be a great, vast, awful solitude, it smelt of heather, and was alive with the innumerable sounds of happy living creatures--and best of all, mother herself seemed to come back out of the infinite, to comfort the heart of the sorrowful child. chapter xx. limits. "and _now_, maria, i want to know what is the meaning of all this," said the doctor. it was late that night, very late. polly was in bed, and helen lay in her little white bed also close to polly's side, so close that the sisters could hold each other's hands. they lay asleep now, breathing peacefully, and the doctor, being satisfied that no serious mischief had happened to any of his family, meant to have it out with his sister-in-law. mrs. cameron was a very brave woman, or at least she considered herself so; it was perfectly natural that people should fear her, she did not object to a little wholesome awe on the parts of those who looked up to her and depended on her words of wisdom. to be afraid on her own part was certainly not her custom, and yet that evening, as she sat alone in the deserted old drawing-room, and listened to the wind as it rose fitfully and moaned through the belt of fir-trees that sheltered the lawn; as she sat there, pretending to knit, but listening all the time for footsteps which did not come, she did own to a feeling which she would not describe as fear, but which certainly kept her from going to bed, and made her feel somewhat uncomfortable. it was about eleven o'clock that night when dr. maybright entered the drawing-room. he was a tall man with a slight stoop, and his eyes looked somewhat short-sighted. to-night, however, he walked in quickly, holding himself erect. his eyes, too, had lost their peculiar expression of nearness of vision, and mrs. cameron knew at once that she was in for a bad time. "and now, maria, i want to know what is the meaning of all this," he said, coming up close to her. she was standing, having gathered up her knitting preparatory to retiring. "i don't understand you, andrew," she answered, in a somewhat complaining, but also slightly alarmed voice. "i think it is i who have to ask for an explanation. how is it that i have been left alone this entire evening? i had much to say to you--i came here on purpose, and yet you left me to myself all these hours." "sit down, maria," said the doctor, more gently. "i can give you as much time as you can desire now, and as you will be leaving in the morning it is as well that we should have our talk out to-night." mrs. cameron's face became now really crimson with anger. "you can say words like that to me?" she said--"your wife's sister." "my dear wife's half-sister, and until now my very good friend," retorted the doctor. "but, however well you have meant it, you have sown dissension and unhappiness in the midst of a number of motherless children, and for the present at least, for all parties, i must ask you, maria, to return to bath." mrs. cameron sank now plump down into her chair. she was too deeply offended for a moment to speak. then she said, shortly: "i will certainly return, but from this moment i wash my hands of you all." "i hope not," said the doctor. "i trust another time you will come to me as my welcome and invited guest. you see, maria"--here his eyes twinkled with that sly humor which characterized him--"it was a mistake--it always is a mistake to take the full reins of government in any house uninvited." "but, andrew, you were making such a fool of yourself. after that letter of yours i felt almost hopeless, so for poor helen's sake i came, at _great_ personal inconvenience. your home is most dreary, the surroundings appalling in their solitude. no wonder helen died! andrew, i thought it but right to do my best for those poor children. i came, the house was in a state of riot, you have not an idea what polly's conduct was. disrespectful, insolent, impertinent. i consider her an almost wicked girl." "stop," said the doctor. "we are not going to discuss polly. she behaved badly, i grant. but i think, maria, when you locked her up in her room, and forbade helen to go to her, and treated her without a spark of affection or a vestige of sympathy; when you kept up this line of conduct for four long days, you yourself in god's sight were not blameless. you at least forgot that you, too, were once fourteen, or perhaps you never were; no, i am sure you never were what that child is with all her faults--noble." "that is enough, andrew, we will, as you say, not discuss polly further. i leave by the first train that can take me away in the morning. you are a very much mistaking and ill-judging man; you were never worthy to be helen's husband, and i bitterly grieve that her children must be brought up by you. for helen's sake alone, i must now give you one parting piece of advice, it is this: when miss grinsted comes, treat her with kindness and consideration. keep miss grinsted in this house at all hazards, and there may be a chance for your family." "miss grinsted!" said the doctor. "who, and what do you mean?" "andrew, when i introduce you to such a lady i heap coals of fire on your head. miss grinsted alone can bring order out of chaos, peace out of strife. in short, when she is established here, i shall feel at rest as far as my dear sister's memory is concerned." "miss grinsted is not going to be established in this house," said the doctor. "but who is she? i never heard of her before." "she is the lady-housekeeper and governess whom i have selected for you. she arrives at mid-day to-morrow." "from where?" "how queerly you look at me, andrew. nobody would suppose you were just delivered from a load of household care and confusion. such a treasure, too, the best of disciplinarians. she is fifty, a little angular, but capital at breaking in. what is the matter, andrew?" "what is miss grinsted's address?" "well, well; really your manners are bearish. she is staying with an invalid sister at exeter at present." "will you oblige me with the street and number of the house?" "certainly; but she can scarcely get here before mid-day now. her trains are all arranged." "the name of the street and number of the house, if you please, maria." "vere street, no. . but she can't be here before twelve or one to-morrow, andrew." "she is never to come here. i shall go into the village the first thing in the morning, and send her a telegram. she is never to come here. maria, you made a mistake, you went too far. if you and i are to speak to each other in the future, don't let it occur again. good-night; i will see that you are called in good time in the morning." it was useless either to argue or to fight. dr. maybright had, as the children sometimes described it, a shut-up look on his face. no one was ever yet known to interfere seriously with the doctor when he wore that expression, and aunt maria, with scorpion under her arm, hobbled upstairs, tired, weary, and defeated. "i wash my hands of him and his," she muttered; and the unhappy lady shed some bitter tears of wounded mortification and vanity as she laid her head on her pillow. "i know i was severe with her," murmured the doctor to himself, "but there are some women who must be put down with a firm hand. yes, i can bear a great deal, but to have maria cameron punishing polly, and establishing a housekeeper and governess of her own choosing in this family is beyond my patience. as i said before, there are limits." chapter xxi. the high mountains. helen and polly slept late on the following morning. they were both awakened simultaneously by nurse, who, holding baby in her arms, came briskly into the room. nurse was immediately followed by alice, bearing a tray with an appetizing breakfast for both the little girls. "the doctor says you are neither of you to get up until you have had a good meal," said nurse. "and, miss polly, he'd like to have a word with you, darling, in his study about eleven o'clock. eh, dear, but it's blessed and comforting to have the dear man home again; the house feels like itself, and we may breathe now." "and it's blessed and comforting to have one we wot of away again," retorted alice. "the young ladies will be pleased, won't they, nurse?" "to be sure they will. you needn't look so startled, loveys, either of you. it's only your aunt and the dog what is well quit of the house. they're on their road to bath now, and long may they stay there." at this news helen looked a little puzzled, and not very joyful, but polly instantly sat up in bed and spoke in very bright tones. "what a darling father is! i'm as hungry as possible. give me my breakfast, please, alice; and oh, nurse, mightn't baby sit between us for a little in bed?" "you must support her back well with pillows," said nurse. "and see as you don't spill any coffee on her white dress. eh! then, isn't she the sweetest and prettiest lamb in all the world?" the baby, whose little white face had not a tinge of color, and whose very large velvety brown eyes always wore a gentle, heavenly calm about them, smiled in a slow way. when she smiled she showed dimples, but she was a wonderfully grave baby, as though she knew something of the great loss which had accompanied her birth. "she is lovely," said polly. "it makes me feel good even to look at her." "then be good, for her sake, darling," said nurse, suddenly stooping and kissing the bright, vivacious girl, and then bestowing another and tenderer kiss on the motherless baby. "she's for all the world like peace itself," said nurse. "there ain't no sort of naughtiness or crossness in her." "oh, she makes me feel good!" said polly, hugging the little creature fondly to her side. two hours later polly stood with her father's arm round her neck: a slanting ray of sunlight was falling across the old faded carpet in the study, and mother's eyes smiled out of their picture at polly from the wall. "you have been punished enough," said the doctor. "i have sent for you now just to say a word or two. you are a very young climber, polly, but if this kind of thing is often repeated, you will never make any way." "i don't understand you, father." the doctor patted polly's curly head. "child," he said, "we have all of us to go up mountains, and if you choose a higher one, with peaks nearer to the sky than others, you have all the more need for the necessary helps for ascent." "father is always delightful when he is allegorical," polly had once said. now she threw back her head, looked full into his dearly-loved face, clasped his hands tightly in both her own, and said with tears filling her eyes, "i am glad you are going to teach me through a kind of story, and i think i know what you mean by my trying to climb the highest mountain. i always did long to do whatever i did a little better than any one else." "exactly so, polly; go on wishing that. still try to climb the highest mountain, only take with you humility instead of self-confidence, and then, child, you will succeed, for you will be very glad to avail yourself of the necessary helps." "the helps? what are they, father? i partly know what you mean, but i am not sure that i quite know." "oh, yes, you quite know. you have known ever since you knelt at your mother's knee, and whispered your prayers all the better to god because she was listening too. but i will explain myself by the commonest of illustrations. a shepherd wanted to rescue one of his flock from a most perilous situation. the straying sheep had come to a ledge of rock, from where it could not move either backwards or forwards. it had climbed up thousands of feet. how was the shepherd to get it? there was one way. his friends went by another road to the top of the mountain. from there they threw down ropes, which he bound firmly round him, and then they drew him slowly up. he reached the ledge, he rescued the sheep, and it was saved. he could have done nothing without the ropes. so you, too, polly, can do nothing worthy; you can never climb your high mountain without the aid of that prayer which links you to your father in heaven. do you understand?" "yes, i understand," said polly; "i see. i won't housekeep any more for the present, father." "you had better not, dear; you have plenty of talent for this, as well as for anything else you like to undertake, but you lack experience now, and discretion. it was just all this, and that self-confidence which i alluded to just now, which got my little girl into all this trouble, and caused aunt maria to think very badly of her. aunt maria has gone, so we will say nothing about her just at present. i may be a foolish old father, polly, but i own i have a great desire to keep my children to myself just now. so i shall give sleepy hollow another chance of doing without a grown-up housekeeper. your governesses and masters shall come to teach you as arranged, but helen must be housekeeper, with mrs. power, who is a very managing person, to help her. helen, too, must have a certain amount of authority over you all, with the power to appeal to me in any emergency. this you must submit to, polly, and i shall expect you to do so with a good grace." "yes, father." "i have acceded to your wishes in the matter of bringing the australian children here for at least six months. so you see you will have a good deal on your hands; and as i have done so at the express wish of helen and yourself, i shall expect you both to take a good deal of responsibility, and to be in every sense of the word, extra good." polly's eyes danced with pleasure. then she looked up into her father's face, and something she saw there caused her to clasp her arms round his neck, and whisper eagerly and impulsively: "father, dear, what helen told me is _not_ true--is it?" "you mean about my eyes, polly? so helen knows, and has spoken about it, poor girl?" "yes, yes, but it isn't true, it can't be?" "don't tremble, polly. i am quite willing to tell you how things really are. i don't wish it to be spoken of, but it is a relief to trust some one. i saw sir james dawson when in town. he is the first oculist in england. he told me that my sight was in a precarious state, and that if matters turned out unfavorably it is possible, nay probable, that i may become quite blind. on the other hand, he gives me a prescription which he thinks and hopes will avert the danger." "what is it? oh! father, you will surely try it?" "if you and the others will help me." "but what is it?" dr. maybright stroked back polly's curls. "very little anxiety," he said. "as much rest as possible, worries forbidden, home peace and rest largely insisted upon. now run away, my dear. i hear the tramp of my poor people. this is their morning, you remember." polly kissed her father, and quietly left the room. "see if i'm not good after that," she murmured. "wild horses shouldn't drag me into naughtiness after what father has just said." part ii. chapter i. a couple of barbarians. all the young maybrights, with the exception of the baby, were collected in the morning-room. it was the middle of october. the summer heat had long departed, the trees were shedding their leaves fast, the sky had an appearance of coming wind and showers; the great stretch of moorland which could be seen best in winter when the oaks and elms were bare, was distinctly visible. the moor had broad shadows on it, also tracts of intense light; the bracken was changing from green to brown and yellow color--brilliant color was everywhere. at this time of year the moors in many ways looked their best. the maybright children, however, were not thinking of the landscape, or the fast approach of winter, they were busily engaged chattering and consulting together. it was four o'clock in the afternoon, and they knew that the time left for them to prepare was short, consequently their busy fingers worked as well as their tongues. helen was helping the twins and the little boys to make up a wreath of enormous dimensions, and polly, as usual, was flitting about the room, followed by her satellite firefly. as usual, too, polly was first to remark and quickest to censure. she looked very much like the old polly; no outward change was in the least visible, although now she yielded a kind of obedience to the most gentle and unexacting of sisters, and although she still vowed daily to herself, that she, polly, would certainly climb the highest mountain, and for father's sake would be the best of all his children. "how slow you are, nell," she now exclaimed, impatiently; "and look what a crooked 'e' you have made to the end of 'welcome.' oh, don't be so slow, boys! paul and virginia will be here before we are half ready." "they can't come before six o'clock," said helen. "we have two hours yet left to work in. do, dear, pretty polly, find something else to take up your time, and let the twins and the boys help me to finish this wreath." "oh, if you don't want me," said polly, in a slightly offended voice. "come along, fly, we'll go up and see if virginia's room is ready, and then we'll pay a visit to our baby. you and i won't stay where we are not wanted. come along." fly trotted off by her elder sister's side, a great light of contentment filling her big eyes. the two scampered upstairs, saw that a cozy nest was all ready for the australian girl, while a smaller room at the other side of the passage was in equal readiness for the boy. "oh, what darling flowers!" said firefly, running up to the dressing table in the principal bedroom, and sniffing at the contents of a dainty blue jar. "why, polly, these buds must be from your own pet tea-rose." "yes," said polly, in a careless voice, "they are; i picked them for virginia this morning. i'd do anything for virginia. i'm greatly excited about her coming." "you never saw her," said firefly, in an aggrieved voice. "you wouldn't give me your tea-roses. i don't think it's nice of you to be fonder of her than you are of me. and nursie says her name isn't virginia." "never mind, she's virginia to me, and the boy is paul. why, fly, what a jealous little piece you are. come here, and sit on my lap. of course i'm fond of you, fly, but i'm not excited about you. i know just the kind of nose you have, and the kind of mouth, and the kind of big, scarecrow eyes, but you see i don't know anything at all about virginia, so i'm making up stories about her, and pictures, all day long. i expect she's something of a barbarian, both she and her brother, and isn't it delicious to think of having two real live barbarians in the house?" "yes," said firefly, in a dubious voice. "i suppose if they are real barbarians, they won't know a bit how to behave, and we'll have to teach them. i'll rather like that." "oh, you'll have to be awfully good, fly, for they'll copy you in every way; no sulking or sitting crooked, or having untidy hair, or you'll have a couple of barbarians just doing the very same thing. now, jump off my lap, i want to go to nurse, and you may come with me as a great treat. i'm going to undress baby. i do it every night; and you may see how i manage. nurse says i'm very clever about the way i manage babies." "oh, you're clever about everything," said fly, with a prolonged, deep-drawn breath. "well, polly, i do hope one thing." "yes?" "i do hope that the barbarians will be very, very ugly, for after you've seen them you won't be curious any more, and after you know them there won't be any stories to make up, and then you won't love them better than me." "what a silly you are, fly," responded polly. but she gave her little sister's hand an affectionate squeeze, which satisfied the hungry and exacting heart of its small owner for the present. meanwhile the enormous wreath progressed well, and presently took upon important position over the house doorway. as the daylight was getting dim, and as it would, in the estimation of the children, be the cruellest thing possible if the full glories of the wreath were not visible to the eyes of the strangers when they approached sleepy hollow, lamps were cunningly placed in positions where their full light could fall on the large "welcome," which was almost the unaided work of the twins and their small brothers. but now six o'clock was drawing near, and polly and firefly joined the rest of the children in the hall. the whole house was in perfect order; an excellent supper would be ready at any moment, and there was little doubt that when the strangers did appear they would receive a most hearty welcome. "wheels at last!" said bunny, turning a somersault in the air. "hurrah! three cheers for the barbarians!" sang out firefly. "i do hope virginia will be beautiful," whispered polly, under her breath. helen went and stood on the doorsteps. polly suddenly raised a colored lamp, and waved it above her head. "welcome" smiled down from the enormous wreath, and shone on the features of each maybright as the doctor opened the door of the carriage, and helped a tall, slender girl, and a little boy in a black velvet suit, to get out. "our travelers are very hungry, polly," he said, "and--and--very tired. yes, i see you have prepared things nicely for them. but first of all they must have supper, and after that i shall prescribe bed. welcome, my dear children, to sleepy hollow! may it be a happy home to you both." "thank you," said the girl. she had a pale face, a quantity of long light hair, and dreamy, sleepy eyes; the boy, on the contrary, had an alert and watchful expression; he clung to his sister, and looked in her face when she spoke. "do tell us what you are called," said polly. "we are all just dying to know. oh! i trust, i do trust that you are really paul and virginia. how perfectly lovely it would be if those were your real names." the tall girl looked full into polly's eyes, a strange, sweet, wistful light filled her own, her words came out musically. "i am flower," she said, "and this is david. i am thirteen years old, and david is eight. father sent us away because after mother died there was no one to take care of us." a sigh of intense interest and sympathy fell from the lips of all the young maybrights. "come upstairs, flower; we know quite well how to be sorry for you," said helen. she took the strange girl's hand, and led her up the broad staircase. "i'll stay below," said david. "i'm not the least tired, and my hands don't want washing. who's the jolliest here? couldn't we have a game of ball? i haven't played ball since i left ballarat. flower wouldn't let me. she said i might when i came here. she spoke about coming here all the time, and she always wanted to see your mother. she cried the whole of last night because your mother was dead. now has nobody got a ball, and won't the jolliest begin?" "i'll play with you, david," said polly. "now catch; there! once, twice, thrice. aren't you starving? i want my tea, if you don't." "flower said i wasn't to ask for anything to eat now that your mother is dead," responded david. "she said it wasn't likely we'd stay, but that while we did i was to be on my good behavior. i hate being on my good behavior; but flower's an awful mistress. yes, of course, i'm starving." "well, come in to tea, then," said polly, laughing. "perhaps you will stay, and anyhow we are glad to have you for a little. children, please don't stare so hard." "i don't mind," said david. "they may stare if it pleases them; i rather like it." "like being stared at!" repeated firefly, whose own sensitive little nature resented the most transient glance. "yes," responded david, calmly; "it shows that i'm admired; and i know that i'm a very handsome boy." so he was, with dark eyes like a gipsy, and a splendid upright figure and bearing. far from being the barbarian of polly's imagination, he had some of the airs and graces of a born aristocrat. his calm remarks and utter coolness astonished the little maybrights, who rather shrank away from him, and left him altogether to polly's patronage. at this moment helen and the young australian girl came down together. david instantly trotted up to his sister. "she thinks that perhaps we'll stay, flower," pointing with his finger at polly, "and in that case i needn't keep up my company manners, need i?" "but you must behave well, david," responded flower, "or the english nation will fancy we are not civilized." she smiled in a lovely languid way at her brother, and looked round with calm indifference at the boys and girls who pressed close to her. "come and have tea," said helen. she placed flower at her right hand. the doctor took the head of the table, and the meal progressed more or less in silence. flower was too lazy or too delicate to eat much. david spent all his time in trying to make firefly laugh, and in avoiding the doctor's penetrating glance. the maybrights were too astonished at the appearance of their guests to feel thoroughly at ease. polly had a sensation of things being somehow rather flat, and the doctor wondered much in his inward soul how this new experiment would work. chapter ii. a young queen. it did not work well as far as polly was concerned. whatever she was at home, whatever her faults and failings, whatever her wild vagaries, or unreasonable moods, she somehow or other always managed to be first. first in play, first in naughtiness, first at her lessons, the best musician, the best artist, the best housekeeper, the best originator of sports and frolics on all occasions, was polly maybright. from this position, however, she was suddenly dethroned. it was quite impossible for polly to be first when flower was in the room. flower dalrymple had the ways and manners of a young queen. she was imperious, often ungracious, seldom obliging, but she had a knack of getting people to think first of her, of saying the sort of things which drew attention, and of putting every other little girl with whom she came into contact completely in the shade. in reality, polly was a prettier girl than flower. her eyes were brighter, her features more regular. but just as much in reality polly could not hold a candle to flower, for she had a sort of a languorous, slumberous, grace, which exactly suited her name; there was a kind of etherealness about her, an absolutely out-of-the-common look, which made people glance at her again and again, each time to discover how very lovely she was. flower was a perfect contrast to david, being as fair as he was dark. her face had a delicate, creamy shade, her eyes were large and light blue, the lashes and eyebrows being only a shade or two darker than her long, straight rather dull-looking, yellow hair. she always wore her hair straight down her back; she was very willowy and pliant in figure, and had something of the grace and coloring of a daffodil. flower had not been a week in the maybright family before she contrived that all the arrangements in the house should be more or less altered to suit her convenience. she made no apparent complaint, and never put her wishes into words, still she contrived to have things done to please her. for instance, long before that week was out, polly found herself deprived of the seat she had always occupied at meals by her father's side. flower liked to sit near the doctor, therefore she did so; she liked to slip her hand into his between the courses, and to look into his face with her wide-open, pathetic, sweet eyes. flower could not touch coffee at breakfast, therefore by common consent the whole family adopted tea. in the morning-room flower established herself in mother's deep arm-chair, hitherto consecrated by all rights and usages to helen. as to polly, she was simply dethroned from her pedestal, her wittiest remarks fell flat, her raciest stories were received with languid interest. what were they compared to the thrilling adventures which the young australian could tell when she pleased! not, indeed, that flower often pleased, she was not given to many words, her nature was thoroughly indolent and selfish, and only for one person would she ever really rouse and exert herself. this person was david; he worshipped her, and she loved him as deeply as it was in her nature to love any one. to all appearance, however, it mattered very little who, or how flower loved. on all hands, every one fell in love with her. even polly resigned her favorite seat for her, even helen looked without pain at mother's beloved chair when flower's lissome figure filled it. the younger children were forever offering flowers and fruit at her shrine. nurse declared her a bonny, winsome thing, and greatest honor of all, allowed her to play with little pearl, the baby, for a few minutes, when the inclination seized her. before she was a week in the house, not a servant in the place but would have done anything for her, and even the doctor so far succumbed to her charms as to pronounce her a gracious and lovable creature. "although i can't make her out," he often said to himself, "i have an odd instinct which tells me that there is the sleeping lioness or the wild-cat hidden somewhere beneath all that languid, gracious carelessness. poor little girl! she has managed to captivate us all, but i should not be surprised if she turned out more difficult and troublesome to manage than the whole of my seven daughters put together." as flower and david had been sent from australia especially to be under the care and guidance of mrs. maybright, the doctor felt more and more uncertain as to the expediency of keeping the children. "it is difficult enough to manage a girl like polly," he said to himself; "but when another girl comes to the house who is equally audacious and untamed--for my polly is an untamed creature when all's said and done--how is a poor half-blind old doctor like myself to keep these two turbulent spirits in order? i am dreadfully afraid the experiment won't work; and yet--and yet £ a year is sadly needed to add to the family purse just now." the doctor was pacing up and down his library while he meditated. the carpet in this part of the room was quite worn from the many times he walked up and down it. like many another man, when he was perplexed or anxious he could not keep still. there came a light tap at the library door. "come in!" said the doctor; and to his surprise flower, looking more like a tall yellow daffodil than ever, in a soft dress of creamy indian silk, opened the door and took a step or two into the room. she looked half-shy, half-bold--a word would have sent her flying, or a word drawn her close to the kind doctor's side. "come here, my little girl," he said, "and tell me what you want." flower would have hated any one else to speak of her as a little girl, but she pushed back her hair now, and looked with less hesitation and more longing at the doctor. "i thought you'd be here--i ventured to come," she said. "yes, yes; there's no venturing in the matter. take my arm, and walk up and down with me." "may i, really?" "of course you may, puss. now i'll warrant anything you have walked many a carpet bare with your own father. see! this is almost in holes; those are polly's steps, these are mine." "oh--yes--well, father isn't that sort of man. i'll take your arm if i may, doctor. thank you. i didn't think--i don't exactly know how to say what i want to say." "take time, my dear child; and it is no matter how you put the words." "when i heard that there was no mother here, i did not want to stay long. that was before i knew you. now--i came to say it--i do want to stay, and so does david." "but you don't really know me at all, flower." "perhaps not really; but still enough to want to stay. may i stay?" flower's charming face looked up inquiringly. "may i stay?" she repeated, earnestly. "i do wish it!--very much indeed." dr. maybright was silent for a moment. "i was thinking about this very point when you knocked at the door," he said, presently. "i was wondering if you two children could stay. i want to keep you, and yet i own i am rather fearful of the result. you see, there are so many motherless girls and boys in this house." "but we are motherless, too; you should be sorry for us; you should wish to keep us." "i am very sorry for you. i have grown to a certain extent already to love you. you interest me much; still, i must be just to you and to my own children. you are not a common, everyday sort of girl, flower. i don't wish to flatter you, and i am not going to say whether you are nice or the reverse. but there is no harm in my telling you that you are out of the common. it is probable that you may be extremely difficult to manage, and it is possible that your disposition may--may clash with those of some of the members of my own household. i don't say that this will be the case, mind, only it is possible. in that case, what would you expect me to do?" "to keep me," said flower, boldly, "and, if necessary, send away the member of the household, for i am a motherless girl, and i have come from a long way off to be with you." "i don't quite think i can do that, flower. there are many good mothers in england who would train you and love you, and there are many homes where you might do better than here. my own children are placed here by god himself, and i cannot turn them out. still--what is the matter, my dear child?" "i think you are unjust; i thought you would be so glad when i said i wanted to stay." "so i am glad; and for the present you are here. how long you remain depends on yourself. i have no intention of sending you away at present. i earnestly wish to keep you." another tap came to the study door. "if you please, sir," said alice, "blind mrs. jones is in the kitchen, and wants to know most particular if she can see you." "how ridiculous!" said flower, laughing. "show mrs. jones in here, alice," said the doctor. his own face had grown a shade or two paler. "blind people often speak in that way, flower," he said, with a certain intonation in his voice which made her regard him earnestly. the memory of a rumor which had reached her ears with regard to the doctor's own sight flashed before her. she stooped suddenly, and with an impulsive, passionate gesture kissed his hand. outside the room david was waiting. "well, flower, well?" he asked, with intense eagerness. "i spoke to him," said flower. "we are here on sufferance, that's all. he is the dearest man in all the world, but he is actually afraid of me." "you are rather fierce at times, you know, flower. did you tell him about--about----" "about what, silly boy?" "about the passions. you know, flower, we agreed that he had better know." a queer steely light came into flower's blue eyes. "i didn't speak of them," she said. "if i said anything of that sort i'd soon be packed away. i expect he's in an awful fright about that precious polly of his." "but polly is nice," interposed david. "oh, yes, just because she has a rather good-looking face you go over to her side. i'm not at all sure that i like her. anyhow, i'm not going to play second fiddle to her. there now, dave, go and play. we're here on sufferance, so be on your good behavior. as to me, you need not be the least uneasy. i wish to remain at sleepy hollow, so, of course, the passions won't come. go and play, dave." firefly called across the lawn. david bounded out of the open window, and flower went slowly up to her own room. there came a lovely day toward the end of october; st. martin's summer was abroad, and the children, with the doctor's permission, had arranged to take a long expedition across one of the southern moors in search of late blackberries. they took their dinner with them, and george, the under-gardener, accompanied the little party for protection. nurse elected, as usual, to stay at home with baby, for nothing would induce her to allow this treasured little mortal out of her own keeping; but the doctor promised, if possible, to join the children at troublous times castle at two o'clock for dinner. this old ruin was at the extreme corner of one of the great commons, and was a very favorite resort for picnics, as it still contained the remains of a fine old banqueting-hall, where in stormy or uncertain weather a certain amount of shelter could be secured. the children started off early, in capital spirits. a light wind was blowing; the sky was almost cloudless. the tints of late autumn were still abroad in great glory, and the young faces looked fresh, careless, and happy. just at the last moment, as they were leaving the house, an idea darted through polly's brain. "let's have maggie," she said. "i'll go round by the village and fetch her. she would enjoy coming with us so much, and it would take off her terror of the moor. do you know, helen, she is such a silly thing that she has been quite in a state of alarm ever since the day we went to the hermit's hut. i won't be a moment running to fetch mag; do let's have her. firefly, you can come with me." maggie, who now resided with her mother, not having yet found another situation--for mrs. power had absolutely declined to have her back in the kitchen--was a favorite with all the children. they were pleased with polly's proposal, and a chorus of "yes, by all means, let's have maggie!" rose in the air. flower was standing a little apart; she wore a dark green close-fitting cloth dress; on her graceful golden head was a small green velvet cap. she was picking a late rose to pieces, and waiting for the others with a look of languid indifference on her face. now she roused herself, and asked in a slightly weary voice: "who is maggie?" "maggie?" responded helen, "she was our kitchen-maid; we are all very fond of her--polly especially." "fond of a kitchen-maid? i don't suppose you mean that, helen," said flower. "a kitchen-maid's only a servant." "i certainly mean it," said helen, with a little warmth. "i am more or less fond of all our servants, and maggie used to be a special favorite." "how extraordinary!" said flower. "the english nation have very queer and plebeian ways about them; it's very plebeian to take the least notice of servants, except to order them to obey you." "on the contrary," retorted polly; "it's the sign of a true lady or gentleman to be perfectly courteous to their dependents, and if they deserve love, to give it to them. i'm fond of maggie; she's a good little girl, and she shall come to our picnic. come along, firefly." "i certainly will have nothing to say to polly while she associates with a servant," said flower, slowly, and with great apparent calmness. "i don't suppose we need all wait for her here. she can follow with the servant when she gets her. i suppose polly's whims are not to upset the whole party." "polly will very likely catch us up at the cross-roads," said helen, in a pleasant voice. "come, flower, you won't really be troubled with poor little maggie; she will spend her day probably with george, and will help him to wash up our dinner-things after we have eaten. come, don't be vexed, flower." "_i_ vexed!" said flower. "you are quite mistaken. i don't intend to have anything to say to polly while she chooses a kitchen-maid for her friend, but i dare say the rest of you can entertain me. now, mabel and dolly, shall i tell you what we did that dark night when david and i stole out through the pantry window?" "oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed the twins. the others all clustered round eagerly. flower had a very distinct voice, and when she roused herself she could really be eloquent. a daring little adventure which she and her brother had experienced lost nothing in the telling, and when polly, firefly, and maggie, joined the group, they found themselves taken very little notice of, for all the other children, even helen, were hanging on flower's words. "oh, i say, that isn't fair!" exclaimed polly, whose spirits were excellent. "you're telling a story, flower, and firefly and i have missed it. maggie loves stories, too; don't you, mag? do begin again, please, flower, please do!" flower did not even pretend to hear polly's words--she walked straight on, gesticulating a little now and then, now and then raising her hand in a slightly dramatic manner. her clear voice floated back to polly as she walked forward, the center of an eager, worshipping, entranced audience. polly's own temper was rather hasty, she felt her face flushing, angry words were bubbling to her lips, and she would have flown after the little party who were so utterly ignoring her, if david had not suddenly slipped back and put his hand on her arm. "i know the story," he said; "so i needn't stay to listen. she's adding to it awfully. we didn't use any ropes, the window is only three feet from the ground, and the awful howling and barking of the mastiff was made by the shabbiest little cur. flower is lovely, but she does dress up her stories. i love flower, but i'll walk with you now, if you'll let me, polly." "you're very kind, david," said polly. "but i don't know that i want any one to walk with me, except maggie. i think flower was very rude just now. oh, you can stay if you like, david--i don't mind, one way or another. isn't this south moor lovely, maggie? aren't you glad i asked you to come with us?" "well, yes, miss, i be. it was good-natured of you, miss polly, only if there's stories a-going, i'd like to be in at them. i does love narrations of outlandish places, miss. oh, my word, and is that the little foreign gentleman? it is a disappointment as i can't 'ear what the young lady's a-telling of." "well, maggie, you needn't be discontented. _i_ am not hearing this wonderful story, either. david, what are you nudging me for?" "send her to walk with george," whispered david. "i want to say something to you so badly, polly." polly frowned. she did not feel particularly inclined to oblige any one just now, but david had a pleading way of his own; he squeezed her arm affectionately, and looked into her face with a world of beseeching in his big black eyes. after all it was no very difficult matter to get at polly's warm heart. she looked over her shoulder. "george, will you give maggie a seat beside you," she said. "no, none of the rest of us want to drive. come on, david. now, david, what is it?" "it's about flower," said david. "she--she--you don't none of you know flower yet." "oh, i am not sure of that," replied polly, speaking on purpose in a very careless tone. "i suppose she's much like other girls. she's rather pretty, of course, and has nice ways with her. i made stories about you both, but you're not a bit like anything i thought of. in some ways you're nicer, in some not so nice. why, what is the matter, david? what are you staring at me so hard for?" "because you're all wrong," responded david. "you don't know flower. she's not like other girls; not a bit. there were girls at ballarat, and she wasn't like them. but no one wondered at that, for they were rough, and not like real ladies. and there were girls on board the big ship we came over in, and they weren't rough, but flower wasn't a bit like them either. and she's not like any of you, polly, although i'm sure you are nice, and helen is sweet, and fly is a little brick. flower is not like any other girl i have ever seen." "she must be an oddity, then," said polly. "i hate oddities. do let's walk a little faster, david." "you are wrong again," persisted david, quickening his steps. "an oddity is some one to laugh at, but no one has ever dreamed of laughing at flower. she is just herself, like no one else in the world. no, you don't any of you know her yet. i suppose you are every one of you thinking that she's the very nicest and cleverest and perfectest girl you ever met?" "i'm sure we are not," said polly. "i think, for my part, there has been a great deal too much fuss made about her. i'm getting tired of her airs, and i think she was very rude just now." "oh, don't, polly, you frighten me. i want to tell you something so badly. will you treat it as a great, enormous secret? will you never reveal it, polly?" "what a queer boy you are," said polly. "no, i won't tell. what's the mystery?" "it's this. flower is sometimes--sometimes--oh, it's dreadful to have to tell!--flower is sometimes not nice." polly's eyes danced. "you're a darling, david!" she said. "of course, that sister of yours is not perfect. i'd hate her if she was." "but it isn't that," said david. "it's so difficult to tell. when flower isn't nice, it's not a small thing, it's--oh, she's awful! polly, i don't want any of you ever to see flower in a passion; you'd be frightened, oh, you would indeed. we were all dreadfully unhappy at ballarat when flower was in a passion, and lately we tried not to get her into one. that's what i want you to do, polly; i want you to try; i want you to see that she is not vexed." "i like that," said polly. "am i to be on my 'p's and q's' for this miss flower of yours? now, david, what do you mean by a great passion? i'm rather hot myself. come, you saw me very cross about the lemonade yesterday; is flower worse than that? what fun it must be to see her!" "don't!" said david, turning pale. "you wouldn't speak in that way, polly, if you knew. what you did yesterday like flower? why, i didn't notice you at all. flower's passions are--are---- but i can't speak of them, polly." "then why did you tell me?" said polly. "i can't help her getting into rages, if she's so silly." "oh, yes, you can, and that's why i spoke to you. she's a little vexed now, about your having brought the--the kitchen-maid here. i know well she's vexed, because she's extra polite with every one else. that's a way she has at first. i don't suppose she'll speak to you, polly; but oh, polly, i will love you so much, i'll do anything in all the world for you, if only you'll send maggie home!" "what are you dreaming of?" said polly. "because flower is an ill tempered, proud, silly girl, am i to send poor little maggie away? no, david, if your sister has a bad temper, she must learn to control it. she is living in england now, and she must put up with our english ways; we are always kind to our servants." "then it can't be helped," said david. "you'll remember that i warned you--you'll be sorry afterwards! hullo, flower--yes, flower, i'm coming." he flew from polly's side, going boldly over to what the little girl was now pleased to call the ranks of the enemy. she felt sorry for a moment, for firefly had long since deserted her. then she retraced her steps, and walked by maggie's side for the rest of the time. chapter iii. not like others. it was still early when the children reached troublous times castle. dr. maybright would not be likely to join them for nearly an hour. they had walked fast, and polly, at least, felt both tired and cross. when the twins ran up to her and assured her with much enthusiasm that they had never had a more delightful walk, she turned from them with a little muttered "pshaw!" polly's attentions now to maggie were most marked, and if this young person were not quite one of the most obtuse in existence, it is possible she might have felt slightly embarrassed. "while we're waiting for father," exclaimed polly, speaking aloud, and in that aggressive tone which had not been heard from her lips since the night of the supper in the attic--"while we're waiting for father we'll get the banqueting-hall ready. maggie and i will see to this, but any one who likes to join us can. we don't require any assistance, but if it gives pleasure to any of the others to see us unpack the baskets, now is the time for them to say the word." "but, of course, we're all going to get the dinner ready," exclaimed dolly and katie, in voices of consternation. "what a ridiculous way you are talking, polly! this is all our affair; half the fun is getting the dinner ready. isn't it, nell?" "yes, of course," said helen, in her pleasant, bright voice. "we'll all do as much as we can do to make the banqueting-hall ready for father. now, let's get george to take the hampers there at once; and, flower, i thought, perhaps, you would help me to touch up the creepers here and there, they do look so lovely falling over that ruined west window. come, flower, now let's all of us set to work without any more delay." "yes, flower, and you know you have such a way of making things look sweet," said david, taking his sister's hand and kissing it. she put her arm carelessly round his neck, stooped down, and pressed her lips to his brow, then said in that light, arch tone, which she had used all day, "david is mistaken. i can't make things look sweet, and i'm not coming to the banqueting-hall at present." there was a pointed satire in the two last words. flower's big blue eyes rested carelessly on maggie, then they traveled to where polly stood, and a fine scorn curled her short, sensitive upper lip. the words she had used were nothing, but her expressive glance meant a good deal. polly refused to see the world of entreaty on david's face--she threw down her challenge with equal scorn and a good deal of comic dignity. "it's a very good thing, then, you're not coming to the banqueting-hall, flower," she said. "for we don't want people there who have no taste. i suppose it's because you are an australian, for in england even the cottagers know a little about how to make picnics look pretty. maggie is a cottager at present, as she's out of a situation, so it's lucky we've brought her. now, as every one else wants to come, let them, and don't let's waste any more time, or when father comes, we really will have nothing ready for him to eat." "very well," said flower. "then i shall take a walk by myself. i wish to be by myself. no, david you are not to come with me, i forbid it." for a quarter of a second a queer steely light filled her blue eyes. david shrank from her glance, and followed the rest of the party down a flight of steps which led also into the old banqueting-hall. "you've done it now," he whispered to polly. "you'll be very, very sorry by-and-by, and you'll remember then that i warned you." "i really think you're the most tiresome boy," said polly. "you want to make mysteries out of nothing. i don't see that flower is particularly passionate; she's a little bit sarcastic, and she likes to say nasty, scathing things, but you don't suppose i mind her! she'll soon come to her senses when she sees that we are none of us petting her, or bowing down to her. i expect that you and your father have spoiled that flower of yours over in ballarat." "you don't know flower a bit," responded david. "i warned you. you'll remember that presently. flower not passionate! why, she was white with passion when she went away. well, you wait and see." "i wish you'd stop talking," responded polly, crossly. "we'll never have things ready if you chatter so, and try to perplex me. there's poor fly almost crying over that big hamper. please, david, go and help her to get the knives, and forks, and glasses out, and don't break any glasses, for we're always fined if we break glasses at picnics." david moved away slowly. he was an active little fellow as a rule, but now there seemed to be a weight over him. the vivaciousness had left his handsome dark little face; once he turned round and looked at polly with a volume of reproach in his eyes. she would not meet his eyes, she was bending over her own hamper, and was laughing and chatting gayly with every one who came within her reach. the moment flower's influence was removed polly became once more the ringleader of all the fun. once more she was appealed to, her advice asked, her directions followed. she could not help admitting to herself that she liked the change, and for the first time a conscious feeling of active dislike to flower took possession of her. what right had this strange girl to come and take the lead in everything? no, she was neither very pretty nor very agreeable; she was a conceited, ill-tempered, proud creature, and it was polly's duty, of course it was polly's duty, to see that she was not humored. was there anything so unreasonable and monstrous as her dislike to poor little maggie? poor little harmless maggie, who had never done her an ill-turn in her life. really david had been too absurd when he proposed that maggie should be sent home. david was a nice boy enough, but he was not to suppose that every one was to bow down to his queen flower. ridiculous! let her go into passions if she liked, she would soon be tamed and brought to her senses when she had been long enough in england. polly worked herself up into quite a genuine little temper of her own, as she thought, and she now resolved, simply and solely for the purpose of teasing flower, that maggie should dine with them all, and have a seat of honor near herself. when she had carelessly thought of her coming to the picnic, she, of course, like all the others, had intended that maggie and george should eat their dinner together after the great meal was over; and even helen shook her head now when polly proposed in her bright audacious way that maggie should sit near her, in one of the best positions, where she could see the light flickering through the ivy, which nearly covered the beautiful west window. "as you like, of course, polly," responded helen. "but i do think it is putting maggie a little out of her place. perhaps father won't like it, and i'm sure flower won't." "i'll ask father myself, when he arrives," answered polly, choosing to ignore the latter part of helen's speech. the banqueting-hall, which was a perfect ruin at one end, was still covered over at the other. and it was in this portion, full of picturesque half-lights and fascinating dark corners, that the children had laid out their repast. the west window was more than fifty feet distant. it was nearly closed in with an exquisite tracery of ivy; but as plenty of light poured into the ruin from the open sky overhead, this mattered very little, and but added to the general effect. the whole little party were very busy, and no one worked harder than polly, and no one's laugh was more merry. now and then, it is true, an odd memory and a queer sensation of failure came over her. was she really--really to-day, at least--trying to climb successfully the highest mountain? she stifled the little voice speaking in her heart, delighted her brothers and sisters, and even caused a smile to play round david's grave lips as she made one witty remark after another. firefly in particular was in ecstasies with her beloved sister, and when the doctor at last appeared on the scene the fun was at its height. the moment he entered the banqueting-hall polly went up to him, put on her archest and most pleading expression, and said in a tone of inquiry: "it's all so delightful, and such a treat for her. and you don't mind, do you father?" "i don't know that i mind anything at this moment, polly, for i am hungry, and your viands look tempting of the tempting. unless you bid me not to come to the feast, i shall quarrel with no other suggestion." "oh! you darlingest of fathers; then you won't be angry if poor maggie sits next me; and has her dinner with us? she is a little afraid of the moor, and i wanted to cure her, so i brought her to-day, and she will be so happy if she can sit next me at dinner." "put her where you please, my dear; we are not sitting on forms or standing on ceremony at present. and now to dinner, to dinner, children, for i must be off again in an hour." no one noticed, not even david, that while the doctor was speaking a shadow stole up and remained motionless by the crumbling stairs of the old banqueting-hall; no one either saw when it glided away. polly laughed, and almost shouted; every one, flower excepted, took their places as best they could on the uneven floor of the hall; the white tablecloth was spread neatly in the middle. every one present was exceedingly uncomfortable physically, and yet each person expressed him or herself in tones of rapture, and said never was such food eaten, or such a delightful dinner served. for a long time flower was not even missed; then david's grave face attracted the doctor's attention. "what is the matter, my lad?" he said. "have you a headache? don't you enjoy this _al fresco_ sort of entertainment? and, by the way, i don't see your sister. helen, my dear, do you know where flower is? did not she come with you?" "of course she did, father; how stupid and careless of me never to have missed her." helen jumped up from the tailor-like position she was occupying on the floor. "flower said she would take a little walk," she continued. "and i must say i forgot all about her. she ought to have been back ages ago." "flower went by herself for a walk on the moor!" echoed the doctor. "but that isn't safe; she may lose her way, or get frightened. why did you let her go, children?" no one answered; a little cloud seemed to have fallen on the merry party. polly again had a pinprick of uneasiness in her heart, and a vivid recollection of the highest mountain which she was certainly not trying to climb. the doctor said he would go at once to look for flower. chapter iv. a young australian. david was quite right when he said his sister was not like other girls. there was a certain element of wildness in her; she had sweet manners, a gracious bearing, an attractive face; but in some particulars she was untamed. never had that terrible strong temper of hers been curbed. more than one of the servants in the old home at ballarat had learnt to dread it. when flower stormed, her father invariably left home, and david shut himself up in his own room. her mother, an affectionate but not particularly strong-minded woman, alone possessed sufficient courage to approach the storm-tossed little fury. mrs. dalrymple had a certain power of soothing the little girl, but even she never attempted to teach the child the smallest lessons of self-control. this unchecked, unbridled temper grew and strengthened with flower's growth. when under its influence she was a transformed being, and david had good reason to be afraid of her. in addition to an ungovernable temper, flower was proud; she possessed the greatest pride of all, that of absolute ignorance. she believed firmly in caste; had she lived in olden days in america, she would have been a very cruel mistress of slaves. yet with it all flower had an affectionate heart; she was generous, loyal, but she was so thoroughly a spoiled and untrained creature that her good qualities were nearly lost under the stronger sway of her bad ones. after her mother's death flower had fretted so much that she had grown shadowy and ill. it was then her father conceived the idea of sending her and david to an english family to train and educate. he could not manage flower, he could not educate david. the maybrights were heard of through a mutual friend, and flower was reconciled to the thought of leaving the land and home of her birth because she was told she was going to another mother. she dried her eyes at this thought, and was tolerably cheerful during the voyage over. on reaching england the news of mrs. maybright's death was broken to her. again flower stormed and raged; she gave poor little david a dreadful night, but in the morning her tears were dried, her smile had returned, and she went down to sleepy hollow with the doctor in fairly good spirits. the young maybrights were all on their best behavior--flower was on hers, and until the day of the picnic all went well. it did not take a great deal to rouse first the obstinate pride of this young australian, and then her unbridled passions. associate with a servant? no, that she would never, never do. show polly that she approved of her conduct? not while her own name was flower dalrymple. she let all the other happy children go down to the banqueting-hall without her, and strode away, miserable at heart, choking with rage and fury. the dalrymples were very wealthy people, and flower's home in ballarat was furnished with every luxury. notwithstanding this, the little girl had never been in a truly refined dwelling-house until she took up her abode in old-fashioned sleepy hollow. flower had taken a great fancy to helen, and she already warmly loved dr. maybright. she was wandering over the moor now, a miserable, storm-tossed little personage, when she saw his old-fashioned gig and white pony "rowney" approaching. that old gig and the person who sat in it--for dr. maybright drove himself--began to act on the heart of the child with a curious magnetic force. step by step they caused her to turn, until she reached troublous times castle almost as soon as the doctor. she did not know why she was coming back, for she had not the remotest idea of yielding her will to polly's. still she had a kind of instinct that the doctor would set things right. by this she meant that he would give her her own way and banish maggie from the scene of festivity. the banqueting-hall at the old castle could be reached by two ways: you might approach it quite easily over the green sward, or you might enter a higher part of the castle, and come to it down broken steps. the doctor chose one way of approaching the scene of the feast, flower another. she was about to descend when she heard voices: polly was eagerly asking permission for maggie to dine with them; the doctor, in his easy, genial tones, was giving it to her. that was enough. if flower had never known before what absolute hatred was like, she knew it now. she hated polly; ungovernable passion mounted to her brain, filled her eyes, lent wings to her feet; she turned and fled. although the month was october, it was still very hot in the middle of the day on the open moor. flower, however, was accustomed to great heat in her native home, and the full rays of the sun did not impede her flight. she was so tall and slight and willowy that she was a splendid runner, but the moor was broken and rough, interspersed here and there with deep bracken, here and there with heather, here and there again with rank clumps of undergrowth. the young girl, half blinded with rage and passion, did not see the sharp points of the rocks or the brambles in her path. once or twice she fell. after her second fall she was so much bruised and hurt, that she was absolutely forced to sit still in the midst of the yellow-and-brown bracken. it was in a bristling, withered state, but it still stood thick and high, and formed a kind of screen all round flower as she sat in it. she took off her cap, and idly fanned her hot face with it; her yellow head could scarcely be distinguished from the orange-and-gold tints of the bracken which surrounded her. in this way the doctor, who was now anxiously looking for flower, missed her, for he drove slowly by, not a hundred yards from her hiding-place. as flower sat and tried to cool herself, she began to reflect. her passion was not in the least over; on the contrary, its most dangerous stage had now begun. as she thought, there grew up stronger and stronger in her heart a great hatred for polly. from the first, flower had not taken so warmly to polly as she had done to helen. the fact was, these girls were in many ways too much alike. had it been polly's fate to be born and brought up in ballarat, she might have been flower over again. she might have been even worse than flower, for she was cleverer; on the other hand, had flower been trained by polly's wise and loving mother, she might have been a better girl than polly. as it was, however, these two must inevitably clash. they were like two queen bees in the same hive; they each wanted the same place. it only needed a trifle to bring flower's uneasy, latent feeling against polly to perfection. the occasion arose, the match had fired the easily ignited fuel, and flower sat now and wondered how she could best revenge herself on polly. after a time, stiff and limping, for she had hurt her ankle, she recommenced her walk across the moor. she had not the least idea where her steps were leading her. she was tired, her feet ached, and her great rage had sufficiently cooled to make her remember distinctly that she had eaten no dinner; still, she plodded on. from the time she had left troublous times castle she had not encountered an individual, but now, as she stepped forward, a man suddenly arose from his lair in the grass and confronted her. he was a black-eyed, unkempt, uncouth-looking person, and any other girl would have been very much afraid of him. he put his arms akimbo, a disagreeable smile crossed his face, and he instantly placed himself in such a position as completely to bar the girl's path. an english girl would have turned pale at such an apparition in so lonely a place, but flower had seen bushmen in her day, and did not perceive anything barbarous or outlandish in the man's appearance. "i'm glad i've met you," she said, in her clear dulcet voice, "for you can tell me where i am. i want to get to sleepy hollow, dr. maybright's place--am i far away?" "two miles, as the crow flies," responded the man. "but i can't go as the crow flies. what is the best way to walk? can't you show me?" "no-a. i be sleepy. have you got a coin about you, miss?" "money? no. i left my purse at home. i have not got a watch either, nor a chain, but i have got a little ring. it is very thin, but it is pure gold, and i am fond of it. i will give it to you if you will take me the very nearest way to sleepy hollow." the man grinned again. "you _be_ a girl!" he said, in a tone of admiration. "yes, i'll take you; come." he turned on his heel, shambled on in front, and flower followed. in this manner the two walked for some time. suddenly they mounted a ridge, and then the man pointed to where the doctor's house stood, snug in its own inclosure. "thank you," said flower. she took a little twist of gold off her smallest finger, dropped it into the man's dirty, open palm, and began quickly to descend the ridge in the direction of the hollow. it was nearly three o'clock when she entered the cool, wide entrance-hall. the house felt still and restful. flower acknowledged to herself that she was both tired and hungry, but her main idea to revenge herself on polly was stronger than either fatigue or hunger. she walked into the dining-room, cut a thick slice from a home-made loaf of bread, broke off a small piece to eat at once, and put the rest into her pocket. a dish of apples stood near; she helped herself to two, stowed them away with the bread in the capacious pocket of her green cloth dress, and then looked around her. she had got to polly's home, but how was she to accomplish her revenge? how strike polly through her most vulnerable point? she walked slowly upstairs, meditating as she went. her own little bower-like room stood open; she entered it. polly's hands had been mainly instrumental in giving choice touches to this room; polly's favorite blue vase stood filled with flowers on the dressing-table, and a lovely photograph of the sistine madonna which belonged to polly hung over the mantelpiece. flower did not look at any of these things. she unlocked a small drawer in a dainty inlaid cabinet, which she had brought with her from ballarat, took out two magnificent diamond rings, a little watch set with jewels, and a small purse, very dainty in itself, but which only held a few shillings. she put all these treasures into a small black velvet bag, fastened the bag round her neck by a narrow gold chain, and then leaving her room, stood once more in a contemplative attitude on the landing. she was ready now for flight herself, for when she had revenged herself on polly, she must certainly fly. but how should she accomplish her revenge? what should she do? she thought hard. she knew she had but little time, for the doctor and the children might return at any moment. in the distance she heard the merry laugh of polly's little sister, pearl. flower suddenly colored, her eyes brightened, and she said to herself: "that is a good idea; i will go and have a talk with nurse. i can find out somehow from nurse what polly likes best." she ran at once to the nurseries. "my dear miss flower," exclaimed nurse. "why, wherever have you been, miss? i thought you was with the others. well! you do look tired and fagged." "i have walked home," said flower, carelessly. "i didn't care to be out so long; picnics are nothing to me; i'm accustomed to that sort of thing on a big scale at ballarat, you know. i walked home, and then i thought i'd have a chat with you, if you didn't mind." "for sure, dear. sit you down in that easy chair, miss flower; and would you like to hold baby for a bit? isn't she sweet to-day? i must say i never saw a more knowing child for her age." "she is very pretty," said flower, carelessly. "but i don't think i'll hold her, nurse. i'm not accustomed to babies, and i'm afraid she might break or something. do you know i never had a baby in my arms in my life? i don't remember david when he was tiny. no, i never saw anything so young and soft and tiny as this little pearl; she _is_ very pretty." "eh, dear lamb," said nurse, squeezing the baby to her heart, "she's the very sweetest of the sweet. now you surprise me, miss flower, for i'd have said you'd be took up tremendous with babies, you has them winsome ways. why, look at the little dear, she's laughing even now to see you. she quite takes to you, miss--the same as she does to miss polly." "she takes to polly, does she?" said flower. "take to her? i should say so, miss; and as to miss polly, she just worships baby. two or three times a day she comes into the nursery, and many and many a time she coaxes me to let her bathe her. the fact is, miss flower, we was all in a dreadful taking about miss polly when her mamma died. she was quite in a stunned sort of state, and it was baby here brought her round. ever since then our little miss pearl has been first of all with miss polly." "give her to me," said flower, in a queer, changed voice. "i've altered my mind--i'd like to hold her. see, is she not friendly? yes, baby, kiss me, baby, with your pretty mouth. does she not coo--isn't she perfect? you are quite right, nurse. i do like to hold her, very much indeed." "i said she'd take to you, miss," said nurse, in a gratified voice. "so she does, and i take to her. nurse, i wonder if you'd do something for me?" "of course i will, my dear." "i am so awfully hungry. would you go down' to the kitchen and choose a nice little dinner for me?" "i'll ring the bell, miss dalrymple. alice shall bring it to you on a tray here, if you've a mind to eat it in the nursery." "but i do want you to choose something; do go yourself, and find something dainty. do, nursie, please nursie. i want to be spoiled a little bit; no one ever spoils me now that my mamma is dead." "bless the child!" said good-natured and unsuspicious nurse. "of course i'll go, if you put it that way, missy. well, take care of baby, miss flower. don't attempt to carry her; hold her steady with your arm firm round her back. i'll bring you your dinner in ten minutes at latest, miss." chapter v. forsaken. the moment nurse's footsteps died away flower sprang to her feet, snatched up a white wool shawl, which lay over the baby's cot, wrapped it round her, and flew downstairs with the little creature in her arms. out through a side door which stood open ran flower, down by the shrubbery, over the stile, and in a few moments she was out again on the wide, wild, lonely moor with polly's pet pressed close to her beating heart. long before nurse had returned to the nursery flower had reached the moor, and when poor, distracted nurse discovered her loss, flower had wriggled herself into the middle of a clump of young oak-trees, and was fondling and petting little pearl, who sat upright on her knee. from her hiding-place flower could presently hear footsteps and voices, but none of them came near her, and for the present baby was contented, and did not cry. after a time the footsteps moved further off, and flower peeped from her shelter. "now, baby, come on," she said. she wrapped the shawl again firmly round the little one, and started with a kind of trotting motion over the outskirts of the moor. she was intensely excited, and her cheeks were flushed with the first delicious glow of victory. oh, how sorry polly would be now for having attempted to oppose her. yes, polly would know now that flower dalrymple was not a person to be trifled with. she was really a strong girl, though she had a peculiarly fragile look. the weight of the three months' old baby was not very great, and for a time she made quite rapid progress. after she had walked about a mile she stood still to consider and to make her plans. no more ignorant girl in all england could perhaps be found than this same poor silly, revengeful flower; but even she, with all her ideas australian, and her knowledge of english life and ways simply null and void, even she knew that the baby could not live for a long time without food and shelter on the wide common land which lay around. she did not mean to steal baby for always, but she thought she would keep her for a month or two, until polly was well frightened and repentant, and then she would send her back by some kind, motherly woman whom she was sure to come across. as to herself, she had fully made up her mind never again to enter the doors of sleepy hollow, for it would be impossible for her, she felt, to associate with any people who had sat down to dinner with the kitchen-maid. holding the baby firmly in her arms, flower stood and hesitated. the warm fleecy white shawl sheltered little pearl from all cold, and for the present she slept peacefully. "i must try and find some town," thought flower. "i must walk to some town--the nearest, i suppose--with baby. then i will sell one of my rings, and try to get a nice woman to give me a lodging. if she is a motherly person--and i shall certainly look out for some one that is--i can give her little pearl when i get tired of her, and she can take her back to sleepy hollow. but i won't give pearl up for the present; for, in the first place she amuses me, and in the next i wish polly to be well punished. now i wonder which is the nearest way to the town? if i were at ballarat, i should know quickly enough by the sign-posts placed at intervals all over the country, but they don't seem to have anything of the sort here in barbarous england. now, how shall i get to the nearest town without meeting any one who would be likely to tell dr. maybright?" flower had scarcely expressed herself in this fashion before once again the rough-looking man crossed her path. she greeted him quite joyfully. "oh! you're just the person i want," she exclaimed. "i've got my purse now, and a little money in it. would you like to earn a shilling?" "sure-_ly_," said the man. "but i'd a sight rather 'arn two," he added. "i'll give you two. i have not got much money, but i'll certainly give you two shillings if you'll help me now. i have got a little baby here--a dear little baby, but she's rather heavy. i am running away with her to revenge myself on somebody. i don't mind telling you that, for you look like an outlaw yourself, and you'll sympathize with me. i want you to carry baby for me, and to take us both to the nearest town. do you hear? will you do it?" "sure-_ly_," said the man, favoring flower with a long, peculiar glance. "well, here's baby; you must be very careful of her. i'll give you _three_ shillings after you have taken her and me to the nearest town; and if you are really kind, and walk quickly, and take us to a nice restaurant where i can have a good dinner--for i am awfully hungry--you shall have something to eat yourself as well. now walk on in front of me, please, and don't waste any more time, for it would be dreadful if we were discovered." the man shambled on at once in front of flower; his strong arms supported little pearl comfortably, and she slumbered on in an unbroken dream. the bright sunlight had now faded, the short october day was drawing in, the glory and heat of the morning had long departed, and flower, whose green cloth dress was very light in texture, felt herself shivering in the sudden cold. "are you certain you are going to the nearest town?" she called out to the man. "sure-_ly_," he responded back to her. he was stepping along at a swinging pace, and flower was very tired, and found it difficult to keep up with him. having begged of him so emphatically to hurry, she did not like to ask him now to moderate his steps. to keep up with him at all she had almost to run; and she was now not only hungry, cold, and tired, but the constant quick motion took her breath away. they had left the border of the moor, and were now in the middle of a most desolate piece of country. as flower looked around her she shivered with the first real sensation of loneliness she had ever known. the moor seemed to fill the whole horizon. desolate moor and lowering sky--there seemed to be nothing else in all the world. "where is the nearest town?" she gasped at last. "oh, what a long, long way off it is!" "it's miles away!" said the man, suddenly stopping and turning round fiercely upon her; "but ef you're hungry, there's a hut yer to the left where my mother lives. she'll give you a bit of supper and a rest, ef so be as you can pay her well." "oh, yes, i can pay her," responded flower. the thought of any shelter or any food was grateful to the fastidious girl now. "i am very hungry and very tired," she said. "i will gladly rest in your mother's cottage. where is it?" "i said as it wor a hut. there are two dawgs there: be you afeard?" "of _dogs_? i am not afraid of anything!" said flower, curling her short lip disdainfully. "you _be_ a girl!" responded the man. he shambled on again in front, and presently they came in sight of the deserted hermit's hut, where polly and maggie a few weeks before had been led captive. a woman was standing in the doorway, and by her side, sitting up on their haunches, were two ugly, lean-looking dogs. "down, cinder and flinder!" said the woman. "down you brutes! now, patrick, what have you been up to? whatever's that in your arms, and who's a-follering of yer?" "this yer's a babby," said the man, "and this yer's a girl. she," pointing to flower, "wants to be took to the nearest town, and she have money to pay, she says." "oh! she have money to pay?" said the wife of micah jones--for it was she. "them as has money to pay is oilers and oilers welcome. come in, and set you down by the fire, hinney. well, well, and so you has brought a babby with you! give it to me, pat. what do you know, you great hulking feller! about the tending of babbies?" the man gladly relinquished his charge, then pointed backwards with his finger at flower. "she's cold and 'ungry, and she has money to pay," he said. "come in, then, missy, come in; yer's a good fire, and a hunk of cheese, and some brown bread, and there'll be soup by-and-by. yes," winking at her son, "there'll be good strong soup by-and-by." flower, who had come up close to the threshold of the hut, now drew back a step or two. at sight of the woman her courage had revived, her feeling of extreme loneliness had vanished, and a good deal of the insolence which often marked her bearing had in consequence returned to her. "i won't go in," she said. "it looks dirty in there and i hate dirt. no, i won't go in! bring me some food out here, please. of course i'll pay you." "highty-tighty!" said the woman. "and is wee babby to stay out in the cold night air?" "i forgot about the baby," said flower. "give her to me. is the night air bad for babies?" she asked, looking up inquiringly at the great rough woman who stood by her side. flower's utter and fearless indifference to even the possibility of danger had much the same effect on mrs. jones that it had upon her son. they both owned to a latent feeling of uneasiness in her presence. had she showed the least trace of fear; had she dreaded them, or tried in any way to soften them, they would have known how to manage her. but flower addressed them much as she would have done menials in her kitchen at home. the mother, as well as the son, muttered under her breath--"never see'd such a gel!" she dropped the baby into flower's outstretched arms, and answered her query in a less surly tone than usual. "for sure night air is bad for babes, and this little 'un is young. yes, werry young and purty." the woman pulled aside the white fluffy shawl; two soft clear brown eyes looked up at her, and a little mouth was curved to a radiant smile. "fore sure she's purty," said the woman. "look, patrick. she minds me o'--well, never mind. missy, it ain't good for a babe like that to be out in the night air. you're best in the house, and so is the babe. the dawgs shan't touch yer. come into the house, and i'll give yer what supper's going, and the babe, pretty crittur, shall have a drink of milk." "i would not injure the baby," said flower. she held both arms firm round it, and entered the smoky, dismal hut. the wife of micah jones moved a stool in front of the fire, pushed flower rather roughly down on it, and then proceeded to cut thick hunches of sour bread and cheese. this was quite the coarsest food flower had ever eaten, and yet she never thought anything more delicious. while she ate the woman sat down opposite her. "i'll take the babe now and feed it," she said. "the pretty dear must be hungry." it was not little pearl's way to cry. it was her fashion to look tranquilly into all faces, and to take calmly every event, whether adverse or otherwise. when she looked at flower she smiled, and she smiled again into the face of the rough woman who, in consequence, fed her tenderly with the best she had to give. "is the soup done?" said the rough man, suddenly coming forward. "it's soup i'm arter. it's soup as'll put life into miss, and give her a mind to walk them miles to the nearest town." the woman laughed back at her son. "the soup's in the pot," she said. "you can give it a stir, pat, if you will. nathaniel will be in by-and-by, and he'll want his share. but you can take a bowl now, if you like, and give one to missy." "ay," said the man, "soup's good; puts life into a body." he fetched two little yellow bowls filled one for flower, stirring it first with a pewter spoon. "this'll put life into you, miss," he said. he handed the bowl of soup to the young girl. all this time the woman was bending over the baby. suddenly she raised her head. "'tis a bonny babe," she said. "ef i was you, pat, i wouldn't stir missy's soup. i'd give her your own bowl. i has no quarrel with miss, and the babe is fair. give her your own soup, patrick." "it's all right, mother, miss wouldn't eat as much as in my bowl. you ain't 'ungry enough for that, be you, miss?" "i am very hungry," said flower, who was gratefully drinking the hot liquid. "i could not touch this food if i was not _very_ hungry. if i want more soup i suppose i can have some more from the pot where this was taken. what is the matter, woman? what are you staring at me for?" "i think nought at all of you," said the woman, frowning, and drawing back, for flower's tone was very rude. "but the babe is bonny. here, take her back, she's like--but never mind. you'll be sleepy, maybe, and 'ud like to rest a bit. i meant yer no harm, but patrick's powerful, and he and nat, they does what they likes. they're the sons of micah jones, and he was a strong man in his day. you'd like to sleep, maybe, missy. here, patrick, take the bowl from the girl's hand." "i do feel very drowsy," said flower. "i suppose it is from being out all day. this hut is smoky and dirty, but i'll just have a doze for five minutes. please, patrick, wake me at the end of five minutes, for i must, whatever happens, reach the nearest town before night." as flower spoke her eyes closed, and the woman, laying her back on some straw, put the baby into her arms. "she'll sleep sound, pretty dear," she said. "ef i was you i wouldn't harm her, just for the sake of the babe," she concluded. "why, mother, what's took you? _i_ won't hurt missy. it's her own fault ef she runs away, and steals the baby. that baby belongs to the doctor what lives in the hollow; it's nought special, and you needn't be took up with it. ah, here comes nathaniel. nat, i've found a lass wandering on the moor, and i brought her home, and now the mother don't want us to share the booty." nathaniel jones was a man of very few words indeed. he had a fiercer, wilder eye than his brother, and his evidently was the dominant and ruling spirit. "the moon's rising," he said; "she'll be at her full in half an hour. do your dooty, mother, for we must be out of this, bag and baggage, in half an hour." without a word or a sigh, or even a glance of remorse, mrs. jones took the cap from flower's head, and feeling around her neck discovered the gold chain which held the little bag of valuables. without opening this she slipped it into her pocket. flower's dainty shoes were then removed, and the woman looked covetously at the long, fine, cloth dress, but shook her head over it. "i'd wake her if i took it," she said. "no, you wouldn't, i drugged the soup well," said pat. "well, anyhow, i'll leave her her dress. there's nought more but a handkerchief with a bit of lace on it." "take the baby's shawl," said nathaniel, "and let us be off. if the moon goes down we won't see the track. here, mother, i'll help myself to the wrap." "no, you won't," said the woman. "you don't touch the babe with the pale face and the smile of heaven. i'm ready; let's go." the dogs were called, and the entire party strode in single file along a narrow path, which led away in a westerly direction over peg-top moor. chapter vi. without her treasure. "there is a great fuss made about it all," said polly. this was her remark when her father left the pleasant picnic dinner and drove away over the moor in search of flower. "there is a great fuss made over it all. what is flower more than any other girl? why should she rule us all, and try to make things uncomfortable for us? no, david, you need not look at me like that. if flower has got silly australian notions in her head, she had better get rid of them as fast as possible. she is living with english people now, and english people all the world over won't put up with nonsense." "it isn't flower's ways i mean," said david. "her ways and her thoughts aren't much, but it's--it's when she gets into a passion. there's no use talking about it--you have done it now, polly!--but flower's passions are awful." david's eyes filled slowly with tears. "oh, you are a cry-baby," said polly. she knew she was making herself disagreeable all round. in her heart she admired and even loved david; but nothing would induce her to say she was sorry for any part she had taken in flower's disappearance. "everything is as tiresome as possible," she said, addressing her special ally, maggie. "there, mag, you need not stare at me. your brain will get as small as ever again if you don't take care, and i know staring in that stupid way you have is particularly weakening to the brain. you had better help george to pack up, for i suppose nell is right, and we must all begin to think of getting home. oh, dear, what a worry it is to have to put up with the whims of other people. yes, i understand at last why father hesitated to allow the strangers to come here." "i wouldn't grumble any more, if i were you, polly," said helen. "see how miserable david looks. i do hope father will soon find flower. i did not know that david was so very fond of her." "david is nervous," retorted polly, shortly. then she turned to and packed in a vigorous manner, and very soon after the little party started on their return walk home. it was decidedly a dull walk. polly's gay spirits were fitful and forced; the rest of the party did not attempt to enjoy themselves. david lagged quite behind the others; and poor maggie confided to george that somehow or other, she could not tell why, they were all turning their eyes reproachful-like on her. the sun had gone in now in the heavens, and the children, who had no sunshine in their hearts just then, had a vivid consciousness that it was late autumn, and that the summer was quite at an end. as they neared the rise in the moor which hid sleepy hollow from view, david suddenly changed his position from the rear to the van. as they approached the house he stooped down, picked up a small piece of paper, looked at it, uttered a cry of fear and recognition, and ran off as fast as ever he could to the house. "what a queer boy david is!" was on polly's lips; but she could scarcely say the words before he came out again. his face was deadly white, he shook all over, and the words he tried to say only trembled on his lips. "what is it, david?" said the twins, running up to him. "she'll believe me now," said david. he panted violently, his teeth chattered. "oh! david, you frighten us! what can be the matter? polly, come here! nell, come and tell us what is the matter with david." the elder girls, and the rest of the children, collected in the porch. polly, the tallest of all, looked over the heads of the others. she caught sight of david's face, and a sudden pain, a queer sense of fear, and the awakening of a late remorse, filled her breast. "what is it, david?" she asked, with the others; but her voice shook, and was scarcely audible. "she's done it!" said david. "the baby's gone! it's flower! she was in one of her passions, and she has taken the baby away. i said she wasn't like other girls. nurse thinks perhaps the baby'll die. what is it?--oh, polly! what is it!" for polly had given one short scream, and, pushing david and every one aside, rushed wildly into the house. she did not hear the others calling after her; she heard nothing but a surging as of great waves in her ears, and david's words echoing along the passages and up the stairs "perhaps the baby will die!" she did not see her father, who held out his arms to detain her. she pushed alice aside without knowing that she touched her. in a twinkling she was at the nursery door; in a twinkling she was kneeling by the empty cot, and clasping the little frilled pillow on which baby's head used to rest passionately to her lips. "it's true, then!" she gasped, at last. "i know now what david meant; i know now why he warned me. oh nursie! nursie! it's my fault!" "no, no, my darling!" said nurse; "it's that dreadful young lady. but she'll bring her back. sure, what else could she do, lovey? she'll bring the little one back, and, by the blessing of the good god, she'll be none the worse for this. don't take on so, miss polly! don't look like that, dear! why, your looks fairly scare me." "i'll be better in a minute," said polly. "this is no time for feelings. i'll be quiet in a minute. have you got any cold water? there's such a horrid loud noise in my ears." she rushed across the room, poured a quantity of water into a basin, and laved her face and head. "now i can think," she said. "what did flower do, nurse? tell me everything; tell me in very few words, please, for there isn't a moment--there isn't half a moment--to lose." "it was this way, dear: she came into the room, and took baby into her arms, and asked for some dinner. she didn't seem no way taken with baby at first, but when i told her how much you loved our little miss pearl, she asked me to give her to her quite greedy-like, and ordered me to fetch some dinner for herself, for she was starving, she said. i offered that alice should bring it; but no, she was all that i should choose something as would tempt her appetite, and she coaxed with that pretty way she have, and i went down to the kitchen myself to please her. i'll never forgive myself, never, to the longest day i live. i wasn't ten minutes gone, but when i come back with a nice little tray of curry, and some custard pie, miss flower and the baby were away. that's all--they hasn't been seen since." "how long ago is that, nurse?" "i couldn't rightly tell you, dearie--maybe two hours back. i ran all round the moor anywhere near, and so did every servant in the house, but since the doctor come in they has done the thing properly. now where are you going, miss polly, love?" "to my father. i wish this horrid noise wouldn't go on in my head. don't worry me, nurse. i know it was my fault. i wouldn't listen to the warning, and i would provoke her, but don't scold me now until i have done my work." polly rushed downstairs. "where's father?" she asked of bunny, who was sobbing violently, and clinging in a frantic manner to firefly's skirts. "i--i don't know. he's out." "he's away on the moor," said fly. "polly, are you really anxious about baby pearl?" "i have no time to be anxious," said polly. "i must find her first. i'll tell you then if i'm anxious. where's nell, where are the twins?" "on the moor; they all went out with father." "which moor, the south or peg-top?" "i think the south moor." "all right, i'm going out too. what's the matter, fly? oh, you're not to come." "please, please, it's so horrid in the house, and bunny does make my dress so soppy with crying into it." "you're not to come. you are to stay here and do your best, your very best, for father and the others when they come home. if they don't meet me, say i've gone to look for baby and for flower. i'll come back when i've found them. if _they_ find baby and flower, they might ask to have the church bells rung, then i'll know. don't stare at me like that, fly; it was my fault, so i must search until i find them." polly ran out of the house and down the lawn. once again she was out on the moor. the great solitary commons stretched to right and left; they were everywhere, they filled the whole horizon, except just where sleepy hollow lay, with its belt of trees, its cultivated gardens, and just beyond the little village and the church with the square, gray tower. there was a great lump in polly's throat, and a mist before her eyes. the dreadful beating was still going on in her heart, and the surging, ceaseless waves of sound in her ears. suddenly she fell on her knees. "please, god, give me back little pearl. please, god, save little pearl. i don't want anything else; i don't even want father to forgive me, if you will save little pearl." most earnest prayers bring a sense of comfort, and polly did not feel quite so lonely when she stood again on her feet, with the bracken and the fern all round her. she tried hard now to collect her thoughts; she made a valiant effort to feel calm and reasonable. "i can do nothing if i get so excited," she said to herself. "i must just fight with my anxious spirit. my heart must stay quiet, for my brain has got to work now. let me see! where has flower taken baby? father and nell and the others are all searching the south moor, so i will go on to peg-top. i will walk slowly, and i will look behind every clump of trees, and i will call flower's name now and then; for i am sure, i am quite, quite sure that, however dreadful her passion may have been, if flower is the least like me, she will be dreadfully sorry by now--dreadfully sorry and dreadfully frightened--so if she hears me calling she will be sure to answer. oh, dear! oh, dear! here is my heart speaking again, and my head is in a whirl, and the noises are coming back into my ears. oh! how fearfully i hate flower! how could she, how could she have taken our darling little baby away? and yet--and yet i think i'd forgive flower; i think i'd try to love her; i think i'd even tell her that i was the one who had done most wrong; i think i'd even go on my knees and beg flower's pardon, if only i could hold baby to my heart again!" by this time polly was crying bitterly. these tears did the poor child good, relieving the pressure on her brain, and enabling her to think calmly and coherently. while this tempest of grief, however, effected these good results, it certainly did not improve her powers of observation; the fast-flowing tears blinded her eyes, and she stumbled along, completely forgetting the dangerous and uneven character of the ground over which she walked. it was now growing dusk, and the dim light also added to poor polly's dangers. peg-top moor had many tracks leading in all directions. polly knew several of these, and where they led, but she had now left all the beaten paths, and the consequence was that she presently found herself uttering a sharp and frightened cry, and discovered that she had fallen down a fairly steep descent. she was slightly stunned by her fall, and for a moment or two did not attempt to move. then a dull pain in her ankle caused her to put her hand to it, and to struggle giddily to a sitting position. "i'll be able to stand in a minute," she said to herself; and she pressed her hand to her forehead, and struggled bravely against the surging, waving sounds which had returned to her head. "i can't sit here!" she murmured; and she tried to get to her feet. in vain!--a sharp agony brought her, trembling and almost fainting, once more to a sitting posture. what was she to do?--how was she now to find flower and the baby? she was alone on the moor, unable to stir. perhaps her ankle was broken; certainly, it was sprained very badly. chapter vii. maggie to the rescue. when the maybrights returned home from their disastrous picnic at troublous times castle, maggie and george brought up the rear. in consequence of their being some little way behind the others, maggie did not at once know of the fact of flower's disappearance with the baby. she was naturally a slow girl; ideas came to her at rare intervals; she even received startling and terrible news with a certain outward stolidity and calm. still, maggie was not an altogether purposeless and thoughtless maiden; thoughts occasionally drifted her way; ideas, when once born in her heart, were slow to die. when affection took root there it became a very sturdy plant. if there was any one in the world whom maggie adored, it was her dear young mistress, miss polly maybright. often at night maggie awoke, and thought, with feelings of almost worship, of this bright, impulsive young lady. how delightful that week had been when she and polly had cooked, and housekeeped, and made cakes and puddings together! would any one but polly have forgiven her for taking that pound to save her mother's furniture? would any one in all the world, except that dear, warm-hearted, impulsive polly, have promised to do without a winter jacket in order to return that money to the housekeeping fund? maggie felt that, stupid as she knew herself to be, slow as she undoubtedly was, she could really do great things for polly. in polly's cause her brain could awake, the inertia which more or less characterized her could depart. for polly she could undoubtedly become a brave and active young person. she was delighted with herself when she assisted miss maybright to descend from her bedroom window, and to escape with her on to the moor, but her delight and sense of triumph had not been proof against the solitude of the sad moor, against the hunger which was only to be satisfied with berries and spring water, and, above all, against the terrible apparition of the wife of micah jones. what maggie went, through in the hermit's hut, what terrors she experienced, were only known to maggie's own heart. when, however, mrs. ricketts got back her daughter from that terrible evening's experience, she emphatically declared that "mag were worse nor useless; that she seemed daft-like, and a'most silly, and that never, never to her dying day, would she allow mag to set foot on them awful lonely commons again." mrs. ricketts, however, was not a particularly obstinate character, and when polly's bright face peeped round her door, and polly eagerly, and almost curtly, demanded that maggie should that very moment accompany her on a delightful picnic to troublous times castle, and maggie herself, with sparkling eyes and burning cheeks, was all agog to go, and was now inclined to pooh-pooh the terrors she had endured in the hermit's hut, there was nothing for mrs. ricketts to do but to forget her vow and send off the two young people with her blessing. "eh, but she's a dear young lady," she said, under her breath, apostrophizing miss maybright. "and mag do set wonderful store by her, and no mistake. it ain't every young lady as 'ud think of my maggie when she's going out pleasuring; but bless miss polly! she seems fairly took up with my poor gel." no face could look more radiant than maggie's when she started for the picnic, but, on the other hand, no young person could look more thoroughly sulky and downcast than she did on her return. mrs. ricketts was just dishing up some potatoes for supper when maggie flung open the door of the tiny cottage, walked across the room, and flung herself on a little settle by the fire. "you're hungry, mag," said mrs. ricketts, without looking up. "no, i bean't," replied maggie, shortly. "eh, i suppose you got your fill of good things out with the young ladies and gentlemen. it ain't your poor mother's way to have a bit of luck like that, and you never thought, i suppose, of putting a slice or two of plum cake, or maybe the half of a chicken, in your pocket, as a bit of a relish for your mother's supper. no, no, that ain't your way, mag; you're all for self, and that i will say." "no, i ain't mother. you has no call to talk so. how could i hide away chicken and plum cake, under miss polly's nose, so to speak. i was setting nigh to miss polly, mother, jest about the very middle of the feast. i had a place of honor close up to miss polly, mother." "eh, to be sure!" exclaimed mrs. ricketts. she stopped dishing up the potatoes, wiped her brow, and turned to look at her daughter, with a slow expression of admiration in her gaze. "eh," she continued, "you has a way about you, mag, with all your contrariness. miss polly maybright thinks a sight on you, mag; seems to me as if maybe she'd adopt you, and turn you into a real lady. my word, i have read of such things in story-books." "you had better go on dishing up your supper, mother and not be talking nonsense like that. miss polly is a very good young lady, but she hasn't no thought of folly of that sort. eh, dear me," continued maggie, yawning prodigiously "i'm a bit tired, and no mistake." "that's always the way," responded mrs. ricketts. "tired and not a word to say after your pleasuring; no talking about what happened, and what miss helen wore, and if miss firefly has got on her winter worsted stockings yet, and not a mention of them foreigners as we're all dying to hear of, and not a word of what victuals you ate, nor nothing. you're a selfish girl, maggie ricketts, and that i will say, though i am your mother." "i'm sleepy," responded maggie, who seemed by no means put out by this tirade on the part of her mother. "i'll go up to bed if you don't mind, mother. no, i said afore as i wasn't hungry." she left the room, crept up the step-ladder to the loft, where the family slept, and opening the tiny dormer window, put her elbows on the sill and gazed out on the gathering gloom which was settling on the moor. the news of the calamity which had befallen polly had reached maggie's ears. maggie thought only of polly in this trouble; it was polly's baby who was lost, it was polly whose heart would be broken. she did not consider the others in the matter. it was polly, the polly whom she so devotedly loved, who filled her whole horizon. when the news was told her she scarcely said a word; a heavy, "eh!--you don't say!" dropped from her lips. even george, who was her informer, wondered if she had really taken in the extent of the catastrophe; then she had turned on her heel and walked down to her mother's cottage. she was not all thoughtless and all indifferent, however. while she looked so stoical and heavy she was patiently working out an idea, and was nerving herself for an act of heroism. now as she leant her elbows on the sill by the open window, cold fear came and stood by her side. she was awfully frightened, but her resolve did not falter. she meant to slip away in the dusk and walk across peg-top moor to the hermit's hut. an instinct, which she did not try either to explain away or prove, led her to feel sure that she should find polly's baby in the hermit's hut. she would herself, unaided and alone, bring little pearl back to her sister. it would have been quite possible for maggie to have imparted her ideas to george, to her mother, or to some of the neighbors. there was not a person in the village who would not go to the rescue of the doctor's child. maggie might have accompanied a multitude, had she so willed it, to the hermit's hut. but then the honor and glory would not have been hers; a little reflection of it might shine upon her, but she would not bask, as she now hoped to do, in its full rays. she determined to go across the lonely moor which she so dreaded alone, for she alone must bring back pearl to polly. shortly before the moon arose, and long after sunset, maggie crept down the attic stairs, unlatched the house door, and stepped out into the quiet village street. her fear was that some neighbors would see her, and either insist on accompanying her on her errand, or bring her home. the village, however, was very quiet that night, and at nine o'clock, when maggie started on her search, there were very few people out. she came quickly to the top of the small street, crossed a field, squeezed through a gap in the hedge, and found herself on the borders of peg-top moor. the moon was bright by this time, and there was no fear of maggie not seeing. she stepped over the ground briskly, a solitary little figure with a long shadow ever stalking before her, and a beating, defiant heart in her breast. she had quite determined that whatever agony she went through, her fears should not conquer her; she would fight them down with a strong hand, she would go forward on her road, come what might. maggie was an ignorant little cottager, and there were many folk-lore tales abroad with regard to the moor which might have frightened a stouter heart than hers. she believed fully in the ghost who was to be seen when the moon was at the full, pacing slowly up and down, through that plantation of trees at her right; she had unswerving faith in the bogey who uttered terrific cries, and terrified the people who were brave enough to walk at night through deadman's glen. but she believed more fully still in polly, in polly's love and despair, and in the sacredness of the errand which she was now undertaking to deliver her from her trouble. from mrs. ricketts' cottage to the hermit's hut there lay a stretch of moorland covering some miles in extent, and maggie knew that the lonely journey she was taking could not come to a speedy end. she knew, however, that she had got on the right track and that by putting one foot up and one foot down, as the children do who want to reach london town, she also at last would come to her destination. the moon shone brightly, and the little maid, her shadow always going before her, stepped along bravely. now and then that same shadow seemed to assume gigantic and unearthly proportions, but at other times it wore a friendly aspect, and somewhat comforted the young traveler. "it's more or less part of me," quoth maggie, "and i must say as i'm glad i have it, it's better nor nought; but oh ain't the moon fearsome, and don't my heart a-flutter, and a pit-a-pat! i'm quite sure now, yes, i'm quite gospel sure that ef i was to meet the wife of micah jones, i'd fall flat down dead at her feet. oh, how fearsome is this moor! well, ef i gets hold of miss pearl i'll never set foot an it again. no, not even for a picnic, and the grandest seat at the feast, and the best of the victuals." the moon shone on, and presently the interminable walk came to a conclusion. maggie reached the hermit's hut, listened with painful intentness for the baying of some angry dogs, pressed her nose against the one pane of glass in the one tiny window, saw nothing, heard nothing, finally lifted the latch, and went in. chapter viii. the hermit's hut. it was perfectly dark inside the hut, for the little window, through which the moon might have shone, was well shrouded with a piece of old rug. it was perfectly dark, and maggie, although she had stumbled a good deal in lifting the latch, and having to descend a step without knowing it, had all but tumbled headlong into the tiny abode, had evoked no answering sound or stir of any sort. she stood still for a moment in the complete darkness to recover breath, and to consider what she was to do. strange to say, she did not feel at all frightened now; the shelter of the four walls gave her confidence. there were no dogs about, and maggie felt pretty sure that the wife of micah jones was also absent, for if she were in the hut, and awake, she would be sure to say, "who's there?" quoth maggie, to her own heart; "and ef she's in the hut, and asleep, why it wouldn't be like her not to snore." the little girl stood still for a full minute; during this time she was collecting her faculties, and that brain, which polly was pleased to call so small, was revolving some practical schemes. "ef i could only lay my hand on a match, now," she thought. she suddenly remembered that in her mother's cottage the match-box was generally placed behind a certain brick near the fireplace; it was a handy spot, both safe and dry, and maggie, since her earliest days, had known that if there was such a luxury as a box of matches in the house, it would be found in this corner. she wondered if the wife of micah jones could also have adopted so excellent a practice. she stepped across the little hut, felt with her hands right and left, poked about all round the open fireplace, and at last, joy of joys, not only discovered a box with a few matches in it, but an end of candle besides. in a moment she had struck a match, had applied it to the candle, and then, holding the flickering light high, looked around the little hut. a girl, crouched up against the wall on some straw, was gazing at her with wide-open terrified eyes; the girl was perfectly still, not a muscle in her body moved, only her big frightened eyes gazed fixedly at maggie. she wore no hat on her head; her long yellow hair lay in confusion over her shoulders; her feet were shoeless, and one arm was laid with a certain air of protection on a wee white bundle on the straw by her side. "who are you?" said flower, at last. "are you a ghost, or are you the daughter of the dreadful woman who lives in this hut? see! i had a long sleep. she put me to sleep, i know she did; and while i was asleep she stole my purse and rings, and my hat and shoes. but that's nothing, that's nothing at all. while i was asleep, baby here died. i know she's quite dead, she has not stirred nor moved for hours, at least it seems like hours. what are you staring at me in that rude way for, girl? i'm quite sure the baby, polly's little sister, is dead." nobody could speak in a more utterly apathetic way than flower. her voice neither rose nor fell. she poured out her dreary words in a wailing monotone. "i know that it's my fault," she added; "polly's little sister has died because of me." she still held her hand over the white bundle. "i'm terrified, but not of you," she added; "you may be a ghost, stealing in here in the dark; or you may be the daughter of that dreadful woman. but whoever you are, it's all alike to me. i got into one of my passions. i promised my mother when she died that i'd never get into another, but i did, i got into one to-day. i was angry with polly maybright; i stole her little sister away, and now she's dead. i am so terrified at what i have done that i never can be afraid of anything else. you need not stare so at me, girl; whoever you are i'm not afraid of you." maggie had now found an old bottle to stick her candle into. "i am miss polly's little kitchen-maid, maggie ricketts," she replied. "i ain't a ghost, and i haven't nothing to say to the wife of micah jones. as to the baby, let me look at it. you're a very bad young lady, miss flower, but i has come to fetch away the baby, ef you please, so let me look at it this minute. oh, my, how my legs do ache; that moor is heavy walking! give me the baby, please, miss flower. it ain't your baby, it's miss polly's." "so, you're maggie?" said flower. there was a queer shake in her voice. "it was about you i was so angry. yes, you may look at the baby; take it and look at it, but i don't want to see it, not if it's dead." maggie instantly lifted the little white bundle into her arms, removed a portion of the shawl, and pressed her cheek against the cheek of the baby. the little white cheek was cold, but not deadly cold, and some faint, faint breath still came from the slightly parted lips. when maggie had anything to do, no one could be less nervous and more practical. "the baby ain't dead at all," she explained. "she's took with a chill, and she's very bad, but she ain't dead. mother has had heaps of babies, and i know what to do. little miss pearl must have a hot bath this minute." "oh, maggie," said flower. "oh, maggie, maggie!" her frozen indifference, her apathy, had departed. she rose from her recumbent position, pushed back her hair and stood beside the other young girl, with eyes that glowed, and yet brimmed over with tears. "oh, what a load you have taken off my heart!" she exclaimed. "oh, what a darling you are! kiss me, maggie, kiss me, dear, dear maggie." "all right, miss. you was angry with me afore, and now you're a-hugging of me, and i don't see no more sense in one than t'other. ef you'll hold the baby up warm to you, miss, and breathe ag'in her cheek werry gentle-like, you'll be a-doing more good than a-kissing of me. i must find sticks, and i must light up a fire, and i must do it this minute, or we won't have no baby to talk about, nor fuss over." maggie's rough and practical words were perhaps the best possible tonic for flower at this moment. she had been on the verge of a fit of hysterics, which might have been as terrible in its consequences as either her passion or her despair. now trembling slightly, she sat down on the little stool which maggie had pulled forward for her, took the baby in her arms, and partly opening the shawl which covered it, breathed on its white face. the little one certainly was alive, and when flower's breath warmed it, its own breathing became stronger. meanwhile, maggie bustled about. the hermit's hut, now that she had something to do in it, seemed no longer at all terrible. after a good search round she found some sticks, and soon a bright fire blazed and crackled, and filled the tiny house with light and warmth. a pot of water was put on the fire to warm, and then maggie looked round for a vessel to bathe the baby in. she found a little wooden tub, which she placed ready in front of the fire. "so far, so good!" she exclaimed; "but never a sight of a towel is there to be seen. ef you'll give me the baby now, miss, i'll warm her limbs a bit afore i put her in the bath. i don't know how i'm to dry her, i'm sure, but a hot bath she must have." "i have got a white petticoat on," said flower. "would that be any use?" "off with it this minute, then, miss; it's better nor nought. now, then, my lamb! my pretty! see ef maggie don't pull you round in a twinkling!" she rubbed and chafed the little creature's limbs, and soon baby opened her eyes, and gave a weak, piteous cry. "i wish i had something to give her afore i put her in the bath," said maggie. "there's sure to be sperits of some sort in a house like this. you look round you and see ef you can't find something, miss flower." flower obediently searched in the four corners of the hut. "i can't see anything!" she exclaimed. "the place seems quite empty." "eh, dear!" said maggie: "you don't know how to search. take the baby, and let me." she walked across the cabin, thrust her hand into some straw which was pressed against the rafters, pulled out an old tin can and opened it. "eh, what's this?" she exclaimed. "sperits? now we'll do. give me the baby back again, miss flower, and fetch a cup, ef you please." flower did so. "put some hot water into it. why, you ain't very handy! miss polly's worth a dozen of you! now pour in a little of the sperit from the tin can--not too much. let me taste it. that will do. now, baby--now, miss polly's darling baby!--i'll wet your lips with this, and you'll have your bath, and you'll do fine!" the mixture was rubbed on the blue lips of the infant, and maggie even managed to get her to swallow a few drops. then, the bath being prepared by flower, under a shower of scathing ridicule from maggie, who had very small respect, in any sense of the word, for her assistant, the baby was put into it, thoroughly warmed, rubbed up, and comforted, and then, with the white fleecy shawl wrapped well around her, she fell asleep in maggie's arms. "she'll do for the present," said the kitchen-maid, leaning back and mopping a little moisture from her own brow. "she'll do for a time, but she won't do for long, for she'll want milk and all kinds of comforts. and i tell you what it is, miss flower, that my master and miss polly can't be kept a-fretting for this child until the morning. some one must go at once, and tell 'em where she is, and put 'em out of their misery, and the thing is this: is it you, or is it me, that's to do the job?" "but," said flower--she had scarcely spoken at all until now--"cannot we both go? cannot we both walk home, and take the baby with us?" "no, miss, not by no means. not a breath of night air must touch the cheeks of this blessed lamb. either you or me, miss flower, must walk back to sleepy hollow, and tell 'em about the baby, and bring back nurse, and what's wanted for the child. will you hold her, miss? and shall i trot off at once?--for there ain't a minute to be lost." "no," said flower, "i won't stay in the hut. it is dreadful to me. i will go and tell the doctor and polly." "as you please, miss. maybe it is best as i should stay with little missy. you'll find it awful lonesome out on the moor, miss flower, and i expect when you get near deadman's glen as you'll scream out with terror; there's a bogey there with a head three times as big as his body, and long arms, twice as long as they ought to be, and he tears up bits of moss and fern, and flings them at yer, and if any of them, even the tiniest bit, touches yer, why you're dead before the year is out. then there's the walking ghost and the shadowy maid, and the brown lady, the same color as the bracken when it's withering up, and--and--why, what's the matter, miss flower?" "only i respected you before you talked in that way," said flower. "i respected you very much, and i was awfully ashamed of not being able to eat my dinner with you. but when you talk in such an awfully silly way i don't respect you, so you had better not go on. please tell me, as well as you can, how i'm to get to sleepy hollow, and i'll start off at once." "you must beware of the brown lady, all the same." "no, i won't beware of her; i'll spring right into her arms." "and the bogey in deadman's glen. for heaven's sake, miss flower, keep to the west of deadman's glen." "if deadman's glen is a short cut to sleepy hollow, i'll walk through it. maggie, do you want nurse to come for little pearl, or not? i don't mind waiting here till morning; it does not greatly matter to me. i was running away, you know." "you must go at once," said maggie, recalled to common sense by another glance at the sleeping child. "the baby's but weakly, and there ain't nothing here as i can give her, except the sperits and water, until nurse comes. i'll lay her just for a minute on the straw here, and go out with you and put you on the track. you follow the track right on until you see the lights in the village. sleepy hollow's right in the village, and most likely there'll be a light in the doctor's study window; be quick, for heaven's sake, miss flower?" "yes, i'm off. oh, maggie, maggie! what do you think? that dreadful woman has stolen my shoes. i forgot all about it until this minute. what shall i do? i can't walk far in my stockings." "have my boots, miss; they're hob-nailed, and shaped after my foot, which is broad, as it should be, seeing as i'm only a kitchen-maid. but they're strong, and they are sure to fit you fine." "i could put my two feet into one of them," responded flower, curling her proud lip once again disdainfully. but then she glanced at the baby, and a queer shiver passed over her; her eyes grew moist, her hands trembled. "i will put the boots on," she said. and she slipped her little feet, in their dainty fine silk stockings, into maggie's shoes. "good-by, miss; come back as soon as you can," called out the faithful waiting-maid, and flower set off across the lonely moor. chapter ix. an old song. it took a great deal to frighten polly maybright; no discipline, no hard words, no punishments, had ever been able to induce the smallest sensation of fear in her breast. as to the moor, she had been brought up on it; she had drank in its air, and felt its kindly breath on her cheeks from her earliest days. the moors were to polly like dear, valued, but somewhat stern, friends. to be alone, even at night, in one of the small ravines of peg-top moor had little in itself to alarm the moorland child. it took polly some time to realize that she was absolutely unable to stir a step. struggle as she might, she could not put that badly-injured foot to the ground. even she, brave and plucky as she was, had not the nerve to undergo this agony. she could not move, therefore she could do nothing at present to recover little pearl. this was really the thought which distressed her. as to sleeping with her head pressed against the friendly bracken, or staying on peg-top moor all night, these were small considerations. but not to be able to stir a step to find the baby, to feel that flower was carrying the baby farther and farther away, and that polly's chance of ever seeing her again was growing less and less, became at last a thought of such agony that the poor little girl could scarcely keep from screaming aloud. "and it was all my fault!" she moaned. "i forgot what father said about climbing the highest mountain. when david came to me, and told me that flower was subject to those awful passions, i forgot all about my mountain-climbing. i did not recognize that i had come to a dangerous bit, so that i wanted the ropes of prayer and the memory of mother to pull me over it. no, i did nothing but rejoice in the knowledge that i didn't much like flower, and that i was very, very glad to tease her. now i am punished. oh, oh, what shall i do? oh, if baby is lost! if baby dies, i shall die too! oh, i think i'm the most miserable girl in all the world! what shall i do? why did mother go away? why did flower come here? why did i want her to come? i made a mess of the housekeeping, and now i have made a mess of the visit of the strangers. oh, i'm the sort of girl who oughtn't to go a step alone!--i really, really am! i think i'm the very weakest sort of girl in all the world!" polly sobbed and sobbed. it was not her custom to give way thus utterly, but she was in severe pain of body, and she had got a great shock when the loss of little pearl had been announced by david. "what shall i do?" she moaned and sobbed. "oh, i'm the sort of girl who oughtn't to go a step alone." while she cried all by herself on the moor, and the friendly stars looked down at her, and the moon came out and shone on her poor forsaken little figure, an old verse she used to say in her early childhood returned to her memory. it was the verse of a hymn--a hymn her mother was fond of, and used often to sing, particularly about the time of the new year, to the children. mrs. maybright had a beautiful voice, and on sunday evenings she sang many hymns, with wonderful pathos and feeling, to her children. polly, who cared for music on her own account, had loved to listen. at these times she always looked hungrily into her mother's face, and a longing and a desire for the best things of all awoke in her breast. it was at such times as these that she made resolves, and thought of climbing high and being better than others. since her mother's death, polly could not bear to listen to hymns. in church she had tried to shut her ears; her lips were closed tight, and she diligently read to herself some other part of the service. for her mother's sake, the hymns, with that one beautiful voice silent, were torture to her; but polly was a very proud girl, and no one, not even her father, who now came nearest to her in all the world, guessed what she suffered. now, lying on the moor, her mother's favorite hymn seemed to float down from the stars to her ears: "i know not the way i am going, but well do i know my guide; with a trusting faith i give my hand to the loving friend at my side." "the only thing that i say to him as he takes it is, 'hold it fast! suffer me not to lose my way, and bring me home at last!'" it did not seem at all to polly that she was repeating these words herself; rather they seemed to be said to her gently, slowly, distinctly, by a well-loved and familiar voice. it was true, then, there was a guide, and those who were afraid to go alone could hold a hand which would never lead them astray. her bitter sobs came more quietly as she thought of this. gradually her eyes closed, and she fell asleep. when flower started across the moor it was quite true that she was not in the least afraid. a great terror had come to her that night; during those awful minutes when she feared the baby was dead, the terror of the deed she had done had almost stunned her; but when maggie came and relieved her of her worst agony, a good deal of her old manner and a considerable amount of her old haughty, defiant spirit had returned. flower was more or less uncivilized; there was a good deal of the wild and of the untamed about her; and now that the baby was alive, and likely to do well, overwhelming contrition for the deed she had done no longer oppressed her. she stepped along as quickly as her uncomfortable boots would admit. the moonlight fell full on her slender figure, and cast a cold radiance over her uncovered head. her long, yellow hair floated down over her shoulders; she looked wonderfully ethereal, almost unearthly, and had any of the villagers been abroad, they might well have taken her for one of the ghosts of the moor. flower had a natural instinct for finding her way, and, aided by maggie's directions, she steered in a straight course for the village. not a soul was abroad; she was alone, in a great solitude. the feeling gave her a certain sense of exhilaration. from the depths of her despair her easily influenced spirits sprang again to hope and confidence. after all, nothing very dreadful had happened. she must struggle not to give way to intemperate feelings. she must bear with polly! she must put up with maggie. it was all very trying, of course, but it was the english way. she walked along faster and faster, and now her lips rose in a light song, and now again she ran, eager to get over the ground. when she ran her light hair floated behind her, and she looked less and less like a living creature. polly had slept for nearly two hours. she awoke to hear a voice singing, not the sweet, touching, high notes which had seemed to fall from the stars to comfort her, but a wild song: "oh, who will up and follow me? oh, who will with me ride? oh, who will up and follow me to win a bonny bride?" for a moment polly's heart stood still; then she started forward with a glad and joyful cry. "it is flower! flower coming back again with little pearl!" she said, in a voice of rapture. "that is flower's song and flower's voice, and she wouldn't sing so gayly if baby was not quite, quite well, and if she was not bringing her home." polly rose, as well as she could, to a sitting posture, and shouted out in return: "here i am, flower. come to me. bring me baby at once." even flower, who in many respects had nerves of iron, was startled by this sudden apparition among the bracken. for a brief instant she pressed her hand to her heart. were maggie's tales true? were there really queer and unnatural creatures to be found on the moor? "come here, flower, here! i have sprained my ankle. what are you afraid of?" shouted polly again. then flower sprang to her side, knelt down by her, and took her cold hand in hers. flower's slight fingers were warm; she was glowing all over with life and exercise. "where's baby?" said polly, a sickly fear stealing over her again when she saw that the queer girl was alone. "baby? she's in the hermit's hut with maggie. don't scold me, polly. i'm very sorry i got into a passion." polly pushed flower's fingers a little away. "i don't want to be angry," she said. "i've been asking god to keep me from being angry. i did wrong myself, i did very wrong, only you did worse; you did worse than i did, flower." "i don't see that at all. at any rate, i have said i am sorry. no one is expected to beg pardon twice. how is it you are out here, lying on the moor, polly? are you mad?" "no. i came out to look for baby, and for you." "but why are you here? you could not find us in that lazy fashion." "look at my foot; the moonlight shines on it. see, it is twisted all round. i fell from a height and hurt myself. i have been lying here for hours." "poor polly! i am really sorry. i once strained my foot like that. the pain was very bad--very, very bad. mother kept my foot on her knee all night; she bathed it all night long; in the morning it was better." "please, flower, don't mind about my foot now. tell me about baby. is she ill? have you injured her?" "i don't know. i suppose i did wrong to take her out like that. i said before, i was sorry. i was frightened about her, awfully frightened, until maggie came in. i was really afraid baby was dead. i don't want to speak of it. it wasn't true. don't look at me like that. maggie came, and said that little pearl lived. i was so relieved that i kissed maggie, yes, actually, although she is only a kitchen-maid. maggie got a warm bath ready, and put baby in, and when i left the hut she was sound asleep. maggie knew exactly what to do for her. fancy my kissing her, although she is only a kitchen-maid!" "she is the dearest girl in the world!" said polly. "i think she is noble. think of her going to the hermit's hut, and finding baby, and saving baby's life. oh, she is the noblest girl in the world, miles and miles above you and me!" "you can speak for yourself. i said she behaved very well. it is unnecessary to compare her to people in a different rank of life. now, do you think you can lean on me, and so get back to sleepy hollow?" "no, flower. i cannot possibly stir. look at my foot; it is twisted the wrong way." "then i must leave you, for maggie has sent me in a great hurry to get milk, and comforts of all sorts, for baby." "please don't stay an instant. run, flower. why did you stay talking so long? if father is in the house, you can tell him, and he will come, i know, and carry me home. but, oh! get everything that is wanted for baby first of all. i am not of the smallest consequence compared to baby. do run, flower; do be quick. it frets me so awfully to see you lingering here when baby wants her comforts." "i shan't be long," said flower. she gathered up her skirts, and sped down the path, and polly gave a sigh of real relief. chapter x. looking at herself. that night, which was long remembered in the annals of the maybright family as one of the dreariest and most terrible they had ever passed through, came to an end at last. with the early dawn polly was brought home, and about the same time nurse and maggie reappeared with baby on the scene. flower, after she had briefly told her tidings, went straight up to her own room, where she locked the door, and remained deaf to all entreaties on david's part that he might come in and console her. "she's always dreadful after she has had a real bad passion," he explained to fly, who was following him about like a little ghost. "i wish she would let me in. she spends herself so when she is in a passion that she is quite weak afterwards. she ought to have a cup of tea; i know she ought." but it was in vain that david knocked, and that little fly herself, even though she felt that she hated flower, brought the tea. there was no sound at the other side of the locked door, and after a time the anxious watchers went away. at that moment, however, had anybody been outside, they might have seen pressed against the window-pane in that same room a pale but eager face. had they looked, too, they might have wondered at the hard lines round the young, finely-cut lips, and yet the eager, pleading watching in the eyes. there was a stir in the distance--the far-off sound of wheels. flower started to her feet, slipped the bolt of her door, ran downstairs, and was off and away to meet the covered carriage which was bringing baby home. she called to george, who was driving it, to stop. she got in, and seated herself beside nurse and baby. "how is she? will she live?" she asked, her voice trembling. "god grant it!" replied the nurse. "what are you doing, miss flower? no, you shan't touch her." "i must! give her to me this moment. there is dr. maybright. give me baby this moment. i must, i _will_, have her!" she almost snatched the little creature out of nurse's astonished arms, and as the carriage drew up at the entrance steps sprang out, and put the baby into dr. maybright's arms. "there!" she said; "i took her away, but i give her back. i was in a passion and angry when i took her away; now i repent, and am sorry, and i give her back to you? don't you see, i can't do more than give her back to you? that is our way out in victoria. don't you slow english people understand? i was angry; now i am sorry. why do you all stand round and stare at me like that? can anybody be more than sorry, or do more than give back what they took?" "it is sometimes impossible to give back what we took away, flower," replied the doctor, very gravely. he was standing in the midst of his children; his face was white; his eyes had a strained look in them; the strong hands with which he clasped little pearl trembled. he did not look again at flower, who shrank away as if she had received a blow, and crept upstairs. for the rest of the day she was lost sight of; there was a great deal of commotion and excitement. polly, when she was brought home, was sufficiently ill and suffering to require the presence of a doctor; little pearl showed symptoms of cold, and for her, too, a physician prescribed. why not dr. maybright? the children were not accustomed to strange faces and unfamiliar voices when they were ill or in pain. polly had a curious feeling when the new doctor came to see her; he prescribed and went away. polly wondered if the world was coming to an end; she was in greater pain than she had ever endured in her life, and yet she felt quiet and peaceful. had she gone up a step or two of the mountain she so longed to climb? did she hear the words of her mother's favorite song, and was a guide--_the_ guide--holding her childish hand? the hour of the long day passed somehow. if there was calm in polly's room, and despair more or less in poor flower's, the rest of the house was kept in a state of constant excitement. the same doctor came back again; doors were shut and opened quickly; people whispered in the corridors. as the hours flew on, no one thought of flower in her enforced captivity, and even polly, but for maggie's ceaseless devotion, might have fared badly. all day flower dalrymple remained in her room. she was forgotten at meal-times. had david been at home, this would not have been the case; but helen had sent david and her own little brothers to spend the day at mrs. jones's farm. even the wildest spirits can be tamed and brought to submission by the wonderful power of hunger, and so it came to pass that in the evening a disheveled-looking girl opened the door of her pretty room over the porch, and slipped along the passages and downstairs. flower went straight to the dining-room; she intended to provide herself with bread and any other food she could find, then to return to her solitary musings. she thought herself extremely neglected, and the repentance and sense of shame which she had more or less experienced in the morning and the memory of dr. maybright's words and the look in has grave eyes had faded under a feeling of being unloved, forsaken, forgotten. even david had never come near her--david, who lived for her. was she not his queen as well as sister? was he not her dutiful subject as well as her little brother? all the long day that flower had spent in solitude her thoughts grew more and more bitter, and only hunger made her now forsake her room. she went into the dining-room; it was a long, low room, almost entirely lined with oak. there was a white cloth on the long center table, in the middle of which a lamp burnt dimly; the french windows were open; the blinds were not drawn down. as flower opened the door, a strong cold breeze caused the lamp to flare up and smoke, the curtains to shake, and a child to move in a restless, fretful fashion on her chair. the child was firefly; her eyes were so swollen with crying that they were almost invisible under their heavy red lids; her hair was tossed; the rest of her little thin face was ghastly pale. "is that you, flower?" she exclaimed. "are you going to stay here? if you are, i'll go away." "what do you mean?" said flower. "_you_ go away? you can go or stay, just as you please. i have come here because i want some food, and because i've been shamefully neglected and starved all day. ring the bell, please, fly. i really must order up something to eat." fly rose from her chair. she had long, lanky legs and very short petticoats, and as she stood half leaning against the wall, she looked so forlorn, pathetic, and yet comical, that flower, notwithstanding her own anger and distress, could not help bursting out laughing. "what is the matter?" she said. "what an extraordinary little being you are! you look at me as if you were quite afraid of me. for pity's sake, child, don't stare at me in that grewsome fashion. ring the bell, as i tell you, and then if you please you can leave the room." there was a very deep leather arm-chair near the fireplace. into this now flower sank. she leant her head comfortably against its cushions, and gazed at firefly with a slightly sarcastic expression. "then you don't know!" said fly, suddenly. "you sit there and look at me, and you talk of eating, as if any one could eat. you don't know. you wouldn't sit there like that if you really knew." "i think you are the stupidest little creature i ever met!" responded flower. "i'm to know something, and it's wonderful that i care to eat. i tell you, child, i haven't touched food all day, and i'm starving. what's the matter? speak! i'll slap you if you don't." "there's bread on the sideboard," said fly. "i'm sorry you're starving. it's only that father is ill; that--that he's very ill. i don't suppose it is anything to you, or you wouldn't have done it." "give me that bread," said flower. she turned very white, snatched a piece out of fly's hand, and put it to her lips. she did not swallow it, however. a lump seemed to rise in her throat. "i'm faint for want of food," she said in a minute. "i'd like some wine. if david was here, he'd give it to me. what's that about your father? ill? he was quite well this morning; he spoke to me." she shivered. "i'm awfully faint," she said in a moment. "please, fly, be merciful. give me half a glass of sherry." fly started, rushed to the sideboard, poured a little wine into a glass, and brought it to flower. "there!" she said in a cold though broken-hearted voice. "but you needn't faint; he's not your father; you wouldn't have done it if he was your father." flower tossed off the wine. "i'm better now," she said. then she rose from the deep arm-chair, stood up, and put her two hands on fly's shoulder. "what have i done? what do you accuse me of?" "don't! you hurt me, flower; your hands are so hard." "i'll take them off. what have i done?" "we are awfully sorry you came here. we all are; we all are." "yes? you can be sorry or glad, just as you please! what have i done?" "you have made father, our own father--you have made him ill. the doctor thinks perhaps he'll die, and in any case he will be blind." "what horrid things you say, child! _i_ haven't done this." "yes. father was out all last night. you took baby away, and he went to look for her, and he wasn't well before, and he got a chill. it was a bad chill, and he has been ill all day. you did it, but he wasn't your father. we are all so dreadfully sorry that you came here." flower's hands dropped to her sides. her eyes curiously dilated, looked past fly, gazing so intently at something which her imagination conjured up that the child glanced in a frightened way over her shoulder. "what's the matter, flower? what are you looking at?" "myself." "but you can't see yourself." "i can. never mind. is this true what you have been telling me?" "yes, it's quite true. i wish it was a dream, and i might wake up out of it." "and you all put this thing at my door?" "yes, of course. dr. strong said--dr. strong has been here twice this evening--he said it was because of last night." "_sometimes we can never give back what we take away._" these few words came back to flower now. "and you all hate me?" she said, after a pause. "we don't love you, flower; how could we?" "you hate me?" "i don't know. father wouldn't like us to hate anybody." "where's helen?" "she's in father's room." "and polly?" "polly is in bed. she's ill, too, but not in danger, like father. the doctor says that polly is not to know about father for at any rate a day, so please be careful not to mention this to her, flower." "no fear!" "polly is suffering a good deal, but she's not unhappy, for she doesn't know about father." "is baby very ill, too?" "no. nurse says that baby has escaped quite wonderfully. she was laughing when i saw her last. she has only a little cold." "i am glad that i gave her to your father myself," said flower, in a queer, still voice. "i'm glad of that. is david anywhere about?" "no. he's at the farm. he's to sleep there to-night with bob and bunny, for there mustn't be a stir of noise in the house." "well, well, i'd have liked to say good-by to david. you're quite sure, fly, that you all think it was _i_ made your father ill?" "why, of course. you know it was." "yes, i know. good-by, fly." "good-night, you mean. don't you want something to eat?" "no. i'm not hungry now. it isn't good-night; it's good-by." flower walked slowly down the long, low, dark room, opened the door, shut it after her, and disappeared. fly stood for a moment in an indifferent attitude at the table. she was relieved that flower had at last left her, and took no notice of her words. flower went back to her room. again she shut and locked her door. the queer mood which had been on her all day, half repentance, half petulance, had completely changed. it takes a great deal to make some people repent, but flower dalrymple was now indeed and in truth facing the consequences of her own actions. the words she had said to fly were quite true. she had looked at herself. sometimes that sight is very terrible. her fingers trembled, her whole body shook, but she did not take a moment to make up her mind. they all hated her, but not more than she hated herself. they were quite right to hate her, quite right to feel horror at her presence. her mother had often spoken to her of the consequences of unbridled passion, but no words that her mother could ever have used came up to the grim reality. of course, she must go away, and at once. she sat down on the side of her bed, pressed her hand to her forehead, and reflected. in the starved state she was in, the little drop of wine she had taken had brought on a violent headache. for a time she found it difficult to collect her thoughts. chapter xi. the worth of a diamond. flower quite made up her mind to go away again. her mood, however, had completely changed. she was no longer in a passion; on the contrary, she felt stricken and wounded. she would go away now to hide herself, because her face, her form, the sound of her step, the echo of her voice, must be painful to those whom she had injured. she shuddered as she recalled firefly's sad words: "father says it is wrong to hate any one, but, of course, we cannot love you." she felt that she could never look polly in the face again, that helen's gentle smile would be torture to her. oh, of course she must go away; she must go to-night. she was very tired, for she had really scarcely rested since her fit of mad passion, and the previous night she had never gone to bed. still all this mattered nothing. there was a beating in her heart, there was a burning sting of remorse awakened within her, which made even the thought of rest impossible. flower was a very wild and untaught creature; her ideas of right and wrong were of the crudest. it seemed to her now that the only right thing was to run away. when the house was quiet, she once more opened her little cabinet, and took from thence the last great treasure which it contained. it was one solitary splendid unset diamond. she had not the least idea of its value, but she knew that it would probably fetch a pound or two. she had not the least notion of the value of money or of the preciousness of the gem which she held in her hand, but she thought it likely that it would supply her immediate needs. the house was quite still now. she took off her green cloth dress, put on a very plain one of black cashmere, slipped a little velvet cap on her head, wrapped a long white shawl round her, and thus equipped opened her door, and went downstairs. she was startled at the foot of the stairs to encounter maggie. maggie was coming slowly upwards as flower descended, and the two girls paused to look at one another. the lamps in the passages were turned low, and maggie held a candle above her head; its light fell full on flower. "you mustn't go to miss polly on no account, miss flower," said maggie, adopting the somewhat peremptory manner she had already used to flower in the hermit's hut. "miss polly is not to be frightened or put out in any way, leastways not to-night." "you mean that you think i would tell her about dr. maybright?" "perhaps you would, miss; you're none too sensible." flower was too crushed even to reply to this uncomplimentary speech. after a pause, she said: "i'm not going to polly. i'm going away. maggie, is it true that the--that dr. maybright is very ill?" "yes, miss, the doctor's despert bad." maggie's face worked; her candle shook; she put up her other hand to wipe away the fast-flowing tears. "oh, don't cry!" said flower, stamping her foot impatiently. "tears do no good, and it wasn't you who did it." "no, miss, no, miss; that's a bit of a comfort. i wouldn't be you, miss flower, for all the wide world. well, i must go now; i'm a-sleeping in miss polly's room to-night, miss." "why, is polly ill, too?" "only her foot's bad. i mustn't stay, really, miss flower." "look here," said flower, struck by a sudden thought, "before you go tell me something. your mother lives in the village, does she not?" "why, yes, miss, just in the main street, down round by the corner. there's the baker's shop and the butcher's, and you turn round a sharp corner, and mother's cottage is by your side." "i've a fancy to go and see her. good-night." "but not at this hour, surely, miss?" "why not? i was out later last night." "that's true. well, i must go to miss polly now. don't you make any noise when you're coming in, miss! oh, my word!" continued maggie to herself, "what can miss flower want with mother? well, she is a contrairy young lady mischievous, and all that, and hasn't she wrought a sight of harm in this yer house! but, for all that, mother'll be mighty took up with her, for she's all for romance, mother is, and miss flower's very uncommon. well, it ain't nought to do with me, and i'll take care to tell no tales to miss polly, poor dear." the night was still and calm; the stars shone peacefully; the wind, which had come in gusts earlier in the evening, had died down. it took flower a very few minutes to reach the village, and she wasn't long in discovering mrs. ricketts' humble abode. that good woman had long retired to rest, but flower's peremptory summons on the door soon caused a night-capped head to protrude out of a window, a burst of astonishment to issue from a wonder-struck pair of lips, and a moment later the young lady was standing by mrs. ricketts' fireside. "i'm proud to see you, miss, and that i will say. set down, miss, do now, and i'll light up the fire in a twinkling." "no, you needn't," said flower. "i'm hot; i'm burning. feel me; a fire would drive me wild." "to be sure, so you are, all in a fever like," said mrs. ricketts, laying her rough hand for a moment on flower's dainty arm. "you'll let me light up the bit of a paraffin lamp, then, miss, for it ain't often as i have the chance of seeing a young lady come all the way from australy." "you can light the lamp, if you like," said flower. "and you can stare at me as much as you please. i'm just like any one else, only wickeder. i've come to you, mrs. ricketts, because you're maggie's mother, and maggie's a good girl, and i thought perhaps you would help me." "i'm obligated for the words of praise about my daughter, miss. yes, she don't mean bad, maggie don't. what can i do to help you, miss? anything in my power you are kindly welcome to." "have you ever seen a diamond, mrs. ricketts?" "i don't know, i'm sure, miss." "diamonds are very valuable stones, you know." "maybe, miss. they ain't in my way. i wish you'd let me light you a bit of fire, miss flower. you'll have the chills presently, miss, for you're all of a burning fever now." "you can do anything you like in the way of fire by-and-by. i have a diamond here. shall i show it to you?" "oh, law, miss, i'm sure you are condescending." "come over close to the paraffin lamp. now you shall see. doesn't it sparkle!" mrs. ricketts dropped a curtsey to the gem, which, unpolished as it was, cast forth strange reflections, giving her, as she afterwards explained, a "queer feel" and a sense of chill down the marrow of her back. "this is very valuable," said flower. "i don't know what it is worth, but my father gave it to my mother, and she gave it to me. she said it would be well for me to have it in case of emergency. emergency has come, and i want to sell this stone. it is very likely that whoever buys it from me will become rich. would you like it? you shall have it for what money you have in the house." "oh, law, miss! but i'm a very poor woman, miss." mrs. ricketts curtseyed again, and drew closer. "for all the world, it looks as if it were alive, miss." "all valuable diamonds look as if they lived. if this were cut and polished it would dazzle you." "and if i had it, i could sell it for a good bit of money?" "i am sure you could. i don't know for how much, but for more than i am likely to get from you." "i'd like to pay miss polly back that pound as maggie took from her." "don't worry me about your debts. will you have this beautiful uncut diamond for the money you have in the house?" mrs. ricketts did not reply for a moment. "i have nine shillings and fourpence-halfpenny," she said at last, "and to-morrow is rent day. rent will be eight shillings; that leaves me one-and-fourpence-half penny for food. ef i give you all my money, miss, how am i to pay rent? and how are the children to have food to-morrow?" "but you can sell the diamond. why are you so dreadfully stupid? you can sell the diamond for one, two, or perhaps three pounds. then how rich you will be." "oh, miss! there's no one in this yer village 'ud give away good money for a bit of a stone like that; they'd know better. my word! it do send out a sort of a flame, though; it's wondrous to look upon!" "people will buy it from you in a town. go to the nearest town, take it to a jeweler, and see how rich you will be when you come out of his shop. there, i will give it to you for your nine-and-fourpence-half penny." flower laid the diamond in the woman's hand. "it seems to burn me like," she said. but all the same her fingers closed over it, and a look of greed and satisfaction filled her face. "i don't know if i'm a-doin' right," she said, "for perhaps this ain't worth sixpence, and then where's the rent and the food? but, all the same, i don't like to say no to a pretty lady when she's in trouble. here's the nine-and-fourpence-halfpenny, miss. i earned it bit by bit by washing the neighbors' clothes; it wasn't easy come by; there's labor in it, and aches and dead-tiredness about it. you take it, miss. i only trust the diamond will repay what i loses on that nine-and-fourpence-half penny." flower handled the money as if she thought it dirty. without a word she slipped it into the pocket of her dress. "i am going away," she said. "they are angry with me at sleepy hollow. i have done wrong. i am not a bit surprised. i'm going away, so as not to cause them any more trouble." "oh, law, now, miss! but they'll fret to part with you." "no they won't. anyhow, it isn't your affair. i'm going away as soon as i possibly can. can you tell me where the nearest railway station is?" "there's none closer than everton, and that's a matter of five mile from here." "i must get there as quickly as possible. what road shall i take?" "do you think, miss, i'd let a pretty young lady like you trape the lanes in the dead of night? no, no; carrier goes between two and three in the morning. you might go with him, if you must go." "that is a good thought. where does the carrier live?" "three doors from here. i'll run round presently and tell him to call." "thank you. do you think nine-and-fourpence-halfpenny will take me to bath?" "to bath, miss? it might, if you condescended to third class." "third class will do very well. did you ever hear polly maybright speak of an aunt of hers, a mrs. cameron?" mrs. ricketts, whose back was half turned to flower while she shut and locked the box out of which she had taken the precious nine-and-fourpence-halfpenny, now sprang to her feet, and began to speak in a tone of great excitement. "did i hear of her?" she exclaimed. "did i hear of the woman--for lady she ain't--what turned my maggie out of her good place, and near broke miss polly's heart? don't mention mrs. cameron, please, miss flower, for talk of her i won't; set eyes on her i wouldn't, no, not if i was to receive a pound for it!" "you needn't get so excited," said flower; "you have not got to see polly's aunt; only i thought perhaps you could give me her address, for i am going to her to-morrow." "i wouldn't, miss, if i was you." "yes, you would if you were me. what is mrs. cameron's address?" "i don't know as i can rightly tell you, miss." "yes, you must. i see you know it quite well." "well then, well then--you won't like her a bit, miss flower." "what's her address?" "jasper street; i think it's jasper street." "and the number? she doesn't live in the whole of jasper street." "now, was it a one and a six or a one and a seven?" queried mrs. ricketts. "oh, miss! if i was you, i wouldn't go near her; but i think her number is a one and a seven." "seventeen, you mean." "yes, that's it; i was never great at counting." chapter xii. relics and a welcome. mrs. cameron's house in bath was decidedly old-fashioned. it was a large, solemn, handsome mansion; its windows shone from constant cleaning; its paint was always fresh, its venetian blinds in perfect order. when a certain wild, untidy, almost disreputable-looking girl ran up its snow-white steps, and rang its highly polished brass bell, the neat parlor maid who answered her summons stared at her, and doubted a good deal if mrs. cameron could see her. "you had better step into the hall for a moment," said the maidservant, "and i'll inquire if my missis is at leisure; but if it's the new housemaid's place you've come after----" flower gasped; she drew herself up, raised her hand, and took off her small black velvet cap. "you forget yourself!" she said, with a haughtiness which did not ill become her, notwithstanding her untidy and dishevelled state. "my name is flower dalrymple, and i have come from sleepy hollow. please let your mistress know directly." the parlor maid, who saw her mistake, was profuse in apologies. she showed flower into a dismal-looking dining room, and went upstairs. "who is it, ann?" asked an anxious voice as she prepared to ascend the richly-carpeted stairs. a door was opened at the end of the passage, and a fusty, dusty-looking little man put in an appearance. "who is it, ann? any one for me?" "a young lady as wants to see the missis, sir. oh, mr. cameron! what a deal of dust you has brought out into the 'all!" the little man looked meekly down at his dusty garments. "i have just been unpacking my last crate of curiosities from china, ann. where is the young lady? perhaps she would like to see the relics." "no, sir, that i'm sure she wouldn't; she's all blown and spent like. she's for all the world like a relic herself." ann tripped lightly upstairs, and mr. cameron, pushing his spectacles high up on his bald forehead, looked with an anxious glance to right and left. then very quickly on tiptoe he crossed the hall, opened the dining-room door, and went in. "how are you, young lady? if you are very quick, i can get you into my sanctum sanctorum. i am just unpacking chinese relics. i trust, i hope, you are fond of relics." flower started to her feet. "i thought, i certainly thought, polly said _mrs._ cameron," she remarked. "i don't think i shall be at all afraid to live with you. i don't exactly know what chinese relics are, but i should love to see them." "then quick, my dear, quick! we haven't a minute to spare. she's sure to be down in a jiffy. now then, step on tiptoe across the hall. ann has the quickest ears, and she invariably reports. she's not a nice girl, ann isn't. she hasn't the smallest taste for relics. my dear, there's an education in this room, but no one, no one who comes to the house, cares to receive it." while the little man was talking, he was rushing across the wide hall, and down a long passage, flower's hand clasped in his. finally he pushed open a baize-lined door, hastily admitted himself and flower, and closed it behind them. the sanctum sanctorum was small, stuffy, dusty, dirty. there were several chairs, but they were all piled with relics, two or three tables were also crammed with tokens of the past. flower was very weary, the dust and dirt made her sneeze, and she looked longingly for even the smallest corner of a chair on which to seat herself. "i do want some breakfast so badly," she began. "breakfast! my love, you shall have it presently. now then, we'll begin. this case that i have just unpacked contains teeth and a small portion of a jawbone. ah! hark! what is that? she is coming already! will that woman never leave me in peace? my love, the object of my life, the one object of my whole life, has been to benefit and educate the young. i thought at last i had found a pupil, but, ah, i fear she is very angry!" the sound of a sharp voice was heard echoing down the stairs and along the passage, a sharp, high-pitched voice, accompanied by the sharper, shriller barking of a small dog. "zeb! i say, zeb! zebedee, if you have taken that young girl into your sanctum, i desire you to send her out this moment." the little man's face grew pale; he pushed his spectacles still higher on his forehead. "there, my love, do you hear her? i did my best for you. i was beginning your education." "zeb! zeb! open the door this minute," was shouted outside. "you'll remember, my love, to your dying day, that i showed you three teeth and the bit of jawbone of a chinaman who died a thousand years ago." "zeb!" thundered the voice. "yap! yap! yap!" barked the small dog. "you must go, my dear. she's a powerful woman. she always has her way. there, let me push you out. i wouldn't have her catch sight of me at this moment for fifty pounds." the green baize door was opened a tiny bit, a violent shove was administered to flower's back, and she found herself in the arms of mrs. cameron, and in extreme danger of having her nose bitten off by the infuriated scorpion. "just like zebedee!" exclaimed the good lady. "always struggling to impart the dry bones of obsolete learning to the young! come this way, miss--miss--what's your name?" "dalrymple--flower dalrymple." "an outlandish title, worthy of sleepy hollow. i have not an idea who you are, but come into the dining-room." "might i---- might i have a little breakfast?" "bless me, the child looks as if she were going to faint! ann, ann, i say! down, scorpion! you shall have no cream if you bark any more. ann, bring half a glass of port wine over here, and make some breakfast for miss--miss rymple as fast as you can." "_dal_rymple, please!" "don't worry me, child. i can't get my tongue round long names. now, what is it you are called? daisy? what in the world have you come to me for, daisy?" "i'm flower----" "well, and isn't daisy a flower? now then, daisy rymple, tell your story as quickly as possible. i don't mind giving you breakfast, but i'm as busy as possible to-day. i've six committee meetings on between now and two o'clock. say your say, daisy, and then you can go." "but i've come to stay." "to _stay_? good gracious! scorpion, down, sir! now, young lady, have you or have you not taken leave of your senses?" "no, really. may i tell you my story?" "if you take ten minutes over it; i won't give you longer time." "i'll try to get it into ten minutes. i'm an australian, and so is david. david is my brother. we came over in the _australasia_ about six weeks ago. dr. maybright met us in london, and took us down to sleepy hollow." "bless the man!--just like him. had he any responsible matron or spinster in the house, child?" "i don't know; i don't think so. there was helen and polly and----" "i don't want to hear about polly! go on; your ten minutes will soon be up. go on." "a couple of days ago we went on a picnic--i have a way of getting into awful passions--and polly--polly vexed me." "oh, she vexed you? you're not the first that young miss has vexed, i can tell you." "she vexed me; i oughtn't to have minded; i got into a passion; i felt awful; i ran away with baby." "goodness me! what is the world coming to? you don't mean to say you have dared to bring the infant here, daisy?" "no, no. i ran away with her on to the moors. i was so frightened, for i thought baby had died. then maggie came, and she saved her life, and she was brought home again." "that's a good thing; but i can't see why you are troubling me with this story." "yesterday morning i gave baby back to dr. maybright. he's not like other people; he looked at me, and his look pierced my heart. he said something, too, and then for the first time i began to be really, really sorry. i went up to my room; i stayed there alone all day; i was miserable." "served you right if you were, daisy." "in the evening i was so hungry, i went down for food. i met firefly; she told me the worst." "then the baby died? you really are an awful girl, daisy rymple." "no. the baby is pretty well, and polly, who sprained her foot running after me, is pretty well; but it's--it's dr. maybright--the best man i ever met--a man who could have helped me and made me a--a good girl--he's very, very ill, and they think he may die. he wasn't strong, and he was out all night looking for baby and me, and he got a bad chill, and he--he may be dead now. it was my doing; fly told me so." flower laid her head on the table; her long sustained fortitude gave way; she sobbed violently. her tears stained mrs. cameron's snowy table-linen; her head was pressed down on her hands; her face was hidden. she was impervious in her woe to any angry words or to the furious barking of a small dog. at last a succession of violent shakes recalled her to herself. "_will_ you sit up?--spoiling my damask and shedding tears into the excellent coffee i have made for you. ah, that's better; now i can see your face. don't you know that you are a very naughty, dangerous sort of girl?" "yes, i know that quite well. mother always said that if i didn't check my passion i'd do great mischief some day." "and right she was. i don't suppose the table-linen will ever get over those coffee stains mixed with tears. now, have the goodness to tell me, daisy, or ivy, or whatever you are called, why you have come to tell this miserable, disgraceful story to me." "fly said they none of them could love me now." "i should think not, indeed! no one will love such a naughty girl. what have you come to me for?" "i thought i could stay with you for a little, until there was another home found for me." "oh, ah! now at last we have come to the bottom of the mystery. and i suppose you thought i'd pet you and make much of you?" "i didn't. i thought you'd scold me and be very cross. i came to you as a punishment, for polly always said you were the crossest woman she ever met." "polly said that? humph! now eat up your breakfast quickly, daisy. i'm going out. don't stir from this room until i come back." mrs. cameron, who had come downstairs in her bonnet, slammed the dining-room door after her, walked across the hall, and let herself out. it did not take her many minutes to reach the telegraph office. from, there she sent a brief message to helen maybright: "_sorry your father is ill. expect me this evening with daisy rymple._" chapter xiii. very rough weather. with all her easy and languishing ways, flower dalrymple had often gone through rough times. her life in australia had given to her experiences both of the extreme of luxury and the extreme of roughing, but never in the course of her young life did she go through a more uncomfortable journey than that from mrs. cameron's house in bath to sleepy hollow. it was true that scorpion, mrs. cameron, and flower, traveled first-class; it was true also that where it was necessary for them to drive the best carriages to be procured were at their service; but, as on all and every occasion scorpion was king of the ceremonies these arrangements did not add to flower's comfort. mrs. cameron, who felt seriously angry with the young girl, addressed all her conversation to the dog, and as the dog elected to sit on flower's lap, and snapped and snarled whenever she moved, and as mrs. cameron's words were mostly directed through the medium of scorpion at her, her position was not an agreeable one. "ah-ha, my dear doggie!" said the good lady. "somebody has come to the wrong box, has she not? somebody thought i would take her in, and be kind to her, and pet her, and give her your cream, did she not? but no one shall have my doggie's cream; no, that they shan't!" "mrs. cameron," said flower, when these particularly clever and lucid remarks had continued for nearly an hour, "may i open the window of the carriage at this side? i'm quite stifling." mrs. cameron laid a firm, fat hand upon the window cord, and bent again over the pampered scorpion. "and is my doggie's asthma not to be considered for the sake of somebody who ought not to be here, who was never invited nor wished for, and is now to be returned like a bad penny to where she came from? is my own dearest little dog to suffer for such a person's whims? oh, fie! oh, fie! well, come here my scorpion; your mistress won't reject you." for flower, in a fit of ungovernable temper, had suddenly dashed the petted form of scorpion to the ground. the poor angry girl now buried herself in the farthest corner of the railway carriage. from there she could hear mrs. cameron muttering about "somebody's" temper, and hoping that "somebody" would get her deserts. these remarks, uttered several times, frightened flower so much that at last she looked up, and said, in a queer, startled voice: "you don't think dr. maybright is going to die? you can't be so awfully wicked as to think that." "oh, we are wicked, are we, scorpion?" said mrs. cameron, her fat hand gently stroking down scorpion's smooth fur from tip to tail. "never mind, scorpion, my own; never mind. when the little demon of temper gets into somebody she isn't quite accountable, is she?" flower wondered if any restraining power would keep her from leaping out of the window. but even the weariest journey comes to an end at last, and twenty-four hours after she had left sleepy hollow, flower, feeling the most subdued, the most abject, the most brow-beaten young person in christendom, returned to it. toward the end of the journey she felt impervious to mrs. cameron's sly allusions, and scorpion growled and snapped at her in vain. her whole heart was filled with one over-powering dread. how should she find the doctor? was he better? was he worse? or had all things earthly come to an end for him; and had he reached a place where even the naughtiest girl in all the world could vex and trouble him no longer? when the hired fly drew up outside the porch, flower suddenly remembered her first arrival--the gay "welcome" which had waved above her head; the kind, bright young faces that had come out of the darkness to greet her; the voice of the head of the house, that voice which she was so soon to learn to love, uttering the cheeriest and heartiest words of greeting. now, although mrs. cameron pulled the hall-door bell with no uncertain sound, no one, for a time at least, answered the summons, and flower, seizing her opportunity, sprang out of the fly and rushed into the house. the first person she met, the very first, was polly. polly was sitting at the foot of the stairs, all alone. she had seated herself on the bottom step. her knees were huddled up almost to her chin. her face was white, and bore marks of tears. she scarcely looked up when flower ran to her. "polly! polly! how glad i am you at least are not very ill." "is that you, flower?" asked polly. she did not seem surprised, or in any way affected. "yes, my leg does still ache very much. but what of that? what of anything now? he is worse! they have sent for another doctor. the doctor from london is upstairs; he's with him. i'm waiting here to catch him when he comes down, for i must know the very worst." "the very worst!" echoed flower in a feeble tone. she tumbled down somehow on to the stair beside polly, and the next instant her death-like face lay in polly's lap. "now, my dear, you need not be in the least frightened," said a shrill voice in polly's ears. "a most troublesome young person! a most troublesome! she has just fainted; that's all. let me fetch a jug of cold water to pour over her." "is that _you_, aunt maria?" said polly. "oh, yes, there was a telegram, but we forgot all about it. and is that scorpion, and is he going to bark? but he mustn't! please kneel down here, aunt maria, and hold flower's head. whatever happens, scorpion mustn't bark. give him to me!" before mrs. cameron had time to utter a word or in any way to expostulate, she found herself dragged down beside flower, flower's head transferred to her capacious lap, and the precious scorpion snatched out of her arms. polly's firm, muscular young fingers tightly held the dog's mouth, and in an instant scorpion and she were out of sight. notwithstanding all his fighting and struggling and desperate efforts to free himself, she succeeded in carrying him to a little deserted summer pagoda at a distant end of the garden. here she locked him in, and allowed him to suffer both cold and hunger for the remainder of the night. there are times when even the most unkind are softened. mrs. cameron was not a sympathetic person. she was a great philanthropist, it is true, and was much esteemed, especially by those people who did not know her well. but love, the real name for what the bible calls charity, seldom found an entrance into her heart. the creature she devoted most affection to was scorpion. but now, as she sat in the still house, which all the time seemed to throb with a hidden intense life; when she heard in the far distance doors opening gently and stifled sobs and moans coming from more than one young throat; when she looked down at the death-like face of flower--she really did forget herself, and rose for once to the occasion. very gently--for she was a strong woman--she lifted flower, and carried her into the doctor's study. there she laid her on a sofa, and gave her restoratives, and when flower opened her dazed eyes she spoke to her more kindly than she had done yet. "i have ordered something for you, which you are to take at once," she said. "ah! here it is! thank you, alice. now, daisy, drink this off at once." it was a beaten-up egg in milk and brandy, and when flower drank it she felt no longer giddy, and was able to sit up and look around her. in the meantime polly and all the other children remained still as mice outside the doctor's door. they had stolen on tiptoe from different quarters of the old house to this position, and now they stood perfectly still, not looking at one another or uttering a sound, but with their eyes fixed with pathetic earnestness and appeal at the closed door. when would the doctors come out? when would the verdict be given? minutes passed. the children found this time of tension an agony. "i can't bear it!" sobbed firefly at last. but the others said, "hush!" so peremptorily, and with such a total disregard for any one person's special emotions, that the little girl's hysterical fit was nipped in the bud. at last there was a sound of footsteps within the room, and the local practitioner, accompanied by the great physician from london, opened the door carefully and came out. "go in and sit with your father," said one of the doctors to helen. without a word she disappeared into the darkened room, and all the others, including little pearl in nurse's arms, followed the medical men downstairs. they went into the doctor's study, where flower was still lying very white and faint on the sofa. fortunately for the peace of the next quarter of an hour mrs. cameron had taken herself off in a vain search for scorpion. "now," said polly, when they were all safely in the room--she took no notice of flower; she did not even see her--"now please speak; please tell us the whole truth at once." she went up and laid her hand on the london physician's arm. "the whole truth? but i cannot do that, my dear young lady," he said, in hearty, genial tones. "bless me!" turning to the other doctor, "do all these girls and boys belong to maybright? and so you want the whole truth, miss--miss----" "i'm called polly, sir." "the whole truth, polly? only god knows that. your father was in a weak state of health; he had a shock and a chill. we feared mischief to the brain. oh, no, he is by no means out of the wood yet. still i have hope of him; i have great hope. what do you say, strong? symptoms have undoubtedly taken a more favorable turn during the last hour or two." "i quite agree with you, sir andrew," said the local practitioner, with a profound bow. "then, my dear young lady, my answer to you, to all of you, is that, although only god knows the whole truth, there is, in my opinion, considerable hope--yes, considerable. i'll have a word with you in the other room, strong. good-by, children; keep up your spirits. i have every reason to think well of the change which has set in within the last hour." the moment the doctors left the room polly looked eagerly round at the others. "only god knows the truth," she said. "let us pray to him this very minute. let's get on our knees at once." they all did so, and all were silent. "what are we to say, polly?" asked firefly at last. "i never did 'aloud prayers' since mother died." "hush! there's the lord's prayer," said polly. "won't somebody say it? my voice is choking." "i will," said flower. nobody had noticed her before; now she came forward, knelt down by polly's side, and repeated the prayer of prayers in a steady voice. when it was over, she put up her hands to her face, and remained silent. "what are you saying now?" asked firefly, pulling at her skirt. "something about myself." "what is that?" they all asked. "i've been the wickedest girl in the whole of england. i have been asking god to forgive me." "oh, poor flower!" echoed the children, touched by her dreary, forsaken aspect. polly put her arms round her and kissed her. "we have quite forgiven you, so, of course, god will," she said. "how noble you are! will you be my friend?" "yes, if you want to have me. oh, children!" continued polly, "do you think we can any of us ever do anything naughty again if father gets better?" "he will get better now," said firefly. chapter xiv. a novel hiding-place. whether it was the children's faith or the children's prayer, certain it is that from that moment the alarming symptoms in connection with dr. maybright's illness abated. it was some days before he was pronounced out of danger, but even that happy hour arrived in due course, and one by one his children were allowed to come to see him. mrs. cameron meanwhile arranged matters pretty much as she pleased downstairs. helen, who from the first had insisted on nursing her father herself, had no time to housekeep. polly's sprained ankle would not get well in a minute, and, besides, other circumstances had combined to reduce that young lady's accustomed fire and ardor. consequently, mrs. cameron had matters all her own way, and there is not the least doubt that she and scorpion between them managed to create a good deal of moral and physical disquietude. "well," she said to herself, "when all is said and done, that poor man who is on the flat of his back upstairs is my sainted helen's husband; and if at such a time as this maria cameron should harbor ill-will in her heart it would but ill become the leader of some of the largest philanthropic societies in bath. no, for the present my place is here, and no black looks, nor surly answers, nor impertinent remarks, will keep maria cameron from doing her duty." accordingly mrs. power gave a month's notice, and alice wept so profusely that her eyes for the time being were seriously injured. scorpion bit the new kitchen-maid jane twice, who went into hysterics and expected hydrophobia daily. but notwithstanding these and sundry other fracases, mrs. cameron steadily pursued her way. she looked into account-books, she interviewed the butcher, she dismissed the baker, she overhauled the store-room, and after her own fashion--and a disagreeable fashion it was--did a good deal of indirect service to the family. flower in particular she followed round so constantly and persistently that the young girl began to wonder if mrs. cameron seriously and really intended to punish her, by now bereaving her of her senses. "i don't think i can stand it much longer," said flower to polly. "last night i was in bed and asleep when she came in. i was awfully tired, and had just fallen into my first sleep, when that detestable dog snapped at my nose. there was mrs. cameron standing in the middle of the room with a lighted candle in her hand. 'get up,' she said. 'what for?' i asked. 'get up this minute!' she said, and she stamped her foot. i thought perhaps she would disturb your father, for my room is not far away from his, so i tumbled out of bed. 'now, what is the matter?' i asked. 'the matter?' said mrs. cameron. '_that's_ the matter! and _that's_ the matter! and _that's_ the matter!' and what do you think? she was pointing to my stockings and shoes, and my other clothes. i always do leave them in a little heap in the middle of the floor; they're perfectly comfortable there, and it doesn't injure them in the least. well! that awful woman woke me out of my sleep to put them by. she stood over me, and made me fold the clothes up, and shake out the stockings, and put the shoes under a chair, and all the time that fiendish dog was snapping at my heels. oh, it's intolerable! i'll be in a lunatic asylum if this goes on much longer!" polly laughed; she could not help it; and firefly and david, who were both listening attentively, glanced significantly at one another. the next morning, very, very early, firefly was awakened by a bump. she sat up, rubbed her eyes, and murmured, "all right!" under her breath. "put something on, fly, and be quick," whispered david's voice from the door. firefly soon tumbled into a warm frock, a thick outdoor jacket, and a little fur cap; her shoes and stockings were tumbled on anyhow. holding her jacket together--for she was in too great a hurry to fasten it--she joined david. "i did it last night," he said; "it's a large hole; he'll never be discovered there. and now the thing is to get him." "oh, dave, how will you manage that?" "trust me, fly. even if i do run a risk, i don't care. anything is better than the chance of flower getting into another of her passions." "oh, anything, of course," said fly. "are you going to kill him, dave?" "no. the hole is big; he can move about in it. what i thought of was this--we'd sell him." "sell him? but he isn't ours." "no matter! he's a public nuisance, and he must be got rid of. there are often men wandering on the moor who would be glad to buy a small dog like scorpion. they'd very likely give us a shilling for him. then we'd drop the shilling into mrs. cameron's purse. don't you see? she'd never know how it got there. then, you understand, it would really have been mrs. cameron who sold scorpion." "oh, delicious!" exclaimed fly. "she'd very likely spend the money on postage stamps to send round begging charity letters." "so scorpion would have done good in the end," propounded david. "but come along now, fly. the difficult thing is to catch the little brute." it was still very early in the morning, and the corridors and passages were quite dark. david and fly, however, could feel their way about like little mice, and they soon found themselves outside the door of the green room, which was devoted to mrs. cameron. "do you feel this?" said david, putting out his hand and touching fly. "this is a long towel; i'm winding part of it round my hand and arm. i don't want to get hydrophobia, like poor jane. now, i'm going to creep into mrs. cameron's room so quietly, that even scorpion won't wake. i learned how to do that from the black people in australia. you may stand there, fly, but you won't hear even a pin fall till i come back with scorpion." "if i don't hear, i feel," replied fly. "my heart does thump so. i'm just awfully excited. don't be very long away, dave." by this time david had managed to unhasp the door. he pushed it open a few inches, and then lay flat down on his face and hands. the next moment he had disappeared into the room, and all was profoundly still. fly could hear through the partly open door the gentle and regularly kept-up sound of a duet of snoring. after three or four minutes the duet became a solo. still there was no other sound, not a gasp, not even the pretense of a bark. more minutes passed by. had david gone to sleep on the floor? was scorpion dead that he had ceased to snore? these alarming thoughts had scarcely passed through her mind before david rejoined her. "he's wrapped up in this towel," he said. "he's kicking with his hind legs, but he can't get a squeak out; now come along." too careless and happy in the success of their enterprise even to trouble to shut mrs. cameron's door, the two children rushed downstairs and out of the house. they effected their exit easily by opening the study window. in a moment or two they were in the shrubbery. "the hole isn't here," said david. "somebody might find him here and bring him back, and that would never do. do you remember farmer long's six-acre field?" "where he keeps the bull?" exclaimed fly. "you haven't made the hole there, dave?" "yes, i have, in one corner! it's the best place in all the world, for not a soul will dare to come near the field while the bull is there. you needn't be frightened, fly! he's always taken home at night! he's not there now. but don't you see how he'll guard scorpion all day? even mrs. cameron won't dare to go near the field while the bull is there." "i see!" responded fly, in an appreciative voice. "you're a very clever boy, dave. now let's come quick and pop him into the hole." farmer long's six-acre field was nearly a quarter of a mile away, but the children reached it in good time, and fly looked down with interest on the scene of david's excavations. the hole, which must have given the little boy considerable labor, was nearly three feet deep, and about a foot wide. in the bottom lay a large beef bone. "he won't like it much!" said david. "his teeth aren't good; he can only eat chicken bones, but hunger will make him nibble it by-and-by. now, fly, will you go behind that furze bush and bring me a square, flat board, which you will find there?" "what a funny board!" said fly, returning in a moment. "it's all over little square holes." "those are for him to breathe through," said david. "now, then, master, here you go! you won't annoy any one in particular here, unless, perhaps, you interfere with mr. bull's arrangements. hold the board over the top of the hole, so, fly. now then, i hope you'll enjoy yourself, my dear amiable little friend." the bandage which firmly bound scorpion's mouth was removed. he was popped into the hole, and the wooden cover made fast over the top. the children went home, vowing eternal secrecy, which not even tortures should wring from them. at breakfast that morning mrs. cameron appeared late on the scene. her eyes were red with weeping. she also looked extremely cross. "helen, i must request you to have some fresh coffee made for me. i cannot bear half cold coffee. daisy, have the goodness to ring the bell. yes, my dear children, i am late. i have a sad reason for being late; the dog is nowhere to be found." a gleam of satisfaction filled each young face. fly crimsoning greatly, lowered her eyes; but david looked tranquilly full at mrs. cameron. "is it that nice little scorpion?" he asked. "i'm awfully sorry, but i suppose he went for a walk." mrs. cameron glanced with interest at david's sympathetic face. "no, my dear boy, that isn't his habit. the dear little dog sleeps, as a rule, until just the last moment. then i lift him gently, and carry him downstairs for his cream." "i wonder how he likes that bare beef bone?" murmured fly, almost aloud. "he's sure to come home for his cream in a moment or two!" said david. he gave fly a violent kick under the table. "helen," said mrs. cameron, "be sure you keep scorpion's cream." "there isn't any," replied helen. "i was obliged to send it up to father. there was not nearly so much cream as usual this morning. i had scarcely enough for father." "you don't mean to tell me you have used up the dog's cream?" exclaimed mrs. cameron. "well, really, that _is_ too much. the little animal will starve, he can't touch anything else. oh, where is he? my little, faithful pet! my lap feels quite empty without him. my dear children, i trust you may never love--_love_ a little creature as i love scorpion, and then lose him. yes, i am seriously uneasy, the dog would not have left me of his own accord." here, to the astonishment of everybody, and the intense indignation of mrs. cameron, fly burst into a scream of hysterical laughter, and hid her face in polly's neck. "what a naughty child!" exclaimed the good lady. "you have no sympathy with my pet, my darling! speak this minute. where is the dog, miss?" "i expect in his grave," said fly. whereupon dave suddenly disappeared under the table, and all the others stared in wonder at fly. "firefly, do you know anything?" "i expect scorpion is in his grave. where is the use of making such a fuss?" responded fly. and she made a precipitate retreat out of the window. all the remainder of that day was occupied in a vain search for the missing animal. mrs. cameron strongly suspected firefly, but the only remark the little girl could be got to make was: "i am sure scorpion is in his grave." mrs. cameron said that was no answer, and further insisted that the child should be severely punished. but as in reply to that, helen said firmly that as long as father was in the house no one should punish the children but him, she felt, for the present, at least, obliged to hold her sense of revenge in check. after fly had gone to bed that night, david crept into her room. "i've done it all now," he said. "i sold scorpion to-night for a shilling to a man who was walking across the moor, and i have just popped the shilling into mrs. cameron's purse. the horrid little brute worked quite a big hole in the bottom of the grave, fly, and he nearly snapped my fingers off when i lifted him out to give him to jones. but he's away now, that's a comfort. what a silly thing you were, fly, to burst out laughing at breakfast, and then say that scorpion was in his grave." "but it was so true, david. that hole looked exactly like a grave." "but you have drawn suspicion upon you. now, mrs. cameron certainly doesn't suspect me. see what she has given me: this beautiful new two-shilling piece. she said i was a very kind boy, and had done my best to find her treasure for her." "oh, dave, how could you take it!" "couldn't i, just! i'm not a little muff, like you. i intend to buy a set of wickets with this. well, good-night, fly; nobody need fear hydrophobia after this good day's work." chapter xv. a dilemma. a night's sleep had by no means improved mrs. cameron's temper. she came downstairs the next morning so snappish and disagreeable, so much inclined to find fault with everybody, and so little disposed to see the faintest gleam of light in any direction, that the children almost regretted scorpion's absence, and began to wonder if, after all, he was not a sort of safety-valve for mrs. cameron, and more or less essential to her existence. hitherto this good woman had not seen her brother-in-law; and it was both helen's and polly's constant aim to keep her from the sick room. it was several days now since the doctor was pronounced quite out of danger; but the affection of his eyes which had caused his children so many anxious fears, had become much worse. as the london oculist had told him, any shock or chill would do this; and there was now no doubt whatever that for a time, at least, he would have to live in a state of total darkness. "it is a dreadful fate," said helen to polly. "oh, yes, it is a dreadful fate, but we must not complain, for anything is better than losing him." "anything truly," replied polly. "why, what is the matter, flower? how you stare." flower had been lying full-length on the old sofa in the school-room; she now sprang to her feet, and came up eagerly to the two sisters. "could a person do this," she said, her voice trembling with eagerness--"could such a thing as this be done: could one give their eyes away?" "flower!" "yes, i mean it. could i give my eyes to dr. maybright--i mean just do nothing at all but read to him and look for him--manage so that he should know everything just through my eyes. can i do it? if i can, i will." "but, flower, you are not father's daughter," said polly in an almost offended tone. "you speak, flower--you speak as if he were all the world to you." "so he is all the world to me!" said flower. "i owe him reparation, i owe him just everything. yes, helen and polly, i think i understand how to keep your father from missing his eyes much. oh, how glad i am, how very glad i am!" from that moment flower became more or less a changed creature. she developed all kinds of qualities which the maybrights had never given her credit for. she had a degree of tact which was quite astonishing in a child of her age. there was never a jarring note in her melodious voice. with her impatience gone, and her fiery, passionate temper soothed, she was just the girl to be a charming companion to an invalid. however restless the doctor was, he grew quieter when flower stole her little hand into his; and when he was far too weak and ill and suffering to bear any more reading aloud, he could listen to flower as she recited one wild ballad after another. flower had found her mission, and she was seldom now long away from the doctor's bedside. "don't be jealous, polly," said helen. "all this is saving flower, and doing father good." "there is one comfort about it," said polly, "that as aunt maria perfectly detests poor flower, or daisy, as she calls her, she is not likely to go into father's room." "that is true!" said helen. "she came to the room door the other day, but flower was repeating 'hiawatha,' and acting it a little bit--you know she can't help acting anything she tries to recite--and aunt maria just threw up her hands and rolled her eyes, and went away." "what a comfort!" said polly. "whatever happens, we must never allow the dreadful old thing to come near father." alack! alas! something so bad had happened, so terrible a tragedy had been enacted that even flower and hiawatha combined could no longer keep mrs. cameron away from her brother-in-law's apartment. on the second day after scorpion's disappearance, the good woman called helen aside, and spoke some words which filled her with alarm. "my dear!" she said, "i am very unhappy. the little dog, the little sunbeam of my life, is lost. i am convinced, helen! yes, i am convinced, that there is foul play in the matter. you, every one of you, took a most unwarrantable dislike to the poor, faithful little animal. yes, every one of you, with the exception of david, detested my scorpion, and i am quite certain that you all know where he now is." "but really, aunt maria," said helen, her fair face flushing, "really, now, you don't seriously suppose that i had anything to say to scorpion's leaving you." "i don't know, my dear. i exonerate david. yes, david is a good boy; he was attached to the dog, and i quite exonerate him. but as to the rest of you, i can only say that i wish to see your father on the subject." "oh! aunt maria! you are not going to trouble father, so ill as he is, about that poor, miserable little dog?" "thank you, helen! thank you! poor miserable little dog indeed. ah! my dear, you have let the cat out of the bag now. yes, my dear, i insist on seeing your father with regard to the _poor, miserable little dog_. poor, indeed, am i without him, my little treasure, my little faithful scorpion." here mrs. cameron applied her handkerchief to her eyes, and helen walked to the window, feeling almost driven to despair. "i think you are doing wrong!" she said, presently. "it is wrong to disturb a man like father about any dog, however noble. i am sure i am right in saying that we, none of us, know anything about scorpion's disappearance. however, if you like, and rather than that father should be worried, i will send for all the children, and ask them the question one by one before you. i am absolutely sure that they won't think scorpion worth a lie." chapter xvi. firefly. helen experienced some little difficulty in getting her scattered brothers and sisters together. she could not get any of them to think seriously of scorpion's departure. they laughed and lingered over their own pursuits, and told helen to her face that she made a great fuss about nothing; in short, the best part of an hour had gone by before the maybrights and the two dalrymples assembled in mrs. cameron's presence in the morning room. "it is just this, children," said helen. "aunt maria feels very low about scorpion; you see she loved him." groans here came audibly from the lips of bob and bunny. "yes!" said helen, looking severely at her two little brothers, "aunt maria did love scorpion. she feels very lonely without him, and she has taken an idea into her head that one or other of you had something to say to his disappearance. of course i know that none of you could be so cruel and heartless, but to satisfy aunt maria, i have asked you all to come here just to tell her that you did nothing to make scorpion run away." "only we are very glad he did run away!" said bob, "but as to touching him, why, i wouldn't with a pair of tongs." "i wish to say a word!" said mrs. cameron. she came forward, and stood looking very flushed and angry before the assembled group. "i wish to say that i am sure some of you in your malice deprived me of my dog. i believe david dalrymple to be innocent, but as to the rest of you, i may as well say that i do not believe you, whatever you may tell me." "well, after that!" exclaimed all the children. "i suppose, helen, after that we may go away?" said firefly, who was looking very pale. "no, miss!" said aunt maria, "you must stay. your sister helen does not wish me to do anything to disturb your father, but i assure you, children, there are limits even to my patience, and i intend to visit him this morning and tell him the whole story, unless before you leave the room you tell me the truth." firefly's sallow little face grew whiter and whiter. she glanced imploringly at david, who looked boldly and unconcernedly back at her; then, throwing back his head, he marched up to mrs. cameron's side. "you believe that _i_ am innocent, don't you?" he said. "certainly, my dear boy. i have said so." "in that case, perhaps you would not mind my going out a little way on the moor and having a good look round for the dog, he _may_ have wandered there, you know, and broken his leg or something." mrs. cameron shuddered. "in any case," continued david, with a certain air of modest assurance, which became him very much, "it seems a pity that i should waste time here." "certainly; go, my dear lad," answered mrs. cameron. "bring my little innocent suffering treasure back with you, and i will give you half a crown." david instantly left the room, unheeding a short, sharp cry which issued from firefly's lips as he passed her. most of the other children were laughing; it was impossible for them to think of anything in connection with scorpion except as a joke. "listen, aunt maria," said helen. "i am afraid you must not treat my brothers and sisters as you propose. neither must you trouble father without the doctor's permission. the fact is, aunt maria, we are maybrights, and every one who knows anything about us at all _must_ know that we would scorn to tell a lie. our father and our dear, dear mother--your sister whom you loved, aunt maria, and for whose sake you are interested in us--taught us to fear a lie more than anything, _much_ more than punishment, _much_ more than discovery. oh, yes, we have heaps and heaps of faults; we can tease, we can be passionate, and idle, and selfish; but being maybrights, being the children of our own father and mother, we can't lie. the fact is, we'd be afraid to." helen's blue eyes were full of tears. "bravo! helen!" said polly, going up to her sister and kissing her. "she says just the simple truth, aunt maria," she continued, flashing round in her bright way on the old lady. "we _are_ a naughty set--_you_ know that, don't you?--but we can't tell lies; we draw the line there." "yes, we draw the line there," suddenly said firefly, in a high-pitched voice, which sounded as if it was going to crack. "i admire bravery," said mrs. cameron, after a pause. "ask your questions, helen. for my dead sister's sake i will accept the word of a maybright. 'pon my word, you are extraordinary young people; but i admire girls who are not afraid to speak out, and who uphold their parents' teaching. ask the children quickly, helen, if they know anything about the dog, for after david's hint about his having strayed on that awful moor, and perhaps having broken one of his dear little legs, i feel more uncomfortable than ever about him. for goodness' sake, helen! ask your question quickly, and let me get out on the moor to look for my dog." "children," said helen, coming forward at once, "do you know anything about scorpion's loss, _any_thing? now, i am going to ask you each singly; as you answer you can leave the room. polly, i begin with you." one by one the maybrights and flower answered very clear and emphatic "no's" to helen's question, and one by one they retired to wait for their companions in the passage outside. at last helen put the question to firefly. two big, green-tinted hazel eyes were raised to her face. "yes, helen, i do know," replied firefly. mrs. cameron uttered a shriek, and almost fell upon the little girl, but helen very gently held her back. "one minute," she said. "firefly, what do you know?" "i'm not going to tell you, helen." the child's lips quivered, but her eyes looked up bravely. "why so? please, aunt maria, let me speak to her. why won't you tell what you know, dear fly?" "because i promised. there, i won't say a word more about it. i do know, and i won't tell; no, i won't ever, ever tell. you can punish me, of course, aunt maria." "so i will, miss. take that slap for your impertinence. oh! if you were my child, should not i give you a whipping. you know what has happened to my poor _dear_ little dog, and you refuse to tell. but you shall tell--you wicked cruel little thing--you shall, you must!" "shall i take firefly away and question her?" asked helen. "please, aunt maria, don't be too stern with her. she is a timid little thing; she is not accustomed to people blaming her. she has some reason for this, but she will explain everything to her sister nell, won't you, darling?" the child's lips were trembling, and her eyes filling with tears. "there's no use in my going away with you, helen," she replied, steadily. "i am willing aunt maria should punish me, but i can't tell because i'm a maybright. it would be telling a lie to say what i know. i don't mind your punishing me rather badly, aunt maria." "oh, you don't, don't you?" said aunt maria. "listen; was not that the sound of wheels?" "the doctor to see father," explained helen. "i ought to go." "excuse me, my dear, i particularly wish to see your father's medical adviser this morning. i will not detain him long, but i have a question i wish to put to him. you stay with your little sister, helen. i shall be back soon." mrs. cameron trotted out of the room. in about ten minutes, with an exultant look on her face, she returned. firefly was now clasped tightly in helen's arms while she sobbed her heart out on her breast. "well, helen, has this _most_ impertinent, naughty child confessed?" "she has not," said helen. "i don't understand her; she seems in sore trouble. dear little fly!" "'dear little fly,' indeed! naughty, wicked little fly, you mean. however, my dear, i have come to tell you that i have just had an interview with the excellent doctor who attends your father. he has gone up to see him now. he says he does not want to see you at all to-day, helen. well, i spoke to dr. strong, and he was _astonished_--absolutely astonished, when he heard that i had not yet been permitted to see my brother-in-law. i told him quite frankly that you girls were jealous of my influence, and used his (dr. strong's) name to keep me out of my poor brother's room. 'but my dear madam,' he said, 'the young ladies labor under a mistake--a vast, a monstrous mistake. _nothing_ could do my poor patient more good than to see a sensible, practical lady like yourself!' 'then i may see him this afternoon?' i asked. 'undoubtedly, mrs. cameron,' he replied; 'it will be something for my patient to look forward to.' i have arranged then, my dear helen, to pay a visit to your father at three o'clock to-day." helen could not repress a sigh. mrs. cameron raised her eyebrows with a certain suggestive and aggravating gesture. "ah, my dear," she said, "you must try to keep under that jealous temperament. jealousy fostered in the heart overshadows and overclouds all life. be warned in time." "about this child," said helen, drawing firefly forward, "what is to be done about her? you will be lenient, won't you, aunt maria, for she is very young?" "by the way," said mrs. cameron, with the manner of one who had not heard a word of helen's last speech, "is this naughty little girl attached to her father?" firefly raised her tear-dimmed face. "he is my darling----" she began. "ah, yes, my dear; i detest exaggerated expressions. if you love him, you can now prove it. you would not, for instance, wish to give him anxiety, or to injure him?" "oh, no, oh, no! i would rather die." "again that sentimental exaggeration; but you shall prove your words. if you have not confessed to me before three o'clock to-day all you know about the loss of my treasured dog scorpion, i shall take you into your father's sick room, and in his presence dare you to keep your wicked secret to yourself any longer." "oh, you don't mean that," said firefly. "you can't be so awfully cruel. nell, nell, do say that aunt maria doesn't mean that." the child was trembling violently; her little face was white as death, her appealing eyes would have softened most hearts. "oh, nell, what shall i do if i make father worse again? for i can't tell what i know; it would be a lie to tell it, and you said yourself, nell, that no maybright told lies." mrs. cameron smiled grimly. "i have said it," she remarked; "it all rests with yourself, firefly. i shall be ready either to hear your confession or to take you to your father at three o'clock to-day." with these words the good lady walked out of the room. chapter xvii. to the rescue. an hour later a wildly anxious and disconsolate little figure might have been seen knocking at polly's door. no answer from within. a moment of suspense on the part of the little figure, followed by another and louder knock; then the small, nervous fingers turned the handle of the door, and firefly pushed her head in and peered anxiously round. oh, dear! oh, dear! no polly was in the room. and why did the great eight-day clock in the hall strike twelve? why, on this morning of all mornings, should time go on wings? firefly had great faith in polly's powers of helping her. but the moments were too precious to waste them in trying to find her. she had another search to make, and she must set out at once. no, not quite at once. she clasped her hands to her beating little heart as an idea came to her on which she might act. a delicious and yet most sorrowful idea, which would fill her with the keenest pain, and yet give her the very sweetest consolation. she would go and get a kiss from her father before she set out on the search, which might be a failure. very swiftly she turned, flew down the long gallery which led to dr. maybright's room, and went in. dr. strong had paid his visit and gone away. firefly's heart gave a bound of delight, for her father was alone. he was lying supported high in bed with pillows. his almost sightless eyes were not bandaged, they were simply closed; his hands, with their long, sensitive, purposeful fingers lay on the white sheets in a restful attitude. already the acute hearing of the blind had come to him, and as firefly glided up to the bedside, he turned his head quickly. her two small hands went with a kind of bound into one of his. his fingers closed over them. "this is my fly," said the doctor; "a very excited and feverish fly, too. how these small fingers flutter! what is it, my darling?" "a kiss, father," said fly, "a great _hug_ of a kiss! please, please. i want it so awfully badly." "climb up on the bed, and put your arms round me. is that all right? my dear little one, you are not well." "i'm quite well, now, while i'm loving you. oh! aren't you just the darlingest of all darling fathers? there, another kiss; and another! now i'm better." she glided off the bed, pressed two long, last fervent embraces on the doctor's white hand, and rushed out of the room. "i'm lots stronger now," she said to herself. "_whatever_ happens, i'll have those kisses to hold on to and remember; but nothing shall happen, for i'm going to find david; he is sure to put things right for me." meanwhile, polly's absence from her room was accounted for, also the fact of fly finding her father alone. it was seldom that this dearly loved and favorite father, physician, and friend, was left to indulge in solitude. it was the privilege of all privileges to sit by him, read to him, and listen to his talk; and a girl, generally two girls, occupied the coveted chairs by his bedside. on this morning, however, poor helen was detained, first by aunt maria, and then by necessary housekeeping cares; and polly and flower were deeply engrossed over a matter of considerable importance. when polly had replied in the negative to helen's question, she lingered for a moment in the passage outside the morning-room, then started off to find nurse and little pearl. flower, however, waited with a feeling of curiosity, or perhaps something more, to hear what the others would say. she was witness, therefore, through the open door, of firefly's curious mixture of avowal and denial, and when mrs. cameron went away to consult the doctor who attended dr. maybright, she coolly waited in an adjoining room, and when the good woman returned, once more placed herself within earshot. no maybright would dream of eavesdropping, but flower's upbringing had been decidedly lax with regard to this and other matters. in full possession, therefore, of the facts of the catastrophe which was to overpower poor little fly and injure dr. maybright, she rushed off to find polly. polly was feeling intensely happy, playing with and fondling her sweet little baby sister, when flower, pale and excited, rushed into the room. nurse, who had not yet forgiven flower, turned her back upon the young lady, and hummed audibly. flower, however, was far too much absorbed to heed her. "listen, polly! you have got to come with me at once. give baby back to nurse. you must come with me directly." "if it is anything more about scorpion, i refuse to stir," answered polly. "if there is a creature in this world whom i absolutely loathe, it's that detestable little animal!" "you don't hate him more than i do," said flower. "my news is about him. still, you must come, for it also means firefly and your father. they'll both get into awful trouble--i know they will--if we don't save them." "what?" said polly; "what? take baby, please, nurse. now, what is it, flower?" pulling her outside the nursery door. "what _has_ that horrid scorpion to do with fly and father?" "only this: fly has confessed that she knows what has become of him, but she's a dear little brick and won't tell. she says she's a maybright, and they don't tell lies. three cheers for the maybrights, if they are all like fly, say i! well, the little love won't tell, and mrs. cameron is fit to dance, and what does she do but gets leave from dr. strong to see your father, and she's going to drag fly before him at three o'clock to-day, and make a fine story of what happened. she holds it over fly that your father will be made very ill again. very likely he will, if _we_ don't prevent it." "it's horrible!" said polly; "but _how_ can we prevent it, flower?" "oh, easily enough. _you_ must guard your father's room. let no one in under any pretense whatever until i have found david." "what do you mean by finding david? what can david have to say to it?" "oh! has he not? poor fly! david has got her into his toils. david is at the bottom of all this, i am convinced. i guessed it the moment i saw him go up so boldly to mrs. cameron and pretend to be sorry about the dog. _he_ sorry about scorpion! he hates him more than any of us." "but then--i don't understand; if that is so, david told a deliberate lie, flower." flower colored. "we have not been brought up like the maybrights," she said. "oh, yes, _we_ could tell a lie; we were not brought up to be particular about good things, or to avoid bad things. we were brought up--well, just anyhow." polly stole up to flower and kissed her. "i am glad you have come to learn of my father," she said. "now do tell me what we are to do for poor, poor fly. do you think david is guilty, and that he has got fly to promise not to tell?" "yes, that is what i think. david must be found, and got to confess, and so release fly of her promise before three o'clock. david is a dreadful boy to find when he takes it into his head to hide on purpose; but i must look for him, and in the meantime will you guard your father, polly?" "as a dragon," said polly. "you may trust me about that at least. i will go to his room at once to make all things safe, for there is really no trusting aunt maria when she has a scheme of vengeance with regard to _that dog_ in her head. good-by, flower; i'm off to father." polly turned away, and flower ran quickly downstairs. she knew she had not a moment to lose, for david, as she expressed it, was a very difficult boy to find when he took it into his head to hide himself. flower had not been on the moor since that dreadful day when she had taken the baby away. so much had happened since then, so many dreadful things had come to pass, that she shuddered at the bare thought of the great and desolate moorland. nevertheless she guessed that david would hide there, and without a moment's hesitation turned her steps in the direction of peg-top moor. she had walked for nearly half an hour, and had reached rather a broad extent of table-land, when she saw--their little figures plainly visible against the sky--two children, nearly a quarter of a mile away, eagerly talking together. there was not the least doubt as to their identity; the children--a boy and a girl--were david and fly. fly was holding david's arm, and gesticulating and talking eagerly; david's head was turned away. flower quickened her steps almost into a run. if only she could reach the two before they parted; above all things, if she could reach them before david saw her! alas and alas! she was too late for this. david suddenly pushed his little companion a couple of feet away from him, and to all appearance vanished into the solid ground. fly, crying bitterly, began to run to meet flower. flower held out her arms as the little girl approached. "what is it, firefly? tell me, has david confessed?" "oh, what do you know about it, flower? oh, what am i to do, what am i to do?" "you are to go quietly home," said flower, speaking in a voice of authority. "you are to go quietly home, and leave this matter in my hands. i know all about it, and just what david has done. he has bound you by a sort of oath, you poor little thing--you dear, brave little thing! never mind, fly; you leave david to me. i expect i shall find him now--that is, if you don't keep me too long talking. go home, and leave matters to me." "but flower--flower, you do comfort me a little; but flower, it will soon be three o'clock, and then--and then--oh, dear father! oh, it is so dreadful!" "no, you silly mite; it is not dreadful at all. polly is in charge of the doctor. she is sitting with him now, and the door is locked, and the key is in polly's pocket, and she has promised me not to open that door to any one--no, fly, not to a hundred of your aunt marias--until i bring david home." fly's face underwent a transformation. her big eyes looked full up into flower's. a smile flitted across her quivering lips. with a sudden, passionate gesture, she stooped down and kissed flower's fingers, then ran obediently back in the direction of sleepy hollow. "she is a perfect little darling!" said flower to herself. "if master david does not rue it for making her suffer, my name is not flower dalrymple." she ran on swiftly. she was always very quick and light in her movements. soon she came to the place where david had to all appearance disappeared. she did not stay there long. she ran on to where the bracken grew thick and long, then suddenly lay flat down on the ground, and pressed her ear close to mother earth. what she heard did not satisfy her. she rose again, repeating the same process several times. suddenly her eyes brightened; she raised her head, and listened attentively, then she whistled a long peculiar note. there was no answer, but flower's face retained its watchful, intent expression. she laid her head down once more close to the ground, and began to speak, "david, david, i know you are there; there is no use in your hiding. come here, i want you, i, flower. i will give you two minutes, david; if you don't come then i'll keep the threat i made when you made me angry with you at ballarat." a perfect silence followed flower's words. she still lay flat on the ground. one of the minutes flew by. "i'll keep my word, david!" she said again. "you know me; you know what my threat means. three-quarters of a minute more, half a minute, then i'll go home, and i'll do what i said i would do when you made me angry at ballarat." again there was silence, but this time quickly broken; a boy's black head appeared above the bracken, a little brown hand was held out, and david, without troubling himself to move a hair's breadth, looked full into his sister's face. "i don't want to lose you, flower!" he said. "you are the only person in all the world i care two-pence about. now what's the row?" "you're a cowardly boy, david, and i'm ashamed of you; come with me this minute." chapter xviii. oh, fie! polly. while these events were taking place, and the children in their various ways were preparing checkmate for aunt maria cameron, that good lady was having a by no means unexciting experience of her own. after her housekeeping cares were over, after she had interviewed mrs. power, and made alice thoroughly uncomfortable; after, in short, meaning it all the while for the best, she had succeeded in jarring the whole household machinery to the utmost, it was her custom morning after morning to retire with scorpion into the seldom used drawing-room, and there, seated comfortably in an old-fashioned arm-chair, with her feet well supported on a large cushion, and the dog on her lap, to devote herself to worsted work. not crewel work, not church embroidery, not anything which would admit of the use of modern art colors, but genuine, old-fashioned worsted work. mrs. cameron delighted in the flaring scarlets, pinks, greens, blues, and mauves of thirty years ago. she admired with all her soul the hard, staring flowers which these colors produced. they looked, she said, substantial and durable. they _looked_ like artificial flowers; nobody could mistake them for the real article, which was occasionally known to be the case with that flimsy, in her opinion, ugly, art embroidery. no, no, mrs. cameron would not be smitten by the art craze. "let nature _be_ nature!" she would say, "and worsted work be worsted work, and don't let us try to clash the poor things into one, as that wretched art-school is always endeavoring to do." so each morning mrs. cameron plied her worsted needle, and scorpion slumbered peacefully on her knee. she liked to sit with her back to the light, so that it should fall comfortably on her work, and her own eyes be protected from an extensive and very beautiful view of the south moor. mrs. cameron hated the moor; it gave her, as she expressed it, "the creeps," and on all occasions she avoided looking at it. on this morning, as usual, she took out her large roll of worsted work, and prepared to ground a huge, impossible arum lily. her thoughts, however, were not, as usual, with her work. her cheeks were flushed, and her whole face expressed annoyance and anxiety. "how i miss even his dear little playful bite!" she said aloud, a big tear falling on her empty lap. "ah, my scorpion! why did i love you, but to lose you? how true are the poet's words: 'i never loved a dear gazelle.' well, i must say it, i seldom came across more wicked, heartless children than the maybrights and daisy rymple. david is really the only one of the bunch worth rearing. ah, my poor sister! your removal has doubtless spared you many sorrows, for what could you expect of the future of such a family as yours? now, what is that? this moor is enough to keep anybody's nerves in a state of tension. what _is_ that awful sound approaching the house?" the noise in question was the unmistakable one of a woman's loud sobbing. it came nearer and nearer, gaining in fullness and volume as it approached the house. mrs. cameron was always intensely curious. she threw open the drawing-room window; and as the sufferer approached, effectually stopped her progress with her own stout person. "now, my dear, good creature, what is this most unpleasant sound? don't you know that it is frightfully bad-mannered to cry in that loud, unrestrained fashion? pray restrain yourself. you are quite childish. you cannot know what real affliction means. now, if you had lost a--a---- if, my poor woman, you had lost a dear little dog!" "is it a dog?" gasped mrs. ricketts, for it was she. "is it a dog? oh, my word! much you know about 'flictions and such-like! let me go to the house, ma'am. it isn't to you as i has come to tell my tale." "then let me inform you that you are going to tell it to no one else. here i stand, and here i remain until you choose to explain to me the reason of your loud bursts of uncontrollable grief. during the illness of its master i am the mistress here, and either you speak to me or you go home." mrs. ricketts had by this time so far restrained her sobs as to be able to take a long and very acute glance at the lady in question. doubtless she was face to face with the formidable mrs. cameron, that terrible personage who had got her maggie dismissed, and who had locked up poor darling miss polly for days in her bedroom. there was no one, perhaps, in the world whom mrs. ricketts more cordially disliked than this good lady, but all the same, it was now her policy to propitiate her. she smoothed, therefore, her brow, dried her eyes, and, with a profound courtesy, began her tale. "ef you please, ma'am, it's this way; it's my character that's at stake. i always was, and always will be, honest of the honest. 'ard i works, ma'am, and the bread of poverty i eats, but honest i am, and honest i brings up those fatherless lambs, my children." mrs. cameron waved one of her fat hands impressively. "pardon me, my good woman. i am really not interested in your family. pray come to the point, and then go home." "to the p'int, ma'am? oh, yes, i'll come to the p'int. this is the p'int ef you please, ma'am," and she suddenly thrust, almost into mrs. cameron's dazzled face, the splendid gleam and glitter of a large unset diamond. "this is the p'int, ma'am; this is what's to take my character away, and the bread out of the mouths of my innocent children." mrs. cameron never considered herself a worldly woman. she was undoubtedly a very christian-minded, charitable, good woman, but all the same, she loved fine houses and big dinners and rich apparel, and above all things she adored jewelry. flowers--that is, natural flowers--had never yet drawn a smile out of her. she had never pined for them or valued them, but jewels, ah! they were worth possessing. she quite gasped now, as she realized the value of the gem which mrs. ricketts so unceremoniously thrust under her nose. "a diamond! good gracious! how did you come by it? a most valuable diamond of extraordinary size. give it to me this moment, my good dear creature! and come into the drawing-room. you can step in by this open window. we won't be disturbed in here. i suppose you were weeping in that loud and violent manner at the thought of the grief of the person who had lost this treasure?" "no, ma'am, i were a sobbing at the grief of her what _'ad_ it. oh, my word! and the young lady said for sure as i'd get nine-and-fourpence halfpenny for it. no, ma'am, i won't go into the 'ouse, thank you. oh, dear! oh, dear! the young lady did set store by it, and said for certain i'd get my nine-and-fourpence halfpenny back, but when i took the stone to the shop to-day, and asked the baker to give me some bread and let this go partly to pay the account, he stared at me and said as i wasn't honest, and he thrust it back in my hand. oh, dearie me! oh, dearie me! the foreign young lady shouldn't have done it!" "_i_ am very sure that you're honest, my good creature! now, do tell me about this stone. how did you come by it?" "it was the young lady, ma'am; the young lady from australia." "daisy rymple, do you mean?" "miss flower she called herself, ma'am. she come to me in sore plight late one evening, when we was all in bed, and 'mrs. ricketts,' said she, dear lamb, 'will you help me to go away to mrs. cameron, to bath? i want the money to go third class to bath. can you let me have nine shillings and fourpence halfpenny, mrs. ricketts? and i'll give you this for the money!' and she flashed that bit of a glittering stone right up into my eyes. my word, i thought as i was blinded by it. 'you'll get most like two pounds for it, mrs. ricketts,' she said, 'for my father told me it was worth a sight of money.' that's how i come by it, ma'am, and that's the way i was treated about it to-day." mrs. cameron slowly drew out her purse. "i will give you two sovereigns for the stone!" she said. "there, take them and go home, and say nothing about the money. it will be the worse for you if you do; now go quickly home." mrs. ricketts' broad face was one glow of delight. she dropped another courtesy, and tried to articulate some words of thanks, but mrs. cameron had already disappeared into the drawing-room, where she now sat, holding the diamond in the palm of her open hand. she knew enough about precious stones to guess at something of its probable value. the idea of in this way possessing herself of flower's diamond never for a moment entered her head, but she was worldly-minded enough to wish that it could be her own, and she could not help owning to a feeling of satisfaction, even to a sense of compensation for the loss of scorpion, while she held the beautiful glittering thing in her open palm. even flower rose in her estimation when she found that she had possessed a gem so brilliant. a girl who could have such a treasure and so lightly part with it was undoubtedly a simpleton--but she was a simpleton who ought to be guarded and prized--the sort of young innocent who should be surrounded by protecting friends. mrs. cameron felt her interest in flower growing and growing. suppose she offered to release the doctor of this wearisome burden. suppose she undertook the care of flower and her diamond herself. no sooner did this thought occur to mrs. cameron, than she resolved to act upon it. of course the doctor would be delighted to part with flower. she would see him on the subject at once. she went slowly upstairs and knocked with a calm, steady hand at the door of the dressing-room which opened into dr. maybright's apartment. no sound or reply of any kind came from within. she listened for a moment, then knocked again, then tried to turn the handle of the door. it resisted her pressure, being locked from within. mrs. cameron raised her voice. she was not a person who liked to be opposed, and that locked door, joined to that most exasperating silence, became more than trying. surely the doctor was not deaf as well as blind. surely he must hear her loud demands, even though a dressing-room stood between his room and the suppliant without. and surely the doctor would have heard, for a more polite man never lived, were it not for that all mischievous and irrepressible polly. but she, being left in charge, had set her sharp brains to work, and had devised a plan to outwit mrs. cameron. the dressing-room in question contained a double baize door. this door was seldom or never used, but it came in very conveniently now, for the furtherance of polly's plan. when it was shut, and thick curtains also drawn across, and when, in addition, the door leading into dr. maybright's room was securely fastened and curtained off, polly felt sure that she and her father might pass their morning in delicious quietude. not hearing mrs. cameron, she argued with herself that no one _could_ possibly blame her for not letting her in. therefore, in high good humor, this young lady sat down to read, work, and chatter gayly. as the doctor listened, he said to himself that surely there never was in the world a sweeter or more agreeable companion than his polly. with all her precautions, however, as the hours flew by, sundry muffled and distant sounds did penetrate to the sick chamber. "what a peculiar noise!" remarked the doctor. "can it be mice?" queried polly's _most_ innocent voice. more time passed. suddenly the sharp and unmistakable sound of gravel being flung against the window forced the young lady to go to ascertain what was the matter. on looking out, she saw what caused her to utter an amazed exclamation. mrs. cameron, very red in the face, and holding the lost scorpion in one encircling arm, while the other was thrown firmly round a most sulky-looking david; firefly, pale and with traces of tears on her face; flower, looking excited and eager--all stood under the window. this group were loud in demanding instant admission to the doctor's room. "what is it, what is it?" questioned the patient from the bed. "oh, you are _not_ strong enough to see them, father." "to see whom?" "aunt maria--scorpion--the children." "yes, i am quite strong enough. let them come up at once." "but father!" "but polly! you don't suppose seriously that your aunt maria can disturb my equanimity?" "oh! she will worry you with so many tales." "about my very naughty family?" "yes, yes; you had much better not see her." "because she wants me to get a chaperon for you?" "oh! yes--oh! don't see her." "my dear, you can trust me; you happen to be _my_ children, not hers. i would rather have the matter out. i knew there was something wrong from the way little fly kissed my hand this morning. show the deputation outside the window into the audience chamber at once, polly." so admonished, the curtains had to be drawn back, the baize door reopened, and polly--a most unwilling hostess--had to receive her guests. but no words can describe the babel of sounds which there and then filled the doctor's room; no words can tell how patiently the blind man listened. aunt maria had a good tale to tell, and it lost nothing in the telling. the story of scorpion's disappearance; of the wickedness of david and fly; of the recovering of the little animal from the man who had bought it, through flower's instrumentality; all this she told, following up with the full and particular history of the sale of a valuable diamond. at last--at long last--the good lady stopped for want of breath. there was a delicious pause, then the doctor said, quietly: "in short, maria, you have never come across such absolutely wicked children as the maybrights and dalrymples?" "no, andrew--never! never!" "it is lucky they are not your children?" "thank heaven!" "would it not be well to leave them to me? i am accustomed to them." "yes; i wash my hands of you all; or no--not quite of you all--i heap coals of fire on your head, andrew; i offer to relieve you of the charge of daisy rymple." "of flower?--but she is one of the worst of us." here flower ran over, crouched down by the doctor, and put one of her hands into his. "but i will be good with you," she said with a half-sob. "hear her," said the doctor. "she says she will be good with me. perhaps, after all, maria, i _can_ manage my own children better than any one else can." "daisy is not your child--you had better give her to me." "i can't part with flower; she is an excellent reader. i am a blind man, but she scarcely allows me to miss my eyes." flower gave a low ecstatic sob. "and you will allow her to part with valuable gems like this?" "thanks to you, maria, she has recovered her diamond." "andrew, i never met such an obstinate, such a misguided man! are you really going to bring up these unfortunate children without a chaperon?" "i think you must allow us to be good _and_ naughty in our own way." "father is looking very tired, aunt maria," here whispered polly. "my dear, _i_ am never going to fatigue him more. andrew, i wash my hands of your affairs. daisy, take your diamond. at least, my little precious dog, i have recovered _you_. we return to bath by the next train." chapter xix. one year after. "helen, here's a letter." "yes. who is it for?" "i think it's for us all. see: 'the misses maybright and miss dalrymple.'" "well, where's flower? we can't open it till flower comes down. it must be--yes, it must be about father! you know it was yesterday his eyes were to be operated on." "as if i didn't know it, nell! i never closed my eyes last night. i felt nearly as bad as that awful day a year ago now. i wish i might tear open this envelope. where is flower? need we wait for her?" "it would be unkind not to wait! no one feels about father as flower does." "david, please call her this instant!" david flew out of the room, and polly began to finger the precious letter. "it's thick," she said; "but i don't think there's much writing inside. yes," she continued, "flower is certainly very sensitive about father. she's a dear girl. all the same, i'm sometimes jealous of her." "oh, dear polly! why?" "father thinks so much of her. yes, i know it's wrong, but i do feel a little sore now and then. not often though, and never when i look into flower's lovely eyes." "she is very sweet with father," said helen. "it seems to me that during this past year she has given up her very life to him. and did you ever hear any one read better?" "no, that's one of the reasons why i'm devoured with jealousy. don't talk to me about it, it's an enemy i haven't yet learnt to overcome. ah! here she comes." "_and_ fly, _and_ the twins!" echoed helen. "here's a letter from father, flower. at least, we think so. it's directed to us and to you." a tall, very fair girl, with soft, shining eyes, and a wonderful mane of yellow hair came up and put her arm round polly's neck. she did not smile, her face was grave, her voice shook a little. "open the letter, helen," she exclaimed impatiently. "don't tremble so, flower," said polly. but she herself only remained quiet by a great effort, as helen unfastened the thick envelope, opened the sheet of paper, and held it up for many eager pairs of eyes to read: "my children:--i see again, thank god. "your father and loving friend." "there!" said polly. "oh, i can't talk about it. flower, you are silly to cry. will no one dance a hornpipe with me? i'll choke if i don't laugh. you're the one to dance, fly. why, you are crying, too. ridiculous! where's the letter? let's kiss it all round. that'll make us better. his own blessed writing! isn't he a darling? was there ever such a father?" "or such a friend?" exclaimed flower. "i said long ago, and i say again now, that he's the best man in the world, and i do really think that some day he'll turn me into a good girl." "why, you're the nicest girl i know now," said polly. and then they kissed each other. the end ------------------------------------------------------------------------ transcriber's notes ------------------- . punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards. . frontispiece relocated to after title page. . typographic errors corrected in original: p. aways to always ("always did think") p. breat-and-butter to bread-and-butter p. nuseries to nurseries ("to the nurseries") p. by to my ("jealous of my influence") p. life to like ("looked like artificial flowers") [illustration: she stared bewildered into the shaggy faces around her.--page .] a waif of the mountains by edward s. ellis author of "up the tapajos," "from the throttle to the president's chair," "the land of wonders," etc. chicago geo. m. hill co. publishers copyright, , by the mershon company a waif of the mountains chapter i at new constantinople it had been snowing hard for twenty-four hours at dead man's gulch. beginning with a few feathery particles, they had steadily increased in number until the biting air was filled with billions of snowflakes, which whirled and eddied in the gale that howled through the gorges and cañons of the sierras. it was still snowing with no sign of cessation, and the blizzard blanketed the earth to the depth of several feet, filling up the treacherous hollows, caverns and abysses and making travel almost impossible for man or animal. the shanties of the miners in dead man's gulch were just eleven in number. they were strung along the eastern side of the gorge and at an altitude of two or three hundred feet from the bed of the pass or cañon. the site protruded in the form of a table-land, offering a secure foundation for the structures, which were thus elevated sufficiently to be beyond reach of the terrific torrents that sometimes rushed through the ravine during the melting of the snow in the spring, or after one of those fierce cloud-bursts that give scarcely a minute's warning of their coming. the diggings were in the mountain side at varying distances. the success in mining had been only moderate, although several promising finds raised hopes. the population numbered precisely thirty men, representing all quarters of the union, while five came from europe. the majority were shaggy, bronzed adventurers, the variety being almost as great as the numbers. some had been clerks, several were college graduates, a number were the sons of wealthy parents, and one was a full-fledged parson, while there was a certain percentage who had left their homes to escape the grip of the offended law. with that yearning for picturesqueness which is a peculiar trait of americans, the miners felt that when their settlement had attained the dignity of nearly a dozen dwellings, it was entitled to an appropriate name. the gorge, which seemed to have been gouged out of the solid mass of boulders and rocks, when the mountains were split apart in the remote past, was known from the first by the title already given, which also clung to the diggings themselves. the single saloon presided over by max ortigies, was the heavenly bower,--so _that_ point was settled, but when it came to naming the settlement itself, the difficulties were so numerous that days and weeks passed without an agreement being reached. no matter how striking and expressive the title offered by one man, the majority promptly protested. it was too sulphurous, or too insipid or it lacked in that nebulous characteristic which may be defined as true americanism. it looked as if the problem would never be solved, when landlord ortigies, taking the bull by the horns, appointed a committee of three to select a name, the others pledging themselves to accept whatever the committee submitted. but the mischief was to pay when on the night of the blizzard the committee met at the heavenly bower to make their report. the chairman insisted upon "e pluribus unum," the second member's favorite was "murderer's holler," while the third would not listen to anything except "wolf eye," and each was immovably set in his convictions. budge isham was not a member of the committee, but he was known as a college graduate. from his seat on an overturned box at the rear of the room, where he was smoking a pipe, he asked troublesome questions and succeeded in arraying the committeemen so fiercely against one another that each was eager to vote, in the event of failing to carry his own point, in favor of any name objectionable to the rest. the chairman as stated favored the patriotic name "e pluribus unum," and boldly announced the fact. "it has a lofty sound," blandly remarked isham; "will the chairman be good enough to translate it for us? in other words, what does 'e pluribus unum' mean?" "why," replied the chairman with scorn in his manner; "everybody oughter know it means, 'hurrah for the red, white and blue.'" "thank you," returned isham, puffing at his pipe. vose adams, the second committeeman, felt it his duty to explain his position. "the trouble with that outlandish name is in the fust place that it has three words and consequently it's too much to manage. whoever heard of a town with three handles to its name? then it's foreign. when i was in college (several disrespectful sniffs which caused the speaker to stop and glare around in quest of the offenders); i say when i was in college and studying greek and chinese and russian, i larned that that name was made up of all three of them languages. i b'leve in america for the americans, and if we can't find a name that's in the american language, why let's wait till we can." this sentiment was delivered with such dramatic force that several of the miners nodded their heads in approval. it was an appeal to the patriotic side of their nature--which was quick to respond. "mr. chairman," said budge isham, addressing the landlord, who, by general consent, was the presiding officer at these disputations, and who like the others failed to see the quiet amusement the educated man was extracting, "if it is agreeable to mr. adams, to whose eloquent speech we have listened with much edification, i would like him to give us his reasons for calling our handsome town 'murderers' hollow.'" the gentleman appealed to rose to his feet. turning toward the man who had called upon him, he gave him a look which ought to have made him sink to the floor with mortification, preliminary to saying with polished irony: "if the gentleman had paid attention as he oughter, he would have obsarved that i said 'murderer's holler,' not 'murderers' _hollow_.' i would advise him not to forget that he ain't the only man in this place that has received a college eddycation. now as to the name: it proclaims our stern virtue and love for law." the orator paused, but the wondering expression of the bronzed faces turned toward him showed that he would have to descend to particulars. "when violators of the law hear that name, what does it say to them? it says that if any murderer shows his face in this place, he will receive such rough handling that he will have to holler 'enough,' and will be glad to get out--i don't see what there is to laugh at!" exclaimed vose angrily, looking threateningly around again with his fists clenched and his gaze fixed specially upon the grinning budge isham. "there's some sense in what vose says, which ain't often the case," remarked ike hoe, the other member of the committee, "but the trouble will be that when folks hear of the name, they won't think to give it the meanin' that he gives it. they'll conclude that this place is the home of murderers, and, if it keeps on, bime by of hoss thieves. if it warn't for that danger, i might go in for backing up vose with his name, but as it stands it won't do." the argument of ike had produced its effect. there was little sympathy in the first place for the title, and that little was destroyed by the words of ike, who proceeded to plead for his own choice. "now as to 'wolf eye.' in the first place, it is short and easy to say. there ain't any slur in the name, that might offend a new comer, who would think the 'murderer's holler' contained ungentlemanly allusions to his past. it is warning, too, that the place has got an eye on everybody and has teeth as sharp as a wolf. then there is poetry in the name. gentlemen," added ike in a burst of enthusiasm, "we oughter go in for poetry. how can any one live in such a glorious country as this with the towering kenyons around him, with the mountains thousands of feet deep, with the grand sun kissin' the western tips in the morning and sinking to rest at night in the east,--with the snow storms in summer and the blazing heat in winter--with the glo----" "hold on! hold on!" called budge isham, rising solemnly to his feet, with hands uplifted in protest; "if ike doesn't stop, he'll have us all standing on our heads. there's a brand of liquor down in sacramento called 'wolf eye;' i don't make any charges, gentlemen, against my friend ike, but you can draw your inferences. wolf eye won't do." a general laugh greeted this sally, seeing which the indignant ike turned the tables upon budge with an admirable piece of sarcasm. "seeing as how all of us together don't know 'nough to git up a name that will suit, i move that the college eddycated gentleman supplies the brains and does it himself." the crushing irony of this remark was spoiled by budge accepting it in all seriousness. he bowed his head and gracefully thanked the satirical vose. "i shall be very glad to do so. the committee meant well enough, but the trouble was that there were too many fools on it----" at this point wade ruggles sprang to his feet, with the fierce question: "does the gentleman refer to _me_?" his hand was at his hip on the butt of his revolver and matters looked squally, but the tactful budge quelled the rising storm with chesterfieldian grace. waving his hand and bowing, he said: "i did not intend the remotest reference to you." vose adams came up promptly. "then it's _me_ and i'm ready to make any man eat his words." "my good friend is mistaken; nothing could induce me to apply such a term to him; i hold him in too high esteem." since this left ike hoe as the only remaining member, he began to show signs of explosion, perceiving which the incomprehensible budge proceeded to mollify him. "and ike knows that i would be the last person in the world to slur a gentleman from whom i as well as the others have received so much instruction." ike was mystified. he looked at the other members of the committee and then into the faces of the group. he couldn't make it out. "if it's all the same, mr. chairman, since the gentleman has said there was too many fools on the committee, and has just explained that he didn't mean any one of us three, i'll be obliged if he'll explain who in thunder he did mean." this sounded unanswerable, but the cunning budge was equal to the occasion. "it gives me pleasure to answer the question of the gentleman: my remark was made in a pickwickian sense." he leaned forward with a beaming smile, as if his explanation left nothing to be added. no one understood to what he referred, but all were too proud to admit the fact. there was a general nodding of heads, and ike, with the manner of a man who magnanimously accepts the humble apology of him whom he has worsted, leaned back on his stool and audibly remarked: "that makes it all right." budge isham resumed his seat, when he was reminded that he was expected to submit a name for the new settlement. "i beg pardon," he said, rising again, "it is a fact known to this highly intelligent assemblage, that every city of prominence in europe has from one to forty namesakes in this country. there is one exception, however; doubtless all know to what city i refer." in response to his inquiring looks, the group tried to appear as if the name was familiar to them, but no one spoke. "it is hardly necessary for me to mention the city, but i may say it is constantinople." a contemptuous sniff greeted this proposal. "that's the worst yet," said wade ruggles, drawing a match along the thigh of his trousers to relight his pipe, which had gone out during the excitement; "the man that insults this party with such a proposition, ought to be run out of the place." "what's the matter with it?" demanded budge. "it's too long in the fust place," commented ike hoe; "it bothers a man to git his mouth around it and it hain't any music, like the other names such as starvation kenyon, hangman's noose, blizzard gorge and the rest. i stick to mine as the purtiest of all." "what's that?" "'blazes,' short and sweet and innercent like." landlord ortigies was leaning with both elbows on the bar. the new name struck him favorably. "i'm inclined to agree with budge," he said, "cause there hain't any other place that's hit onto it. all of them names that you chaps have tried to spring onto us, have been used in other places, or at least some part of the names, but, as budge has observed, no galoot has scooped 'constantinople.'" "'cause no one ain't fool enough," observed ike hoe, who noted the drift of the sentiment. "but they'll pounce onto it powerful quick if we don't grab it while it's passin'; it's a good long name, and what if it does make a chap sling the muscles of his jaw to warble it? all the better; it'll make him think well of his town, which i prophesy is going to be the emporium of the west." "let's see," growled wade ruggles, "constantinople is in ireland isn't it?" "where's your eddycation?" sneered ike vose; "it's the oldest town in wales." landlord ortigies raised his head and filled the room with his genial laughter. "if there was anything i was strong on when i led my class at the squankum high school it was astronermy; i was never catched in locating places." "if you know so much," remarked ruggles, "you'll let us know something 'bout that town which i scorn to name." "i'm allers ready to enlighten ign'rance, though i've never visited constantinople, which stands on the top of the himalaya mountains, in the southern part of iceland." "that's very good," said budge isham, who with his usual tact maneuvered to keep the ally he had gained, "but the constantinople i have in mind is in turkey, which is such a goodly sized country that it straddles from europe to asia." "which the same i suppose means to imply that this ere constantinople will do likewise similar." "no doubt that's what it'll do in time," assented the landlord. "i beg to offer an amendment to my own motion," continued the oily budge; "when the boom strikes this town, as it is bound soon to do, and it rivals in size the famous city on the other side of the atlantic, there should be something to distinguish the two. we have no wish to rob any other place of the honors it has taken centuries to gain; so, while we reserve the principal name, i propose that we distinguish it from the old city by prefixing the word 'new.'" "you mean that this town shall be 'new constantinople?'" was the inquiring remark of the landlord. "precisely; and i now make the motion that that be our name." there were seventeen persons present and it looked as if a decision was inevitable. the landlord was shrewd. his first act was to invite all to drink at his expense, after which he made each pledge himself to abide by the decision, whatever it might be. these preliminaries being arranged, a show of hands was called for. the vote was eight for and eight against the new name. "that's a tie," commented the landlord from behind his immense beard; "and therefore the question ain't settled." "it's easy 'nough to settle it," said ike hoe. "how?" "take another vote." "i don't see how that'll do it, onless some one changes his mind; but again, gentlemen: all who favor the new name, raise their right hands." eight horny palms were elevated in air, while the same number were displayed in the negative. the landlord looked troubled. "we must keep it up till some one weakens," observed wade ruggles. the host scanned the earnest faces in front of him. "which of you gentlemen will promise to weaken if we keep this thing up for half the night?" "i'll stay here a week," was the reply of vose adams, while the general nodding of heads showed that he echoed the sentiments of the others. the landlord met the crisis with becoming dignity. "gentlemen, when i was a member of congress, all questions that was tied was settled by the presiding officer casting the deciding vote, and which as aforesaid we don't lay any claim to being higher than congress, i therefore, by virtue of the aforesaid right vested in me, cast my vote in favor of this city being called new constantinople, which the same is on me again; gentlemen, what will you have?" it was a coup d'etat, the victory being clinched before the opposition realized it. ere the company had fairly recovered from their bewilderment, budge isham declared that the victory was really his, due to the good sense and high toned chivalry of his friends, and he insisted upon doing the honors. he would accept no denial and the engaging style in which he acquitted himself of this duty restored good humor. thus it was that the little mining town of the sierras in the days that are gone received its title. the heavenly bower consisted of two large apartments, both on the ground floor. the one at the rear was used by landlord ortigies for sleeping, eating and partial storage purposes. when vose adams made his quarterly visits to sacramento, he was accompanied by two mules. they were not necessary to take and bring the mail, since the pocket of adams' great coat was sufficient for that, but they carried down to sacramento several empty casks which came back filled, or rather they were thus when the return journey was begun, but to the dismay of the proprietor of the heavenly bower, he found that they were barely two-thirds full, when unloaded at his place. vose explained that the leakage was due to the roughness of the trail. since there seemed no other way of overcoming this, the landlord sent an extra cask with the request to vose that he would confine his leakage to that and vose kindly obliged him. the stuff thus provided for the heavenly bower was generally in concentrated form, thereby permitting a dilution which insured a full supply for the customers who were afflicted with an eternal thirst. the bar room was of extensive proportions. nearly all of one side was occupied by the bar. opposite was the huge fireplace, and scattered around were a number of stools, rickety chairs and strong boxes which served equally well for seats. the crackling fire, the genial warmth and good cheer within the room were the more striking because of their contrast with the howling storm without. the gale roared around the corners of the rude but strong structure, rattling against the massive door and the log walls, spitting vicious gusts down the chimney and flinging great drifts hither and yon with a fury that threatened to send the building skurrying through the snowy space. "it's the worst blizzard we ever had," remarked wade ruggles, after one of these violent outbursts; "god pity any one that's abroad to-night." "it reminds me of that zephyr last winter," observed vose adams, "when i was bringing your freight, max, from sacramento." "i remember," nodded the landlord; "you started with two kegs and got here with about half a one; the leakage was tremenjus on that trip." "true; the blizzards is always rough on mountain dew, and sorter makes it shrink," replied the unblushing vose. "can't you stop the casks leaking so much," inquired felix brush, who had been a parson in missouri, and claimed that he had never been "unfrocked." the landlord solemnly swayed his head. "not as long as vose has charge of the freight----" at that instant a dull but resounding thump was heard on the roof overhead. it shook every log in the structure, checked speech and caused each man to look wonderingly at his neighbor. "the mountain has fell on us!" exclaimed ike hoe in a husky whisper. "if it was the mountain," said budge isham, slightly raising his voice, as the courage of the party came back; "none of us would be able to tell of it." "then it's a rock--well, i'm blessed! the thing is moving!" something was certainly astir in the mass of snow overhead. "i guess it's a angel that has lost its way," submitted hoe. "more likely it's a grizzly b'ar that's stumbled off the rocks--" but all these speculations were scattered to the winds by the sound of a voice muffled and seemingly far away, which came to them through the storm: "_helloa, the house_!" chapter ii what the blizzard brought to new constantinople a moment after the hail was heard from the roof, the muffled noise which accompanied it ceased. the stranger groping about in the snowy gloom had stepped off the roof into the huge drift outside the heavenly bower, and a minute later, lifted the latch of the door and pushed in among the astonished miners. they saw the figure of a sturdy man holding something in his arms, so wrapped round with blankets and coverings that no one could tell its nature. he stamped the snow from his boots, shook himself like a shaggy dog, then walked heavily to the chair which budge isham placed near the fire for him, and almost fell into it. "good evening, friends," he said in a grave voice; "it was no fault of mine that i tried at first to enter by the roof." "when i built the heavenly bower," replied landlord ortigies; "i meant to place a door up there, but there wasn't anybody in new constantinople with enough sense to know how to do it. i 'spose you was looking fur it, stranger." "no," was the reply, "i wasn't looking for anything; i was just walking, walking through the storm, not knowing or caring where i went. i can't say how far i came, but it must have been a number of miles. i was still plodding on, when i set my foot on vacancy and down i went." "gracious! you fell nearly a hundred feet," said parson brush; "it was a wonderful providence that saved you from being dashed to death." "the snow on the roof must be five or six feet deep," replied the stranger; "for it received me as if it were a feather bed. i saw a glow from the top of your chimney against the rocks and knew i was on the roof of a house. i hardly felt jarred and groped my way off into a lot more snow and here i am." the astonishment of the listeners did not make them forget the laws of hospitality. budge isham looked significantly at the landlord, but he had already drawn a glass of spirits and was coming from behind the bar with it. "stranger, swallow this; you look cold; you're welcome to the heavenly bower, whether you come through the roof or down the chimbley." "thank you; i'll take the whiskey in a minute." and then feeling that he owed those who made him so welcome some explanation of his coming among them, the stranger said: "my friends, my name is maurice dawson. about two months ago, i left independence, missouri, with an emigrant train for the pacific coast. the elements, disease and the indians made such inroads upon us that after a time only half a dozen families remained. as if that wasn't enough, the few survivors quarreled over the course to follow, most of them aiming for a pass through the mountains into southern california, while i, the greatest fool of them all, set out to find dead man's gulch, of which i had heard from a party of trappers. my canvas covered wagon, with a single span of horses, contained all my worldly goods, and my companions were my wife and little girl nellie, only three years old. everything might have gone well but for this blizzard, which jumbled up the points of the compass and made traveling so difficult that after a time it became impossible." all were listening with the closest interest, and every heart was touched by the emotion of the man, which he could not control for several minutes. no one interrupted, and, feeling that his story was not quite completed, he added: "i fired my gun in the hope of attracting attention, but fortunately for others i was the only one abroad. by and by the horses stopped. they could draw the wagon no further. they stood panting and exhausted and soon lay down in the snow. i turned to speak to my wife, when i found she had been dead for some minutes, the cold carrying her off as quietly as if she were dropping asleep. before she passed away, she wrapped nearly all her clothing about nellie, who was cuddling beside her, so that really the mother, like the noble woman she was, gave her life for the little one. it was because nellie was alive, that i jumped out of the wagon and began floundering through the snow. i ploughed blindly forward until providence guided me to you." while uttering the last words, maurice dawson was tenderly unwrapping the bundle in his arms. there were many folds to draw away, but at last he reached the treasure within, which was his nellie, still sound asleep. if the miners were startled by the resounding thump on the roof, they were now almost struck dumb with amazement. they sat with open mouths, staring eyes and for a minute no one spoke or stirred. "god bless you, my nellie," murmured the father, bending his head and touching his lips to the cool forehead; "i had no hope of this when i left your dead mother and started on my tramp through the snow." a general sigh went up from the group of awed miners. wade ruggles, who had been leaning on the bar, with his gaze fixed on that of the handsome stranger, was the first to recover from the spell which held them all. tiptoeing across the room, he paused in front of the father and his child and stared, wondering and speechless. then one by one the others did the same, until the whole company were grouped around the man and child, each afraid to whisper, as if doing so would dissolve the heavenly vision. when the wrappings had been laid aside, and the little one was placed upright, she stared bewildered into the shaggy faces around her. her big blue eyes were open to their widest extent, the mass of golden curls rippled about her shoulders and the fairy-like feet were inclosed in thick, warm shoes and stockings. the dress of a dull brown color and thick texture, fitted her tiny frame perfectly and she formed a most winsome picture of infantile beauty. for fully five minutes all stared in silence at the marvelous picture. as before, wade ruggles was the first to come to himself, but when he spoke, it was in an awed, hesitating whisper: "is she really alive?" the sorrowful face of the father lit up with a faint smile as he answered: "yes; thank heaven; alive and well." "may i touch her?" timidly asked ike hoe, extending his finger which faintly brushed the rosy cheek, and was instantly snatched away as if he felt he had done a sacrilegious thing. "i say," ventured ruggles gathering courage, "i wonder now if she would let me take her in my arms for a minute or so; i won't drop her; but that's too much to ask, howsumever." while he stood hopeful, hesitating and doubtful, nellie with a half frightened smile, dived her head under the arm of her father, as if to get away from the embarrassing situation. he gently fondled the golden hair and drew her face into view again. "there, little one, there's nothing to be frightened at; these people are all your friends and will do anything they can to please you." "you're right!" exclaimed landlord ortigies, with a shake of his head; "we'll do anything in the world for you; if you say the word, i'll stand on my head or stand any one else here the same way." and he showed an alarming inclination to invert himself for the amusement of the child, but she did not seem to grasp the meaning of the offer. she fixed her eyes upon ruggles, who made bold by what seemed a favorable sign, took a step forward and invitingly extended his hands. she debated for a moment, whether to meet the proffer and then with the impulsiveness of infancy leaned toward him. with a thrill of pleasure the grizzled miner carefully placed his huge arms underneath hers, and lifted her as if she were a doll from her father's knee. as he did so, every one saw the big tears trickling down his cheeks. "i can't help it, boys," he said apologetically; "the last child i held in these arms was my own jennie, and she was dead." with infinite affection, he pressed his bearded lips against the chubby cheek, while she, relieved of all fear, flung her dimpled arms about his neck and kissed him in return. with one hand, she lifted the flapping hat from his head and with the other smoothed away the luxuriant hair from his forehead. "i like you ever so much, but you are crying," she said sympathetically; "what makes you do that? haven't you got a little girl like me?" "no, my precious child; i once had just such a sweet tot as you, but the good lord took her from me, and i love you just as i loved her." "and that's what we all are going to do," remarked ike hoe, with a sniff as he drew his sleeve across his eyes; "this beats anything in the history of new constantinople, by seven hundred and eighty-four thousand majority." "come, wade, you must be fair with us," said the landlord, reaching out his arms; "we all claim an equal share in her." the miner felt the truth of this, and without a word relinquished the treasure. drawing his handkerchief, he wiped his eyes clear of their mist and jealously followed the surrendered one as she was fondled in turn by the others. first one and then another, until she had completed the round. all had something pleasant to say to her and she replied in her sweet innocent way, causing laughter and winning her path straight to the hearts of the hardy fellows, to whom such endearments had been unknown for years, but whose better natures were stirred by the presence of the child, as if she were in reality an angel sent from heaven. felix brush had purposely left his turn for the last, hoping thereby to retain her longer than his friends. after chatting with her for a moment and repeating some rigmarole that set her laughing, followed by the request for him to say it again, he stood her on the bar. then he danced in front of her, swung his arms like a jumping-jack, and told some outlandish fairy story from the stock that no one had ever suspected he possessed. "can you stand on your head?" asked nellie, rippling over with fun. "certainly," he replied, as without a moment's hesitation, he inverted himself and cracked his heels together, though the attitude was such an unfamiliar one that he careened and went over on his back with a thump that made the room tremble. nellie clapped her chubby hands with delight and before brush could repeat the performance, she called: "catch me; i'm going to jump." "all right; i'm ready for you." she recoiled a step to gather momentum and landlord ortigies, terrified at the fear that she might step off backward, made a dive round the end of the bar, catching his foot in an obstruction and falling with a crash that drew all attention to him. "i'm so sorry; be you hurt?" asked nellie, turning her head and surveying him, as his face came up to view like the full moon rising above the horizon. "not a bit; i done that on purpose to make you laugh; i always do that to please good little girls like you." "bime by i'll let you fall all the time, but just see me jump." felix brush was still standing, with arms outstretched, and, without a second's hesitation the child leaped off into space. she showed no fright, for there was no cause for it, since she was caught fairly and securely. inasmuch as she had been fondled by every one, and the parson had had her longer than anyone else, he set her down on the floor and she began running here and there, displaying a childish curiosity to understand everything in sight. going to the half-opened door, communicating with the darkened apartment at the rear, she peeped timidly in. "who lives in dere?" she asked, turning around and addressing the whole group who were laughingly watching her. "that's where i live," replied ortigies. "do you live all alone?" "yes, my child." "haven't you got any little girl like me?" "no; i'd give all i have in the world if i had." "wouldn't you like to have me for your little girl?" "indeed i would; will you be my little girl?" the baby face became thoughtful. she thrust one finger in the corner of her mouth and looked down at the floor. "what would papa do and those other folks? i will be the little girl for all of you." this struck the party as the brightest and wittiest expression ever made by a mortal. they laughed, clapped their hands and striking each other on the shoulder wanted to know whether anything of the like had ever before been heard. certainly not. without paying any heed to them, nellie was peering into the room again. "it's dark and cold," she said in an awed voice, turning her face around, the better to communicate the information; "but i ain't afraid." before she could fairly enter the place, her father, who was affectionately watching her, said: "i guess you would better not go in there, nellie; it's growing late and is time you prepared for bed." "i'll fix a place for her," said ortigies; "we ain't much on style here, but i can manage to make her comfortable." "but will it not discommode you?" "that little gal can't discommode any one in new constantinople; if she would prefer to have me go out and sleep in the snow, i'll be glad to do it." "i've just the place for her," interposed wade ruggles; "couldn't be better if i had taken a week to get it ready." "can't begin with my quarters," felix brush hastened to say, and there would have been a general wrangle for the privilege of accommodating the little one, had not her father, seeing how matters were going, smilingly raised his hand in protest. "i cannot tell you, my friends, how much i thank you all for your kindness. ah, if my poor wife could have held out until she reached here, but that was not to be. i shall be glad to stay with mr. ortigies to-night, and with your permission shall remain for a few days in your settlement. i have lost everything i owned in the world, and will need some time to decide what is best to do. our stay in new constantinople will give all a better chance to get acquainted with nellie. i'll surrender her to you until you get tired of her." "get tired of her!" repeated vose adams, voicing the sentiments of all; "we're not the kind of galoots to git tired of an angel." the father expressed his thanks with such winsome grace, that every man instinctively felt that he was a born gentleman. there was not a miner in the room who did not sympathize with him in his affliction, and yet they envied him the possession of the child, whose innocence and beauty impressed them as more wonderful than they had ever looked upon before. when felix brush whispered to budge isham that arrangements must be made in some way to keep the father with them, for the sake of having the child, his friend nodded his head, and said he had made up his mind to the same effect from the moment the parent referred to the matter. and the sentiments of these two were those of the rest. "come, nellie, let me prepare you for bed; it's a long time since you have had that privilege." the little one obediently walked to her father and turned her back to him that he might better remove her clothing. "i suppose you have plenty of covering for her?" remarked the parent inquiringly to the landlord. "there's all she can need." lifting her on his knee, the father began removing the shoes and stockings, the little one giving what aid she could, when it came to the garments. one of the last acts of the affectionate mother had been to place upon her child the gown she was accustomed to wear while asleep. when at last she was ready, she looked up to her father and asked in a half whisper: "where's mamma?" "she will not be with us to-night." "then she will come in the morning?" "wait until then, my child; don't say anything more about mamma now." she was satisfied, and signified that she was ready to have her father carry her to her bed. then she exclaimed with a laugh: "ain't that funny?" "what's that?" "i like to fordot to say my prayers." and slipping from her father's knee, she knelt on the floor, with her hands covering her face which, as it pressed his knee, was hidden by the mass of golden ringlets clustering and falling about it. not a man stirred or spoke. all were so silent that the sifting of the snow against the logs, the moaning of the gale and the soft rustle of the embers that broke apart on the hearth were audible. but all these were as the "voice of silence" itself, so that when the child began her prayer in a low voice, every syllable was heard. "now i lay me down to sleep. i pray the lord my soul to keep; if i should die before i wake, i pray the lord my soul to take. god bless papa, mamma and make nellie a good girl; bless--" wheeling short round at the silent, awed group, she looked at the landlord and asked: "what is your name?" "or-ti-gies," he replied, pronouncing it carefully. she made rather sorry work at first, but there could be no doubt that the one to whom she was addressing the petition understood her wishes. when she had satisfied herself and included the landlord in her prayer, she ceased again, and this time looked up at her father whose hand was resting on her head. "i must pray for _all_ of them, musn't i?" "certainly, my child." "but i don't know dere names." "they will all tell them." no act of worship in church or grand cathedral was more solemn and reverential than that of the men, as each in turn stepped softly forward with bowed head, and repeated his name to the tiny petitioner, who immediately included it with those for whom she had already prayed and it was wafted upward through space to him who delights to hear and answer such petitions. she did not forget one. to make sure, she looked up while still on her knees and asked: "did i fordot any of you?" "no," replied the parent; "you have not missed any. that's a good girl." "and i know they will all be good, for i asked god to make 'em so." the father now rose to his feet with her in his arms, and she called a general good night, flinging a kiss to all. landlord ortigies had lit an extra lamp and with it in hand, he led the way to the rear room, where as he stated, comfortable quarters were provided for the little one. since the heavenly bower was the only place in the mining settlement where the wanderer, who occasionally made his way into that remote part of the world, could expect to find sleeping accommodations, ortigies was always prepared for visitors. thus he was able to furnish the father with a couch so placed that he virtually shared the bed with his child. ten minutes later, when he stole back into the room with the landlord to see whether everything was right with his child, she was found sunk in the sweet, dreamless slumber of infancy. the picture was so winsome as she lay with her cheek resting upon the rough pillow, that ortigies stepped softly to the door and beckoned to his friends. everyone stole forward, and stood looking down for several minutes upon the sleeper, and, as he did so, new resolves sprang into his heart. already it may be said they were better men because of the blessed messenger that had come among them. chapter iii a slip or two the blizzard gradually subsided toward morning, but when the fall of snow ceased, it lay to the depth of several feet on the level, while the gorges were choked with vast drifts. the cold was below zero and no work could be done in the diggings until a rise in temperature came. it was hardly light, however, on the succeeding morning, when three of the miners accompanied maurice dawson in his search for the abandoned wagon and team. there was not a trace of anything resembling a trail, the footprints of the man having been obliterated by the wind-driven snow, and the skill of the party was taxed to the utmost. several times they were compelled to rest, and dawson himself suggested that the search be given up until a change in the weather; but the kind hearted men saw how deeply he grieved, and their sympathy kept them toiling until about noon when success came. the wagon was so covered with snow that it resembled a hummock, which ordinarily would have been passed without notice. the horses and the inanimate form within were like blocks of wood. the slight figure was lifted tenderly from its resting place and brought to dead man's gulch. since the last recollection of nellie was when she supposed her mother alive, it was deemed kinder that she should not look upon the lifeless form again. with hard labor the picks and shovels hollowed out a shallow grave into which the form, wrapped about with a single blanket, was laid away to rest until the last day. the father, when questioned by the little one, explained that her mother had gone on a long, long journey and there was no saying when she would be seen again. nellie cried a good deal and it saddened her parent's heart, when stealing softly into her room, he saw the traces of tears on her cheeks. who can tell the sorrows of childhood when such a cruel affliction comes upon it? but it is a blessed truth that time is the healer of all wounds, and after awhile the little one ceased to ask about her mother. when the whole truth was told her, she had become old enough to bear the blow. maurice dawson's first purpose was to remain only for a week or two with the friends of himself and child. he had set out for the pacific coast, and, although it was still a thousand miles distant, he felt it his duty to press on, but he suffered himself to be dissuaded, when it was explained that the prospect of obtaining gold was as good at new constantinople, whereas, if he continued his journey, he would have to make his home among strangers, who were not likely to feel the interest in him and his child that was felt by those who were the means of saving their lives. furthermore, since he had lost his team, he was without the means of pressing on. none of the emigrant trains turned so far out of their course as to come to dead man's gulch, and nothing was plainer than that the citizens of that place would not give the least help in an enterprise that was to deprive them of nellie. it is impossible to say what would have followed, had he persisted in his first decision, for while the men might have consented to let him go, they would have rebelled had he attempted to take the child from them. and so it came about, we repeat, that maurice dawson decided to make his home indefinitely in the town that had been christened new constantinople. with the help of his neighbors, landlord ortigies divided his rear room into two apartments, one of which was turned over to the parent and his child. nearly every miner brought some article, such as a fragment of mirror, a picture or trinket and presented it to the little one, whose room naturally became the finest in new constantinople. dawson himself joined the miners at their work, all showing an eagerness to lend him a helping hand, and there was reason to hope that in time there would be a fair reward for their labor. he was not only an educated man, but was strong and enterprising, considerate of the feelings of others, and now that his life partner was gone, he had but the little daughter to live for. gladly he toiled for her, for no child was ever more tenderly loved by parent than she. his thoughts turned to the future, but for some years he believed it was better that she should remain where she was. nellie dawson became the pet of the mining town. there was not a man in the place, no matter how rough his ways, nor how dark had been his past, who was not made the better by her presence. she touched a responsive chord in every heart. she awoke tones that had been silent for years, and stirred into life resolves that had lain dormant for a generation. when the weather grew milder with the approach of spring, she flitted like a bird from cabin to cabin, equally at home and dearly prized in all. many a time when night came, the father was unable to find her, and perhaps saw nothing of her until the next day, but he never felt any solicitude. he knew that some of the men had persuaded her to remain with them, and he was too considerate to rob them of the pleasure of listening to her innocent prattle, while they racked their ingenuity and threw dignity to the winds in the effort to entertain her. each one strove to make her think more of him than the others, and it ended by her loving them all. as a rule, nellie ate her morning meal at home, after spending the night with her father, and then she was off for the day, returning or remaining away as her airy fancy prompted. her sweet influence in the mining camp was beyond the power of human calculation to fathom. no gauge could be placed upon it. like the sweep of an angel's wing, her coming seemed to have wafted nearly all the coarseness, wrong and evil from her path. "there's a serious question that i want to lay afore this company," gravely remarked wade ruggles one night in the heavenly bower. dawson was absent with a brother miner at the lower end of the settlement, so the gathering felt at liberty to discuss him and his child. wade of late had fallen into the habit of taking the lead in such discussions, and landlord ortigies was quite willing to turn over the honors of the chairmanship to the outspoken fellow. the remainder of the company were smoking, drinking and talking as the mood took them, and all looked inquiringly at the speaker, seeing which wade continued with the same earnestness he had shown at first: "it is this: that little angel that was tossed down here in the blizzard is growing fast; she's larning something cute every day; she notices things that you don't think of; fact is she's the smartest youngster that was ever born. does any gent feel disposed to dispoot the aforesaid statement?" he abruptly asked, laying his hand on the butt of his revolver and looking severely around in the faces of his friends. no one questioned the assertion. had it been left to them to choose the words, they would have made them stronger. "wal, the remark i was about to remark is that i hear some coarse observations once in awhile. i may say that i have indulged in a few myself when the 'casion was suitable and called for 'em, but i want to give notice that the thing must stop in the presence of the angel." "your suggestions generally ain't worth listenin' to," observed ike hoe, "but there's solid sense in them words. i have been troubled over the same thing and was goin' to submit a proposition." "you're a purty one to do it," commented vose adams scornfully; "why it's only yesterday that i heerd you say 'darn' just because i happened to smash the end of your finger, with the hammer i was drivin' a nail with." "did the little one hear him?" asked wade ruggles, while an expression of horror settled on every countenance. "no, sir!" declared ike; "afore i indulged in the expression, so proper under the tryin' circumstances, i looked round to make sartin she wasn't in hearing distance." "you must have looked very quick," said vose; "for the horrible words was simultaneous with the flattenin' of your big forefinger. howsumever, i gazed round myself and am happy to say she warn't in sight. if she had been, i'd smashed all your fingers." "a very proper christian spirit," commended wade; "i hope all the rest of you will strive to emerlate it." felix brush was leaning on the end of the bar with a glass of steaming toddy, which he had partly sipped, and was now caressing with his hand. "gentlemen," said he impressively, "permit me a word. wade has touched a subject which appeals to us all. i have given it much thought for the past few days and feel it my duty to look after the religious instruction of the child." two or three disrespectful snickers followed this declaration. the parson instantly flared up. "if any reprobate here feels a desire to scoff, he's only to step outside for a few minutes and see who can get the drop on the other." everybody knew that the parson was always well heeled, and no one questioned his courage. his friends contented themselves with pitying smiles and significant glances at one another. felix hastily swallowed his toddy, with the evident intention of airing his emphatic views, when wade ruggles interposed: "pards, you're gettin' off the track; we hain't got to the religious racket yit; that'll come later. what i want to 'rive at is as to using cuss words and unproper language where the angel hears it. it ain't 'nough for us to agree that we won't do it; it must be fixed so we don't take no chances." this was not exactly clear and wade was asked to be more explicit. "i mean that there must be a penalty, such as will stop a galoot that has once offended from doing the same thing again." this clearly intimated that the punishment which the chairman had in mind was of a frightful nature. the landlord begged wade to come down to particulars. "my idee is that whoever offends this little one by unproper language shall be filled full of bullet holes: how does _that_ strike you?" "it hits me just right!" responded the landlord, with several nods of his head; "but there's one thing in the way." "what's that?" demanded wade, showing some temper at this attack upon his scheme. "it 'lows a man to say the unproper words in the hearin' of the angel, _afore_ he's shot; so it won't prevent her ears from being 'fended. can't we fix it some way, so that she shan't hear 'em at all?" "there's no trouble about that," solemnly remarked budge isham from his seat at the further end of the room; "you have only to find out when a fellow has made up his mind to use improper language in the presence of the child, and then shoot him before he can say the words." "but how shall we know he's going to say 'em?" inquired the chairman, who in the earnestness of his feelings felt no suspicion of the honesty of his friend. "you will have to judge that by the expression of his countenance. i think when a fellow has made up his mind to swear his looks give notice of what is coming. the rest of us must be on the alert and pick him off before the words get out of his mouth. and yet i am sorry to say," added budge gravely rising to his feet, "that there is one serious drawback to my proposition." "the chairman is anxious to hear it." "there might be mistakes made. a man's expression is not always an index of his thoughts. he might be suffering from some inward pain, and be in the act of uttering some expression, but his face could have so mean a look that if our law was in force, he would be shot on sight. for instance, studying these faces all turned toward me, i should say, speaking on general principles, that all except one or two deserve, not shooting, but hanging, and if looks were to determine a man's depth of infamy, mighty few of you would live five minutes." budge sank gravely into his seat and resumed smoking, while his friends, understanding his trifling character, contemptuously refused attention to his disrespectful remarks. in the general discussion which followed, several insisted that the only proper punishment for the grave offence was death; but the sentiment crystallized into the feeling that that penalty was somewhat severe for the first breaking of the law. it was proper enough for the second crime, but a man who had been accustomed to picturesque and emphatic words was liable to err once at least while on the road to reformation. the agreement finally reached was that the offender should be heavily fined, compelled to fast several days, or, more frightful than all, be deprived of the privileges of the bar for the same length of time. when the last penalty was fixed there were several suppressed groans and a general setting of lips, with the unshakable resolve to steer clear of that appalling punishment. everything was serene for several days, when, as might have been anticipated, the explosion came. al bidwell, in coming out of the heavenly bower, caught the toe of one of his boots and fell forward on his hands and knees. two of his friends seeing him naturally laughed, whereupon, as he picked himself up, he demanded in the name of the presiding genius of hades, what they saw to laugh at. by way of answer, one of them pointed to nellie dawson, who ran forward to help him to his feet. "did you hurt yourself, mr. bidwell? i's so sorry." "you may well be, little one," was the bitter response, as he realized his awful offence; "for this will play thunder with me--there it goes agin! please don't say another word," he exclaimed desperately, striding down the street to save himself from piling up a mountain of unpardonable crimes. the committee did not gather until late that evening, for nellie was at home and it was thought advisable to wait until she was asleep, so that she should not know anything of what was in the air. the conversation was in subdued tones until mr. dawson tip-toed out of the rear room, with the announcement that the little one was sunk in slumber. "such bein' the case," remarked wade ruggles, with becoming gravity, "this meeting will proceed to bus'ness. pards, a hein'us crime has been committed among us. in the proud history of new constantinople, we've had hangin' bees; we've shot three injins 'cause they _was_ injins; there has been any number of holes plugged inter them as was a little careless of speech, and more'n once there has been the devil to pay, but nothin' like this, _never_! vose adams, you was one as heard this wretch bidwell indulge in his shocking profanity. you'll be good 'nough to give the partic'lars to the gents that i must warn to brace themselves fur the shock." vose adams told the story which was familiar to all. he and budge isham were approaching the heavenly bower that forenoon, the cause being a due regard for the requirement of the laws of health, when albert bidwell, the accused, stubbed his toe. hearing a laugh, he looked up and demanded to know what the ---- they were laughing at. while the query, though objectionable on æsthetic grounds, might have passed muster in the diggings or anywhere in new constantinople previous to the advent of the angel at present making her home with them, yet the horror of the thing was that the aforesaid angel heard it. she ran to the help of the villain, who added to his monumental crime by calmly remarking to her that what he had just said would play thunder with him. this second offence was unanimously felt by those present to be more unpardonable than the first, since it was in the nature of an addendum, had nothing to do with the business proper, and worst of all, was addressed to nellie herself. chairman ruggles turned his severest frown upon the prisoner, who was sitting disconsolately on a box, and drawing at his brier wood pipe, which in the depth of his emotion, he failed to notice was unlighted. "what has the prisoner to say fur himself?" bidwell shuffled to his feet, took the pipe from his mouth and looked around upon the cold, unsympathetic faces. "wal, pards," he remarked, heaving a great sigh, "i don't see that there's anything partic'lar fur me to say. when a thing is fairly proved onto you, you can't make nothin' by denyin' of the same. i've been tryin' to walk a chalk line ever since the angel arrove among us. two or three times i fell over backward and bruised my head, owin' to my tryin' to stand up too straight. i was just bracin' myself to do the same as aforesaid, when comin' out of this disgraceful place, when i took a headlong dive and struck the earth so hard, i must have made a bulge in china. two unmannerly ijuts that happened to see me, instead of expressin' sorrer for my mishap, broke out laughin', and in my righteous indignation, i asked them a emphatic question." "ord'narily," observed the court, "your explanation would do. in the old times, nothin' would have been said if you'd drawed your gun and give 'em a lesson in manners, but that aint the question afore the house: why did you do it in the presence of the angel?" "didn't see her till after the crime was committed." "but why didn't you look fur her to larn whether she was in sight or was liable to hear your shocking words?" "didn't think of it." "your reply only aggervates the offence. if any man feels that he must swear or bust, he must bust, purvided the little one is in sight; or he must hold in till he can climb on top of the rocks, or creep among the foothills where he's sure of being alone. the court hain't any 'bjection to your thinking all the cuss words you want to, but you mus'n't speak 'em when she's about. you understand the position of the court?" "i'd be a fool if i didn't," growled the accused. "it's onnecessary to understand 'em in order to be a fool, mr. bidwell, but how 'bout your second offence, when you used the word 'thunder,' and addressed it to the gal herself?" the prisoner felt that nothing could be said in palliation of this charge. "that _was_ bad bus'ness, i'll confess; but i was so disgusted with myself that i didn't know what i was doing or saying; the words come out afore i had time to pull myself together. i was so afeard of adding something still worser that i just rushed off to git out of danger." [illustration: as he picked himself up, he demanded in the name of the presiding genius of hades what they saw to laugh at.--page .] "there's where you showed the first grain of sense the court ever knowed you to show. if i had been in your place, i would have jumped off the rocks, into the kenyon, two thousand feet below. if you'd done that you'd been saved the disgrace of being put on trial in this honorable court. gents," added ruggles, glancing from the prisoner into the expectant faces, "since the man owns up, it rests with you to fix the penalty for his crime of bigamous murder." the prisoner resumed his seat and the chairman looked around, as an invitation for those present to express their views. when they came to do so, a wide diversity came to the surface. vose adams suggested that the criminal be compelled to go without any food for three days, but this was not favorably received, since the rough, trying life which each man had been compelled to follow at times during the past years, made the punishment much less than it appeared to be. ike hoe suggested that instead of food, the accused's liquid refreshment should be shut off for the time named. the accused groaned. when this had continued for some time, felix brush, the parson, took the floor. "gentlemen, it's a principle in law to be lenient with the first offence, and, since this is the first time that bidwell has offended and he deeply feels his disgrace, why not require him to apologize to the young lady and stand treat for the crowd, with the understanding that his next crime shall be visited with condign punishment?" "do you propose to let him off?" demanded the wrathful chairman. "yes; for this once, but never again." "i'll never consent to anything of the kind! the dignity of the court must be preserved; the law must be executed, and any man who says 'devil' or 'thunder' in the presence of the little gal, i don't care what the circumstances, orter to be shot, so that there wont be any delay in his going to the devil, where he belongs." "_o, mr. ruggles, i heard you_!" a little figure dressed in white stood at the door leading to the rear room, and the startled auditors turning their heads, saw nellie dawson, with her chubby finger pointed reprovingly at the dumbfounded chairman. chapter iv suiting the punishment to the crime wade ruggles was speechless. he sat with his mouth wide open and his eyes staring at the little figure, as if it were a veritable apparition. all the others looked in the same direction. nellie dawson stood for a moment with her finger pointed reprovingly at the chairman, and then turning about ran back into the rear room and plunged into her bed. "max, quick!" said ruggles faintly, pointing to the black bottle at the rear of the bar. the landlord hastily poured out some of the fiery stuff, and the miserable fellow swallowed it at a gulp. it served partly to revive him, but he was really on the verge of collapse. the only one of the company not impressed was maurice dawson, father of the little girl. he was sitting well back of the rest, where no one paid attention to him. comprehending the meaning of this incident, he drew his hand across his mouth to conceal the smile that could not be wholly restrained. then he hurried back into the room to see that his child was "tucked up" and properly covered for the night. finding himself in the dark, where he could not be observed, he laughed deeply and silently, his mirth all the greater because of the oppressive gravity of every one else. then bending over, he said, as he kissed the little one: "i thought you were asleep, nellie?" "so i was, but mr. ruggles spoke those bad words so loud he woked me." "you mustn't get up again, will you?" "not if you don't want me to." "i have just told you i don't wish you to." "then i wont get up." the father lingered in the room, until he mastered his disposition to laugh, and then, when he walked out among his friends no countenance was graver than his. "i say, dawson," said ruggles, swallowing a lump in his throat, "will you oblige me by acting as chairman?--i don't feel--very--well." the gentleman walked forward to where ruggles had been standing with his back against the bar, looking down in the faces of his friends. the poor fellow seemed to have aged ten years, as he slouched off to an upturned box near the door, where he dejectedly seated himself. "what is your pleasure, gentlemen?" asked dawson, as if presiding over the deliberations of one of the most august assemblages in the land; "i am ready to hear any suggestion or motion." al bidwell rose to his feet. "mr. chairman, i wish to endorse with all my heart, the soul-stirring, eloquent address to which we have just listened from the late mr. ruggles,--i mean the late chairman. them sentiments of his is as sound as a gold dollar. he maintains that any gent that uses an unproper word, such as he used and which i scorn to repeat, in the presence of the young lady, who has just listened to his remarks, oughter to be sent to the individooal whose name is too shocking fur me to pronounce, since the aforesaid young lady is in the adjoining apartment, from whence she was awoke by the awful profanity of the gent who lately served as our chairman." and having gotten back on ruggles in this masterly manner, bidwell sat down, slung one leg over the other, and relit his pipe. the oppressive silence was broken by a prodigious sigh from ruggles. parson brush, after the stillness had continued some minutes, rose to his feet. "mr. chairman, an extraordinary state of affairs has arisen. you have not forgotten that i plead for charity for mr. bidwell, because it was his first offence. my plea was not well received, but my sentiments are unchanged, and i now make the same plea for mr. ruggles and on the same grounds. when he was denouncing in fitting terms the sin of bidwell, he had no thought of committing the crime himself, but in his earnestness he did. this being plain to all of us, i renew----" wade ruggles bounded to his feet. "i don't want any one to plead for me! i ain't pleading fur myself! i can take my medicine like a man; if there's any galoot here----" he suddenly checked himself with an apprehensive glance at the door of the rear room, and then resumed in a more subdued voice: "i insist that al bidwell shall suffer for his onspeakable crime and me too, 'cause mine was onspeakabler. jedgin' from the evidence that showed itself, i must have awoke the little gal from peaceful slumber, by them awful words of mine." he paused and looked inquiringly at the chairman, who calmly returned his gaze, without speaking. it was parson brush who interposed: "i should like to ask, mr. dawson, whether the supposition of mr. ruggles has any foundation in fact." "it has; when i asked nellie what caused her to awake, she said it was mr. ruggles when he used those bad words." "just what i thought!" exclaimed ruggles, as if he enjoyed heaping fire upon his own head; "there ain't any depth of infamy which i hain't reached. for me to try to sneak out now, when i made such a----(here he again threw a startled glance at the rear of the room) would be to do something which wade ruggles never done in his variegated career of nigh onto forty years. all i ask is that you'll git through it as soon as you kin and fix our terms of imprisonment or our deaths and hev done with it." al bidwell took an unworthy delight in prodding the man who had been so severe upon him. "i beg humbly to suggest to the gent that there are plenty of places in the mountains where he can make a jump of a thousand feet or two into the kenyons. wouldn't it be a good idee fur the gent to try it?" "i will if you'll join me," retorted wade, turning upon him like a flash. "i'll let you try it first and see how it works," replied bidwell, so crushed that he remained silent henceforward. "since i am chairman," said dawson, with becoming dignity, "it is my duty to listen to suggestions and to hear motions. what is your pleasure, gentlemen?" no one in looking at the countenance of maurice dawson would have suspected he was extracting the keenest enjoyment from these proceedings, yet such was the fact. there was something so intensely ludicrous in the whole business, that only by assuming preternatural gravity could he refrain from breaking into merriment. his policy was to egg on the discussion until the company were ready for a decision, when he would interpose with the proposal to wipe out the whole matter and begin over again. the earnestness of wade ruggles, however, threatened to check anything of that nature. he was on his feet several times until budge isham, who shrewdly suspected the sentiments of the chairman, protested. "with all due respect to the parson, to ruggles and to bidwell, it strikes me, mr. chairman, that they should give the rest of us a show. we have listened to their yawping until it has grown monotonous. having told us a dozen times, more or less, that he wants us to punish him all he deserves, mr. ruggles ought to let it rest with that; but he shouldn't forget," added budge, with the solemn manner which always marked his waggery, "that, if we took him at his word, he would be kicking vacancy this minute. however, this hasn't anything to do with his general cussedness, but concerns his offence against the young lady. that is all there is before the house, and i insist that we confine ourselves to that----" "isn't that what i've been insistin' on?" demanded wade ruggles. "there you go again! i have the floor, and you have no parliamentary right to interrupt me with your frivolous remarks. am i correct, mr. chairman?" "you are most unquestionably; proceed." "well, to bring this tiresome matter to a close, i move that mr. bidwell be deprived of the bar privileges of the heavenly bower for a period of four days, and that the same be denied to mr. ruggles for a period of one week. did i hear a groan?" asked budge, looking round at the two men, who were trying bravely to bear up under the threatened punishment. both shook their heads, afraid to trust their voices by way of reply. "if the gentlemen will permit me," said the chairman, "i should like to say a few words." "i am sure we shall be glad to hear from mr. dawson," remarked the parson. "thank you. what i had in mind is this:--it is creditable to your honor that you should pledge yourselves to refrain from unbecoming language in the hearing of my little girl, for you cannot help being her instructors, no matter how much you may wish it were otherwise. but you are magnifying the matter. i am sure every man of you will strive just as hard, without being incited thereto by the fear of punishment. i would beg to suggest----" he paused, for, looking at wade ruggles, he saw it was useless to go further. bidwell would have been glad to receive leniency, but his partner in crime was immovable, and it would not do to punish one and allow the other to go free. dawson was wise enough to accept the situation promptly. "you have heard the penalties suggested for the offences of the two gentlemen accused. all who favor such punishment will show it by raising their right hands." every man in the room, except the chairman, voted in the affirmative. "it isn't worth while to put the negative. the accused have heard the verdict, which is that mr. bidwell shall not drink a drop of anything except water or coffee for a period of four days, dating from this moment, while mr. ruggles is to undergo the same penalty for a period of one week." "that's right," growled bidwell; "for he drank about half of what was in the bottle only a few minutes ago." "and you would have drunk it all," retorted ruggles, "if you'd knowed what was coming." chapter v a hundred fold all this may seem a trifling matter to the reader who does not understand the real punishment suffered by these two men, who, like all the rest of their companions, had been accustomed to the use of ardent spirits for many years. there was no deprivation which they could not have borne with less distress, but their great consolation was that both knew the penalty was fully deserved, and they would not have complained had it been made more severe. "i tell you," said bidwell, at the end of the fourth day, when he had celebrated his release from purgatory, "it pays, ruggles." "what pays?" "the reward you git for all this. at the end of a week you'll have a thirst that you wouldn't take a thousand dollars fur." "but the week isn't much more'n half gone and i'd sell my thirst mighty cheap now." "don't you do it! hold fast to it." "that's what i'm doing, 'cause i can't help myself. howsumever it's the thirst that's holding fast to me." "that's the beauty of it; it'll git stronger and stronger, and then it's so big that you can't well handle it. it seems to me that ten minutes after i've had a drink, i'm thirsty agin, which reminds me; i'd like to invite you, wade." "invite all you want to, 'cause it won't do any more hurt than good; don't let me keep you," added ruggles, observing the longing eyes his friend cast in the direction of the heavenly bower. bidwell moved off with pretended reluctance, out of consideration for the feelings of his friend, but once inside, he gave another demonstration of the truth of his remarks concerning thirst. as for ruggles, only he who has been similarly placed can appreciate his trial. no man is so deserving of sympathy as he who is making a resolute effort to conquer the debasing appetite that has brought him to the gutter. on that fourth night the thirst of the fellow was a raging fever. he drank copious draughts of spring water, but all the help it gave was to fill him up. the insatiate craving remained and could not be soothed. it seemed as if every nerve was crying out for the stimulant which it was denied. "the only time i ever went through anything like this," he said to himself, "was twenty years ago, when a party of us were lost in the death valley. three of 'em died of thirst, and i come so nigh it that it makes me shudder to think of it even at this late day." a wonderful experience came to wade ruggles. to his unbounded amazement, he noticed a sensible diminution, on the fifth day, of his thirst. it startled him at first and caused something in the nature of alarm. he feared some radical change had taken place in his system which threatened a dangerous issue. when this misgiving passed, it was succeeded by something of the nature of regret. one consoling reflection from the moment his torture began, was the reward which al bidwell had named, that is,--the glorious enjoyment of fully quenching his terrific craving, but, if that craving diminished, the future bliss must shrink in a corresponding ratio, and _that_ was a calamity to make a man like him shudder. on the evening of the fifth day, he ventured for the first time during his penal term, to enter the heavenly bower. he wished to test his self-control. when he sat quietly and saw his friends imbibing, and was yet able to restrain himself from a headlong rush to join them, he knew that beyond all question, his fearful appetite had lost a part of its control over him. still he believed it was only a temporary disarrangement, and that the following day would bring a renewal of his thirst, with all its merciless violence. but lo! on the sixth morning, the appetite was weaker than ever. his craving was so moderate that, after a deep draught of mountain spring water, he was hardly conscious of any longing for liquor. he seemed to be losing his memory of it. "i don't understand it," he mused, keeping the astonishing truth to himself; "it's less than a week ago that i was one of the heaviest drinkers in new constantinople, and if anyone had told me of this, i would have been sure he'd lost his senses, which the same may be what's the matter with me." but there was no awakening of his torment during the day, and when he lay down at night, he was disturbed by strange musings. "if we had a doctor in the place, i would ask him to tell me what it means. the queerest thing 'bout the whole bus'ness is that i feel three thousand per cent. better. i wonder if it can be on 'count of my not swallerin' any of ortigies' pison which the same he calls mountain dew. i guess it must be that." but that night he was restless, and gradually his thoughts turned into a new channel. a momentous problem presented itself for solution. "if i've improved so much after goin' six days without drinkin', won't i feel a blamed sight better, if i try it for six weeks--six months--six years--_forever_." and as an extraordinary, a marvelous resolution simmered and finally crystallized, he chortled. "what'll the boys say? what'll the parson think? what'll i think? what would that good old mother of mine think, if she was alive? but she died afore she knowed what a good for nothin' man her boy turned out to be. god rest her soul!" he added softly, "she must have prayed over me a good many hundred times; if she's kept track of me all these years, this is an answer to her prayers." budge isham was the partner of wade, and shared his cabin with him. he slept across the room, and noticed how his friend tossed and muttered in his sleep. "great gee!" he exclaimed, "but wade's got it pretty bad; i wonder if it's the jim jams that is getting hold of him; i'll sleep with one eye open, for he will need looking after. what a blessed thing it is that he has only one more day. then he can celebrate and be happy. i have no doubt that by the end of another week, he will have brought things up to their old average." and with this conclusion, the man who a few years before took the first honors at yale, shifted his position, so as to keep an eye on his comrade, and straightway proceeded to drop into a sound slumber, which was not broken until the sun rose on the following morning. the sympathy for wade was general. had he not insisted upon carrying out in spirit and letter the full punishment pronounced upon him, there would have been a unanimous agreement to commute his term by one or two days at least; but all knew the grit or "sand" of the fellow too well to propose it. his actions on the seventh day caused considerable disquietude. he had labored in the mines, in a desultory fashion up to that time, but he did not do a stroke of work during the concluding hours of his ordeal. it was observed by his partner, budge isham, that his appetite was unusually good and he seemed to be in high spirits. his friends attributed this to the closeness of his reward for his abstention, but he took several walks up the mountain side and was gone for a good while. he wore a smiling face and vose adams declared that he overheard him communing with himself, when he thought he was too far off for the act to be noticed. "no use of talkin'," whispered vose; "wade ain't quite himself; he's a little off and won't be exactly right till after two or three days." "he has my sympathy," remarked the parson, "but it will serve as a lesson which he will always remember." "and won't _we_ remember it?" said ike hoe, with a shudder. "when we're disposed to say one of them unproper words, the picture of that miserable scamp going a full week without a touch of mountain dew, will freeze up our lips closer than a clam." that night the usual group was gathered at the heavenly bower. there were the same merry jests, the reminiscences, the conjectures how certain diggings would pan out, the small talk and the general good feeling. common hardship and suffering had brought these rough men close to one another. they were indulgent and charitable and each one would have eagerly risked his life for the sake of the rest. quick to anger, they were equally quick to forgive, mutually rejoicing in good fortune, and mutually sympathetic in sorrow. there was more than one furtive glance at ruggles, who was among the first arrivals. whispers had passed around of his strange actions, and the surprise would not have been great had it been found that he had gone clean daft; but nothing in his manner indicated anything of that nature. he was as full of quip and jest as ever, and none was in higher or more buoyant spirits than he. he suddenly called: "dawson, what time is it?" the latest comer among them carried a watch which he drew out and examined. "it is exactly half-past nine." "when did my punishment begin?" "a week ago to-night, precisely at this hour; i began to fear that you had forgotten it." "no danger of my ever forgetting it," grimly responded ruggles; "what i want to know is whether i have served out my full term." "you have unquestionably." "is there anyone here disposed to dispute this statement?" asked wade, standing very erect and looking around in the faces of his friends. no one interposed an objection. he had not only the sympathy but the respect of every one. "you sarved your time like a man," remarked ike hoe; "the week is up and you've give good measure." "which the same being the case, i invite all to come forward and liquidate." never was an invitation responded to with more enthusiasm. the grinning ortigies set out a couple of bottles, intending as a matter of course to join in the celebration. he feelingly remarked: "wade, my heart bled for you and thar ain't a pard here that wouldn't have been willing to take your place--that is for a limited time," the landlord hastened to add. each tumbler was half-filled with the fiery stuff and all looked in smiling expectancy at their host to give the cue. he poured a small quantity into his glass, and elevating it almost to a level with his lips, looked over the top. "are you ready, pards? here goes." up went every glass and down went the stuff. but there was one exception. while the glass was at his lips, and while the familiar odor was in his nostrils, wade ruggles deliberately inverted the tumbler and emptied the contents on the floor. it was the strangest incident that had ever occurred in new constantinople. chapter vi teacher and pupil the group looked at wade ruggles in breathless amazement. he had invited them to the bar to join in celebrating his release from thralldom; all had filled their glasses and he had raised his own to his lips, though several noticed that there was only a small amount of liquid in the tumbler. then, when every glass was upraised and there was a general gurgling, he had turned his glass upside down and spilled every drop on the floor. before anyone could think of suitable terms in which to express his emotions, wade said, with a smile that rather added than detracted from his seriousness: "pards, never again does a drop of that stuff go down my throat! i've suffered hell, but i've come out of the flames, and the one that fetched me through is the little gal which lays asleep in the next room." he did not attempt to deliver a temperance lecture to his friends, nor did they trifle with him. they questioned him closely as to how he had reached this extraordinary decision, and he gave a vivid and truthful account of his experience. it made several of the men thoughtful, but most of them felt dubious about his persistence in the new path he had laid out for himself. "you know, boys, whether i've got a will of my own," he quietly replied; "just wait and see how this thing comes out." it was noticed that parson brush was the most interested inquirer, and, though he had comparatively little to say, he left the bower unusually early. he had begun his system of instruction with nellie dawson, and reported that she was making remarkably good progress. had the contrary been the fact, it may be doubted whether it would have been safe for him to proclaim it. and now the scene changes. it is the close of a radiant summer day in the sierras. far down in the cañon-like chasm between the mountainous spurs, nestled the little mining settlement, which had been christened but a short time before, new constantinople. here and there tiny wounds had been gouged into the ribs of the mountain walls, and the miners were pecking away with pick and shovel, deepening the hurts in their quest for the yellow atoms or dark ore which had been the means of bringing every man thousands of miles to the spot. far up toward the clouds were the towering, craggy peaks, with many a rent and yawn and table-land and lesser elevation, until, as if to check the climbing ambition of the prodigious monster, nature had flung an immense blanket of snow, whose ragged and torn edges lapped far down the sides of the crests. ages ago the chilling blanket was tucked around the mountain tops, there to remain through the long stretch of centuries to follow. down the valley, at the bottom of the winding cañon, the air palpitated with the fervor of the torrid zone. he who attempted to plod forward panted and perspired, but a little way up the mountain side, the cool breath crept downward from the regions of perpetual ice and snow, through the balsamic pines and cedars, with a revivifying power that was grateful to all who felt its life-giving embrace. the sun hovered in a sky of unclouded azure. it shot its arrows into the gullies, ravines and gorges, but made no impression on the frozen covering far up in cloudland itself. long pointed ravelings on the lower edge of the mantle showed where some of the snow had turned to water, which changed again to ice, when the sun dipped below the horizon. the miners were pigmies as they toiled in the sides of the towering mountain walls, where they had toiled for many a day. on the lip of a projecting crag, half a mile above were three other pigmies, who neither toiled nor spun. viewed through a glass, it was seen that they wore stained feathers in their black hair dangling about their shoulders, with the blankets wrapped round their forms descending to their moccasined feet. they were watching in grim silence these proofs of the invasion of their homes by the children of another race, and mayhap were conjuring some scheme for driving them back into the great sea across which they had sailed to occupy the new land. one of the indians was a chieftain. he had come in violent contact with these hated creatures and he bore on his person the scars of such meeting. all carried bows and arrows, though others of their tribe had learned the use of the deadly firearms, which has played such havoc with the american race. suddenly the chief uttered an exclamation. then drawing an arrow from the quiver over his shoulder, he fitted it to the string of his long bow, and pointing downward toward the group of miners, launched the shaft. except for the power of gravity, it would have been a foolhardy effort, but guided by the wisp of feather twisted around the reed, the missile spun far outward over the cañon, and dived through the vast reach of space, as if it were endowed with life and determined to seek out and pierce the intruders. the black eyes of the three warriors followed the arrow until it was only a flickering speck, far below them; but, before that moment arrived, they saw that it was speeding wide of the mark. when at last, the sharp point struck the flinty rock, and the missile doubled over upon itself and dropped harmlessly to the bottom of the cañon, it was at such a distance from the miners, that they knew nothing of it. they never looked up, nor were they aware of the futile anger of the red men, who seeing how useless was everything of that nature, turned about and soon passed from view. the incident was typical of the futility of the red man struggling against his inevitable doom at the hands of his white brother. half way between the bottom of the cañon and the lower fringe of the vast mantle of snow, a waterfall tumbled over the edge of a rock, and with many a twist and eddy found its way to the small stream, which rippled along the bottom of the gorge, until its winding course carried it beyond sight. now and then a rift of wind blew aside some of the foam, like a wisp of snow, and brought the murmur more clearly to the ear of the listener, shutting out for the time, the faint hollow roar that was wafted from the region of pines and cedars. it was a picture of lonely grandeur and desolation, made all the more impressive by the tiny bits of life, showing in the few spots along the mountain wall. [illustration: the teacher had marked on the dark face of the rock with a species of chalk all the letters of the alphabet.--page .] at the rear of the row of cabins, and elevated perhaps fifty feet above, was the comparatively smooth face of a rock, several square rods in extent. at the base was abundant footing for two persons, parson brush and nellie dawson. the teacher had marked on the dark face of the rock with a species of chalk, all the letters large and small of the alphabet. they were well drawn, for the parson, like others in the settlement, was a man of education, though his many years of roughing it had greatly rusted his book knowledge. standing to one side of his artistic work, like a teacher of the olden time, the parson, with a long, trimmed branch in his hand, pointed at the different letters in turn and patiently waited for his little pupil to pronounce their names. it never would have done to make the child keep her feet like an ordinary mortal. with great labor, three of the miners had carried a stone of considerable size to the spot, which served her as a seat, while receiving instruction. it is true that she never sat still for more than three minutes at a time, but that was enough to establish the indispensable necessity of a chair. "you are doing very well, my dear," said the parson, encouragingly; "you have received only a few lessons, but have mastered the alphabet. i notice that the 'd's' and 'b's' and 'h's' and 'q's' puzzle you a little now and then, but you have got them straight, and it is now time that we took a lesson in spelling." "oh, i can't do that, mr. brush," protested the queen, rising from the chair, adjusting her skirts and sitting down again; "i never can spell." "what is it to spell?" "i don't know; what is it?" "i can best answer your question by showing you. have you ever seen a cat?" "do you mean a pussy?" "yes; some folks call it that." "oh, yes; when we came from where we used to live,--i guess it must have been three or four hundred years ago, we brought my pussy along. her name was nellie, the same as mine." "what became of her?" "she died," was the sorrowful reply; "i guess she was homesick." "that was too bad. now will you tell me what letter that is?" "why, mr. brush, don't you know?" "yes, but i wish to find out whether you know." "it is c; anybody knows that." "and this one?" "a." "that is right; now this one?" "t; i hope you will remember, mr. brush, because i don't like to tell you so often." the teacher continued to drill her, skipping about and pointing at the letters so rapidly in turn that he was kept bowing and straightening up like a jumping-jack. then, allowing her to rest, he pronounced the letters in their regular order, giving them the sounds proper to the word itself. nellie, who was watching closely and listening, suddenly exclaimed with glowing face: "why, that's 'cat'!" "of course; now can you say the letters without looking at them?" after one or two trials she did it successfully. "there! you have learned to spell 'cat.' you see how easy it is." "does that spell 'pussy' too?" "no,--only 'cat.' after a time you will be able to spell big words." "let me try something else, mr. brush." the next word tackled was 'dog,' which was soon mastered. when this was accomplished, the teacher paused for a moment. he was trying to think of another word of three letters, but oddly enough could not readily do so. "ah," he exclaimed, "here is another. now give me the name of that letter," "d." "and that?" "a." "and that?" "m." "now say them quickly, 'd-a-m;' what is the word?" "why, it's 'dam'; o, mr. brush, i heard you say that is a bad word." the teacher was thunderstruck and stammered: "i didn't think of that, but there are two kinds of 'dam' and this one is not a bad word. it means a bank of earth or stones or wood, that is put up to stop the flow of water." chapter vii pupil and teacher mr. brush glanced nervously around, to learn whether any of his friends were within hearing, shuddering to think what the consequences might be. he believed that he could explain the matter to some of the folks, but the majority were so radical in their views that they would refuse to admit the distinction, and would take him to task for teaching improper language to his young pupil. it caused him another shudder at the thought that the same penalty that wade ruggles had undergone might be visited upon him, though it is doubtful if the issue would have been similar. "ahem, miss nellie, when we go back home, will you promise me to say nothing about this part of your lesson?" "you mean 'bout that bad word?" "yes,--let's forget all about it." "i'll try, but mebbe i'll forget to forget it." "likely enough," gloomily reflected the parson; "suppose we try some other words. ah, we have a visitor." at that moment budge isham climbed into view and sauntered smilingly toward them. brush added a whispered warning to the little one not to forget her promise, though, since isham was an educated man, there ought not to have been anything to fear in his case, but the teacher knew his waggish nature, and had good reason to fear the mischief he would delight in creating. "good day," was his cheery greeting, as he came up; "i hope i am not intruding, but i thought i should like to see how you are getting on, nellie." "oh, mr. brush says i am learning real fast; i can spell 'cat,' and 'dog,' and 'dam.'" budge raised his hands in horror. "what in the name of heaven, parson, does she mean?" "mr. isham," said the gentleman, severely, "are you aware that you are using improper language in the presence of this young lady?" "explain yourself." "it is wrong for you to appeal to heaven on so trifling a question; it is such a near approach to profanity that the dividing line is imperceptible. i am sorry you forgot yourself, but i will overlook it this time." budge was really frightened, for though the distinction was quite fine, he felt there was some justice in the position of the parson, but he bluffed it out. "i doubt whether a jury would find me guilty, and in the meantime explain the remark just made by nellie, if you please." thus cornered, the parson made a clean breast of it. isham assumed a grave expression. "the only criticism i can make is upon your taste in selecting a word, susceptible of a questionable meaning. you know as well as i that if this should be submitted to a jury at the heavenly bower this evening, the majority would sit down on you, and it would be hard work for you to escape the penalty." "i'm afraid it would," responded the parson; "it was a piece of forgetfulness on my part----" "which is the plea that bidwell and ruggles made, but it didn't answer. however, i'll say nothing about it, knowing you will be more careful in the future, while i shall not forget to put a bridle on my own tongue. the trouble, however," he added with a smile, "is to make _her_ overlook it." "she has promised she will do so." "since that promise was made just before i got here, she has shown how readily she can forget it." "i will give her a longer lesson than usual and thus drive all remembrance out of her mind," said the parson resolutely. budge isham folded his arms, prepared to look on and listen, but the queen of the proceedings checked it all by an unexpected veto. "mr. brush, i feel so tired." her face wore a bored expression and she looked wistfully away from the blackboard toward the cabins below them. "does your head hurt you?" inquired the teacher with much solicitude, while the single auditor was ready to join in the protest. "no, but mebbe it will hurt me one of these days." "it isn't wise, parson, to force the child; a great deal of injury is done to children by cramming their heads with useless knowledge." the teacher could not feel sure that this counsel was disinterested, for there could be no danger of his taxing the mental powers of the little one too severely, but her protest could not pass unheeded. "you have done very well, my child; you are learning fast, so we'll leave the spelling for to-morrow. suppose we now try the commandments: can you repeat the first one?" nellie gave it correctly, as she did with slight assistance, the remaining ones. she was certainly gifted with a remarkable memory and possessed an unusually bright mind. budge isham was impressed by her repetition of the decalogue, whose meaning she was unable fully to grasp. his frivolous disposition vanished, as he looked upon the innocent child and watched the lips from which the sacred words flowed. he quietly decided that it would be inexcusably mean to seek any amusement at the expense of the parson, and it may as well be added that he never afterward referred to the incident, while it seemed to have passed wholly from the mind of nellie herself. at the conclusion of the lesson, budge complimented teacher and pupil and said he would be glad to certify that mr. brush was the best teacher in new constantinople, and that it was impossible for any one to take his place. then he bade them good day and walked thoughtfully away, leaving them once more to themselves. these were the most precious moments of all to the teacher, when the formal lesson was completed, and he sat down for a little talk with his pupil. he occupied the stone which served her for a seat, while one arm loosely clasped the figure which stood between his knees. she patted his cheek, played with his rough collar and shaggy whiskers, while as he listened and replied to her prattle, felt as never before the truth of the declaration that of such is the kingdom of heaven. "mr. brush," she finally said, "do you know why i love you?" "i suppose it must be because i am so handsome," he replied with a smile. "no; it isn't that, for you _ain't_ handsome." "whew! but you are not afraid to speak the truth, little one, and i hope you will always do that. no; i don't know why you love me, unless you are so good yourself that you can't help it." this was not exactly clear to the little one, and she stood silent for a minute, gently fingering his long beard. then she thought it best to clear up the mystery without further parley. "i love you 'cause you're good." even though the avowal was delightful, it caused a pang, like a knife-thrust from his accusing conscience. "i am thankful to hear you say that, but, nellie, i am not good." "yes, you is, but if you ain't good, why ain't you good?" the logic of the reply of the adult was of the same grade as that of the child. "i suppose the true reason is because i am bad. i am sorry to say it, but i have drifted far away from where i ought to be." the dimpled hand continued to fondle the whiskers, and the little brain was busy, but a wisdom that was more than human guided it. turning those lustrous blue eyes upon him she softly asked: "will you do what i ask you?" he almost gasped, for he instinctively suspected what was coming, but he answered without hesitation: "if it is my power i will do it, though it kills me." "oh, i don't want it to kill you; this won't hurt you; will you do it, mr. brush?" "yes, god helping me." "do like mr. ruggles." "how's that?" asked the parson with a sinking heart. "don't drink any more of that red water, which makes men talk loud and sometimes say bad words." "heavens!" thought the parson; "she little dreams what she is asking me, but it is not she but some one who is thus calling me back to duty. yes, my child, i will do what you ask." "you is as good and nice as you can be now, but then you will be a good deal gooder and nicer," said she, warmly kissing him. "i hope so," he added, rising to his feet, with the feeling that he was not himself but some one else, and that that some one else was the young man away among the distant hills of missouri, before he wandered to the west, and in doing so, wandered from the path along which he had attempted to guide and lead others. "i call myself her teacher," he mused, as he reached down and took the tiny hand in his own, "but she is the teacher and i am the pupil." they had started in the direction of the cabins, when they heard curious shouts and outcries in that direction. "there's something strange going on down there," he said, peering toward the point; "i wonder what it can be; let us hurry and find out." firmly clasping her hand, the two hastened down the incline, wondering what it was that caused all the noise and confusion. chapter viii the passing years the excitement in new constantinople was caused by the arrival of vose adams, the mail carrier and messenger, with his budget of letters and freight for the heavenly bower. these periodical journeys never occupied less than two weeks, and in the present instance he had been absent several days beyond that period, so that some anxiety was felt for him, since every trip was attended with more or less danger. he was exposed to the peril of storms, snowslides, wild animals and hostile indians. the elemental disturbances in the sierras are sometimes of a terrific nature. twice he had lost a mule, and once both animals went spinning down a precipice for a thousand feet, in an avalanche of snow and were never found again. vose's only consolation in the last instance was that it occurred when on his way to sacramento, while in the former case he saved one of the precious kegs, which he insisted was the means of saving him in turn from perishing in the arctic temperature. the shadowy trail wound in and out among the gorges and cañons, beside towering mountain walls, at a dizzying elevation, over ridges above the snow line, across table lands, through forests of pine and cedar and tumultuous mountain torrents, where he took his life in his hands every time he made the venture. the unerring marksmanship of vose and his alertness reduced the danger from the fierce grizzly bears and ravening mountain wolves to the minimum, but the red men were an ever present peril. he had served as the target of many a whizzing arrow and stealthy rifle shot, but thus far had emerged with only a few insignificant hurts. he was ready at the stated times to set out on his journey, and appeared indeed to welcome the change in the existence which otherwise became tiresome and monotonous. it mattered not that his friends often intimated that he was starting on his last venture of that nature, for he believed that his "time" had been set and it mattered naught what he did, since it could not be changed. vose explained that the cause of his last delay was the old one--indians. they had pursued and pestered him so persistently that he was compelled to hunt out a new trail, longer and more difficult that the old one, and which came within a hair of landing him into the very camp of his enemies. however, everything had turned out well, and he brought with him the most prized cargo that ever arrived in new constantinople. first of all, were the two casks of freight, which had suffered so slight leakage, that landlord ortigies complimented the vigilance of the messenger. then he brought with him fully a hundred letters and newspapers. each citizen received one, and many had several. in every instance, the grateful recipient paid vose a dollar for his mail, so that the reward was generous, including as it did a liberal honorarium from the proprietor of the heavenly bower. in addition to the mail and freight, there were a number of articles to which no special reference is needed. in one package, however, every one was deeply interested, and nellie dawson more than the others. unknown to the father, a goodly sum had been entrusted to adams, with which to purchase such articles as it was believed the child needed. these included material for numerous new dresses of gorgeous pattern, stockings, shoes, slippers, ribbons, hats and even gloves, trinkets and playthings beyond enumeration. when these were spread out before the little one, she clapped her hands and danced with delight. she had never dreamed of or seen such bewildering wealth, and the miners were repaid a hundred fold, while the grateful parent thanked them for their thoughtful kindness. with no other person of her sex in the settlement, it would naturally be thought that she lacked in many of the little attentions which only a mother or adult female friend can give, but such was not the case. there was not a man among them all, who had not been taught in the hard school of necessity to become his own tailor and conservator of clothing. many had natural taste, and had not wholly forgotten the education and training received in the homes of civilization, before they became adventurers and wanderers. a consensus of views, all moved by the same gentle impulse, resulted in nellie dawson being clothed in a garb which would hardly have caused criticism in the metropolis of our country. not only that, but she was abundantly provided against all kinds of weather, and with vose adams making his regular trips westward, there was no possibility of her ever knowing the want of thoughtful care. the education of the little one was never neglected. enough has been told to show her brightness, and even had not her teacher been inspired by his affection for the little one, the task of imparting knowledge to such an apt pupil must have been a constant pleasure. this work, as we have shown, fell by common consent to the parson, felix brush, though his choice at first was not unanimous. wade ruggles was so insistent that he should have a part in the work, that he was allowed a trial, but it cannot be said the result of several days' effort was satisfactory. a stealthy inspection of the blackboard by budge isham and the parson disclosed that ruggles had constructed the alphabet on a system of his own. some of the letters were reversed, several inverted, while the forms of others prevented any one from identifying them except the teacher himself. an examination of the pupil developed the same startling originality in ruggles's system of orthography, which seemed to be a mixture of the phonetic and the prevailing awkward method. thus he insisted that "purp" was the right way to spell the name of a young dog, whose correct title was "dorg." ruggles was finally persuaded to resign, though he displayed considerable ill feeling and intimated that the movement was inspired by jealousy of his success. budge isham not only refrained from referring to the slip which the parson made in his spelling lesson, but spoke in such high terms of his success with nellie, that every one conceded the right teacher had been selected, and it would be a misfortune for any one to assume to take the place of the parson. not until the final summing up of all accounts, will the full measure of the influence of the little one be known. it was gentle, subtle, almost imperceptible. wade ruggles never broke his resolve not to touch liquor. inasmuch as an appetite nourished for years, cannot be wholly extirpated in a day, he had his moments of intense yearning for stimulants, when the temptation was powerful, but his will was still more so, and the time came when the terrific thirst vanished entirely, though he knew it was simply "asleep" and could be roused into resistless fury by indulgence in a single glass. the parson had a severer struggle. after holding out for days, he yielded, and by his inordinate dissipation brought back matters to a fair average. then he set about manfully to retrieve himself. a second time he fell, and then, thank heaven! he gained the mastery. henceforward he was safe. maurice dawson himself had been an occasional tippler for years, but he felt the influence of example and experienced no trouble in giving up the habit. several others did the same, while more tried but "fell by the wayside." landlord ortigies noticed the diminution in his receipts, but, strange as it may sound, down in his heart he was not sorry. like nine out of ten engaged in his business he was dissatisfied, and like the same nine out of ten, he longed for the chance to take up some other calling which would bring him bread and butter and no accusing pangs of conscience. before the coming of nellie dawson, brawls and personal encounters often occurred. the walls of the heavenly bower contained several pounds of lead. blood had been shed, and the history of the settlement showed that three persons had died with their boots on, but those stirring days seemed to have departed forever. parson brush did a good deal of thinking. when through with his pupil, he was accustomed to take long walks into the mountains, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed in meditation. it is safe to conclude that conscience was getting in its work with him. and so the seasons came and went and the years rolled on. varick thomson, an old miner, who had spent years of fruitless toil in the diggings of australia, lay down and died, and the parson officiated at his funeral. two other miners grew weary of the poor success in dead man's gulch and went off on a prospecting tour deeper into the mountains. a year later another prospecting party came upon two skeletons, near a small stream of water, which after careful examination, were pronounced to be those of their former friends, doubtless victims of the ferocity of the red men. three vagrant miners straggled into new constantinople one night and were hospitably entertained at the heavenly bower. their appearance was against them, and, when they announced their intention of making their home at dead man's gulch, the suggestion to them to move on was made in such terms that they acted upon it and were never seen there again. thus it came about that new constantinople, instead of increasing in population and making a bid for the chieftaincy among the new towns in the west, was actually shrinking in numbers. and all this time, nellie dawson was growing fast. her beautiful mind kept pace with the expansion of her body. her natural grace and perfection of figure would have roused admiration anywhere. her innocence and goodness were an ever present benison to the rough miners, who had long since learned to check the hasty word, to restrain the rising temper and to crush the wrongful thought in her presence. after a time, maurice dawson took possession of one of the deserted cabins which he fitted up, or rather the community fitted up the principal apartment for the young queen, whose rule was supreme. no one else was permitted to share the building with them, though visitors were constant and nellie herself continually passed to and fro among her friends. but those who watched dawson saw that a change had come over him. formerly there was a quiet waggery in his nature, much like that of budge isham, which led him to enjoy the rough pleasantries of his companions, though he rarely took part in them, except as an inciting cause. one of his greatest pleasures had been to sit in the heavenly bower and exchange reminiscences with his friends, but all that came to an end. night after night passed without his face being seen in the place. those who called at the cabin were treated hospitably, but he was reserved and moody, and often failed to hear the words addressed to him. it was evident that there was something on his mind, though he showed no disposition to make a confidant of any one. chapter ix the cloud of war "i know the cause of dawson's trouble," remarked vose adams, late one night at the heavenly bower. "what is it?" asked wade ruggles, while the rest listened intently. "on my last trip to sacramento, two months ago, i brought him a thick letter: that's what is raising the mischief with him." "but what was in the letter to make him act so queer?" "how should i know? do you expect me to open and read all the letters i bring through the mountains?" "bein' as you couldn't read the big letters the parson has painted on the side of the rock a foot high," said al bidwell sarcastically, "there ain't much danger of your doin' that, which the same is lucky for them as gits love letters like myself regular by each mail." "which the same you won't git any more onless you sling your remarks a little more keerful," warned the mail carrier. "and the same being that you can't read the directions writ onto them, i don't see how you're going to help yourself." "the postmaster at sacramento is very obligin'," was the significant comment of vose. bidwell saw the dangerous ground on which he was treading, and made it safe by a jesting remark and an invitation to adams and the rest to join him at the bar. "we was on the subject of dawson," remarked ruggles from his seat, for all had learned long before of the uselessness of inviting him to drink; "and it's the opinion of vose, i understand, that it was the letter that has made the change in him." "there ain't any doubt about it," said adams; "fur the attack took him right after; i noticed the difference in him the next day. he sets by himself these evenings after the little gal has gone to bed, smoking his pipe, without any light in his shanty, and thinking hard." wade smoked thoughtfully a minute and then remarked: "i wonder whether it wouldn't be a good idee to app'int a committee to wait on dawson and ask him what the blazes is the matter and whether we can't do nothin' to make a man of him agin." since ruggles had become accustomed to act as chairman at the discussions in the heavenly bower, he had developed a strong faith in committees. "that's a piece of the most onspeakable foolishness that i've run aginst since i settled in new constantinople," observed the landlord with a contemptuous sniff; "the minute the committee arrove and stated their bus'ness, dawson would kick 'em out of his shanty and clean across the street, and he'd be lacking in the instincts of a man if he didn't do that same thing." "mr. ortigies forgits that i didn't mean to suggest that _he_ was to be a member of the committee; i meant they should be _gentlemen_; consequently that bars him out and there wouldn't be no trouble." "i understand your sarcasm, wade, but your words would leave you off the committee likewise; but may i ask what the members would ask him when they knocked at his door?" "any gentleman wouldn't be at a loss what to say, fur he would only hev to remark sorter careless like that he had observed the man was acting so queer that we was afeard he was troubled with remorse over some crime he'd committed, and about which he had got notice that the officers was lookin' fur him, but that if he'd trust us and give a description of the officers, so there wouldn't be any mistake, we'd watch fur 'em up the trail and pick 'em off afore they could profane new constantinople with their presence." this was a prodigious sentence for wade, and he leaned back and smoked his pipe with considerable self-complacency, but it impressed none of his hearers as he expected. parson brush shook his head. "it isn't a very wise way of introducing yourself to a man by assuming that he is a fugitive from justice. in the first place, i am sure there is nothing of the kind in the case of dawson. he has probably heard some news from the east that troubles him." "that's just what i was sayin'," broke in ruggles. "but not of the nature intimated by you." "what else can it be?" "it might be one of a dozen things; i know you are all wrong in your guesses." every eye was fixed upon the parson, for all were anxious to learn at what he was hinting. his face was unusually grave, but he stopped speaking, as if he deemed it indiscreet to say anything more. he noticed the looks and whetted the curiosity by adding: "i have been so disturbed over the change in dawson that i called on him last night and had a talk with him." "and what did you learn?" asked budge isham, the moment brush showed an inclination to stop talking. "well, it was hard work to draw him out, but finally he told me he had received a letter from the east, which made him think he would have to leave us. that isn't the worst." all were breathless, afraid to give utterance to the dread that until then was vague and indistinct in their minds. "he thinks he must take his daughter nellie with him." "what! take her away from us? that can never be allowed." none felt the anguish of the announcement keener than the man who made it, but he looked calmly into the angry faces and said: "you forget, my friends, that she is his child and he has the moral and legal right to do what he thinks is best for her." "but where are _our_ rights?" demanded wade ruggles; "they mustn't be forgot." "we haven't any,--not a single one. but i am satisfied that one cause of dawson's distress of mind is the very question you have asked. he can never cease to be deeply grateful to all of us for what we have done for him and his child. he doesn't wish to take her away for it will be as painful to her as to us. but friends," continued the parson, with a sense of right that was creditable to him, "dawson's first duty is to his child. she is now twelve years old, quite a large girl and is growing fast. she has never seen girl or woman since she was brought here; she will soon be a young woman; she requires association with others of her own sex; her welfare demands this; her education and proper training can never be obtained in this mining settlement." "eddycation!" exclaimed vose adams; "what have you been doing with her all this time? she must be as far along in her studies and eddycation as me and ruggles." "it is to be hoped so," replied the parson with a smile; "i doubt whether she will meet any one of her age as proficient in book learning as herself, but there remains music, etiquette, and above all, the social customs and accomplishments which can be acquired nowhere except in the abode of civilization. there is none upon whom this blow will fall more heavily than myself, but i have no right to interpose when a man is doing his duty." an exploding bomb could not have caused more consternation than the news brought by the parson. every one felt the truth of his words and respected him for their utterance, but it was like asking them to consent to the blotting of the sun from the heavens. "i see a way out of it," finally remarked wade ruggles with a brightening face; "we can compermise." "in what way?" "why, if dawson feels that he and the gal must go, let him split the difference atween us; he can go and leave her; that will satisfy everybody." "it will hardly satisfy him, since the whole question is that of taking her with him. he must be left free to do whatever he chooses." the parson looked into the gloomy faces turned toward him. "boys, you have all heard the news brought by the last papers. fort sumter has been fired on; president lincoln has called for volunteers; the southern confederacy has been declared and civil war has begun. it is the intention of dawson to offer his services to the cause of the union." "and i shall enlist too," declared wade ruggles, compressing his lips, "but it will be on the other side." "i'm with you," added budge isham; "i am from alabama, and if she secedes, as she is sure to do, i am ready to lay down my life in her defence." "sorry, pards, but that shoves me into the union army," remarked al bidwell, puffing quietly at his pipe; "we must keep the balance right, but we'll part friends here and we'll be friends till we shoulder our muskets. then we'll do all we can to kill each other." further discussion disclosed that the citizens of new constantinople were about equally divided in their allegiance, but all of them were not yet ready to take up arms in support of the cause with which they sympathized. there were eight who announced their intention of making their way to san francisco, there to find the most available route to the points necessary to reach. it was typical of that stupendous struggle, the greatest of modern times, that four of these recruits were ardent supporters of one cause and four equally eager to risk their lives for the other. they were the warmest of friends and had been for years, willing to face any danger for the sake of the remainder. it would be the same until they parted, and then, as one of them had already expressed it, they would devote every energy to trying to kill one another. none of the volunteers faltered until maurice dawson decided to leave his daughter at the settlement until his return, if so be he should be permitted to return. he knew of no better or safer place for her, nor of any friends to whose care he would more cheerfully commit her, in case it should be his lot to fall on the field of battle. it had been parson brush's intention to be dawson's comrade in his perils, but when the father begged him to stay behind to look after his child he consented. and so the programme, so fraught with momentous consequences, was arranged. chapter x the blue and the gray the four years of stupendous war came to an end. the sun of the southern confederacy went down in gloom and defeat behind the hills of appomattox, never to rise again, and blessed peace brooded over a reunited nation, which shall endure through the coming ages to the end of time. it was only the faint echoes of the mighty struggle that, faintly reverberating across prairie and mountain, reached the little mining settlement nestling among the solitudes of the sierras. vose adams made more frequent journeys to sacramento, in order to gather news of the terrific events, which were making history at an appalling rate. upon his return, the miners gathered round parson brush, or some other one with a good voice, who stood up, with every eye centred on him and every ear keyed to the highest point and they listened with breathless interest until the thrilling story was read through to the end. the same diversity of sentiment that appeared at first continued to the last, but the parson's earnest words and his insistence that no quarrels should take place among the neighbors prevented any outbreak, though more than once the point was perilously near. "if your sympathies are with the union or with the south," he said impressively, "there is nothing to prevent your taking up arms, but it must be on the battle field and not here." and this wise counsel prevailed. now and then some ardent partisan shouldered his rifle, bade his friends a hasty good-by and hurried away. one by one, they went until the new recruits numbered five. thus the population of new constantinople dwindled to about one-half, and retaining its exclusive tastes, permitted no new comers to join them, so that the boom which in its early days was so confidently looked for sank to zero and vanished. in truth it looked as if new constantinople was doomed to die of dry rot. strange news came now and then from the men who had gone to the war. maurice dawson wrote often to his daughter nellie, whose letters, it can well be understood were the bright spots in his life of adventure and danger. she had improved wonderfully under the careful tuition of parson brush, who, gaining experience, as he saw the brightness of her mind, found his work of the most pleasant nature conceivable. she displayed a thirst for knowledge and made advances which astonished him. the books needed for her instruction were procured by vose adams in sacramento, and she valued such presents more than anything else. the teacher declared many a time, with a certain pride, that she put him upon his mettle to make clear the abstruse problems with which he wrestled when in college. "how she will surprise the boys and her father when they come back," reflected the parson; "it won't take her much longer to reach the point beyond which i cannot lead her." to her friends who remained, the growth and improvement of the girl were astonishing. probably no one of her sex ever gave nature itself a better chance to show what she can do with a healthy frame, when untrammeled by the fashions and requirements of modern usages. her lithe, comely figure was perfect. she never knew an hour's illness. the cheeks had the rose tint of health, the eyes were clear, the teeth perfect and her spirits buoyant. as one of the men expressed it, she was like a burst of sunshine in the settlement. but parson brush was thoughtful. he saw that she was crossing the line into young womanhood, and that her own interests demanded that she should go out into the world of which he had told her so much; that she should meet those of her own sex and learn the mysteries of her own being. the affection of her friends could not make up for this lack. it cost the honest fellow many a pang when he thought of this, but his consolation lay in the inevitable conclusion that nothing could be done until the return of her parent or until his wishes were made known. "if it so happens that he shall fall in battle, then a grave problem must be met. it will not do for her to remain here; i will talk it over with the others and we shall make some arrangement for her good," and with this conclusion he was content to await the issue of events. occasionally the parson received a letter from the father. the missives were models in their way, telling of his experiences in the service of the battles, of the prospect of victory and his faith in the final triumph of the great struggle. he thanked the teacher for his interest in his child and assured him that his kindness would never be forgotten by father or daughter. vose adams continued his frequent journeys to sacramento, for those were stirring times and he was as anxious as his friends for news. always on his return he was met by nellie some distance down the winding trail, and, as soon as she was in sight, he held up the plump letter for which she yearned, and over which she was made happy beyond expression, and he never failed to carry back with him the reply of the child, who knew how much it cheered the brave soldier in the distant east and south fighting the battles of his country. for two years and more there was not a break in this correspondence. dawson must have been a good soldier, for, though he enlisted as a private, he was soon promoted, and before the close of the two years, was a full fledged captain, with the brevet of major. it was about this time that one of his letters gave the story of gettysburg. in the hell-blast of pickett's charge two of his old friends, who had left new constantinople to fight for the south, were riddled, and another, marching at the captain's side, had his head blown off by an exploding shell. thus in one engagement three of the old residents of the mining settlement were wiped out. only once or twice was any news received of al bidwell. it was known that ruggles was with the army of northern virginia, but no tidings came of budge isham and ike hoe. the continued silence was accepted as almost certain proof of their death, and yet both were well and unharmed. one day in early summer, two sunburned, shaggy men rode down the mountain side and drew up their horses in front of the heavenly bower. they had ridden from the east and had come through many hardships and dangers. one of them wore a partial uniform of blue, while the other was of a faded, butternut tinge. the two had been engaged for years in trying to slay each other, inclusive of their respective friends, but failing in the effort, gave it up when the final surrender took place at appomattox. both were from new constantinople, and they now turned their faces in that direction. starting from widely separated points their lines of travel converged and finally joined. when they met, there was a moment of mutual sharp scrutiny, then an exclamation of delight, a fervent handclasp and a moistening of the eyes, as both exclaimed: "god bless you, old boy! there's no one in the world i would rather meet than you! shake again!" and they did, and henceforward they followed the same trail and "drank from the same canteen." they shared their rations with each other, and in the regions of the west, where danger lurked in the air, one watched while the other slept, ready to interpose his body as a shield between peril and his comrade. and what splendid soldiers the civil war made! how those veterans could fight! what pluck, what coolness, what nerve, what daring they displayed! there was one stormy night beyond the mississippi, when a band of jayhawkers, believing the two men carried a few hundred dollars, formed a plan for shooting both for the sake of the plunder. there were six of the outlaws at the opening of proceedings, but at the close just half the number was left, and one of them carried away a wound with him, from which he could never recover, while the defenders did not receive a scratch. "when i heard that rebel yell of yours," remarked the veteran who wore the blue, "it tingled through my veins as it did at chancellorsville, antietam and various other scenes of unpleasantness. i couldn't help sailing in." "i didn't mean to let out the yawp," returned his companion, "but when the shooting began, it was so like old times i couldn't help it. it was real enjoyable." "yes," was the dry response, "but rather more so for us than for the other fellows." three days later a band of indians concluded to try their hand upon the veterans, but the trouble was that the red men could not get a fair chance. before they arrived within effective striking distance, the veterans began shooting, and whenever they shot somebody fell. the thing became so monotonous that the hostiles gave it up in disgust and drew off. thenceforward the old soldiers had comparatively an easy time of it. and so, after a ride of more than two thousand miles on horseback, these two men entered dead man's gulch and drew rein in front of the heavenly bower. their coming caused a sensation, for their looks showed they were veterans of the war and were certain to bring important news. the couple smiled and whispered to each other, for they saw that no one suspected their identity. among the wondering group that gathered round was nellie dawson. she was profoundly interested, for vose adams had made two journeys to and from sacramento without bringing a letter from her father. doubtless these men could tell her something, and she stood on the edge of the group, waiting for them to speak and for the opportunity to question them. "do you see her?" whispered one of the men. "yes; gracious! hasn't she grown? why, she was a little girl when we left and now she's a young woman." "blessed if she isn't! she wears such long dresses that you can see only the tiny toes of her shoes; we've obsarved a good many purty women since we left these parts, but nothing that could come up to her." "you can bet your life! she hasn't any idee of who we are, nor have the boys, but it looks to me as if the parson is a little suspicious." although the patronage of the heavenly bower had shrunk a good deal, landlord ortigies was as genial and hospitable as ever. the new arrivals had time only for a few secret comments, when he came forward: "strangers, you're welcome to the best we have, which isn't anything to boast of; look as if you had rid a good many miles and you must be as tired and thirsty as your animals. if you'll turn 'em over to vose adams, he'll 'tend to them, and, if you'll allow me, you shall have a good meal, which before the same, i beg to tender you some distilled home brewed mountain dew." thanking the landlord for his offer, the men dismounted and waited outside, while he brought forth two glasses, half-filled with the fiery stuff of the poetical name. one of the men took his and eagerly swallowed it. the other held his aloft, where under the bright sunlight it glowed crimson like blood. with his hand motionless for a moment, he slowly inverted the glass and allowed the liquid to run out on the ground. "max, i reckon you haven't forgot when i done something like that some four years ago," said the man, turning toward the astonished host. chapter xi waiting "wade ruggles, as i'm alive!" exclaimed the delighted landlord, rushing forward and grasping his hand. instantly the group closed in, and there was such laughing and handshaking that for a time nothing was clearly distinguished. "i was suspicious," remarked the parson; "but, though you both had beards when you went away, these have grown so much that they have greatly altered your appearance." he scanned the other man closely, but before the parson had identified him, several others had done so. "it's al bidwell!" "yes," replied the laughing ruggles; "that's the fellow, but i'm sorry to say that since they made a major-general of him, he's become a reg'lar dude. he doesn't go out when it rains for fear of soiling his uniform, and the noise of powder makes him sick, so be careful how you handle the delicate fellow." "well, you do not need to be told," was the hearty response of the parson, "that no one could be more welcome than you; let's shake hands all around again." it was some minutes before the flurry was over, for the delight on both sides was unbounded and the joy of the reunion great. one member of the group lingered in the background. her face was flushed with delighted expectancy, but with a coyness unknown in her earlier years, she hesitated on the outer edge of the circle. she could not mingle with the rush and waited until the flurry was over. the men were scarcely less embarrassed than she, and while not appearing to see her, both were watching her every movement. when the time came that the meeting could no longer be delayed, ruggles walked to her and extended his hand. "well, nellie, aren't you glad to see me?" the crinkling of the whiskers at the side of the invisible mouth showed that he was laughing, and indeed his white teeth gleamed through his wealth of beard. nellie promptly advanced and met him half way. "mr. ruggles, i can't tell you how glad i am to meet you again." he had been asking himself whether it would do to kiss this vision of loveliness. he wished to do so, but was afraid. however, the question was settled by the girl, who, instead of taking the hand, flung her arms about his neck and saluted him fervently, that is as well as she could under the conditions. al bidwell came forward and was received in the same manner. then, as the two men stepped back and looked admiringly at her, she said: "i can see you are the same and yet those beards make you look different; i love to think of you as you were when you bade us good-by and rode off four years ago." "we shall be glad to fix up our faces in the old style," said ruggles, while his companion nodded assent. if she had asked them to cut off their heads they would have unhesitatingly agreed to do it. "no doubt we've changed somewhat," said bidwell, "but not one half so much as you." "as i!" she repeated in astonishment; "why, i am just the same," and she looked down at her dress, as if seeking the explanation of his remark; "i haven't changed a bit." "not in goodness and all that sort of thing, but we left a little girl and now i'm blessed if we don't find a young woman, and yet it's the same little girl after all." the maidenly blush darkened her face and she laughed. "you couldn't expect me to stand still all these years." "no; though we would have been glad if you had done so." the three were standing apart, the others with commendable delicacy leaving them to themselves. nellie laid her arm on the sleeve of ruggles, and looking up yearningly in his face she asked: "can you give me any news of father?" "being as him and me was on different sides, i haven't seen or heard a thing of him since we parted in san francisco, but i hope all has gone well with him." she turned to bidwell, who said: "me and him was thrown together once or twice and i met him after gettysburg, where neither of us got a scratch, which is more than tens of thousands of others can say. then i seen him in front of petersburg, where we had the same good luck agin, but in the fighting round there we lost track of each other. are you worried about him, little gal?" "very much," she mournfully replied; "never once did vose adams come back from sacramento without one or two letters from him, but he has now done so twice, and i haven't heard a word. i fear father is dead; if he is, my heart is broken and i shall die too." what could they say to cheer her, for vose adams made still another journey westward with the same dismal emptiness of the mail bag, so far as she was concerned. every one did his utmost to cheer her, but none succeeded. the ground taken was that the parent had set out on his return, but had been hindered by some cause which would be explained when he finally arrived. when not one of the men himself believed the story, how could he hope to make the mourning daughter believe it? felix brush took a different stand from the others. he early settled into the belief that captain dawson was dead, and that it was wrong to encourage hope on the part of the child when the disappointment must be more bitter in the end. "if you are never to see him again in this world," he said, at the close of a sultry afternoon, as the two were seated on a rocky ledge near the cabin in which she had made her home all alone during her parent's long absence, "what a blessed memory he leaves behind him! died on the field of battle, or in camp or hospital, in the service of his country,--what more glorious epitaph can patriot desire?" "if he is dead then i shall die; i shall pray that i may do so, so that i shall soon see him again." "my dear child, you must show some of the courage of your parent and prove that you are a soldier's daughter. your blow is a severe one, but it has fallen upon thousands of others, and they have bravely met it. you are young; you have seen nothing of the great world around you--" "i do not care to see anything of it," she interrupted with a sigh. "you will feel different when you have recovered from the blow. it is an amazing world, my dear. the cities and towns; the great ocean; the works of art; the ships and steamboats; the vast structures; the railways; the multitudes of people; the lands beyond the seas, with still more marvelous scenes,--all these will expand like fairy land before you and make you wonder that you ever should have wished to leave such a realm of beauty and miracles while in your youth." nellie sat for some time in silence, and then rose to her feet with a weary sigh. without speaking, she turned to walk away, but not in the direction of her own home. "where are you going?" he asked. "to look for him," was her sorrowful reply. it was what he suspected and feared. he knew she had done the same thing night after night for weeks past, even when the rains fell and the chilling blasts made her shiver with discomfort. he could not interpose, and with the reflection that perhaps it was as well, he turned mournfully aside and walked slowly toward the cabins. meanwhile, nellie dawson passed beyond the limits of the settlement until all the houses were behind her. she did not sit down, but folding her arms, after gathering her shawl about her, bent her gaze upon the trail, which wound in and out at the bottom of the cañon below, for a fourth of a mile, when a mass of projecting rocks hid it from sight. night was closing in. already the grim walls, thousands of feet in height, were wrapped in gloom, and few eyes beside hers could have traced the devious mule path for more than a hundred yards from where she stood. the clear sky was studded with stars, but the moon had not yet climbed from behind the towering peaks, which would shut out its light until near the zenith. the soft murmur of the distant waterfall, the sound of voices behind her, the faint, hollow roar, which always is present in a vast solitude, filled the great space around her and made the stillness grander and more impressive. all this had been in her ears many a time before, and little heed did she give to it now. her musings were with that loved one, who had been silent for so many weeks, and for whose coming she longed with an unspeakable longing. she knew the course of the trail so well, though she had never been far over it, that she was aware at what point he must first appear, if he ever appeared, and upon that point she centered her attention. "something tells me that when father comes it will be in the night time," she said; "i know he has tried hard to reach me, and what could it be that held him back? i will not believe he is dead until--" her heart gave a quicker throb, for surely that was a faint sound in the path, though too far off for her to perceive the cause. she could not tell its precise nature, but fancied it was the footfall of some animal. she took several quick steps forward on tiptoe, with head extended, peering and listening, with all her senses at the highest tension. hark! she heard it again. surely it was the noise of hoofs, for it was repeated and the sounds ran into each other as if the animal were trotting or galloping, or mayhap there was more than one of them. yes; some one was drawing nigh on the back of horse or mule. there was no mistaking the hoof beats, and in the gloom the figure of an animal and his rider assumed vague form, growing more distinct each moment. nellie broke into a run, her arms outstretched and her hair flying. "father! father! i know it is you! it is i--nellie, your own nellie, who has waited so long for you! you have come at last!" chapter xii home again the horseman coming up the trail had assumed definite form. checking his animal he sat transfixed until the flying girl was beside him. then he bent forward and in a choking voice, answered: "yes, nellie, it is your father! god be thanked for permitting me to come to you again. and you are nellie! but how grown!" captain dawson leaned over the side of his horse and, passing his strong arm around the waist of his daughter, lifted her up in front of him. then he pressed his lips to hers, and half-laughing and half-crying asked: "who's the happier, you or i?" "you can't be any happier than i; but, father," she added in amazement, "where is your other arm?" "buried in southern virginia as a memento of my work for the union, but, my dear child, _i_ am here; isn't _that_ enough?" "yes, bless your heart!" she exclaimed, nestling up to him; "it all seems like a dream, but it _isn't_, for i can feel you. i am so sorry," she added, noticing the sleeve pinned to his breast; "how you must have suffered." "nonsense! it isn't anything to lose an arm; it's not half so bad as having your head blown off or both legs carried away. after going nearly through the war without a scratch, i caught it just before appomattox, but thousands were less fortunate and i am thankful." "but why did you not write to me and tell me all this? mr. brush was sure you were dead, and i know the rest thought so, too, though they didn't talk that way." "i did have a close call; i got the fever while in the hospital and didn't know so much as my own name for several weeks. then, when well enough to write, i concluded to come myself, believing i could keep up with any letter and you would be gladder to see me than to receive anything i might send." while these words were passing the steed remained motionless, but nellie had observed from the first that her parent had a companion. "father," she whispered, "you have some one with you." "yes, my child, i had forgotten it in my delight at meeting you." a horseman was sitting as motionless as a statue in the trail behind them, the form of himself and animal clearly outlined in the obscurity. he had not spoken nor stirred since the coming of the girl. the head of the steed was high, but beyond and above it loomed the head and shoulders of the man sitting upright, like an officer of dragoons. the gloom prevented a fair view of his countenance, but nellie fancied he was of pleasing appearance and wore a mustache. captain dawson turned his head and looked over his shoulder, as if to locate the man. "that is lieutenant russell; he served under me during the latter part of the war; he is my friend, nellie, for he saved my life. lieutenant," added the captain, elevating his voice, "this is my daughter nellie of whom you heard me speak so often." the young officer lifted his cap, the graceful gesture being plainly seen and replied with a pleasant laugh. "miss dawson, i am glad to become acquainted with you and hope i shall soon be favored with a better view." "and i hope to see more of the one that was the means of saving my dear father," she was quick to reply. "well, i guess that was equal on both sides, for i should never have reached this place but for him." "father, what is _that_?" abruptly asked nellie, shrinking closer to him; "have you a bear following you?" that which caused the startled question was a huge animal, which came slowly forward from the gloom in which he had been enveloped. the horses showed no fear of him, and he sniffed at the skirts of the girl. "don't be alarmed," replied her father; "you may consider him a lion or tiger or both combined. he is lieutenant russell's dog timon, one of the biggest, fiercest, but most intelligent and affectionate of his kind. we three are comrades, so you must accept him, too, as your friend." the two now gave rein to their horses and within briefer time than would be supposed, every man in new constantinople knew of the arrival of the couple and had given them right royal welcome. it was the most joyous incident in the history of the little mining settlement. every one knew of the corroding grief of nellie dawson, and there was not a heart that did not go out in sympathy to her. all were gathered around and within the crowded quarters of the heavenly bower, where the two men and nellie ate their happy evening meal. then the pipes were lighted, and with the girl perched upon her father's knee, the rest listened to his story, which he summarized, leaving the particulars for a more convenient occasion. "i am sorry my long silence caused misgiving," said he looking round in the faces of his friends, "but it could not be very well helped. you have noticed that whereas i left new constantinople with two arms, i am now one short. as i told nellie, that happened in the very last days of the war. it was quite a loss, but you have little idea of how soon a man can become accustomed to it. the fact is," added the soldier, with a grim smile, "things are moving so well with me that i wouldn't give much to have the old limb back again. i have no doubt general howard feels the same way." "the pruned oak is the strongest," observed parson brush. "provided it isn't pruned too much. with my wound came an attack of fever, which brought me nearer death than i ever was in battle, but i came out of it all and here we are." "what route did you take, captain?" asked wade ruggles. "by steamer to the isthmus, then up the coast to san francisco. there the lieutenant and i joined a party to sacramento and each bought a good strong horse. he had brought his dog timon all the way from virginia, where he was given to him by an old friend who wore the gray. we were hopeful of meeting vose adams in sacramento, but he had not been there for weeks. instead of him, whom should we come across but ike hoe, who was also getting ready to start for this place. we three set out nearly ten days ago, but ike is still in the mountains." this was said with so grave a face that all knew what it meant. "i never heard of the indians being so troublesome. for three days and nights it was little else than fighting. in the darkness we would steal off and hunt for some new way through the mountains, but it mattered not where we went, for we were sure to run against some of them." "how was it that hoe met his death?" asked the parson. "it was on the third night. we hadn't seen a thing of the indians since the noon halt and were hopeful they had given up the hunt for us. we hadn't eaten a mouthful for twenty-four hours and were hungry enough to chew our boots. ike found a place among the rocks, where a camp fire couldn't be seen for more than a few rods and started a blaze. the lieutenant had brought down an antelope, and if we could get a chance to cook the steak, we were sure of the right kind of a meal. well, we broiled enough to give each all he wanted. ike leaned back with a pleasant smile on his face and remarked that it was worth all the risk to get such a feast, when i caught the flicker of something like the dart of a small bird between him and me. before i could make out what it was, ike gave a groan, and rolling over backward, never spoke or stirred. i saw the feathered end of an arrow sticking up above his breast. the head had gone clean through him and it must have split his heart in two." "but was neither you or the lieutenant harmed?" "that is the remarkable part of it. the lieutenant saw the arrow before i did and warned me. we darted back in the darkness with our guns ready, but saw and heard nothing more of the indians. what was remarkable about it was that only the single arrow should have been launched at ike." "it looks as if there was but the single injin," suggested bidwell. "that is the way we interpreted it." "and that was the end of your troubles with the indians?" "not quite, but they bothered us only once more and then they managed to get us into a corner, where it would have been the last of me had it not been for the lieutenant and timon. i tell you----" the captain stopped short and smiled. he had seen the protesting expression on the face of the young officer, and said: "we'll keep that story till some time when he isn't present. but there is another fact which i observed. there are more white men in the mountains than ever before and the numbers will increase. the close of the war has released nearly a million soldiers, who must make a living somehow. some will come westward. you have preserved this place as an exclusive residence for yourselves, but you won't be able to do it much longer." all saw the truth of these words, and knew trouble would inevitably follow the mingling of uncongenial spirits, but they concluded it would be time enough to meet it when it came, without allowing the fear to disturb the pleasure of the present communion. lieutenant fred russell could not fail to be an individual of keen interest to those who had never before seen him. while the captain was talking, he sat modestly in the background, smoking his brierwood, listening as intently as if everything said was new to him. it was noticed that like several of the rest, he did not drink at the bar, though he received numerous invitations. truth to tell, he had been quite a drinker, but during that eventful journey through the mountains, when captain dawson was talking of his daughter, as he loved to do, he named those who had reformed as the result of nellie's influence. the young officer made no comment, but it struck him that if those rough, hardy men could abstain, it ought not to be difficult for him to do the same, and he did it. few men were more prepossessing than the lieutenant. he was educated, about twenty-four years of age, and undeniably handsome. his campaigns of exposure, hardship and fighting had hardened his frame into the mould of the trained athlete. the faded uniform which he still wore became him well. the ruddy cheeks had grown swarthy and browned, but when he removed his cap, the upper part of his forehead showed as white and fair as that of a woman. his nose was slightly aquiline, just enough to give character to his countenance, the hair which was rather scant, was dark like the mustache and the small tuft on his chin. he wore fine, high cavalry boots, reaching above the knees, a sword and like the captain was armed with revolver and winchester rifle. crouched at his feet was his massive dog timon, an object of as much interest as his master; for, curious as it may seem, he was the only canine ever owned in new constantinople. he was of mixed breed, huge, powerful and swift, seeming to combine the sagacity and intelligence of the newfoundland, the courage of the bull dog, the persistency of the bloodhound and the best qualities of all of them. seeming to understand that he was among friends, he rested his nose between his paws and lay as if asleep, but those who gazed admiringly at him, noted that at intervals he opened one of his eyes as if to say: "strangers, i guess it is all right, but i'm taking no chances." coming with the credentials that no one else ever bore, lieutenant fred russell was sure of a warm reception at new constantinople. the depletion of the population had left more than one cabin vacant and the best of these was turned over to him. in it he found cooking utensils, rough but serviceable bedding and accommodations and much better comforts than he was accustomed to during his campaigning. having no immediate relatives, he had followed the discreet course of captain dawson, who deposited nearly all of his accumulated pay in a savings institution in the east, reserving only enough to insure their arrival on the pacific coast. russell, like so many turned from consumers into producers by the end of hostilities, was obliged to decide upon the means of earning a livelihood. he had begun the study of law, at the time he answered the call for volunteers, and would have had no difficulty in taking it up again; but, somehow or other, he did not feel drawn thitherward. he disliked the confinements of office work and the sedentary profession itself. he wanted something more stirring, and active, and calling for out door life. it was when he was in this mood, that captain dawson urged him to accompany him to the gold diggings in the sierras. "so far as i can learn," explained the captain, "the mines haven't panned out to any great extent, but there is no doubt that there are millions of dollars in gold in the mountains, and if it isn't at new constantinople, it is not far off." "i shall accept your invitation," replied the junior officer, "with the understanding that if the prospect is not satisfactory, i shall feel at liberty to go somewhere else." "that's the constitutional right of every american citizen." "i am not as far along in years as you, but i am old enough to feel that no person ought to fritter away the most valuable years of his life." and thus it was that the lieutenant went to new constantinople and received the heartiest welcome from every one there. and yet among these citizens were two that had lately become partners and sharers of the same cabin, and who were oppressed with misgiving. "i tell you," said the parson late at night, when he and wade ruggles were smoking in their home, with no one near enough to overhear them; "captain dawson has made the mistake of his life." "how?" "in bringing lieutenant russell to new constantinople." "i don't quite foller your meaning, parson." "yes, you do; you understand it as well as myself." "i have a suspicion of it, but are you afraid to trust me?" "you ought to know better than to ask that." "go ahead then and give me the partic'lars." "in the first place then, the lieutenant is young and good looking." "unfortinitly there can't be any doubt of that." "nellie dawson has never seen a handsome young man----" "exceptin' you and me, and we ain't as young as we once was." "she is now a young woman and ready to fall in love, and just at the right hour, or rather the very worst hour, the captain brings the man here." "you have spoke the exact thoughts i had in mind all along; you're right, parson." he would have been better pleased had ruggles contradicted him. he did not wish to believe that which he could not help believing. "we must treat him well because the captain brings him and he has saved the captain's life, but, wade, _we must watch them both close_." "i agree with you agin, but what shall we do if we find him making love to the little gal?" the parson's fierce reply showed how deeply his feelings were stirred. "warn him just once!" "i feel as bad about it as you do, but, parson, i haven't forgot that afore the war broke out, and we was afeard the captain meant to take the gal away to have her eddycated, you told us it was none of our bus'ness and he had the right to do as he thought best with his own child." "all that was true at the time, but the conditions have changed." "_now_ i can't foller you. 'spose the captain is agreeable?" "he _won't_ be!" exclaimed brush, who in the depth of his excitement added an exclamation which sounded perilously like profanity. but for the parson's intense earnestness, ruggles would have quizzed him, but he pitied the man and at the same time was distressed himself. "i hope you're right, but i doubt it. we've all felt for a good while that sooner or later, we must lose the little one. now that she's growed up, the captain may feel more than ever that she must be took off to some town where all the men ain't savages, and she can see some of her own kind." "if he puts it that way, we shall have to submit. he can take her where he wills, for my position is the same as four or five years ago, but nobody else must take her from among us." ruggles's mood was now quite similar to that of his partner. "if i see anything wrong in the doings of that pretty faced young officer, i'll shoot him down like a mad dog." "so will i." the two were in the ugliest temper conceivable. they continued to smoke, but their meditations were tumultuous and revengeful. each breast contained a strange disturbing secret that either would have died before confessing, but nevertheless, it was there and had taken ineradicable root within the past days and weeks. felix brush, as the reader knows, had been the instructor of nellie dawson from infancy. he was the medium through which she had gained an excellent book education. he had held many long confidential talks with her. she, in her trusting innocence, had told him more of her inmost thoughts, her self communings, her dim, vague aspirations, than she imparted to anyone else. and he could not but notice her wonderful budding beauty. surely, he thought, such a winsome creature was never born. he had begun to ask himself in a whispered, startled way: "why may i not possess this mountain flower? true, i am much her senior, but i will nourish, protect and defend her against the world, as no younger man could or would. she believes in my goodness, far more than i deserve. i will cultivate the affection within her of whose nature she has as yet no comprehension. by and by, when she is a few years older, perhaps i may claim her. more extraordinary things have happened and are happening every day. i have but to keep her uncontaminated from the world, of which i have told her so much, so that when she goes forth, she shall be under my guardianship--the most sacred guardianship of all for it shall be that of husband." "aye," he added, his heart throbbing with the new, strange hope, "all this, please heaven, shall come to pass if things go on as they are, and no younger man with better looks crosses my path." and now that younger and better looking man had crossed his path. the knowledge seemed to rouse all the dormant resentment of his nature, and to undo the good that the girl herself had done in the years that were gone. he felt that if he lost her, if his cherished dream was to be rudely dissipated, he would go to perdition. and somewhat similar in range and nature were the communings of wade ruggles, who until this eventful evening, had cherished a hope, so wild, so ecstatic, so strange and so soul-absorbing that he hardly dared to admit it to himself. at times, he shrank back, terrified at his presumption, as does the man who has striven to seize and hold that which is unattainable and which it would be sacrilege for him to lay hands upon. "i'm three months younger than the parson," he would reflect when the more hopeful mood was upon him; "neither of us is in danger of being hung for our good looks, but i've got the bulge on him dead sure. i had too much in the way of whiskers to suit the little one, when i came back from the war; she wanted to see me as i was when i left; _why was that_?" after pausing for a reply, he continued: "so accordin' i trimmed 'em off and she says i'm better looking than ever, and what she says in dead man's gulch and new constantinople, goes. she meant it, too, as i could see by the sparkle of her eyes. "i went all through the war without swallerin' a mouthful of strong drink, even when the doctor ordered it. i've contrived, sort of accerdental and off hand like, to let her know them circumstances and i've seen it pleased her immense. i've been layin' out some of my money for clothes, too, since i got back. vose bought me a coat in sacramento, blue with brass buttons. i've had a necktie that has been laid away till the proper time comes to put it on. there are three or four yards of silk in it and it will knock a rainbow out of sight. i didn't want to overwhelm her too sudden like, and have been layin' back for the right occasion. "it's arriv! i must knock that leftenant out, and that necktie will do it! i'm mighty glad the parson hain't got any foolish dreams 'bout the gal. the leftenant is the only galoot i've got to look out for, or rather," added the miner grimly, "i'm the one he's got to beware of. i'm in dead earnest this time." chapter xiii young love's dream that which in the nature of things was inevitable came to pass. lieutenant russell, in the same moment that his eyes rested upon nellie dawson, was smitten, as hopelessly as ever ardent lover was smitten by the lady whom he worshiped. the many things which the father had told him about his daughter naturally excited interest in her, but the young officer never dreamed of looking upon such marvelous beauty as that which met his gaze in that secluded cañon of the sierras. it required all his self-control from drawing attention to himself by his admiration of her. "i never saw such a perfect combination of face, feature and figure," he reflected when alone. "it is an illustration of what nature can do when left to herself. then, too, she has a fund of knowledge that is amazing, when all the circumstances are considered. i haven't had much chance to converse with her, but i heard enough to know that she would shine by virtue of her mind among the most accomplished of her sisters, who have had every advantage that civilization can give. she is a flower nourished on a mountain crag, exhaling all its fragrance, untainted by a poisonous breath from the outer world. who would have dared to say that amid this rough, uncouth people, such loveliness could take root and nourish? and yet it is that loveliness which has permeated and regenerated the miners themselves. but for her these nights would be spent in drinking, roistering, fighting and carousing. it is her blessed influence, which unconsciously to herself has purified the springs of life. like the little leaven she has leavened the whole lump." the passing days increased his interest in her, until very soon he confessed to himself that he was deeply in love with nellie dawson. she had become dearer to him than his own life. he could not live without the hope of gaining and possessing her. he would remain in new constantinople and starve, even though a golconda was discovered a few miles away. he would linger, hopeful, buoyant and believing that the dream of his existence was to be crowned with perfect fruition. but the sagacious lieutenant had learned to be observant and to note the most trifling things that escape the eyes of the majority of persons. thus it was that the secret which wade ruggles and parson brush believed was hidden, each from everyone except himself, became as clear as noonday to him. he pitied them and yet he extracted a grim amusement from the fact. "they are hopelessly infatuated with her; they are excessively jealous and would rather shoot me than have me win. they are more than double her age, and yet they can see no incongruity in hoping to win her. they will hope on until the awakening comes. then they will be my deadliest enemies. i shouldn't be surprised if i receive a call and warning from them, but neither they nor the whole world shall turn me from the prize which is more than all the gold, mined or unmined, in the sierras." no one could have been more circumspect than the young man. he treated nellie dawson with the chivalrous respect of a crusader of the olden time. he was always deferential, and, though he managed frequently to meet and chat with her, yet it invariably had the appearance of being accidental. fortunately his feeling of comradeship for captain dawson gave him a legitimate pretext for spending many evenings in his cabin, where it was inevitable that he should be thrown into the society of the daughter. wade ruggles and the parson noted all this with growing resentment. when it had continued for several weeks, the two friends had a conference over the situation. "i tell you, parson, it won't do to wait any longer," observed ruggles, puffing away at his pipe; "things is getting dangerous." "do you think so?" asked his companion, who held precisely the same opinion, but disliked to admit it. "there isn't a particle of doubt of it." "let me see,--we agreed to give him warning didn't we?--just once." "yes,--it's only fair that you should let a man know afore you hit him, so he can brace himself for the shock, as it were." "well, if we are going to do it, there is no use of waiting." "no use! it'll git worse every day. let's go over to his place now." "it isn't likely we'll find him there; he spends nearly every evening in the cabin of captain dawson." neither fancied the task, and, had not their feelings been so wrought up, they never could have been induced to undertake it, but because of their misgivings, nothing could have dissuaded them from their purpose. "when he comes to think soberly of it," added ruggles, "he'll thank us for giving him warning in time. if we wait much longer, it might be too late; we couldn't scare him off the track, but now he'll show his sense by stopping at once." the two passed out of the house and walked to the cabin of lieutenant russell. relieved, and yet in a certain sense dismayed, they found the young officer at home engaged in reading. the instant he saw and admitted them, he knew the errand on which they had come. except for the grave question involved, that which followed would have been a delicious comedy. the lieutenant could not have treated a brother with greater cordiality and never did host shine more brilliantly. he fell to talking of war times, drew out ruggles, interested the parson and gave some of his own stirring experiences. they remained two hours and went away charmed, without having once referred to nellie dawson. they voted the young man a good fellow, concluded they were mistaken about his admiring the young lady, and thought it lucky they had not made fools of themselves. when they were clear of the house, lieutenant russell laughed heartily. "their faces gave them away; they were loaded and primed, but i drew their charges; to-night they will vote me one of the best fellows that ever lived; to-morrow they will begin to doubt, and by and by the sweetest privilege they can ask will be to shoot me." perhaps the most curious feature of the tragical incidents that followed was the obtusiveness of captain dawson. what every one else saw was veiled from him, until at times he almost seemed wilfully blind. the two men had gone through many perilous experiences together, and sometimes alone. it had been the fortune of the younger officer to serve the elder, more than once when in imminent danger and none could be more grateful than the captain. as for nellie dawson herself, it is unlikely that for a time she suspected the truth in all its fulness. she knew that hers was a peculiarly sweet enjoyment, while her deft fingers were busy with some needlework, to listen to the reminiscences of the two. sometimes she started with a shock of alarm, when the father pictured in his graphic way a situation from which it seemed no escape was open to him. forgetful for the moment of the fact that he was there before her, alive and well, she fairly held her breath, until the _denouement_ came. not until then were her fears wholly relieved. and when the parent rendered such glowing tributes to the bravery of the young officer, recalling events of so thrilling a nature that the lieutenant never would have dared to describe them in similar terms, how could the daughter help the kindling of admiration for the handsome young man? how could she avoid feeling grateful, when she knew that he had risked his life for her parent, even on their late journey through the mountains? in truth, everything tended to fan the flame that had already been kindled in both hearts. it was late one night, after the tired nellie had withdrawn, that the visitor made her the subject of the conversation, the approach being so tactful, that the captain had no suspicion of its object. "do you intend to spend all your life in this out of the way corner of the world?" was the question of the lieutenant. "probably i shall. just before i went to war, i became convinced that my duty to my daughter demanded i should move to the east, in order to give her the education she can never receive here. however, when i went to the war, there was no place except this where i could leave her. when i come back, i find her a young woman, with excellent book knowledge, thanks to brush and the kind attention of the others. sometimes i think that she is so innocent and ignorant of evil, that it will be better for her to spend the rest of her life here." "it is a serious matter, but neither you nor she should be content to remain in this place for the rest of your lives." "why not? does that which she can learn elsewhere outweigh that which she will never learn in this secluded settlement? is not the man or woman fortunate who never comes face to face with the ingratitude, the treachery, the selfishness, the baseness and the sin which are the accompaniments of civilization? in this untainted mountain air, her nature will retain its freshness and purity; her life will be a well spring of happiness and goodness to all with whom she comes in contact; i shall never marry, and mean to keep her by me until in the order of nature i am called away. that is the only boon that i ask from heaven." "but may not all this be hers and yours if the flower is transplanted from the wilderness into a more congenial soil? has she not already acquired that rugged strength which renders her nature secure against evil? is she not doubly panoplied in goodness by the training of her infancy and girlhood?" "i would like to think so, but, lieutenant, i have lived a few years longer than you. she _might_ not be safe there; i _know_ she is here." chapter xiv the thunderbolt lieutenant russell was treading on delicate ground, where the utmost caution was necessary. he must not alarm his friend. he smoked a few minutes in silence. "it is not for me to give counsel to my captain, but is it not a fact that selfishness grows upon us with advancing years?" "very likely." "has it occurred to you that in concluding to pass the remainder of your days in this mining settlement, you are thinking more of yourself than of your child?" "what have i said that warrants that question?" asked the captain sharply. "no higher motive than to protect a daughter from harm can inspire a father, but if she should be allowed to close your eyes, when you come to lie down and die, it will be hers to live: what _then_?" "i shall leave her comfortably provided for. my pay amounted to a goodly sum when the war ended, and it is placed where no one else can reap the benefit of it. then, too, as you know we have struck considerable paying dirt of late. the prospects are that new constantinople, even if a small town, will soon be a rich one." lieutenant russell groaned in spirit. would the parent never understand him? "then you expect her to remain here, sharing in all the vicissitudes of the place? it cannot always stand still; it will either increase, bringing with it many bad elements, or it will cease to exist and these people will have to go elsewhere: what then of the child whom you have left behind you?" "oh, by that time," airily replied the father; "she will be married to some good honest fellow, like the parson, who seems to be fond of her, as i know she is of him, but i will not allow her to think of marriage for a long while to come," he added with emphasis. lieutenant russell had heard all he wished. he had learned that the father would not consent to the marriage of his daughter for a number of years, and when that time came, he would select one of the shaggy, uncouth miners for her life partner. "he has never thought of _me_ in that capacity, but he will have to entertain the thought before he is much older." in her dreamings of the mysterious world, with its teeming multitudes and all manner of men, nellie dawson was sure that none lived who could compare with this young cavalier who had come out from that wonderful realm into the loneliness of her mountain home, bringing with him a sunshine, a glow, a radiance, a happiness, and a thrilling life which she had never believed could be hers. she often sat with her eyes upon his countenance, when, in his chair opposite her father, he recalled those marvelous experiences of his. to her no man could ever possess so musical a voice, and none so perfect features and winning ways. it was young love's dream and in her heart the sacred flame was kindled and fanned until her whole being was suffused and glowed with the new life. one of lieutenant russell's firsts acts of kindness to nellie dawson was to present her with his massive dog timon. she had shown great admiration from the first for the magnificent brute, who became fond of her. the maiden was delighted beyond measure and thanked the donor so effusively that he was embarrassed. it is not probable, however, that timon himself was ever aware of the change of ownership, for it brought no change of conditions to him. he had learned to divide his time about equally between the home of the lieutenant and that of captain dawson, while, like the young lady herself, he wandered about the settlement at will. he was a dignified canine, who stalked solemnly through new constantinople, or took a turn in dead man's gulch, resenting all familiarity from every one, except from the only two persons that had ever owned him. the lieutenant reflected much upon his conversation with captain dawson, the impression which he had received being anything but pleasant. "he considers himself unselfish, and yet like all such he is selfishness itself. he has determined to spend the rest of his days in this hole and to keep her with him. he won't allow her to marry for years, because it might interfere with his own pleasure; then he intends to turn her over to that lank, shaggy-faced brush, who pretends to be a parson. the captain never thinks of _me_ as having any claims upon her love. to carry out his plan would be a crime. if she objects to brush, he will probably give her a choice from the whole precious lot, including ruggles, adams, bidwell, or red mike, the reformed gambler. "never once has he asked himself whether his daughter may not have a preference in the matter, but, with the help of heaven, he shall not carry out this outrage." in the solitude of his own thoughts, the lover put the question to himself: "am _i_ unselfish in my intentions?" selfishness is the essence of love. we resolve to obtain the one upon whom our affections are set, regardless of the consequences or of the future. it is _our_ happiness which is placed in the balance and outweighs everything else. "of course," continued the young officer in his self-communing, "i shall be the luckiest fellow in the world when i win her and she will be a happy woman. therefore, it is her good which i seek as much as my own." how characteristic of the lover! "i shall not abduct her. if she tells me she does not love me; if she refuses to forsake all for me, then i will bid her good-by and go off and die." how characteristic again of the lover! and yet it may be repeated that lieutenant russell was the most guarded and circumspect of men. he no longer argued with captain dawson, for it was useless. he rather lulled his suspicion by falling in with his views, and talked of the future of parent and daughter, as if it were one of the least interesting subjects that could come between them. on one of vose adams's pilgrimages to sacramento, he returned with a superb mettled pony, the gift of lieutenant russell. with this pet she soon became a daring and accomplished horsewoman. she was an expert, too, with the small winchester and revolver which her father brought with him from the east. perched like a bird upon her own cap, as she named him, she often dashed for a mile down the trail, wheeling like a flash and returning at full speed. "have a care," said parson brush, more than once; "you ride like a centaur and none knows better how to use firearms, but there are indians in these mountains and they sometimes approach nigh enough to be seen from new constantinople. then, too, your father brought word that other miners are working their way toward us. more than likely there are bad men among them whom it is best you should not meet." "but none would harm _me_," was the wondering reply of the miss; "are not all of my own race my friends?" "they ought to be, but alas! it is too much to expect." she could not believe, however, that any danger of that nature threatened her, but she deferred to the fears of her father, lieutenant russell and the parson to that extent that she generally had a companion with her on these dashes down the trail. sometimes it was brush, sometimes ruggles or her parent, and less frequently the young officer. timon always galloped or trotted behind her pony, and she could not be made to believe that his protection was not all-sufficient. the winds of early autumn were moaning through the gorges and cañons of the sierras, bringing with them the breath of coming winter, which was often felt with all its arctic rigor in these depressions among the towering peaks and ridges. the usual group was gathered in the heavenly bower, though two of the most prominent citizens were absent. they were felix brush and wade ruggles, who were seated in their cabin, where a small fire had been kindled on the primitive hearth and afforded the only light in the small apartment. they had eaten their evening meal and as usual were smoking. as neither cared to taste the mountain dew, so winsome to a majority of the miners, the two often spent their evenings thus, especially since the shadow caused by the coming of lieutenant russell had fallen across their threshold. "things begin to look better than afore," remarked ruggles, sitting with one leg flung across the other and looking thoughtfully into the fire. "yes, i always insisted that the soil about here is auriferous and we had only to stick to it to obtain our reward." ruggles took his pipe from his mouth and looked at his partner with a disgusted expression. "what are you talkin' 'bout, parson?" "didn't you refer to the diggings?" he innocently asked in turn. "come now, that won't do; you know my references to allusions was the leftenant and the young lady. i say things look better as regards the same." "in what way?" "in the only way there could be. they don't care partic'lar for each other." "there is no doubt they did some time ago." "of course, but i mean _now_." "how do you explain the change, wade?" "the chap ain't a fool; he's took notice of our warnin's." "i wasn't aware that we had given him any." "not 'zactly in words, but every time i've met him with the gal, i give the leftenant a scowl. once i come purty near shakin' my fist at him; he's obsarved it all and is wise in time." "i think there is ground for what you say," remarked the parson, anxious to be convinced of the hoped-for fact; "what i base my belief on is that the leftenant doesn't accompany her on her little riding trips as often as her father or you or i: _that_ is a sure barometer, according to my judgment. still i have sometimes feared from the way she talks and acts that she thinks more of him than is right." "nothing of the kind! she treats him as she does everybody else; the leftenant is the friend of the cap and the leftenant give her the dog that is the size of a meetin' house and the pony hardly as big as the dog, but she doesn't think half as much of him as of you and me; how can she?" demanded ruggles, sitting bolt upright and spreading his hand like a lawyer who has uttered an unanswerable argument; "hain't she knowed us a blamed sight longer than him?" "you are correct; i didn't think of that." how eagerly we accept the argument, flimsy as it may be, which accords with our wishes! "when i feel sorter ugly over my 'spicions," continued ruggles; "i jest reflect that we've knowed the gal ever since she was a baby and her father tumbled down a hundred feet onto the roof of the heavenly bower, with her in his arms in the middle of that howlin' blizzard,--when i think of that i say----" the door of the cabin was hastily shoved inward and captain dawson, his face as white as death, strode in. "have you seen anything of nellie?" he asked in a husky whisper. "no; what's the matter?" asked the startled miners. "she has gone! she has left me!" gasped the father dropping into the only remaining chair, the picture of despair and unutterable woe. "why do you think that?" asked the parson, sympathetically. "lieutenant russell has gone too! they have fled together!" chapter xv comrades in sorrow wade ruggles and parson brush sprang to their feet and confronted the white-faced captain dawson, who stared at them and breathed fast. for a full minute they gazed into one another's faces, dazed, motionless and speechless. the partners stood, each with pipe in hand, the faint smoke curling upward from the bowls, their slouched hats still on their frowsy heads, the revolvers at their cartridge belts spanning their waists, their trousers tucked in the tops of their boots, and with their heavy flannel shirts serving for coats and vests. captain dawson was similarly attired. he had dashed out of his own cabin and into that of his friends, his long locks flying, and even the strands of his heavy beard rigidly apart, as if from the consternation that had taken possession of his very soul. in those seconds of tomb-like stillness, an ember on the earthen hearth fell apart and a twist of flame threw a yellow illumination through the small room, grim and bare of everything suggesting luxury. it was the parson who first found voice, but when he spoke the tones, even to himself, sounded like those of another person. "captain, it is possible that there is some mistake about this." "would to god there might be!" "let us hope there is." "mistake!" he repeated in a husky, rasping voice; "can there be any mistake about _that_?" he threw out his single arm as he spoke, as if he would drive his fist through their chests. but he held a crumpled bit of paper in the face of the parson, who silently took it from him, crinkled it apart and turning his side so that the firelight fell on the sheet, began reading the few words written in pencil and in the pretty delicate hand which he knew so well. "read it out loud, parson," said ruggles, speaking for the first time. felix brush did so in a voice of surprising evenness: "my dearest father:--i have decided to go with lieutenant russell. we love each other and i have promised to become his wife. do not think i love you any less for that can never be. i cannot remain here. you will hear from us soon and then i pray that you will come to your own nellie." "have you been to his shanty?" asked ruggles, who hardly comprehended the meaning of his own words. "why would he go there?" angrily demanded the parson. "mebbe the villain changed his mind." "but, if he had, _she_ would not be there." "yes; i went to his cabin," bitterly answered captain dawson; "he has not been in the place for hours; all is dark and deserted; if i found him, i would have killed him." the three were laboring under fearful emotion, but with surprising power forced themselves to seem comparatively calm. "captain, tell us about it," said the parson, carefully folding the bit of paper upon itself and shoving it into his pocket, unobserved by the others. despite his apparent calmness it took a few moments for the father to gain sufficient self-control to speak clearly. seated in the chair, he looked into the embers of the fire on the hearth, compressed his lips and breathed hard. his two friends had also seated themselves, for it seemed to them it was easier to master their agitation thus than while upon their feet. "what have i to tell, but my everlasting woe and shame? the lieutenant and i have been working for several days by ourselves on a new lead. i had noticed nothing unusual in his manner nor indeed in that of my child. at lunch time to-day he complained to me of not feeling like work, and told me not to expect him back this afternoon. i would have returned with him, had not the indications of the new lead been so good. and actually he invited me to do no more work until to-morrow, though why he should have done it, when it would have spoiled their whole scheme, is more than i can explain. "it was part of his plan to deceive you." "i don't see how it could do that, for there was no need of his inviting me,--but let it go. it came about that i worked later than usual, so that it was dark when i got home. i was surprised to see no light and to find no fire or nellie. i thought nothing of that, however, for who would have believed it possible that there could be anything wrong? i supposed she was with some of the folks and being tired i sat down in my chair and fell asleep. "when i awoke, the room was cold, silent and as dark as a wolf's mouth. i felt impatient and decided to give her a scolding for being so neglectful. i groped around until i found a match, intending to start a fire. i had just lit the lamp and set it down on the table, when i caught sight of a folded piece of paper with my name in her handwriting on the outside. it gave me a queer feeling and my hands trembled when i unfolded and read it. "i don't clearly remember the next few minutes. the room seemed to be spinning around, and i think i had to sit down to keep from falling, but what saved me from collapse was my anger. i have been consumed with indignation once or twice in my life, but was never so furious, so uncontrollable, so utterly savage as i was after reading that note. if i could have found russell, i would have throttled him. it may sound strange, but i hardly once thought of nellie; it was _he_, the villain, whom i yearned to get my hands on." "of course," said ruggles, "that's the way you oughter feel." "i don't know what possessed me to do so, but i rushed out and made straight for his cabin, as if i would find him there. of course that too was empty, and then i came here. fool that i have been!" exclaimed the parent, leaping to his feet and striding up and down the room; "not to see all this, but," he added pathetically, "i believed that nellie loved me." the flaming wrath of the two melted into pity for the stricken father. parson brush laid his hand on his shoulder and compelled him to resume his seat. then he spoke with the tenderness of a woman: "that child _does_ love you more than she loves her own life, but she is blinded by her infatuation for that smooth-tongued scoundrel. it is the nature of her sex to feel and act thus; but, as i said, it does not mean that her love for you is less--" "don't talk of her love for me," fiercely interrupted the parent; "we only judge of a person by his actions." "but you and i have made mistakes--" "nothing like this; why did she not ask me? why did _he_ not tell me that he wished to marry her?--that is if he does," added the father, as if determined to make his own cup as bitter as possible. "he did not ask you, because he knew you would refuse; for from the first time he entered this community, he was determined to have her." "how do you know that?" "because ruggles and i read him; we did what no one else did,--we measured the man. am i right, wade?" the miner nodded his head. "every word is as true as gospel; we noticed his sly looks at her, that first night you and him entered the heavenly bower and she was there. we couldn't make any mistake about it." "and you didn't warn me! you two are as bad as he, because you kept the secret when you ought to have put me on my guard, so that i might have strangled him at the first advance he made." sympathy for the man prevented his listeners taking offence at the words which, from any one else, would have brought serious consequences. the parson said soothingly: "if you were not so wrought up, captain, you would not be so unreasonable; suppose wade and i had gone to you with the statement that the man who, according to your own words, had saved your life but a short time before in the mountains, was a villain, who contemplated robbing you of your child; what would you have done?" "thanked you and been on my guard." "you would have done nothing of the kind; you would have cursed us and told us to mind our own business." "no matter what i would have done, it was your duty to tell me, regardless of the consequences to yourselves. i might have resented it, but my eyes would have been opened and this blow saved me." "nothing could have opened your eyes, for you were blind," said the parson, who felt that though the man was intensely agitated, he ought to hear some plain truths; "even had you suspected there was ground for our fears, you would have gone to lieutenant russell and demanded an explanation. he would have denied it, and you would have believed him with the result that he would have been put on his guard and would have deceived you the more completely." "likewise, as aforesaid," added ruggles, "the villain would have come to us and made us give our grounds for our charges. what ridic'lous fools we would have been, when all we could answer was that we thought he looked as if he meant to run away with your darter." "there may be some justice in what you say," replied the captain more composedly; "it was i who was blind, but i can't understand it. never until i read that piece of paper, did i suspect the truth." "howsumever, the parson and me haven't been idle; we often talked it over and fixed on a line that we thought would work better than going to you. we showed the leftenant that we was onto his game; i give him a scowl now and then, as it fell convenient, that said 'beware!' we, that is the parson and me, made up our minds to watch close, and, at the first sign that was dead sure, we'd fall onto him like a couple of mountains." "and why didn't you?" "he fooled us as he did you. we was talkin' over matters the very minute you busted into the door and was satisfied that he had larned he was playin' with fire and had concluded to drop it. we was as big fools as you." chapter xvi now it was the parson who now broke in. "why do we sit here, lamenting that which cannot be helped? do you mean to give up, captain, and let her go? will you settle down to toil in the diggings, giving her no further thought, while this pretty-faced lieutenant is chuckling over the clever manner by which he fooled you as well as us--" "no!" fairly shouted the roused parent; "i will follow them to the ends of the earth! they shall not find a foot of ground that will protect them! she has never seen me angry, but she shall now!" "we are with you," coolly responded brush, "but only on one condition." "what's that?" "that this account is to be settled with _him_ alone; you musn't speak so much as a cross word to nellie; she will shed many a bitter tear of sorrow; she will drain the cup to its dregs; _he_, the cause of it all, is to be brought to judgment. when do you wish to take up the pursuit?" "now!" "and we are with you." there was something wonderful in the way parson brush kept control of himself. externally he was as calm as when standing in front of the adamantine blackboard, giving instruction to nellie dawson, while down deep in his heart, raged a tempest such as rouses into life the darkest passions that can nerve a man to wrong doing. believing it necessary to stir the father to action, he had done it by well chosen words, that could not have been more effective. for weeks and months the shadow had brooded over him. sometimes it seemed to lift and dissolve into unsubstantiality, only to come back more baleful than before. and the moment when he had about persuaded himself that it was but a figment of the imagination, it had sprung into being and crushed him. but he was now stern, remorseless, resolute, implacable. it was much the same with wade ruggles. he strove desperately to gain the remarkable control of his feelings, displayed by his comrade, and partly succeeded. but there was a restless fidgeting which caused him to move aimlessly about the room and showed itself now and then in a slight tremulousness of the voice and hands, but his eyes wore that steely glitter, which those at his side had noticed when the rumble and grumble told that the battle was on. captain dawson went from one extreme to the other. crazed, tumultuous in his fury, and at first like a baffled tiger, he moderated his voice and manner until his companions wondered at his self-poise. "they have started for sacramento and are now well advanced over the trail," he remarked without any evidence of excitement. "when do you imagine they set out?" asked brush. "probably about the middle of the afternoon; possibly earlier." "then," said ruggles, "they have a good six hours' start. they haven't lost any time and must be fifteen or twenty miles away." "the trail is easy traveling for twice that distance, as i recollect it," observed the captain; "after that it grows rougher and they will not be able to go so fast." "this must have been arranged several days ago, though it is only guesswork on our part. of course she has taken considerable clothing with her." "i did not look into her room," said the captain; "there's no use; it is enough to know they made their preparations and started, accompanied by that dog timon." no time was wasted. they knew they would encounter cold weather, for the autumn had fairly set in, and some portions of the trail carried them to an elevation where it was chilly in midsummer. each took a thick blanket. the captain donned his military coat, with the empty sleeve pinned to the breast, caught up his saddle and trappings, his winchester and revolver, and buckled the cartridge belt around his waist. then he was ready. neither of the others took coat or vest. the blanket flung around the shoulders was all that was likely to be needed, in addition to the heavy flannel shirt worn summer and winter. thus equipped, the three stood outside the cabin, with the moon high in the sky, a gentle wind sweeping up the cañon and loose masses of clouds drifting in front of the orb of night. here and there a light twinkled from a shanty and the hum of voices sounded faintly in their ears. further off, at the extreme end of the settlement, stood the heavenly bower, with the yellow rays streaming from its two windows. they could picture the group gathered there, as it had gathered night after night during the past years, full of jest and story, and with never a thought of the tragedy that had already begun. "shall we tell them?" asked ruggles. "no," answered brush; "some of them might wish to go with us." "and it might be well to take them," suggested captain dawson. "we are enough," was the grim response of the parson. like so many phantoms, the men moved toward the further end of the settlement. opposite the last shanty a man assumed form in the gloom. he had just emerged from his dwelling and stopped abruptly at sight of the trio of shadows gliding past. "what's up, pards?" he called. "nothing," was the curt answer of the captain, who was leading and did not change his pace. "you needn't be so huffy about it," growled the other, standing still and puffing his pipe until they vanished. "that was vose adams," remarked the captain over his shoulder; "he'll tell the rest what he saw and it will be known to everybody in the morning." the little party was carefully descending the side of the cañon, with now and then a partial stumble, until they reached the bottom of the broad valley where the grass grew luxuriantly nearly the whole year. it was nutritious and succulent and afforded the best of pasturage for the few horses and mules belonging to the miners. captain dawson and lieutenant russell had ridden up the trail, each mounted on a fine steed, which had brought them from sacramento. when the saddles and bridles were removed, the animals were turned loose in the rich pasturage, which extended for miles over the bottom of the cañon. there, too, grazed the pony of nellie dawson, the horses of ruggles and bidwell and the three mules owned by landlord ortigies and vose adams. the latter were left to themselves, except when needed for the periodical journeys to sacramento. the little drove constituted all the possessions of new constantinople in that line. consequently, if any more of the miners wished to join in the pursuit, they would have to do so on foot or on mule back,--a fact which was likely to deter most of them. in the early days of the settlement, before the descent of that terrible blizzard, fully a dozen mules and horses were grazing in the gorge, subject to the call of their owners, who, however, did not expect to need them, unless they decided to remove to some other site. but one morning every hoof had vanished and was never seen again. the prints of moccasins, here and there in the soft earth, left no doubt of the cause of their disappearance. perhaps this event had something to do with the permanence of new constantinople, since the means of a comfortable departure with goods, chattels, tools and mining implements went off with the animals. after that the miners made no further investments in quadrupeds, except to the extent of three or four mules, needed by vose adams, though he was forced to make one journey to sacramento on foot. thus matters stood until the addition of the horses. there was always danger of their being stolen, but as the weeks and months passed, without the occurrence of anything of that nature, the matter was forgotten. the three men were so familiar with the surroundings that they made their way to the bottom of the cañon with as much readiness as if the sun were shining. pausing beside the narrow, winding stream, which at that season was no more than a brook, they stood for several minutes peering here and there in the gloom, for the animals indispensable for a successful pursuit of the eloping ones. "there's no saying how long it will take to find them," remarked the captain impatiently; "it may be they have been grazing a mile away." "have you any signal which your animal understands?" "yes, but it is doubtful if he will obey it." captain dawson placed his fingers between his lips and emitted a peculiar tremulous whistle, repeating it three times with much distinctness. then all stood silent and listening. "he may be asleep. once he was prompt to obey me, but he has been turned loose so long that there is little likelihood of his heeding it." "try it again and a little stronger," suggested ruggles. the captain repeated the call until it seemed certain the animal must hear it, but all the same, the result was nothing. it was exasperating for the hounds thus to be held in leash when the game was speeding from them, with the scent warm, but there was no help for it. "we are wasting time," said dawson; "while you two go up the gorge, i will take the other direction; look sharp for the animals that are probably lying down; they are cunning and will not relish being disturbed; if you find them whistle, and i'll do the same." they separated, the captain following one course and his friends the other. "it'll be a bad go," remarked ruggles, "if we don't find the horses, for we won't have any show against them on their animals." "little indeed and yet it will not hold us back." "no, indeed!" replied ruggles with a concentration of passion that made the words seem to hiss between his teeth. since the stream was so insignificant, wade ruggles leaped across and went up the cañon on the other side, his course being parallel with his friend's. a hundred yards further and he made a discovery. "helloa, brush, here they are!" the parson bounded over the brook and hurried to his side, but a disappointment followed. the three mules having cropped their fill had lain down for the night but the horses were not in sight. chapter xvii the pursuers the parson expressed his disappointment in vigorous language, when, instead of the horses, the hybrids proved to be the only animals near them. "i am afraid this proves one thing," he said. "what is that?" "i have had a dread all along that the indians would run off the horses, but it seems to me that if they had done so, they would have taken the mules." "it strikes me as more likely that the leftenant took the horses, so as to prevent our follering him and the gal." "that sounds reasonable," said the parson thoughtfully; "the plan is so simple that it must have occurred to him. the mules are too slow to be of any use to us, and it may be as well that we shall have to go afoot." "how do you figure that out?" "they will conclude that, if we haven't any horses, we won't follow them; they will, therefore, take their time and travel so slow, that we'll have the chance to swoop down on them when they are not expecting it." "i s'pose there's what you call philosophy in that, but it doesn't hit me very favorable. we'll see what the cap thinks--helloa!" clearly and distinctly through the still air came the signal by which captain dawson was to announce his discovery of the animals. the call scattered all thoughts of making the journey on foot, and, wheeling about, the two started off at a rapid pace to join their friend. at the same moment the call sounded again, and they answered it to let it be known they understood the situation. in a brief time they came upon captain dawson impatiently awaiting them. there was no need for him to tell them he had been successful in his search, for he was standing beside the three horses, which were quickly saddled and bridled. a minute later the men vaulted upon their backs and the captain said crisply: "now we are off!" each seemed to be inspired by the spirit of adventure. they sat erect in the saddles, drew in a deep inhalation of the keen night air, and moved off with their horses on a brisk walk, which almost immediately became a canter. for a mile, the trail through dead man's gulch was nearly as hard and even as a country highway. the width of the cañon varied from a few rods to a quarter of a mile, with the mountain ridges on either hand towering far up into cloudland, the tallest peaks crowned with snow which the sun never dissolved. the tiny stream wound like a silvery serpent through the stretch of green, succulent grass, narrowing gorge and obtruding rock and boulder. now and then the path led across the water, which was so shallow that it only plashed about the fetlocks of the horses. captain dawson, in his impetuosity, kept a few paces in front of the other two, as if he were the leader. when the space increased too much he reined up his animal and waited until his friends joined him. they were grim, resolute and for most of the time had little to say to one another, though, as may be supposed, their thoughts were of anything but a pleasant nature. so long as the moon held her place near the zenith, the cañon was suffused and flooded with its soft radiance, but the rifts of clouds drifting before its face rendered the light at times treacherous and uncertain. the horses had rested so long, and had had such extensive browsing on the rich pasturage, that they were in fine condition, and the gallop seemed more grateful to them than an ordinary walking gait. the air was cool and the fine trail, at this portion of the journey, made all the conditions favorable. after a time however, the ascent and descent would appear, the ground would become rough and the best the animals could do would be to walk. when parson brush remarked that lieutenant russell had proved himself an idiot when he left these horses behind for his pursuers to use, the captain and ruggles agreed with him. "i don't understand it," said brush; "he must have expected we would be hot after him, within the very hour we learned of what he had done, or can it be that he and she concluded we would say, 'depart in peace?' if so, the young man shall have a terrible awakening." "it seems to me," said ruggles, "that it is more likely he believed that with the start he would gain, it didn't matter whether we follered or not, feelin' sure that he could keep out of reach and get to sacramento so fur ahead of us, that he needn't give us a thought." "i am not very familiar with the trail," remarked the captain, "for, as you know, i have passed over it only twice; first, nearly five years ago, when i went to the war, and a few months since when i came back." "but you and russell did not lose your way," said the parson. "that was because we did our traveling by day. we tried it once at night, but came within a hair of tumbling over a precipice a thousand feet deep. this will be easy enough, so long as we have the sun to help us." "you probably know as much about the trail as wade and i, for neither of us has been over it often. consequently, when we travel by night, we shall have to go it blind, or rather shall do so after awhile, since all is plain sailing now." "i ain't so sure of that," observed ruggles doubtfully; "we must have come a mile already and ought to have made a turn by this time." captain dawson checked his horse and peered ahead. "can it be we are off the track? we have come nearer two miles than one--ah!" just then the moon emerged from the obscuring clouds and their field of vision so broadened that they saw themselves face to face with an impassable barrier. the cañon closed directly in front of them like an immense gate of stone. it was impossible to advance a hundred feet further. "well, i'm blessed if this isn't a pretty situation!" exclaimed the captain. "we have passed the opening, but we haven't far to return, and you know that a bad beginning brings a good ending." "humph! i would rather chance it on a good beginning." ruggles was the first to wheel and strike his horse into a gallop, which he did with the remark that he knew where the right passage was located. his companions were almost beside him. the cañon was of that peculiar conformation that, while it terminated directly in front, it contained an abrupt angle between where the party had halted and the mining settlement. at that point it was so wide that the little stream, which might have served for a guide, was lost sight of. had they followed the brook, they would not have gone astray. the only inconvenience was the slight delay, which in their restless mood tried their spirits to the utmost. captain dawson muttered to himself and urged his horse so angrily that he again placed himself in advance. his mood was no more savage than that of his companions, but he chafed at everything which caused delay, no matter how trifling, in the pursuit. fearing that he might go wrong, ruggles spurred up beside him. the distance passed was less than any one expected it to be, when ruggles called out: "here we are!" the exclamation was caused by the hoofs of their horses plashing in the water. they seemed to share the impatience of their riders; "all we have to do now is to keep to the stream; obsarve its turn." its course was almost at right angles to that which they had been following. the animals were cantering easily, when suddenly a deeper gloom than usual overspread the valley like a pall. this came from a heavy bank of clouds sweeping before the moon. the steeds were drawn down to a walk, but the obscurity was not dense enough to shut out the chasm-like opening, where the mountains seemed to part, riven by some terrific convulsion ages before. the enormous walls drew back the door as if to invite them to enter and press the pursuit of the couple that were fleeing from a just and righteous wrath. the width of the cañon had now dwindled to a few yards, and the stream expanding and shallow, occupied so much of the space that the horses were continually splashing through it, but the rise and fall of the trail was so slight that the gallop might have continued with little danger of mishap. the formation of the party was in "indian file," with captain dawson leading, ruggles next and brush bringing up the rear. all three animals were walking, for the light of the moon was variable and often faint, while the danger of a mis-step was ever present, and was likely to bring a fatal ending of the pursuit almost before it had fairly begun. occasionally the gloom in the narrow gorge was so deep that they distinguished one another's figures indistinctly, but the animals were left mostly to themselves. they seemed to know what was expected of them and showed no hesitation. it was impossible for them to go wrong, for it was much the same as if crossing a bridge, with its protecting barrier on either hand. the horse of the captain showed his self-confidence once or twice by a faint whinney and a break from the walk into a trot, but his rider checked him. "not yet; heaven knows that i am as anxious to push on as you, but we have already made one blunder and we can't afford another; when the time comes that it is safe to trot you shall do so and perhaps run." "hush!" called brush from the rear; "i hear a curious sound." "what does it seem to be?" "it is impossible to tell; let's stop for a moment." as the three animals stood motionless, the strange noise was audible. it was a deep, hollow roar rapidly increasing in volume and intensity, and resembled the warning of a tornado or cyclone advancing through the forest. the animals, as is the case at such times, were nervous and frightened. they elevated their heads, pricked their ears, snuffed the air and the animal of the parson trembled with terror. the three believed that something in the nature of a cyclone was approaching, or it might be a cloudburst several miles away, whose deluge had swollen the stream into a rushing torrent that would overwhelm them where they stood, caught inextricably in a trap. the terrifying roar, however, was neither in front nor at the rear, but above them,--over their heads! from the first warning to the end was but a few seconds. the sound increased with appalling power and every eye was instinctively turned upward. in the dim obscurity they saw a dark mass of rock, weighing hundreds of tons, descending like a prodigious meteor, hurled from the heavens. it had been loosened on the mountain crest a half mile above, and was plunging downward with inconceivable momentum. striking some obstruction, it rebounded like a rubber ball against the opposite side of the gorge, then recoiled, still diving downward, oscillating like a pendulum from wall to wall, whirling with increasing speed until it crashed to the bottom of the gorge with a shock so terrific that the earth and mountain trembled. landing in the stream, the water was flung like bird shot right and left, stinging the faces of the men fifty feet distant. they sat awed and silent until ruggles spoke: "now if that stone had hit one of us on the head it would have hurt." "probably it would," replied the captain, who had difficulty in quieting his horse; "at any rate, i hope no more of them will fall till we are out of the way." "i wonder whether that could have been done on purpose," remarked the parson. "no," said ruggles; "the leftenant couldn't know anything about our being purty near the right spot to catch it." "i alluded to indians,--not to him." but ruggles and the captain did not deem such a thing credible. a whole tribe of red men could not have loosened so enormous a mass of stone, while, if poised as delicately as it must have been, they would have known nothing of the fact. sometimes an immense oak, sound and apparently as firm as any in the forest around it, suddenly plunges downward and crashes to the earth, from no imaginable cause. so, vast masses of rock on the mountain side which have held their places for centuries, seem to leap from their foundations and tear their way with resistless force into the valley below. this was probably one of those accidental displacements, liable to occur at any hour of the day or night, which had come so startlingly near crushing the three men to death. captain dawson drew a match from his pocket and scraping it along his thigh, held it to the face of his watch. "just midnight and we are not more than half a dozen miles from home." "and how far do you suppose _they_ are?" asked the parson. "probably five times as much, if not more." "but they will not travel at night, and by sunrise we ought to be considerably nearer to them than now." "you can't be certain about that. lieutenant russell knows me too well to loiter on the road; he has a good horse and the pony of nellie is a tough animal; both will be urged to the utmost; for they must be sure the pursuit will be a hard one." the discomforting fact in the situation was that if the fugitives, as they may be considered, pushed their flight with vigor, there was no reason why they should not prevent any lessening of the distance between them and their pursuers, and since they would naturally fear pursuit, it was to be expected that they would use all haste. the hope was that on account of nellie, the animals would not keep up the flight for so many hours out of the twenty-four, as the pursuers would maintain it. the trail steadily ascended and became so rough and uneven that the horses frequently stumbled. this made their progress slow and compelled the three men, despite themselves, to feel the prudence of resting until daylight, but not one of them wished to do so, since the night pursuit was the only phase of the business which brought with it the belief that they were really lessening the distance separating them from the two in advance. eager as the couple were to get through the mountains and reach sacramento, where for the first time they could feel safe from their pursuers, the young officer was too wise to incur the risk of breaking down their horses, for such a mishap would be a most serious one indeed, and fraught with fatal consequences. there was little fear of the pursuers going astray. captain dawson had an extraordinary memory for places, as he repeatedly proved by recalling some landmark that he had noticed on his previous trip. furthermore, the gorge was so narrow that in a certain sense, it may be said, they were fenced in, and would have found it hard to wander to the right or left, had they made the effort. after an hour of steady climbing they reached an altitude which brought with it a sharp change of temperature. the air became so chilly that ruggles and brush flung their blankets about their shoulders and found the protection added to their comfort. the horses, too, began to show the effects of their severe exertion. their long rest had rendered them somewhat "soft," though the hardening would be rapid. after a few days' work they would not mind such exertion as that to which they were now forced. when a sort of amphitheatre was reached, it was decided to draw rein for a brief while, out of sympathy for their panting animals. "i thought if we failed to find our horses," remarked the parson, "we wouldn't find it hard to keep up the pursuit on foot; i have changed my mind." he looked back over the sloping trail, which speedily vanished in the gloom and the eyes of the other two were turned in the same direction. at the moment of doing so, the animals again became frightened, so that, despite their fatigue, it was hard to restrain them. "there's something down there," remarked the captain slipping from his saddle; "wade, you are the nearest, can you see anything?" ruggles was out of the saddle in an instant, winchester in hand. "i catched sight of something," he said in an undertone; "look after my horse, while i find out what it is." "have a care," cautioned the parson; "it may be an indian." "that's what i think it is," replied ruggles, who instantly started down the trail rifle in hand, his posture a crouching one and his senses strung to the highest point. he passed from view almost on the instant, and his companions listened with intense anxiety for what was to follow. suddenly the sharp crack of their friend's rifle rang out in the solemn stillness, the report echoing again and again through the gorge, with an effect that was startling even to such experienced men. it was the only sound that came to them, and, while they were wondering what it meant, ruggles reappeared among them with the noiselessness of a shadow. "it was a bear," he explained; "i think he scented the animals and was follering on the lookout for a chance at 'em." "did you kill him?" "don't think i did; he must have heard me comin' and was scared; he went down the trail faster than i could; when i seen that i couldn't catch him, i let fly without taking much aim. maybe i hit him; leastways, he traveled so much faster that i give it up and come back." the party lingered for half an hour more, but as the horses showed no further fear, they concluded that bruin had taken to heart the lesson he received and would bother them no further. the mountains still towered on every hand. the stream had long since disappeared among the rocks and the gorge had become narrower. generally it was no more than a dozen feet in width, occasionally expanding to two or three times that extent. the moon had moved over so far that only its faint reflection against the dark walls and masses of rock availed the horsemen. the sky seemed to contain an increasing number of clouds and there were indications of a storm, which might not break for a day or two, and as likely as not would not break at all. the traveling, despite its difficulty, was comparatively safe. the trail did not lead along the sides of precipices, with a climbing wall on one side and a continuous descent on the other, but it was solid and extended across from one ridge to the other. because of this fact the three pushed their animals hard, knowing that it would not be long before they would have to be favored. "i don't know whether we are wise to keep this up as we are doing," said the captain, "but i know there are few places where we can travel in the darkness and i feel like making the most of them." "it is only a question of what the horses are able to stand," replied brush; "it is easy enough for us to ride, but a very different thing for them to carry us. we must guard against their breaking down." "i will look out for that, but it is strange that when we were making ready to start we forgot one important matter." "what was that?" "we did not bring a mouthful of food." "we shall have little trouble in shooting what game we need." "perhaps not and perhaps we shall. the lieutenant and i found on our way from sacramento that, although game appeared to be plenty, it had an exasperating habit of keeping out of range when we particularly needed it. delay will be necessary to get food, and the reports of our guns are likely to give warning, just when it is dangerous." "it was a bad slip," assented the parson; "for there was plenty of meat and bread at home; but we shall have to stop now and then to rest our animals and to allow them to feed and we can utilize such intervals by getting something for ourselves in the same line." "it isn't that, so much as the risk of apprising the two of their danger. in addition, it will be strange if we get through the mountains without a fight with the indians. according to my recollection, we shall strike a region to-morrow or on the next day, where there will be the mischief to pay." two miles more of laborious work and another halt. for the first time parson brush showed excitement. "do you know," he said, "that some one is following us? there may be several, but i am sure of one at least and he is on a horse." chapter xviii a close call few situations are more trying than that of being followed at night by what we suspect is an enemy. the furtive glances to the rear show the foe too indistinctly for us to recognize him, and the imagination pictures the swift, stealthy attack and the treacherous blow against which it is impossible to guard. there was little of this dread, however, in the case of our friends, for they felt strong enough to take care of themselves. moreover, all three formed an instant suspicion of the identity of the man. it was felix brush at the rear who first heard the faint footfalls, and, peering into the gloom, saw the outlines of a man and beast a few rods distant, coming steadily up the trail in the same direction with himself. a few minutes later the halt was made and all eyes were turned toward the point whence the man was approaching. he must have noticed the stoppage, but he came straight on until he joined the group. "howdy, pards," was his greeting. "i thought it was you, vose," said the captain, sharply; "what do you mean by following us?" "what right have you to get in front of me? don't i have to make a trip to sacramento three or four times each year?" "but you are not accustomed to start in the night time." "and i never knowed it was your custom to leave new constantinople in the middle of the night; leastways i never knowed you to do it afore." "we have important business," added the captain brusquely, uncertain as yet whether he ought to be displeased or angered by the intrusion of adams. "so have i." "what is it?" "your good." "i don't understand you; explain yourself." "there ain't one of you three that knows the way through the mountains, and if you undertook it alone, it would take you three months to reach sacramento." this was a new and striking view of the situation, but the parson said: "each of us has been over it before." "sartinly, but one trip nor half a dozen ain't enough. you lost your way the first hour in dead man's gulch; if you hadn't done so, it would have took me a blamed sight longer to find you; there are half a dozen other places in the mountains ten times worse than the one where you flew the track. howsumever, if you don't want me, i'll go back." and vose adams, as if his dignity had received a mortal hurt, began turning his mule around. "hold on," interposed captain dawson; "you have put things in their true light; we are very glad to have you with us." "that makes it all right," was the cheery response of the good natured vose; "i never like to push myself where i ain't wanted, but as you seem glad to see me, after having the thing explained, we won't say nothing more about it. howsumever, i may add that i obsarved you started in such a hurry that i thought it warn't likely you fetched any vittles with you, so i made up a lunch and brought it with me, being as you may not always have time to spare to shoot game." the chilliness of vose adams' greeting changed to the warmest welcome. he had shown more thoughtfulness than any of them, and his knowledge of the perilous route through the mountains was beyond value. indeed, it looked as if it was to prove the deciding factor in the problem. "do you know our business, vose?" asked the captain. "i knowed it the minute i seen you sneaking off like shadows toward the trail. i hurried to my cabin, got a lot of cold meat and bread together and then hunted up hercules, my boss mule. he isn't very handsome, but he has a fine voice and has been through these mountains so many times that he knows the right road as well as me. i knowed you would travel fast and didn't expect to overhaul you afore morning, but you went past the right turn and that give me a chance to catch up sooner." "but how was it you suspected our errand?" persisted the captain. "how could i help it? what else could it be? i seen the miss and the leftenant start for sacramento, and being as you took the same course it was plain that you was going there too, if you didn't overtake 'em first." "you saw them start!" thundered the father of nellie dawson; "why didn't you hurry off to me with the news?" "why should i hurry off to you with the news?" coolly asked vose adams; "it wasn't the first time i had seen the two ride in that direction; sometimes she was with you, or with the parson or ruggles, and once or twice with me. would you have thought there was anything wrong if you had seen them?" "no, i suppose not," replied the captain, seeing the injustice of his words; "but i have been so wrought up by what has occurred that i can hardly think clearly. i ask your pardon for my hasty words." "you needn't do that, for i see how bad you feel and i'm sorry for you." "when was it they left?" "early this afternoon." "there was no one with them of course?" "nobody except that big dog they call timon; he was frolicking 'round the horses, as if he enjoyed it as much as them." every atom of news was painful, and yet the afflicted father could not restrain himself from asking questions of no importance. "about what hour do you think it was when they left?" "it must have been near two o'clock when the leftenant fetched up his horse and the pony belonging to the young lady. she must have been expectin' him, for she come right out of the house, without keeping him waitin' a minute. he helped her into the saddle, while they talked and laughed as happy as could be." this was wormwood and gall to the parent, but he did not spare himself. "did you overhear anything said by them?" "i wouldn't have considered it proper to listen, even if they hadn't been so far off i couldn't catch a word that passed atween 'em." "was there anything in their actions to show they intended to take a longer ride than usual?" "i don't see how there could be," replied the puzzled adams, while parson brush, understanding what the distraught captain meant, explained: "was there anything in their appearance which suggested that they meant to take anything more than an ordinary gallop?" "i didn't think of it at the time, but i can see now there was. each of them had what seemed to be extra clothing and perhaps they had food, though i couldn't make sure of that. you know there has been something in the sky that looked like a coming storm, and i thought it was on that account that the clothing was took along. then, as the leftenant had knocked off work, it might be he was not feeling very well." "the scoundrel made that very excuse for leaving me," bitterly commented captain dawson, "but he wouldn't have taken the clothing as part of the same design for there was no need of anything of the kind. they laid their plans carefully and everything joined to make it as easy as possible." "your thoughts were precisely what ours would have been," said the parson, drawn toward the messenger unjustly accused by the captain in the tumult of his grief;" if we had seen the two start, we should have believed it was for one of the usual gallops which the young lady is so fond of taking; but, vose, if we would have certainly gone astray in the mountains, without your guidance, how will it be with them, when she has never been over the trail and he has ridden over it but once?" "they are sure to have a tough time of it which will make it all the harder for us." "how is that?" "some good luck may lead them right; more than likely, howsumever, they'll get all wrong; therefore, if we stick to the path we may pass 'em a half dozen times. you see it's the blamed onsartinty of the whole bus'ness." "i would not question your wisdom on such matters, vose, but when i remember that each of them is riding a horse, and that the two must leave traces behind them, i cannot apprehend that we shall go very far astray in our pursuit. the most likely trouble as it seems to me is that they will travel so fast that it will be almost impossible to overtake them." "if they can manage to keep to the trail, it is going to be hard work to come up with them. you haven't forgot that when i'm pushing through the mountains i sometimes have to hunt a new trail altogether." "that is due to the trouble with indians?" "precisely; sometimes it's a long, roundabout course that i have to take, which may keep me off the main course for a couple of days, or it may be for only a part of the day, but injins is something that you must count on every time." "and they are as likely to meet them as we?" "more so, 'cause they're just ahead of you. oh, it was the biggest piece of tomfoolery ever heard of for them to start on such a journey, but what are you to expect of two young persons dead in love with each other?" this was not the kind of talk that was pleasing to the father, and he became morosely silent. it was equally repugnant to ruggles and the parson to hear nellie dawson referred to as being in love with the execrated officer. ruggles was grim and mute, and the parson deftly drew the conversation in another direction. "i would like to ask you, vose, how it was that lieutenant russell did not take the other horses with him, so as to make it impossible for anything in the nature of pursuit?" "there might be two reasons; he may have thought it would be mean to hit you below the belt like that; he was too honorable--" "it warn't anything like _that_," fiercely interrupted ruggles. "then it must have been that if he had took all the animals with him, even though they was a considerable way down the gulch, the thing would have been noticed by others, who would have wanted to know what it meant." "no doubt you have struck the right reason. had the start been in the night time, he would have made sure that not even the mules were left for us. but, vose," added the parson gravely, "we would be much better pleased if when you referred to the lieutenant, you said nothing about 'honor.'" "oh, i am as much down on him as any of you," airily responded vose; "and, if i git the chance to draw bead on him, i'll do it quicker'n lightning. fact is, the hope of having that same heavenly privilege was as strong a rope in pulling me up the trail after you as was the wish to keep you folks from gettin' lost. but, pards, hercules is rested and i guess likely your animals are the same, so let's be moving." although captain dawson had been silent during the last few minutes, he did not allow a word to escape him. he knew vose adams was talkative at times, due perhaps to his enjoyment of company, after being forced to spend weeks without exchanging a word with any one of his kind, but there was no overestimating his value, because of his knowledge of the long, dangerous route through the mountains. when, therefore, the party were about to move on, the captain said: "vose, from this time forward you are the guide; the place for you is at the head; you will oblige me by taking the lead." vose accepted the post of honor, which was also the one of peril, for it is the man in his position whose life hangs in the balance when indians are concerned. but there was no hesitancy on his part, though he was well aware of the additional risks he incurred. "there's one good thing i can tell you," he said, just before they started. they looked inquiringly at him and he explained: "the hardest part of the climbing is over,--that is for the time," he hastened to add, seeing that he was not understood; "you'll have plenty more of it before we see sacramento, but i mean that we have struck the highest part of the trail, and it will be a good while before there's any more climbing to do." "that is good news," said ruggles heartily, "for it has been mighty tough on the animals; i 'spose too, the trail is smoother." adams laughed. "i am sorry to say it's rougher." ruggles muttered impatiently, but the four took up the task, adams in the lead, with the rest stringing after him in indian file. the declaration of vose was verified sooner than was expected. while the mule was so sure-footed that he seemed to meet with no difficulty, it was excessively trying to the horses, who stumbled and recovered themselves so often that captain dawson began to fear one or more of them would go lame. still in his anxiety to get forward, he repressed his fears, hoping that there would be some improvement and cheering himself with the belief that since all had gone well for so long, it would continue on the same line. * * * * * once, however, his horse made such an abrupt stumble that the captain narrowly saved himself from being unseated. on the impulse of the moment he called to adams in advance: "vose, i am afraid this won't do!" the leader did not look around and acted as if he had not heard him. "i say, vose, isn't it better that we should wait till our horses can see the way?" since the leader took no notice of this demand, the captain concluded his fears were groundless and said no more. "if he thinks it safe for us to keep on, i shall not oppose." but captain dawson might have opposed, had he known the truth, for, strange as it may seem, vose adams did not hear the words addressed to him, because he was asleep on the back of his mule hercules, as he had been many a time while riding over the lonely trail. in truth, there was some foundation for his declaration that he could sleep more soundly on the back of his animal than while wrapped up in his blanket in some fissure among the rocks. fortunately for him, however, these naps were of short duration, and, while indulging in them, he relied upon his animal, which had acquired a wonderful quickness in detecting danger. the slightest lagging in his gait, a halt, a turning to one side or a whinny was sufficient to bring back on the instant the wandering senses of the rider. in the present instance his slumber was not interrupted until hercules, seeing exactly where he was, dropped his walk to a lagging gait. on the very second vose adams opened his eyes. so naturally that no one suspected anything, he checked his animal and looked around. "pards, we've reached a ticklish spot, and it's for you to say whether we shall wait for daylight afore trying it." "what is its nature?" asked the captain, as he and the two behind him also reined up their animals. "the trail winds through these peaks in front, and instead of being like that we've been riding over all along, keeps close to the side of the mountain. on the right is the solid rock, and on the left it slopes down for i don't know how many hundred feet, afore it strikes bottom. once started down that slide, you'll never stop till you hit the rocks below like that mass of stone that tumbled over in front of you." "how wide is the path?" asked the parson. "there's more than a mile where it isn't wide enough for two of us to ride abreast, and there are plenty of places where a horse has got to step mighty careful to save himself. hercules knows how to do it, for he larned long ago, but i have my doubts about your hosses." "it might have been better after all if we had brought the mules," said the captain. "not a bit of it, for hercules is the only one that knows how to git over such places." "how do the others manage it?" "they've never tried it in the night time; that's what i'm talking 'bout." adams's description enabled the others to recall the place. it was all that had been pictured and they might well pause before assuming the fearful risk. one reason for wishing to press forward was the knowledge that at the termination of the dangerous stretch, the trail was so smooth and even that for a long distance it would be easy to keep their animals at a gallop, while still further the peril appeared again. captain dawson once more struck a match and looked at his watch. "half-past three; in two hours it will begin to grow light; if no accident happens we shall be at the end of the ugly piece of ground by that time, where the traveling is good. it is a pity to lose the opportunity, but i will leave it to you, parson and ruggles; what do you say?" "our horses have been pushed pretty hard, but they are in good condition. i hate to remain idle." "then you favor going ahead?" "i do." "and you, ruggles?" "i feel the same way." "that settles it; lead on, vose." "i'm just as well suited, but keep your wits about you," was the warning of the leader, whose mule instantly responded, stretching his neck forward and downward and occasionally snuffing the ground, as if he depended on his sense of smell more than that of hearing. the task was a nerve-wrenching one, and more than once each of the three regretted their haste in not waiting for daylight; but, having started, there was no turning back. to attempt to wheel about, in order to retrace their steps, was more perilous than to push on, while to stand still was hardly less dangerous. the moonlight gave such slight help that the four depended almost wholly upon the instinct of their animals. hercules never faltered, but advanced with the slow, plodding, undeviating certainty of those of his kind who thread their way through the treacherous passes of the alps. once his hind hoof struck a stone which went bounding down the precipice on his left, until at the end of what seemed several minutes, it lay still at the bottom. neither animal nor rider showed the least fear, for in truth both were accustomed to little slips like that. "i'm blessed if this isn't the most ticklish business that i ever attempted," muttered captain dawson; "i never had anything like it in the army; it reminds me of scouting between the lines, when you expect every second a bullet from a sharpshooter--" at that instant his horse stepped on a round, loose stone which turned so quickly that before he could recover himself the hoof followed the stone over the edge of the precipice. the horse snorted and struggled desperately, and the brave rider felt an electric shock thrill through him from head to foot, for there was one moment when he believed nothing could save them from the most frightful of deaths. the left hind leg had gone over the rocky shelf, which at that point was very narrow, and the hoof was furiously beating vacancy in the despairing effort to find something upon which to rest itself. his body sagged downward and the rider held his breath. "steady, my boy!" he called, and with rare presence of mind allowed the rein to lie free so as not to disconcert the steed. the tremendous struggle of the intelligent animal prevailed and with a snort he recovered his balance and all four feet stood upon firm support. "that was a close call," observed the parson, whose heart was in his mouth, while the brief fight for life was going on. "it was so close that it couldn't have been any closer," coolly commented the captain, fully himself again. chapter xix a collision at this moment, the cheery voice of adams called: "there's only about a hundred yards more of this, but we've now struck the worst part of the whole trail." "if it is any worse than what we have just passed, it won't do to try it," replied captain dawson, with the memory of his recent thrilling experience still vivid with him. "we can do it, but we must foller a different plan." "what is that?" "we must lead our animals. there are plenty of places where you can get off your horses with more comfort, but we can't stand here doing nothing. get to the ground the best way you know how." it was clear that the advice of the guide would have to be followed, and all four set about the task with the cool daring shown from the first. since each man was to lead his animal, it was necessary to dismount in front, instead of slipping over the tail, as would have been easier. the beasts showed striking sagacity in this delicate task. the trail was so narrow that to dismount to the left, on the side of the dizzying precipice, made it impossible for a man to keep his poise, while to descend on the right, directly beside the body of the animal was almost certain to crowd him over into the gorge. each, therefore, lowered himself with infinite care over the right shoulder of his steed, so well forward, that the horse by turning his head to the left afforded just enough room for the trick to be done. every one dismounted in safety, each drawing a breath of relief when the exquisitely delicate task was accomplished. looking around in the gloom, vose adams saw that his friends stood on the ground. "are you all ready?" he asked. "yes," replied brush from the rear. "hold the bridle so gentle that you can let go if your animal slips off: if he has to go over the precipice, there's no need of your follering him." each man took his winchester in hand, and loosely grasping the bridle rein, began stealing forward, the captain's loss compelling him to make his single arm answer for both purposes. the advance was necessarily slow, for it was made with the utmost care. the path could not have been more dangerous than for the brief stretch between them and the broad, safe support beyond. several times the trail so narrowed that each trembled through fear of not being able to keep his balance, while it seemed absolutely impossible for a horse to do so; but one of the strange facts connected with that intelligent animal is that, despite his greater bulk, he is generally able to follow wherever his master leads. so it was that when a miner carefully turned his head, he saw his steed following slowly but unfalteringly in his footsteps. it was soon perceived that this perilous stretch did not take a straight course, but assumed the form of an immense, partial circle. when half way around, the plodders came in sight of a huge rent in the distant mountain wall, through which the sky showed nearly from the zenith to the horizon. in this immense v-shaped space shone the moon nearly at its full, and without a rift or fleck of cloud in front of its face. a flood of light streamed through and between the encompassing peaks, tinging the men and animals with its fleecy veil, as if some of the snow from the crests had been sprinkled over them. on their left, the craggy wall sloped almost vertically downward, the projecting masses of rock displaying the same, fairy-like covering, ending in a vast, yawning pit of night and blackness, into whose awful depth the human eye could not penetrate. on the right, the mass of stone, rock and boulder, rugged, broken and tumbled together, as if flung about by giants in sport, towered beyond the vision's reach, the caverns, abysses and hollows made the blacker and more impenetrable by the moonlight glinting against the protruding masses. it was as if a party of titans had run their chisels along the flinty face of the mountain from the rear, gouging out the stone, with less and less persistency, until they reached the spot where the men and animals were creeping forward, when the dulled tools scarcely made an impression sufficient to support the hesitating feet. captain dawson was but a few paces to the rear of vose adams's mule, whose surety of step he admired and tried to imitate. "training seems able to accomplish anything," reflected the captain; "i remember how lieutenant russell and i stopped on the further edge of this infernal place when we reached it one forenoon and spent several hours trying to find a safer path. it kept us in a tremor until we were across. had any one told me that on the next journey i should try it in the night, i would have believed him crazy, but," he grimly added, "i would have thought the same, if i had been told that a necessity like this would compel us to do so." the bridle rein was looped over his elbow, which extended behind him, the same hand grasping his rifle, so that he advanced partly sideways over the treacherous trail. he attempted to do nothing but look after his own footsteps. sometimes, when it was a little harder to pull the rein, he slackened his pace. it would not do to hurry the animal, since a slight disturbance might cause him to loose his footing. the horse knew what was required of him and would do it better by being left wholly to himself. it was because of this concentration of his mind upon the one thing that the captain failed to perceive that the mule in his front had stopped walking, until the rim of his slouched hat touched the tail of the motionless animal. "helloa, vose, what's the matter?" the guide said something, but kept his face turned away, and his words, instead of being in the nature of an answer, were addressed to some one who confronted him. adams was of slight stature, so that, although he stood erect, it was easy for the captain to look over his head and see what was beyond. that which was thus revealed was another horseman leading his animal and coming toward them. he was advancing in the same manner as the miners, that is by leading his horse, and, meeting our friends thus face to face, it was impossible for either party to pass: one or the other must give way and retreat. a startling feature of this meeting was that the individual who thus confronted them was an indian of gigantic stature. he was more than six feet in height and of massive proportions. he belonged to what were known as the "mountain indians," who were brave and of irrestrainable ferocity. they were the most dangerous people met by the miners in the early days on the pacific slope. equity demanded that this particular specimen should back his horse over the few yards to the point where the trail broadened, for the task was possible of accomplishment, while the white men were unable to force their animals in safety for one-half of the distance behind them. moreover, it was evident that this indian had deliberately started over the trail, with the knowledge of the four white men approaching, so that a meeting was inevitable. he courted an encounter with them and was in a murderous mood. vose adams knew all this and recognized the warrior as one of the dreaded indians, with whom he was better acquainted than were his friends. he had had several scrimmages with them on his trips through the mountains, and held them in such wholesome fear that he contrived to avoid a direct conflict. the diminutive miner overflowed with pluck, but in a hand to hand encounter, must be only a child in the grasp of the aboriginal giant. the present situation, however, was peculiar. there can be no doubt that this savage sought the meeting with the party, for on no other supposition can his acts be explained. he must have reasoned that on the narrow ledge his enemies would have to meet him one by one and engage him single handed. he was like a chamois that had lived all its life in these wild solitudes and was surer-footed than any white man. what a triumph it would be (and was it unreasonable to expect it?) for him to slay the insignificant pale face immediately in his front, shove his mule over the precipice, and then serve the remaining three in same fashion! "get out of this!" were the words which vose adams addressed to the indian, directly after the question of captain dawson to himself, and when the enemies were within six feet of each other; "there isn't room for both of us; you knew that before you started; one of us has got to give way and i'll be hanged if i do!" inasmuch as the red man did not understand a word of english, it is not to be supposed that he grasped the whole meaning of this command, but the situation must have made it evident that he had been ordered to back his horse and to open a way for the white men, and inasmuch as he had come upon the trail for the express purpose of bringing about this encounter, it seems hardly necessary to say that he failed to obey the order. instead, he repeated some words in his own language, which it is not unlikely were of the same import as those addressed to him, for he resolutely maintained his place. "i tell you," added vose, raising his voice, as if that could help make his meaning clear; "if you don't do as i say, somebody is going to get hurt!" the warrior, who was carrying a rifle, stooped and gently let it fall beside him. at the same moment he let go of the thong which served as a bridle. thus both hands were free and he crouched down with his hideous face thrust forward and took a slow, half-step toward adams. the coarse black hair dangling loosely about his shoulders, the broad frightful countenance, which, however, was devoid of paint, the glittering, basilisk-like eyes, the sinewy half-bent finger, with the right fingers closed like a vise around the handle of the knife at his waist, while gently drawing it forth, the catlike advance,--all these made him so terrible an enemy that the bravest man might well doubt the result of a meeting with him. and yet the closest scrutiny of vose adams would not have discovered any tremor in his frame, or so much as a blanching of his face. he fully comprehended the nature of the peril that impended, but with the cool readiness of a veteran, he had fixed upon his line of action, in the same moment that he read the purpose of his formidable enemy. the preliminary actions of the guide were similar to that of the warrior. the bridle rein dropped from his hand, and, slightly stooping, he let his winchester fall to the ground beside him. then his knife flashed out and he was ready. since only the mule was between captain dawson and the combatants, he observed all this and interpreted its meaning. "vose, what do you mean to do?" he sharply asked. "have a little dispute with the fellow," replied adams, without removing his gaze from the face of the savage. "you mustn't do it." "it sorter looks as if it can't be helped, captain." "i shall prevent it." "how?" "thus!" the captain had laid down his rifle and drawn his revolver, in the use of which he was an expert. while thus engaged, he stooped down, so that the interposing body of the mule, prevented the indian from observing what he was doing. when his weapon was ready and just as he uttered his last word, he straightened up like a flash. adams being of short stature and in a stooping posture, gave him just the chance he needed. his single arm was extended with the quickness of lightning and he fired. the bullet bored its way through the bronzed skull of the indian, who, with an ear-splitting screech, flung his arms aloft, leaped several feet from the ground, toppled sideways over the edge of the trail and went tumbling, rolling and doubling down the precipice far beyond sight, into the almost fathomless abyss below. "that's what i call a low down trick!" was the disgusted exclamation of adams, looking round with a reproachful expression. "do you refer to the indian?" asked the captain. "no; to you; i had just got ready for him and had everything fixed when you interfered." "vose, you are a fool," was the comment of his friend. "and why?" "that fellow was twice as big as you and you hadn't an earthly chance in a fight with him." "do you 'spose that is the first time i ever met a mountain injin?" "you never fought one of that size in this spot." "what difference does the spot make?" "i want you to understand," said the captain with assumed gravity, "that i didn't interfere out of any regard for you." "what the mischief are you driving at?" demanded the puzzled guide. "under ordinary circumstances, i would have stood by and watched the flurry, only wishing that the best man might win. that means, of course, that you would have been the loser. but we need some one to guide us through the mountains; you haven't done it yet; when your work is over you may go and live on wild indians for all i care." vose quickly regained his good nature. he returned his knife to its resting place, picked up his rifle, grasped the bridle rein and gently pulled. "come, hercules; i don't know whether they appreciate us or not; steady now!" "what are you going to do with that horse in front of you?" asked the captain. "hang it! if i didn't forget about him; back with you!" he commanded with a gesture, moving toward the animal, who showed the intelligence of his kind, by retrograding carefully until he reached the broad safe place so anxiously sought by the others. there he wheeled and trotted off, speedily disappearing from sight. "vose, you might have traded hercules for him." "not much! i wouldn't give that mule for a drove of horses that have belonged to these mountain injins." "what's the matter with them? aren't they as good as ours?" "they're too good; you can't tell what trick they'll sarve you; i was once riding through these very mountains, on the back of a horse that i picked up--it isn't necessary to say how--when his owner gave a signal and the critter was off like a thunderbolt. if i hadn't slipped from his back at the risk of breaking my neck, he would have carried me right into a camp of hostiles and you would have been without your invaluable guide on this trip." "that is important information--if true--helloa! it is growing light off there in the east!" "yes,--day is breaking," added vose. the captain looked at his watch and found the time considerably past five o'clock. they had been longer on the road than any one supposed, and the coming of morning was a vast relief to all. the party were now grouped together, for the trail was broad and safe. parson brush asked, as he pointed almost directly ahead: "isn't that a light off yonder?" the guide gazed in that direction and replied: "yes, but it comes from a camp fire, which isn't more than a half mile away." the men looked in one another's faces and the captain asked in a guarded voice, as if afraid of being overheard: "whose fire is it?" "there's no saying with any sartinty, till we get closer, but i shouldn't be 'sprised if it belong to the folks you're looking for." the same thought had come to each. there was a compression of lips, a flashing of eyes and an expression of resolution that boded ill for him who was the cause of it all. in the early morning at this elevation, the air was raw and chilling. the wind which blew fitfully brought an icy touch from the peaks of the snow-clad sierras. the party had ridden nearly all night, with only comparatively slight pauses, so that the men would have welcomed a good long rest but for the startling discovery just made. over the eastern cliffs the sky was rapidly assuming a rosy tinge. day was breaking and soon the wild region would be flooded with sunshine. already the gigantic masses of stone and rock were assuming grotesque form in the receding gloom. the dismal night was at an end. the twinkling light which had caught the eye of felix brush appeared to be directly ahead and near the trail which they were traveling. this fact strengthened the belief that the fire had been kindled by the fugitives. the illumination paled as the sun climbed the sky, until it was absorbed by the overwhelming radiance that was everywhere. the pursuers felt well rewarded for the energy they had displayed in the face of discouragement and danger. valuable ground had been gained, and even now when they had supposed they were fully a dozen miles behind the fugitives, it looked as if they had really caught up to them, or at least were within hailing distance. every eye was fixed on the point which held so intense an interest for them. as the day grew, a thin, wavy column of smoke was observed ascending from the camp fire, which was partly hidden among a growth of scrub cedars, some distance to the right of the trail, whither it must have been difficult for the couple to force their horses. "that leftenant ought to have knowed better than to do that," remarked vose adams, "his fire can be seen a long way off." "what else could they do?" asked the captain. "the rocks give all the cover he needs." "but they could have no idea that we were so near," suggested the parson. "it isn't that, but the leftenant had 'nough 'sperience with injins on his way through here before to know he's liable to run agin them at any time. i never dared to do a thing like that on my trips." "let's push on," said the captain, who saw no reason for tarrying now that they had located the game. the ground was so much more favorable that the animals were forced to a canter, though all were in need of rest. little was said, and captain dawson spurred forward beside adams, who as usual was leading. wade ruggles and parson brush also rode abreast. they were far enough to the rear to exchange a few words without being overheard. "from the way things look," said brush; "we shall have to leave everything with the captain and he isn't likely to give us anything to do." "he's mad clean through; i don't b'leve he'll wait to say a word, but the minute he can draw bead on the leftenant, he'll let fly." "he is a fine marksman, but he may be in such a hurry that he'll miss." "no fear of that; i wonder," added ruggles, startled by a new thought, "whether vose has any idee of stickin' in his oar." "likely enough." "i must git a chance to warn him that we won't stand any nonsense like that! the best that we'll do is to promise him a chance for a crack after you and me miss." "that won't be any chance at all," grimly remarked the parson. "wal, it's all he'll have and he mustn't forgit it. there's some things i won't stand and that's one of 'em." "we can't do anything now, but we may have a chance to notify him. if the opportunity comes to me, he shall not remain ignorant." they were now nearly opposite the camp and the two noticed with surprise that adams and the captain were riding past it. "what's that fur?" asked the puzzled ruggles. "that's to prevent them from fleeing toward sacramento. when they find we are on the other side, they will have to turn back." this was apparently the purpose of the men in advance, for they did not draw rein until a hundred yards beyond the camp. suddenly the two halted, and half-facing around, waited until brush and ruggles joined them. the explanation of the guide showed that his plan had been rightly interpreted by parson brush. chapter xx the camp fire the trail, as has been stated, was broad and comparatively level. the slope of the mountain to the right was so moderate that it could be climbed by a horse almost as readily as by a man. its face was covered with a growth of cedars, continuing half way to the summit, when it terminated, only bleak masses of rock, sprinkled with snow, whose volume increased with the elevation, being visible above and beyond. when the four pursuers came together, their faces showed that they comprehended the serious business before them. it was seen that captain dawson was slightly pale, but those who had been with him in battle had observed the same peculiarity. accompanied, as it was in this instance, by a peculiar steely glitter of his eyes, it meant that he was in a dangerous mood and the man who crossed his path did so at his peril. it was evident that he and vose adams had reached an understanding during the few minutes that they were riding in advance. the words of vose adams were spoken for the benefit of ruggles and the parson. "you'll wait here till i take a look at things." "what do you mean to do?" asked brush. "i'm going up the slope on foot to find out how the land lays." "and when you find that out, what next?" "he is to come back and report to me," interposed the captain. there was a world of meaning in these words. it showed that the captain allowed adams to lead only when acting as a guide. in all other matters, the retired officer assumed control. the opportunity of vose to pick off the offending lieutenant promised to be better than that of any one else, since he would first see him, but he had been given to understand that he must immediately return and let the captain know the situation. adams had promised this and he knew dawson too well to dare to thwart him. brush and ruggles could make no objection, keen though their disappointment was. they watched adams, as he slipped off his mule, not deeming it worth while to utter the warning both had had in mind. it was the parson who said: "i suppose we have nothing to do except to wait here till you come back?" "it looks that way, but you must ask the captain." "you won't be gone long?" "i don't think so." "be careful, but there's no need of waiting," said the captain. the three watched the guide until he disappeared from sight among the cedars, when the captain added: "vose told me that it was possible that camp fire had been started by indians, but it seems to me there is little likelihood of that." "why?" "those people are so skilled in woodcraft that they would have been on the alert against our approach, for a brief survey of the trail for the last half hour would have revealed us to them." "it may be," suggested the parson, "that with every reason to believe there is no danger of anything of the kind, for it must be rare that a white man passes along this trail, they did not keep a lookout." the captain shook his head. "from what i know of the american race, it is unlike them." "what knowledge have we that they have not maintained such a lookout and discovered us as soon as we noticed the camp fire itself? they may have formed an ambuscade at some point further along the trail." "it is a disturbing possibility and i would be alarmed, but for my confidence in vose. he has been through this region so often and knows these wild people so thoroughly that he could not commit a blunder like that. it seems to me," added the captain a few minutes, later, "that he is absent a long time." "it's tough," remarked ruggles, "that things are fixed so we won't have a chance to take any hand in this bus'ness." the captain looked inquiringly at him and he explained: "you and vose have set it up atween you." "i have told you that if your help is needed, it will be welcome; i can add nothing to that." "the captain is right," interposed the parson, "but at the same time, he can see what a disappointment it is for us." "i admit that, but we are not out of the woods yet." before he could make clear the meaning of this remark, vose adams emerged from the cedars, and the three breathlessly awaited his coming. he broke into a trot and quickly descended the slope to where they stood. the expression of his face showed before he spoke that he brought unwelcome news. "confound it!" he exclaimed with a shake of his head, "they're not there!" "then they have gone on up the trail," said the captain inquiringly. "no; they haven't been there; it isn't their camp." "whose is it?" "injins; there are five of 'em; they've just had their breakfast and are gettin' ready to make a start." "didn't they see you?" "that isn't the way i do bus'ness," replied vose rather loftily; "it's more'n likely, howsumever, they seen us all awhile ago when we was further down the trail. they're traveling eastward." "how can you know that?" asked the parson. "the injin that took his dive off the trail 'bout the time the captain fired off his revolver, was going that way. he b'longed to the party and was sorter leading 'em; he was a chief or something of the kind." "where are their ponies?" "they haven't any,--leastways he was the only one that had, which is why i said he was some kind of a chief. we shall hear from 'em agin." "why?" "i mean after they find out about that little row." "why need they find out about it?" "they can't help it; they'll miss their chief; they'll run across that horse of his and that'll give 'em the clue." this unexpected discovery put a new face on matters. five mountain indians, the bravest and most implacable of their race, were almost within stone's throw of the party. but for the occurrence of a brief while before, they probably would have permitted the white men to continue their journey unmolested, since the strength of the two bands, all things considered, was about equal, but when the hostiles learned of the death of their leader, they would bend every effort toward securing revenge. they would dog the miners, watchful, alert and tireless in their attempts to cut them off from the possibility of ever repeating the deed. "but that chief, as you seem to think he was," said captain dawson, "is gone as utterly as if the ground had opened and swallowed him. they will never have the chance to officiate at his funeral, so how are they to learn of the manner of his taking off?" "it won't take 'em long," replied adams; "his pony will hunt them out, now that he is left to himself; that'll tell 'em that something is up and they'll start an investigatin' committee. the footprints of our horses, the marks on the rocks, which you and me wouldn't notice, the fact that we met the chief on that narrer ledge and that he's turned up missing will soon lay bare the whole story, and as i remarked aforesaid, we shall hear from 'em agin." "it looks like a case of the hunter hunting the tiger," said the parson, "and then awaking to the fact that the tiger is engaged in hunting him; it is plain to see that there's going to be a complication of matters, but i don't feel that it need make any difference to us." "it won't!" replied the captain decisively; "we haven't put our hands to the plough with any intention of looking back. what's the next thing to do, vose?" "we've got to look after our animals." "but there's no grass here for them." "a little further and we'll strike a stream of water where we'll find some grass, though not much, but it's better than nothing." vaulting into the saddle, the guide after some pounding of his heels against the iron ribs of hercules, forced him into a gallop, which the others imitated. the trail continued comparatively smooth, and, being slightly descending, the animals were not crowded as hard as it would seem. a mile of this brought them to the water, where they were turned loose. the stream gushed from the mountain side, and, flowing across the trail, was lost among the rocks to the left. the moisture thus diffused produced a moderate growth of tough, coarse grass, which the animals began plucking as soon as the bits were removed from their mouths. they secured little nutriment, but as the guide remarked, it was an improvement upon nothing. the men bathed their faces in the cold, clear water, took a refreshing draught, and then ate the lunch provided for them by the thoughtful adams. though they ate heartily, sufficient was kept to answer for another meal or two, if it should be thought wise to put themselves on an allowance. they had just lighted their pipes, when wade ruggles uttered an exclamation. without explaining the cause, he bounded to his feet and ran several rods to the westward, where he was seen to stoop and pick something from the ground. he examined it closely and then, as he turned about and came back more slowly it was perceived that he held a white handkerchief in his hand. his action caused the others to rise to his feet. "what have you there?" asked captain dawson, suspecting its identity. "i guess you have seen it before," replied wade, handing the piece of fine, bordered linen to him. he turned it over with strange emotions, for he was quick to recognize it. "yes," he said, compressing his lips; "it is hers; she dropped it there--how long ago, vose?" the latter examined the handkerchief, as if looking for the answer to the question in its folds, but shook his head. "even a mountain injin could not tell that." the parson asked the privilege of examining the article. his heart was beating fast, though no one else was aware of it, for it was a present which he had made to nellie dawson on the preceding christmas, having been brought by vose adams, with other articles, on his trip made several months before the presentation. there was the girl's name, written by himself in indelible ink, and in his neat, round hand. it was a bitter reflection that it had been in her possession, when she was in the company of the one whom she esteemed above all others. "it may have been," reflected the parson, carefully keeping his thoughts to himself, "that, when she remembered from whom it came, she flung it aside to please him. captain," he added, "since this was once mine, i presume you have no objection to my keeping it." "you are welcome to it; i don't care for it," replied the parent. "thank you," and the parson carefully put it away to keep company with the letter of nellie dawson which broke her father's heart; "i observe that it is quite dry, which makes me believe it has not been exposed to the dew, and therefore could not have lain long on the ground." "you can't tell anything by that," commented vose; "the air is so dry up here, even with the snow and water around us, that there's no dew to amount to anything." all seemed to prefer not to discuss the little incident that had produced so sombre an effect upon the party. wade ruggles was disposed to claim the handkerchief, inasmuch as it was he who found it, but he respected the feelings of the parson too much to make any protest. the occurrence was of no special interest to the guide. he had said they were in danger from the indians and he gave his thoughts to them. while the others kept their seats on the ground, he stood erect, and, shading his eyes with one hand, peered long and attentively over the trail behind them. the clump of cedars from amid which the thin column of vapor was slowly climbing into the sky and the narrow ledge which had been the scene of their stirring adventure were in view, though its winding course shut a portion from sight. "i expected it!" suddenly exclaimed vose. the others followed the direction of his gaze and saw what had caused his words. the five indians, whom vose had discovered in camp, were picking their way along the ledge, with their faces turned from the white men, who were watching them. despite the chilly air, caused by the elevation, not one of the warriors wore a blanket. two had bows and arrows, three rifles, carried in a trailing fashion, and all were lithe, sinewy fellows, able to give a good account of themselves in any sort of fight. a curious fact noted by all of our friends was that while these warriors were thus moving away, not one of them looked behind him. their long black hair hung loosely about their shoulders, and in the clear air it was observable that three wore stained feathers in the luxuriant growth on their crowns. "is it possible that they have no suspicion of us?" asked the parson; "their action in not looking around would imply that." "don't fool yourself," was the reply of adams; "they knowed of us afore we knowed anything of them." "why did they allow us to pass their camp undisturbed?" "things weren't in the right shape for 'em. there are only three guns among 'em, though them kind of injins are as good with the bow as the rifle, and they made up their minds that if we let them alone, they wouldn't bother us." "you said awhile ago that we should have trouble from them." "and so we shall; when they reasoned like i was sayin', they didn't know anything about the little accident that happened to their chief; it's that which will make things lively." "we can't see the point where that accident took place," said captain dawson. "no; the trail curves too much, but we can foller it most of the way; they're likely to go right on without 'specting anything, but when they find the horse, it'll set 'em to looking round. after that, the band will begin to play." while the party were watching the five indians, the leader was seen to pass from view around the curve in the trail, followed by the next, until finally the fifth disappeared. all this time, not one of the warriors looked behind him. it was a singular line of action, and because of its singularity roused the suspicion of the spectators. while three of the miners resumed their seats on the boulders and ground, vose adams kept his feet. doubling each palm, so as to make a funnel of it, he held one to either eye and continued scrutinizing the point where he had last seen the hostiles. he suspected it was not the last of them. instead of imitating him, his friends studied his wrinkled countenance. the air in that elevated region was wonderfully clear, but it is hardly possible to believe the declaration which the guide made some minutes later. he insisted that, despite the great distance, one of the indians, after passing from view, returned over his own trail and peeped around the bend in the rocks, and that the guide saw his black hair and gleaming snake-like eyes. the fact that vose waited until the savage had withdrawn from sight, before making the astonishing declaration, threw some discredit on it, for it would have required a good telescope to do what he claimed to have done with the unassisted eye alone. "you see i was looking for something of the kind," he explained, "or mebbe i wouldn't have obsarved him." "could you tell the color of his eyes?" asked the doubting ruggles. "they were as black as coal." "it is safe to say that," remarked the parson, "inasmuch as i never met an indian who had eyes of any other color." "there are such," said vose, "and i've seen 'em, though i'll own they're mighty scarce and i never knowed of any in this part of the world. howsumever, i won't purtend that i could see the color of a man's eyes that fur, but i did see his hair, forehead and a part of his ugly face. he knowed we was behind him all the time, and this one wanted to find out what we was doing. when he larned that, they kept on along the ledge, but there's no saying how fur they'll go afore they find something's gone wrong." captain dawson showed less interest in this by-play than the others. he was not concerned with what was behind them, so much as with what was in front. the belief was so strong with him that their persistent travel through the night had brought them close to the fugitives that he begrudged the time necessary for the animals to rest and eat. parson brush felt that adams was acting wisely in giving attention to the rear. it would be the height of folly to disregard these formidable warriors when they meant trouble. brush rose to his feet and using his palms as did the guide, scanned the country behind them. he saw nothing of any warrior peering around the rocks, but he did see something, which escaped even the keen vision of vose adams himself. beyond the ledge and a little to the left, he observed a riderless horse, with head high in air, and gazing at something which the two white men could not see. the parson directed the attention of vose to the animal. "by gracious! it's the chief's horse," he exclaimed; "do you see that?" the other two were now looking and all plainly saw a warrior advance into view, approaching the animal, which, instead of being frightened, seemed to recognize his friends, and remained motionless until the indian came up and grasped the thong about his neck. then the two passed from sight. the identical thing prophesied by vose adams had occurred under the eyes of the four pursuers. the steed of the dead chieftain had been recovered, and it would not take the hostiles long to penetrate the mystery of the matter. vose was wise in taking the course he did, and his companions were now inclined to believe his astonishing assertion that he saw one of the number when he peeped around the curving ledge and watched their actions. however, it would have been absurd to wait where they were in order to learn every move of their enemies, for that would have been a voluntary abandonment of the advantage secured at the cost of so much labor and danger. captain dawson insisted that the pursuit should be pressed without any thought of the red men, and vose consented. "but there's one thing we mustn't forget, captain," he said, "and that is that it is daytime and not night." "i do not catch your meaning," replied the captain, pausing on the point of moving off to secure his horse. "it is this: them people in front will keep as sharp an eye to the rear as to the front; more'n likely it will be sharper, and it will be a bad thing if they discover us when we're two or three miles off." "how shall we prevent it?" "we can do it, if we're careful. you'll remember that when you went over this route last, you come upon places where you could see for a mile or more, 'cause the trail was straight and broad, while there are others where you can't see more'n a hundred yards. them that i've named last is where we must overhaul 'em." "that sounds well, vose," said the captain, "but i am unable to see how you are going to manage so as to bring that about." "while you're getting the animals ready, i'll take a look ahead." this was not in the nature of an explanation, but the three willingly did their part. vose disappeared almost instantly, and, though they took but a few minutes to prepare their animals for the resumption of travel, he was back among them, the expression of his face showing that he brought news of importance. "they ain't fur off," he said. "how far?" asked the captain. "i can't say anything more than that we're purty close to 'em. let's push on!" chapter xxi strangers the signs of an approaching storm that had been noted with some apprehension the night before, passed away. the sky revealed hardly a cloud rift, and, when the sun had climbed the mountain crests, the scene was grand beyond description. but for the grim errand of the four men, holding relentlessly to the pursuit, they must have yielded to its impressive influence. the trail remained so favorable for a couple of miles further, that it was passed at the same easy, swinging gallop. vose adams retained his place a few paces in advance of the others, who saw him glance sharply to the right and left, often to the ground and occasionally to the rear, as if to assure himself that none of his friends was going astray. the moderate but continuous descent of the path took them so far downward that the change of temperature again became noticeable. the ground was rough and uneven and the animals dropped to a walk. sometimes the course led around boulders, through sparse growths of cedar, beside brawling torrents, two of which they were compelled to ford, where it was hard for their animals to keep their feet. "last fall," remarked the guide, at the most difficult of these passages, "i had to wait two days before i dared try to cross with hercules and one of the other mules." his companions nodded their heads but made no other answer. they were not in the mood for talking. they were now making their way through a cañon similar to dead man's gulch, with rents and yawning ravines opening on the right and left, before which the party might have halted in perplexity, had it been in the night time. but the path showed plainly and the familiarity of the guide prevented any mistake on his part. adams had intimated that by a certain line of procedure the watchful fugitives could be prevented from discovering the approach of the pursuers until too late to escape them. in counting upon his ability to do this, he overestimated his skill, for the task was clearly impossible, and it was because of his efforts in that direction that he made a serious blunder. he had crossed for the third time a stream which was shallow, and, upon reaching the opposite bank, where the ground was moist and soft, he reined up with an exclamation of impatience. "what's the matter?" asked captain dawson, in the same mood. "we've passed 'em," was the reply; "they're somewhere behind us." "how far?" "that remains to be found out, but i don't think it's a great distance." the captain angrily wheeled his horse and re-entered the stream. "if they don't get away, it won't be our fault," was his ungracious comment; "we have done little else than throw away our chances from the first." the guide made no response, and the next minute the four were retracing their course, their animals at a walk, and all scanning the rocks on either hand as they passed them. it was clear by this time that the fugitives held one important advantage over their pursuers. the route that they were following was so devious and so varied in its nature, that only at rare intervals could it be traced with the eye for a quarter or half a mile. certain of pursuit, lieutenant russell and his companion would be constantly on the lookout for it. they were more likely, therefore, to discover the horsemen than the latter were to observe them. even if their flight was interrupted, there were innumerable places in this immense solitude where they could conceal themselves for an indefinite period. the question the pursuers asked themselves was whether the others had strayed unwittingly from the trail, or whether they had turned off to elude their pursuers, whose desperate mood they could not but know. the latter supposition seemed the more likely, since the path was marked so plainly that it could be lost only by unaccountable carelessness. at the first break in the side of the vast mountain walls vose adams again slipped from his mule and spent several minutes in studying the ground. "they haven't gone in here," was his comment, as he remounted. "make certain that we are not too far back," said the captain. "i have made no mistake," was the curt reply of the guide. the party had gone less than twenty rods further, when another rent opened on the other side of the cañon, which was about an eighth of a mile wide. it would not do now to slight anything, and adams headed his mule diagonally across the gorge, the animal walking slowly, while the rider leaned over with his eyes on the ground. suddenly he exclaimed: "we've hit it this time! here's where they went in!" all four leaped from the back of their animals. adams pointed out the faint indentations made by the hoofs of two horses. less accustomed than he to study such evidence, they failed to note that which was plain to him; the hoof prints of one of the animals were smaller than those of the other, since they were made by cap, the pony belonging to nellie dawson. there could no longer be any doubt that the pursuers were warm on the trail of the fugitives. such being the fact, the interest of the men naturally centered on the avenue through which the others had made their way. it was one of those fissures, sometimes seen among enormous piles of rock, that suggest that some terrific convulsion of nature, ages before, has split the mountain in twain from top to bottom. the latter was on a level with the main cañon itself, the chasm at the beginning being ten or twelve yards in width, but, occurring in a depression of the mountain spur, its height was no more than five or six hundred feet, whereas in other localities it would have been nearly ten times as great. the base was strewn with fragments of sandstone, some of the pieces as large as boulders, which had probably been brought down by the torrents that swept through the ravine in spring or when a cloudburst descended upon the upper portion. standing at the entrance, it was observed that the gorge trended sharply to the left, so that the view was shut off at a distance of fifty yards. it was noticeable, too, that the path taken by the fugitives sloped upward at so abrupt an angle that it must have sorely tried the horses. "i thought so," was the comment of vose adams, when he returned from a brief exploration of the ravine; "they got off and led their animals." "have you any idea of the distance they went?" asked captain dawson, who was in a more gracious mood, now that he appreciated the value of the services of their guide. "no; i've rid in front of that opening a good many times, but this is the first time i ever went into it." "well, what is to be done?" asked parson brush. "why, foller 'em of course," wade ruggles took upon himself to reply. "that won't do," replied adams, "for it is likely to upset everything; i'll leave hercules with you and sneak up the gorge far enough to find how the land lays. i'll come back as soon as i can, but don't get impatient if i'm gone several hours." brush and ruggles showed their displeasure, for, while admitting the skill of the guide, they could not see adequate cause for the impending delay. they had made so many slips that it seemed like inviting another. it was clear that they were close upon the fugitives, and the two believed the true policy was to press the pursuit without relaxing their vigor. but captain dawson, the one who naturally would have been dissatisfied, was silent, thereby making it apparent that adams was carrying out a plan previously agreed upon by the two. vose paid no heed to ruggles and the parson, but started up the ravine, quickly disappearing from view. believing a long wait inevitable, the three prepared to pass the dismal interval as best they could. here and there scant patches of grass showed in the cañon, and the animals were allowed to crop what they could of the natural food. the men lounged upon the boulders at hand, smoked their pipes and occasionally exchanged a few words, but none was in the mood for talking and they formed a grim, stolid group. hardly ten minutes had passed, when ruggles, with some evidence of excitement, exclaimed in a guarded undertone: "helloa! something's up!" he referred to the horses, who are often the most reliable sentinels in the presence of insidious danger. two of them had stopped plucking the grass, and, with their ears pricked, were staring up the cañon at some object that had attracted their attention and that was invisible to their owners in their present situation. convinced that something unusual had taken place, ruggles walked out into the cañon where he could gain a more extended view. one sweeping glance was enough, when he hurried back to his companions. "thunderation! all sacramento's broke loose and is coming this way!" the three passed out from the side of the gorge to where they had a view of the strange procession. there seemed to be about a dozen men, mounted on mules, with as many more pack animals, coming from the west in a straggling procession, talking loudly and apparently in exuberant spirits. "i don't like their looks," said brush; "it is best to get our property out of their way." the counsel was good and was followed without a minute's delay. the four animals were rounded up and turned into the ravine, up which vose adams had disappeared. they gave no trouble, but, probably because of the steepness of the slope, none of the four went beyond sight. had the three men been given warning, they would have placed them out of reach, for none knew better than they how attractive horses are to men beyond the power of the law. but it was too late now, and the little party put on a bold front. as the strangers drew near, they were seen to be nine in number and they formed a motley company. their pack mules were so cumbrously loaded as to suggest country wagons piled with hay. the wonder was how the tough little animals could carry such enormous burdens, consisting of blankets, picks, shovels, guns, cooking utensils, including even some articles of furniture. our older readers will recall that for years after the close of the war, tens of thousands of the blue army overcoats were in use throughout the country. it looked as if every man in the present company was thus provided, including in many instances trousers of the same material, though each person had discarded the army cap for a soft slouch hat, similar to those worn by the miners. all the garments were in a dilapidated condition, proving their rough usage as well as their poor quality. many of the heavy boots disclosed naked toes, while the mules had not known a curry comb for weeks and perhaps months. the faces of the men were anything but attractive. most of them were heavily bearded, with long, frowsy, unkempt hair, dangling about the shoulders. every one displayed side arms, and there could be no mistake in setting them down as a reckless lot, whom a peaceable citizen would not care to meet anywhere. the leader of this mongrel gang was a massive man, who bestrode so small a mule that his feet were only a few inches from the ground. there was little semblance of discipline in the company, but a certain rude deference to the fellow, who kept his place at the head, and did the loudest talking, ornamented with plenty of expletives, indicated his prominence among his fellows. the mountain tramps had descried the three men standing at the side of the cañon, watching them as they approached. they ceased their boisterous talking and studied them as they drew near. "howdy, pards?" called the leader, raising his two fingers to his forehead and making a military salute, to which our friends responded coolly, hoping the company would keep on without stopping. but they were disappointed. colonel briggs, as his men called him, suddenly shouted "whoa!" in a voice that could have been heard a mile off, and pulled so hard on his bridle rein that he drew the jaws of the mule against his breast, while the rider lay back almost on the haunches of his animal, who showed his contrariness by walking round in a short circle before standing still. "which way, pards?" asked the leader, while his followers, who with more or less effort succeeded in checking their mules, curiously surveyed the three miners. "we intend to visit sacramento," replied captain dawson. "huh! that's where we come from." "on your way to the diggings i presume?" continued the captain courteously. "that's what's the matter; we're going to new constantinople, which is the name of a mining settlement in dead man's gulch. do you know anything of the place?" "we live there." "the deuce! queer town, ain't it?" "in what respect?" "don't like visitors; red tom and missouri mike, two of the gang with me, stopped there a year or so ago with the idee of staying; the best they could do was to sleep there one night and git fired the next morning. that went agin the grain," continued colonel briggs, "and the more the boys thought it over the madder they got. when they told the rest of us, we made up our minds that the trouble was the diggings had panned out so rich in them parts that the folks meant to keep 'em to themselves. i don't call that square, so we're going down to divvy with 'em. big scheme, ain't it?" our three friends were astounded. the addition of this gang to new constantinople meant nothing less than its moral ruin. it would bring a peril from the first hour and doubtless precipitate a murderous conflict with a doubtful issue. "they are a peculiar people," said captain dawson, repressing all evidence of his anger; "it's a mistake to attribute their prejudice against immigrants to the richness of the diggings, for though they have been worked for years, they have not produced much. but they want no strangers among them, and i know they will not allow you and your friends to make your homes in their settlement." colonel briggs threw back his head, opened his enormous mouth and broke into uproarious laughter, most of his companions joining him to the extent of a broad grin. "do you hear that, boys? won't let us settle among 'em, eh? and there are nine of us and we hain't had a scrimmage since we left sacramento, except with the injins, which don't count. stranger, we're yearning to hear your folks say we shan't jine 'em, 'cause if they try to stop it, it'll make things lively." it was not a pleasant recollection of our friends that, since their departure from new constantinople, the force left behind would be hardly a match for this desperate gang of marauders, who no doubt were as eager for trouble as they professed to be. "why not make a settlement of your own?" was the conciliating question of parson brush; "there's plenty of room in this country." "that would be too peaceable like; it don't suit us; we're looking for trouble." "and you'll find it powerful quick," said wade ruggles, "if you try to shove that gang of yours into new constantinople." "that's music in our ears; that's what we're hungry for; we're ready to start an opposition hotel to the heavenly bower, too; we've got the stock to furnish it." "wade," said the parson, "keep your temper; we can't afford to quarrel with these men." "it wouldn't take much for me to shoot that chap off his mule as he sets there." "leave matters to the captain; it looks as if we shall have a fight, but it is best to keep cool." the observant trio had noticed an additional cause for uneasiness. more than one of the party were surveying the three horses and mule with admiring eyes. some of them spoke to one another in low tones, and there could be no doubt they looked with envy upon the animals, which, tiring of their confinement in the ravine, had come forth as if with the purpose of passing under review, on their way to crop the grass from which they had been driven. "colonel," called one of the men behind him, "them is likely animals." "i had obsarved that fact myself; strangers, i've made up my mind to buy them critters; what's your price?" "they are not for sale," replied captain dawson. "why not?" "we need them for our own use." "then we'll trade." "you won't do anything of the kind," said the captain, speaking with the utmost coolness, but with that paling of the countenance and glitter of the eyes that colonel briggs would have done well to heed. "strikes me, stranger, you're rather peart in your observations," said the leader with an odd chuckle; "we ain't used to having people speak to us in that style." "it is my custom to say what i mean; it saves misunderstanding." "it's my opinion, stranger, you'd better say trade." "it is of no importance to me what your opinion is; we need the horses and the mule for our own use and we shall keep them." "but you've got one more than you want." "he belongs to a friend who is not far off and will soon return; we can't spare one of them." "if we give you four of ours for the lot, that'll make an even thing of it. besides, we'll throw in something to boot." "i wouldn't give one of the horse's shoes for all the trash you have piled on top of your animals; the stuff isn't worth house room, but it is what i should expect to see in the hands of a lot of tramps like you and yours; i wouldn't trade our mule for the whole party which, to judge by their looks, ought to be in jail." brush and ruggles were amazed to hear the captain use such language, for it sounded as if he was trying to provoke instead of avoid a fight. the truth was the veteran was thoroughly enraged by the evident purpose of the fellow before him. although his voice was low and deliberate, the captain's temper was at a white heat. the point had been reached where a desperate struggle seemed unavoidable, and he wished to precipitate the crisis, inasmuch as it had to come. colonel briggs did not laugh, but turning his head, talked for a minute with the man nearest him, their words so low that no one else heard them. then the leader turned back in a quick, decisive way. "there don't seem much use in talking, stranger, so 'spose we make a fight of it." "as you prefer." the gang hardly expected so firm a front. some of them muttered to one another. they were not a unit on the question, though it was evident that the majority preferred to fight. the three men stood with their backs almost against the mountain wall. each had a winchester and revolver and all were expert in the use of the weapons. the others were gathered in an irregular group around their leader. they, too, were provided with all the weapons they could use, not to mention the extra guns strapped upon the pack mules. they outnumbered our friends three to one. captain dawson could use his rifle as well with his single arm as formerly with two. "he can't fire before me," he said in an undertone to brush, standing next to him; "when the shooting begins, i'll drop him off his mule before he knows what's coming. when i say the word, let fly as quick as lightning! likely enough they'll win, but we'll make them pay high for their victory." "do you notice that tall thin man at the rear?" asked brush, in the same guarded voice; "his eyes shine like a rattlesnake's; he'll be _my_ first target." chapter xxii friends colonel briggs was nonplussed for the moment. he had failed to scare the men whom he meant to despoil of their property and some of the mutterings behind him showed that he lacked the unanimous support of his followers. "boys," he said, looking round in their faces; "you've heerd what these strangers say to my mild requests. since they are too mean to trade, i leave it to you to say whether we shall let up on 'em or make 'em trade; which is it?" "trade! trade!" was the response, given with such ardency that there seemed to be no dissent, though there was. "that hits me right; trade it shall be; the first one of the strangers that kicks, fill him full of holes." "and the first man that lays a finger on my property," said captain dawson, in the same deliberate voice, "will be shot down like a dog!" the person whom parson brush had selected a few minutes before for his first target and whom he was watching closely, now did an extraordinary thing. this individual was thin to emaciation. his beard was scant and scraggly, and his large black eyes gleamed like those of a wild animal. he had a very long body, and sat so upright in his saddle, with his winchester resting across in front, that he towered head and shoulders above his companions. from the first, he fixed his penetrating eyes on captain dawson and studied him closely. it was this persistent intensity of gaze that attracted the notice of brush, who set him down as being even more malignant than the leader of the disreputable party. when a collision was impending, and must have come the next second, the singular looking man, grasping his revolver, raised his hand above his head and called: "hold on a minute!" his commanding voice and manner hushed every one. from his place at the rear, he spurred his mule straight toward the three men standing on the ground. "keep off!" commanded the parson; "if you come any nearer i'll shoot!" the extraordinary looking individual gave him no heed, but forced his mule in front of captain dawson, upon whom he kept his eyes riveted. "don't fire till i give the word," commanded the captain, who had become suddenly interested in the tall, slim man. halting his mule directly before dawson, and with no more than a couple of yards separating them, the stranger craned his head forward until his chin was almost between the long ears of his animal. he seemed to be trying to look the officer through, while every other man watched the curious proceeding. suddenly the fellow resumed his upright posture in the saddle, his manner showing that he had solved the problem that perplexed him. through his thin, scattered beard, he was seen to be smiling. "what's your name?" he asked. "maurice dawson." "formerly captain of the iowa ---- cavalry?" "the same at your service." "don't you know me, captain?" the officer thus appealed to took a single step forward, and looked searchingly in the face of the man that had thus addressed him. "there is something familiar in your looks and voice, but i am unable to place you." "did you ever hear of corporal bob parker of the ---- missouri?" "yes; you are he! i recognize you now! i am glad to greet you." and shoving his winchester under the stump of his arm, captain dawson extended his hand to his old comrade and shook it warmly, the two seeming to forget the presence of every one else. "something in your face struck me," said the corporal, "but i wasn't sure. the last time i saw you, you had both arms." "yes; i got rid of this one at the very close of the war." "things were pretty well mixed up around petersburg; i tried to get on your track, but failed; i knew you meant to come to california, and when we drifted here, i was hopeful of finding you, but i didn't think it would be in this style." while speaking the corporal had retained the hand of the captain, shaking it occasionally as he spoke. he now gave it a final pressure and dropped it. "captain, you and i went through some pretty tough scrimmages and you were always dead true and game; when we lost our colonel and major, you took command and led the charge that day at cold harbor; grant or sheridan couldn't have done better." "it _was_ rather warm," smiled the captain, blushing at the compliment; "but, corporal, it looks as if we are going to have something of the kind here." corporal parker deliberately turned to the wondering group behind him. "jim and tom, you know what we agreed on, if this should prove to be my old commander. you two wore the gray, but you are true blue now." at this reminder, two of the company without a word rode forward and placed themselves beside the corporal. "now, we'll face the other way." his suggestion was followed. the three wheeled their animals around, so that their riders, like the footmen, were in a line confronting colonel briggs and his astonished company. "dress," said the corporal, looking down and moving his mule about until the alignment would have drawn a compliment from a west point cadet. "now, boys, are your shooting irons ready?" "they gin'rally air," was the significant response of one of the men. "all right, colonel," added the corporal making a military salute; "everything being in readiness please let the skirmish proceed." colonel briggs emitted a forceful exclamation. "what's the meaning of all this? i don't understand it." "there are six on each side; that evens matters; shall you start the music or do you prefer to have the captain fire the opening gun?" "but you haven't told me what this means." "it means that captain dawson and corporal bob parker have drunk from the same canteen." it must be conceded that colonel briggs had one merit; no one was quicker than he to grasp a situation. so long as there were nine men on one side and three on the other, the success of the former was promising. he meant to crowd the defiant miners to the wall and would have done so but for the unprecedented turn of affairs. now it was six to six and he knew the mettle of the three recruits that had joined the miners. bob parker was the most terrific fighter in the whole company. he was one of those men, occasionally seen, who was absolutely without fear. he would have stood up alone and fought the other eight. during that single week in sacramento, he gained the name of a terror and caused a sigh of relief on the part of the authorities when he left for the mountains. the corporal always fired to kill, and his skill with rifle and pistol was marvelous. while talking with colonel briggs, he fixed his brilliant black eyes on him, as if to intimate that he had selected _him_ for his pet antagonist. all this was disconcerting. in this crisis, when every nerve was drawn tense and the question of life and death hung on the passing of a breath, colonel briggs leaned backward and elevating his chin in the way that had become familiar, emitted one of his resounding laughs. then he abruptly snapped his jaws together like the springing of a trap. "why, bob, this puts a different face on things," he said cheerily; "if the man's a friend of yours, of course we can't quarrel with him." "i rather think not," replied the corporal. "i was in the army myself," added the colonel, "but didn't stay long; me and general grant couldn't agree as to how the war should be run, and one night when no one was around, i resigned and left." "then you didn't win your title in the service," remarked captain dawson, who felt that he could afford to show good will, now that the situation had taken so remarkable a turn. "scarcely; the boys think that no officer lower than a colonel is fit to command this crowd, so that's how i got the handle." captain dawson could not forbear saying: "i think it much more befitting that a true and tried soldier, like corporal parker, should be in your place." "it was offered to me," said the corporal, "but i refused it." "no; we agreed to make him a full-fledged major-general, but he declined the honor with some sarcastic remarks," said the colonel; "howsumever, boys, now that things have been straightened out, do you intend to go with the captain or with us?" corporal parker addressed his two comrades. "wheel and salute!" they faced their animals around, and, taking the cue from the corporal, made an elaborate military salutation to captain dawson and his companions. then they wheeled again and rode back to their former places. "with my best regards," added the colonel, also saluting, while the rest half-nodded and grinned over the odd turn of affairs. dawson, brush and ruggles unbent sufficiently to respond, but kept their places, side by side, and watched the curious procession until it passed out of sight beyond a sweeping curve in the cañon. "i wonder if we are likely to see any more of them," said the parson; "they are an ugly lot and badly want our horses." "not badly enough to fight corporal parker and his two friends. the corporal is the bravest man i ever saw. i know he was disappointed when the colonel was so quick in backing down. he will go hungry for two or three days, for the sake of a fight. it is he and not the colonel or any one in the company that is spoiling for a row." "and i picked him out as the first one to shoot," grimly remarked brush. "the chances are ten to one that he would have dropped you first, but it shows how easily one may be mistaken." "i tell you," said ruggles earnestly, "when that gang strikes new constantinople, there'll be trouble." "there's no doubt of it," commented brush; "the forces will be about equal; if the boys at home could have warning of what is coming, they would make it so hot for colonel briggs and his tramps that they would be glad to camp somewhere else." "that wouldn't improve matters, for of necessity there would be passing back and forth, and there are some people at new constantinople who would welcome the change. that's the worst of it; a good deal of this evil seed will fall on soil waiting for it." "we may be back in time to take a hand in the business," said the parson; "i don't know whether your friend, the corporal, can be secured as an ally." "it is doubtful, for about the only merits he has are his bravery and his loyalty to his friends." "in my 'pinion the same is considerable," commented ruggles. "he would be a powerful friend to nellie, because she is a female and because she is my daughter, but," added the father with a sigh, "i have my doubts whether i shall ever take her to the settlement again." this announcement strangely affected the two who heard it, for the dearest schemes which they secretly nourished included the spending of their days in the mining settlement. the hope of each had flickered into life once more with the prospect of recovering and punishing her abductor. they knew that she would bitterly mourn his loss, and would probably be inconsolable for a time, but the months and years would bring forgetfulness and then--who should say what _might_ come to pass? "we thought," remarked ruggles, as they resumed their seats, "that we should have a weary wait for vose, but it didn't prove so dull after all." the captain looked at his watch. "he has been gone more than an hour, and there's no saying when he will be back. he has his own way of managing this business, and, though i concede his skill and superior knowledge in this part of the world, it is hard to keep my patience when i see the hours slipping away without bringing any results." but the patience of the three men was tried more sorely than ever before, and to a greater extent than any one of them anticipated. noon came and passed and without bringing vose adams. the party partook sparingly of their lunch, leaving enough for their absent friend, but the lagging hours wore away and they still waited. they said little to one another, but the captain, unable to restrain his restlessness, wandered down the cañon. the two left behind watched him until he passed from view in the direction taken by colonel briggs and his company. a few minutes later, the report of his rifle came back to them. "i wonder if _he's_ got into trouble," exclaimed the parson, rising to his feet and peering to their left, without seeing everything to explain the sound that had reached them. "i shouldn't wonder," replied ruggles; "everything is going wrong; vose wouldn't stay away so long, unless he, too, was in difficulty." "the captain may need us; he can't be far off." gun in hand, the couple walked hurriedly down the cañon, on the alert for indians, for it seemed more likely that if any danger threatened, it was from them. to their relief, however, they soon found their alarm groundless. the captain was seen coming, apparently as well as ever. "nothing is wrong," he explained when they were within speaking distance; "i saw an antelope among the rocks and took a shot at him." "how near did you come to hitting him?" "he made only a single jump after he received my bullet; it's a pity he didn't make a couple of them." "why?" "it would have brought him over the outer rock and into the ravine; then we should have had something for supper. haven't you seen adams yet?" instead of answering directly the three looked toward the fissure in the side of the cañon, and there, to their unspeakable relief, they saw the man who had been absent for so many hours. as is the rule at such times, their ill-humor deepened. "why didn't you wait till morning?" was the question of the captain. "i was afraid i would have to do so," replied the guide, whose flushed face and agitated manner proved that he brought important news; "but i didn't have to, and got away in time to reach you afore night." "not much before," commented the parson; "you must have had a remarkable experience to detain you so long." "rather, but i'm starving, give me something to eat, while i talk." the lunch was produced, and he fell to with avidity, but he saw they were in no mood for frivolity, and he did not presume upon their indulgence. "wal, pards, after leaving you, i picked my way as best i could up the gorge, which runs back, with the bottom rising more or less all the way, for 'bout two hundred yards when you reach level ground. that is to say, the gorge ends, but the ground is anything but level." "and they went all that distance ahead of you with their animals?" asked brush. "that's what they done; the tracks of the horses were so plain there couldn't be any mistake 'bout it. at the top of the gorge, the trail slanted off to the right, toward a big pile of rocks, caves and gullies, where it didn't look as if a goat could travel. there was so much stone that it was mighty hard to keep on the trail and i lost it." "and didn't you find it again?" demanded the captain. "yes, but it took a good deal of time; that's one reason why i was gone so long, but it wasn't the only reason by a jug full. when i struck it agin, it led straight toward a high rocky place to the left, where i made up my mind the two were hidin'." "that would imply that they knew we were close behind them." "there can't be any doubt of that. what bothered me was to learn what they had done with their horses, fur the prints that i followed was made by the folks' feet. i couldn't figger out what they had done with the animals, and i spent some more time in trying to larn, but it was no use. "bime by i struck better ground, where the trail was so clear i could have trotted over it." "why didn't you do it?" asked ruggles. adams shook his head. "it wouldn't have done; as i said they must have found out, purty early in the day, that we was after them, for if they didn't, why did they turn off the reg'lar track?" "never mind asking questions," replied the captain; "go on with your story." "wal, pards, by that time i must have been a mile from here and it looked as if i'd have to go that much further. i had a good mind to come back after you, for time was important, but when another rocky, walled-up place showed in front of me, i was sartin i was close upon 'em. their horses couldn't make their way through such a spot, and i was sure i had 'em fast." "why didn't you come back at once?" said the captain, "but, never mind, go on with your account." "i thought it would be best to find out just how they was fixed. at the same time, it would never do to let 'em diskiver that i was about. so i was powerful careful and crept forward as if into an injin camp. it wasn't long before i smelled burning wood. that told me they had come to a stop, built a fire and didn't dream i was anywhere in the neighborhood. "but i wasn't through with the bother yet; it took me another long time to find where that fire was burnin', but i hit it at last. a little faint streak of smoke was climbin' from behind a ridge, among a growth of pines. i begun creeping forward when i changed my mind. i thought that if one of 'em happened to be on the watch and see me, they would be off afore i could git anywhere near 'em. so i worked round to the other side to come upon 'em from that. then you see if they took the alarm, they'd have to come back toward you or make another long circuit. anyway, i was sure of a chance to meet 'em. "wal, pards, i don't want to make a long story of what is a short one. i got round to tother side, but it took me a good while, and it's hardly an hour ago that i catched my first sight of their camp." "what passed between you and them?" asked the captain. "when i rested my eyes on the little bundle of wood burnin', there wasn't a man, woman or horse in sight." the listeners were dumbfounded for the moment. after the waste of the greater part of the day, they were no nearer seeing the fugitives than before. in a voice, husky with passion, captain dawson exclaimed: "it will take hard work to convince me that all this was not done on purpose by you." "what do you mean?" demanded vose, showing more anger than at any time since the strange hunt had been begun. "if you had spent a week trying to fix things so as to help them get away from us, you couldn't have done any better than your own account shows you to have done. the whole day has been lost and we stand just as near success as we did twenty-four hours ago." "you ought to have returned to us as soon as you located them," added brush in the effort to soothe the ruffled feelings of the two. "p'raps i didn't do the wisest thing," replied adams with unexpected meekness; "but i ain't the first person in the world that has made a mistake. howsumever, there won't be any more slips by me." his companions looked inquiringly at him. "i don't understand that remark," said the captain, "when you are sure to blunder as long as you attempt to manage things." "that's the p'int; i resign from this time forward; i haven't given satisfaction and you may now do the work to suit yourselves." "it's just as well," commented the captain, "for we can't make a greater mess of it than you." the story told by vose adams was a singular one, but the most singular feature about it was that it did not contain a grain of truth. every statement was a falsehood, deliberately intended to deceive, and, seeing that he had succeeded in his purpose, he was satisfied. chapter xxiii vose adams lieutenant russell gave no hint to nellie dawson of the scheme upon which he had fixed his hopes, until after she had confessed her love for him, and he was certain beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he possessed the sole affection of her heart. even then he hesitated for he knew the shock it would cause the gentle one, who was devotedly attached to her father. but the resolution of captain dawson to spend the remainder of his days at the mining settlement, and his intention of selecting her husband from among those that had made new constantinople their home for years, crystallized the determination that had been vaguely shaping itself in his brain for weeks. as he expected, she recoiled shocked by the proposal to leave her father; but love is eloquent, and he won by convincing her that the separation would be only temporary. her father would be quick to see the great wrong his course would inflict upon his child, and he would not only consent to the union, but would follow and make his home with them. it was this implicit belief which made her the companion of lieutenant russell in the flight from the mountain settlement. the project having been carefully planned and arranged, the preparations were more complete than those of their pursuers. they took sufficient extra clothing in the form of wraps and blankets, and enough food to last for several days. they were well mounted and had the companionship of the huge dog timon, with his almost human intelligence. the lieutenant's memory of places was good, and, having a number of hours of daylight at command, he escaped the mistake of his pursuers. the turn from dead man's gulch was made at the right point, and they were miles on their way before their flight was discovered by captain dawson and his friends. both of the fugitives did not doubt they would be pursued. they knew the consuming anger that would take possession of her father, who would probably collect several companions and start after them with furious haste. he would take frightful vengeance upon the man that had dared to steal his daughter. everything, therefore, must be done to keep beyond his reach until his wrath had time to cool. the intention was to make sacramento ahead of him. at that city, the lieutenant would seek out his future father-in-law and plead his cause. when night closed around them, they had penetrated to a distance of perhaps fifteen miles in the sierras. it was at sunset that they passed a spot, where horses and riders, the latter on foot, had to pick their way with extreme care, while even timon, who clung faithfully to them, showed timidity, though he had been over the place before. the sagacious brute knew that a mis-step on his part meant death. the passage, however, was made without mishap, and russell, as he helped his companion into the saddle, assured her that nothing so trying to the nerves was to be expected during the rest of the journey. there was no fear of pursuit until after nightfall, but russell frequently pointed his glass backward and scanned the trail over his whole field of vision. when the gathering darkness shut out everything, he had seen nothing of enemies, either white or red. he could not forget that on his previous journey, he and the captain had desperate fighting with the indians and the same peril still impended. nellie was eager to cover all the ground possible, while the opportunity was theirs, and the flight was pushed longer than russell would have advised. finally, he insisted they should stop and rest themselves and horses for the remainder of the night. the halting place was selected with much care. the animals were turned loose, where the grass was growing and a small stream wound its way toward a larger one. then the two, accompanied by timon, pushed in among the rocks to where the final halt was made. they were in profound darkness. the lieutenant decided to start a fire, and, with much difficulty, gathered a sufficiency of dried branches. they were fortunate enough to find a partial cavern, so open in front that it would have given slight shelter in the event of a storm. when the blaze threw out its cheerful light, it served to dissipate the gloom which in spite of themselves had oppressed them with the coming of night. they partook of food and the lieutenant's spirits rose, for he saw nothing to prevent the full success of the dream which had inspired and thrilled him so long. his buoyancy was infectious, and he brought a smile to the beauteous countenance by his merry sallies, and his picture of the happy future that was close at hand. "your father will be angry at first," he said; "it would be strange if he were not, but he loves you and i think has a pretty fair opinion of me. when he gains time to think over the matter, he will admit the wisdom of what we have done and we shall receive his blessing." it was this assurance, more than all else, that served to lift the gloom from her. deep as was her love for the one at her side, it would not have sufficed to draw her from her adored parent, had she believed that his resentment against her would last. as it was, she grieved that even for a brief time, as she thought would be the case, he should hold harsh feelings toward her. no chivalrous knight of the crusades could have been more scrupulously considerate of lady intrusted to his charge than lieutenant russell. he would have died before offending nellie dawson by act, word or presumptuous thought. when, as the night advanced, the bright eyes began to grow drowsy, he arranged a couch for her, saw that she was well provided with blankets and then turned to the immense dog, who had never left them and who looked as if he understood everything. "now, timon, you are to stay right here," he said, bending over and impressively shaking his finger at the animal; "you are not to venture a dozen feet from your mistress without permission. do you understand?" a whine and wagging of the tail left no doubt that the wishes of his late master were clear to him. "you have your gun at your side," he added, turning to nellie; "i do not think you will have any call to use it. we have not met any indians and your father cannot overtake us before morning. timon will be sure to give you warning of the approach of danger, and, if your gun goes off, i shall be here in a twinkling." he bade her good night and departed. enough wood had been flung on the fire to keep it going for an hour or two, but long before it sank to ashes, the girl had drifted into dreamland. the lieutenant carefully selected his own sleeping quarters. he finally fixed upon a large flat boulder, at the rear of the cavern occupied by timon and his charge; but, although beyond sight, he was near enough to reach the spot on the instant needed. spreading out his blanket, he lay down upon it. "this recalls the old days in virginia, when mud a foot deep, with the rain dashing in our faces, was what we had for weeks at a time. this couch doesn't equal a feather bed, but it will answer." the night passed without incident and it was hardly light when the young officer was astir. he visited the horses and found them cropping the grass, but he waited until timon came to him before calling upon nellie. she, too, had been awake for some time and they partook of their morning meal with rugged appetites. she was so eager to hurry on that he lost no time in taking the road again. neither could doubt that their pursuers were on their trail, and, with the aid of his small glass, he carefully studied the country behind them. it was not long before he made the discovery he dreaded: four horsemen were following their footprints, and beyond them were the five indians picking their way along the ledge in the opposite direction. the lieutenant passed the glass to his companion who scrutinized the party with the keenest interest. "they must have traveled all night," remarked her escort, while she still peered through the instrument. "that shows how dreadfully angry father is; i hope it will not last." "can you make out the members of the party?" she studied them a minute or two more before answering: "i think that is father who is close to the man on a mule." "the one on a mule must be vose adams, for he is more accustomed to that sort of animal. i am sorry he is with the party." "why?" asked nellie, lowering the glass and looking at him. "he is so familiar with the trail, that it will be hard work to outwit him; he isn't the man to make mistakes. did you recognize the others?" "i cannot be sure, but i suspect they are mr. ruggles and mr. brush." "i have no doubt you are right,--not because i was able to identify them, but because the two are partners and your father would naturally go to them first. i do not think any one of the four has a glass, so, despite their sharp eyes, we have a big advantage in that respect." "but they know the route better than we, and we are losing time." the course of the trail took them out of the field of vision of their pursuers. it was at the suggestion of russell that the two turned aside from the cañon into the fissure-like gorge. this would have been a serious mistake, except for the plan he had in view, for it must place the pursuers in advance, the very thing which it would seem the fugitives ought if possible to prevent. the lieutenant had believed from the first that vose adams, in threading his way through the mountains, traveled a good many miles more than was necessary. it was quite likely that, if he could follow a straight line, he would shorten the distance one-half. although this was impossible, the young man, nevertheless, was convinced that by changing the route, a good many miles could be saved: and it was in his mind to do that thing. the lieutenant's experience in campaigning had taught him the danger of going astray, when picking his way through an unfamiliar country, but the little compass attached as a charm to his watch chain would help him to keep track of the variations and windings, and he was confident of coming out right. he and nellie were well mounted and armed, all of which being impressed upon his companion, she offered no objection to the radical change of plan which took them out of the cañon into the ravine that led them they knew not whither, but it was ominous of disaster that at the top of the fissure, when the two were leading their animals, a grievous mishap occurred. the pony of nellie slipped and sprained his ankle so badly that he whined with pain and paused with his weight supported on three legs. [illustration: the lieutenant passed the glass to his companion, who scrutinized the party with the keenest interest.--page .] "that's a bad go!" exclaimed the dismayed russell; "it will be several days before he is able to travel." she examined the ankle, as best she could, trying to soothe the pain by passing her hand over the injured part, but it was plain that neither she nor her companion could give any help. "poor fellow," she said sympathetically; "you cannot go any further; what shall be done, fred?" "only one thing seems possible,--take you on my horse." "and what will become of cap?" "we must leave him behind." "what will happen to him?" "some one will pick him up, or, after his leg recovers, he may find his way back to the settlement." the impulsive girl flung her arms about the animal's neck and touched her lips to the silken nose. "they shall not part us, cap," she exclaimed with tears in her eyes. the lieutenant watched this by-play, full of sympathy for the girl, but he was in a quandary. prudence seemed to demand that everything should be sacrificed to speed by abandoning the pony. in all probability, the latter would serve as a dinner for some of the bears, wolves or other denizens of the mountains, who would quickly harry him to death. to wait where they were until the animal was able to travel rendered certain a speedy meeting with their pursuers. the woodcraft of vose adams would enable him to discover with slight delay the point where the fugitives had left the cañon, and he would guide his companions with the skill of one of the mountain indians themselves. on the other hand, the plan he had in view imposed prodigious work upon his own animal. between the halting place and sacramento were many miles of easy traveling, over which he could walk, but for long distances the beast would be compelled to carry double. in the event of close pursuit, this must prove a fatal handicap. in his perplexity, the lieutenant again examined the hurt of the pony. "it would be cruel to make him take a single step, but he may soon recover. i am afraid to leave him behind and to continue our flight with only my horse. you know how dangerous it is to linger, nellie, when it is certain _they_ are not far off----" she caught his arm and whispered: "look at timon! he has discovered something!" the dog was standing a few paces in front of them, with his nose pointed toward the cañon. he emitted several growls and pricked up his ears in a way that left no doubt that he was angered. the lieutenant had hardly time to place himself in an attitude of defence with his winchester, when a soft footfall was heard, and the next moment vose adams emerged from behind the pile of rocks and approached them. it was proof of the guide's woodcraft that he was able to come thus close before being detected by timon, who advanced threateningly toward him. a word, however, from the lieutenant stayed the dog. "well, vose," said the young man, "this is unexpected." "so i jedge and i've a 'spicion that you ain't tickled half to death to see me." "we were always friends, but i can't say that either nellie or i am glad to meet you under the circumstances; for in truth, we have been doing all we could to prevent such a meeting." "things has that look," added vose, standing on guard as may be said, for he was not free from misgiving concerning the young lieutenant whom he had managed to run down. his positive orders forbade him to assume the aggressive, but no one could forbid him to defend himself, and he did not mean that this handsome officer should catch him unprepared. "whom have you with you?" asked russell. "the captain, wade ruggles and the parson." "what we suspected; i presume no one of the three feels specially affectionate toward me." "it is all the captain can do to prevent the other two from quarrelin' as to which shall have the first chance to shoot you." "why does captain dawson prevent them?" "'cause he means to have the first chance himself." "how about _you_?" grimly asked lieutenant russell. "i'm left." "how's that?" "a low down trick was played onto me; as near as i can find out, the captain comes first, wade and the parson next and me fourth. you can see for yourself that there won't be any chance at all left for me after them three is through." "it doesn't look so,--that's a fact. but where are the three?" "along the main trail, down in the kenyon." "why did they not come with you?" "i advised 'em to wait till i found out how the land laid and they won't leave the spot till i get back." lieutenant russell gave no expression to the thought that flashed upon him. why not keep vose adams a prisoner? the loss of his services to the party would be irreparable, for, as it was, the present hiding place of the fugitives never would have become known to them without the help of the guide. it was a daring scheme, but there were so many objections to carrying it out, that the officer dismissed it. in truth he thought of a much better plan. "you have told me enough, vose, to prove that the four men--for i may as well include yourself--feel bitterer toward me than i suspected: do you think this enmity of theirs will last?" "not for long." "how long?" "they'll let up as soon as you're shot." lieutenant russell could not restrain a smile at this way of putting it, while nellie was so horrified that she gasped and stared and listened in silence. "there can be little doubt that you are right, but i meant to ask whether you do not think the captain will moderate his anger when he is given time to think it over." "he has had all night to do that, and this mornin' he was hotter if anything, than at any time since he larned what you had done." "when did he learn it?" thereupon, vose told the facts which have already been made known to the reader, the most interesting feature of which was that adams was not an original member of the pursuing party. but, although the guide was so pronounced in his opinion of the continuance of the enmity of captain dawson, the lieutenant believed otherwise. he was confident that if he and nellie could reach sacramento before meeting the irate father, the latter would be open to reason, and all would turn out well. vose turned to the young woman. "nellie, do you want a little advice from me?" "i am glad to have it at any time." "howsumever, what i say is as much for the leftenant as for you, which the same is that both of you should give up this bus'ness." "but," said nellie, "you have just told us that father is so angry with lieutenant russell that he will shoot him the moment they meet." "we can fix that easy 'nough; let the leftenant stay here while you go with me; i think we can explain matters to the captain and the others so they won't bother the leftenant." "and what am _i_ to do?" asked russell. "push on to sacramento as fast as you can, for though i think i can fix it, i wouldn't advise you to take too many chances." "in other words, after nellie and i have fled from the settlement and got this far on the road to safety, you urge me to give her up forever." "wal, that's lookin' a little further ahead than i meant to, but i 'spose it amounts to that." "you mean well, vose, but do you imagine that nellie and i did not count the cost before turning our backs on new constantinople? don't you suppose we knew we should be pursued and were prepared for the consequences?" "i can't say as to that, but it strikes me that the plan i laid before you is the only one there is." "why?" "you cannot get away from the captain and the men with him." "well, there is no call for me to repeat my opinion, but i will say that the decision shall rest with nellie herself. if she wishes to go with you i will interpose not a word of objection." he looked toward her as an invitation for her to speak. there was a world of affection and faith in the lustrous eyes, as she walked resolutely forward and placed herself by his side. "only death shall separate us!" chapter xxiv an unexpected ally the lovelight shone in the eyes of lieutenant russell, as he looked down at the slight figure beside him. he tenderly passed his arm around the girl and touched his lips to her forehead. "it was not that i doubted you, nellie," he said, "but that vose might know the full truth." then turning to the guide, he asked: "do you still advise her to leave me?" vose adams was unaccustomed to scenes like this. he moved about uneasily, coughed, cleared his throat, and for a few minutes was at a loss for words. "i don't know what to advise," he finally said; "but don't you think, if she could go to the captain and let him see how she feels, he will give in? how would it do for both of you to walk back with your arms round each other's neck and sayin' sweet words--wouldn't that fetch him? hanged, if i know what to tell you!" he exclaimed desperately, observing the smiles on their faces. "i am afraid your plan wouldn't work," said the lieutenant, "but you have proved yourself the very friend we need." these words were a hint of the scheme that had come into the brain of the young officer. had he made a prisoner of vose adams, as he thought for a minute of doing, the guide would really be more dangerous, since there was no way of guarding against his treachery, but if he could be turned into a friend, it would be almost equivalent to saving the fugitives. it was that for which the young man planned, but he felt that the real work must be done by nellie. he could not win the good will of vose, but she could, for who was able to resist her appeals? it was a proof of the brightness of the girl that she caught the purpose of her escort the moment his last words were uttered, and she performed her part with a cleverness that could not have been surpassed. tears were in the eyes of the emotional nellie, but she stepped across the brief intervening space and laid her hand on the arm of adams. "how glad i am, vose, that you will help us, for you have told enough to show that it will not do for us to meet father for some time to come; we are now in your hands." "blamed if i won't do anything i can! but what can _i_ do? 'spose i sneak back, shoot the captain and then plug ruggles and the parson? will that suit you?" "gracious; i should rather you would kill me than harm a hair of father's head." "wal, 'spose i shoot you and the leftenant and the captain and the rest? no; that won't do; how the mischief shall i fix things?" the cooler headed russell saw that the problem had been solved; nellie dawson had won over vose adams, as may be said, by the turn of her finger. he was eager to do all he could to help them, but in the flurry of the moment could not reason with his usual acumen. "we don't want any shooting, vose; i am sure that if we can reach sacramento without meeting the captain, his anger will pass away. in sacramento, i shall be able to arrange a meeting between him and his daughter, and his love for her will break down the barriers and do the rest." "i'm in too deep water when you get to figgerin' that way, but there seems to be reason in what you say, but what about ruggles and the parson?" "we'll leave them out; they are in this as the friends of captain dawson, and will not dare go contrary to his wishes, but if they do, it can make no difference to my plan." "they're just as savage as the captain," said vose significantly; "and it won't do to forget 'em; but what did you expect to do, when you left the kenyon? if you come back, you would have been sartin to meet us, and what then?" "my intention was not to return, but to keep away from the main trail and hunt a shorter road through the mountains to sacramento." vose adams gave a low whistle of astonishment. "that's the worst i ever heard!" "and why?" "you're not follerin' any trail at all; you would be sartin to get lost and would never find your way through the mountains; anyhow it would take you three or four years, which i ca'clate is longer than you want to wait." "how can you be so positive?" "it's true i never went to sacramento and back, except by follerin' for most of the way the trail that i know so well, but other folks as smart as you have been lost in the mountains and you couldn't help it." "you advise against it then?" "i'm so sure of your goin' wrong that i won't try to help you unless you give up the idee." "then i hereby give it up." since vose adams had committed himself to russell and nellie's interests, there was no more talking at cross purposes. the object of the three was the same, and they sat down on the rocks for consultation. there was abundance of time in which to do this, since those whom they feared would not leave the cañon until the return of their guide, and he did not mean to go back until the day was so far spent that further delay was unavoidable. "they will be mad when they see me," he said with a grin, "but it won't do them any good and i'll fix up a yarn about gettin' on and then off your trail agin, that they'll have to be satisfied with." "that will serve for to-night, but you will all be astir at an early hour to-morrow morning." "they will still have to depend on me to guide 'em, and i rather think i can steer 'em off the track, so as to give you plenty of time to get out of the way." "how?" "as soon as they leave the kenyon, that is as soon as the way is clear, you must ride back to it and put on all steam for sacramento, for i understand, leftenant, that you've give up your idee of finding a new route through the mountains." "i have." "you've got two good animals and you'll gain a full day's start." "you forget about poor cap," said nellie. "so i did! if he can't go with you, you'll have to leave him behind and ride double, but it will be rather tough on your horse, leftenant." "nellie doesn't weigh enough to make any difference, and i expect to walk most of the distance." an unexpected piece of good fortune raised the spirits of the three. to the amazement of all, cap, the pony, was seen hunting for grass and bearing upon the lame foot with little inconvenience. that which was thought to be a bad sprain was only a wrench, from which he promised speedily to recover. "he'll be as well as ever by to-morrow mornin'," said vose adams; "you'll need to humor him at first, but not for long." as has been intimated, the guide remained with them through most of the afternoon, for, if he had gone back to his friends earlier than he did, he would not have dared to offer any excuse for not leading them in the pursuit, and he meant to avert all possibility of that. the reader understands by this time why the guide formulated such an astounding fiction when attempting to explain the cause of his delay. had his listeners been in cooler mood, they might have tangled him up with a few questions, but their exasperation and disgust prevented. before parting with the fugitives, vose assured them that he was confident their plans could not fail. "all they've got to do," he reflected, "is to do nothing afore to-morrow and then when the road is open, strike out over the main trail as hard as they can travel. i hope none of them injins that we had the row with will be pokin' 'round to-night, for if there's to be any trouble, it'll come from them." it will be recalled that the story of adams was received with such coolness that he indignantly resigned and told the captain to run matters himself. "and he'll make purty work of it," chortled vose "he won't be able to come within miles of where they are hidin'." when the moody silence had lasted for some time, the guide was moved to remark in a more conciliatory spirit: "there's one thing that mustn't be forgot: colonel briggs and his folks won't make any trouble, but we're not done with them injins." "isn't there likelihood that colonel briggs will divert them?" asked the parson. "no; for the redskins can't be fooled; they'll know it wasn't any of the colonel's folks that give their chief his walkin' papers, but us, and they're the sort of people that don't forget a thing of that kind." "i was thinking of hunting up enough wood to start a fire," said the captain; "but we don't need it, and i suppose it will be safer without it." "it seems to me," observed ruggles, "that what we've got the most to fear is that the injins will run off with our animals: we would be left in a bad fix." "we must look out for that; i'll stand guard the first part of the night." each was ready to take his turn, and it was arranged that captain dawson should act as sentinel until midnight, when he would awake vose adams, who would assume the duty till morning. soon afterward, the three wrapped themselves in their blankets and stretched out on the ground, near the boulders, where they speedily sank into deep slumber. it seemed to adams that he had slept less than an hour, when the captain touched him. rising immediately to a sitting position, he asked: "is it midnight?" "it's a half hour past." "why didn't you awake me afore? have you seen anything wrong?" "i am not sure; my doubt made me hold on a little longer, but i learned nothing of account." "what was it anyway?" "it is only that the animals appear to be uneasy, but it may mean nothing, or it may mean a good deal." "it's more'n likely it means something. where are they?" "lying down off there to the right, almost near enough to be seen." "they can't be too close; wal, you can sleep and i'll take my turn." thus warned by captain dawson, vose adams assumed the duties of sentinel with his senses on the alert. he had become so accustomed to the delicate duty, when aware that the slightest slip on his part meant death, that he was better fitted for the task than any member of the party, though the experience of ruggles and the captain in the army had given them the ability to awake at any moment fixed upon before sinking into slumber, and they were sensitive to the least disturbance while enjoying refreshing rest. adams believed what he had remarked more than once that the little company of mountain indians would do their utmost to revenge themselves upon the men who had taken off their chief. he suspected that the five were prowling in the neighborhood, looking for some such opportunity, and that they would strike a blow before the rising of the morrow's sun. nothing was to be hoped for in the way of a diversion, created by the intrusion of colonel briggs and his vagrant miners. not that the indians were not eager to strike at any members of the hated race, but the all-controlling motive was lacking in the case of the larger party. although the moon was in the sky, only a small part of its light penetrated the cañon. peering into the darkness, vose dimly made out the forms of the four animals, who, having ceased their cropping of the grass, had lain down for the remainder of the night. they were so near that they could not be stampeded or stolen without the effort being known to the sentinel. it would have been the height of rashness to start a camp fire, for all the figures within its circle of illumination must have formed the best of targets for their stealthy foes. as it was, an enemy would have to steal from the gloom and approach near enough to touch them, before striking a blow or firing a shot. vose adams, with his winchester in his right hand and held close to his side, took his seat on the ground, resting his back against the nearest boulder. as a rule, a sentinel can keep awake for an extended time only by motion and exercise, such as walking to and fro, but the trained hunter often takes the risk and there is little danger of his succumbing, especially after he has just finished a nap, as was the case with the guide. thus seated, with the boulder rising several feet above his head, adams's only reliance was upon his keenness of hearing and sight. he had not waited long when he saw proof of what the captain had told him: the animals were restless, or rather one of them was. the quadruped thus affected was hercules, his own mule, who, although lying down, twice rose to his feet, shifted his position and lay down again. then he sniffed as if the air contained an odor that was displeasing to him. "i wouldn't think much of it, if it was one of the horses," reflected his master, "but hercules has brains; he knows more'n all the others together, and yet it may be it ain't that after all." one of the singular facts regarding cattle and other quadrupeds is that they are sometimes troubled with disquieting dreams, the same as ourselves. this trifling cause has resulted many a time in the stampeding of a drove numbering tens of thousands. "i've knowed hercules to kick and snort in his sleep, and one time he come mighty near breakin' a leg of mine; howsumever, i don't think that's the trouble with him to-night. i 'spect it's injins this time!" when captain dawson lay down to sleep and vose adams assumed his place as sentinel, the moon was near the zenith, but the contour of the cañon shut out its beams. while vose was striving to pierce the gloom, over and about the four animals, he noted a flickering tremor against the vast wall which formed the other side of the cañon. a faint, fleecy veil of moonlight having been lifted over the mountain crests, was now flung downward and caught against and suspended upon the projecting rocks and crags. it was but a frosty shimmer, but the veil dangled lower and lower, pendant here and there until the fringe rested on the bottom of the gorge. the sleeping miners and horses were wrapped in deep shadow, but the tremulous, almost invisible veil still fluttered on the further side of the cañon. by and by, the shifting moon would whisk it up again and all would be gloom as before. the sentinel lay flat on his face and peered over the prone animals toward the faint light across the cañon, and, looking thus, he saw the outlines of a man moving among the horses and mule. a shadow could not have been more noiseless. not the faintest rustle betrayed his footsteps. "just what i expected," thought vose; "i'll wager hercules against a dozen of the best horses in sacramento that that shadder is one of them five injins we seen stealin' along the ledge this mornin'. all the same, i can't imagine what the mischief he is driving at." the guide's first impulse was to bring his rifle to his shoulder and let fly. the intruder was so near that it was impossible to miss him, but two causes operated to prevent this summary course: vose wished first to learn the business of the intruder, and there was a single possibility in a hundred that he was neither an indian nor an enemy. the latter doubt could be solved by challenging the prowler with a threat to fire, if instant satisfaction was refused, while the firing could be made so promptly that the stranger would have no chance of whisking out of reach. vose decided to wait until he got some idea of the other's business. he could still dimly discern the form, but it was so obscure that had it not been moving about, he would not have been able to distinguish it or make sure it was within his field of vision. while studying the phantom, the lower part of the veil of moonlight on the other side of the cañon was twitched up for a hundred feet. lingering thus a minute, it was twitched still higher; then a third flirt snatched it out of the gorge. the shifting of the moon had left the cañon shrouded in darkness as before. nothing could have attested more strikingly the marvelous stealth of the intruder than the fact that not one of the horses was awakened by him. the approach of the great geronimo and several of his apaches was betrayed under somewhat similar circumstances by the neighing of a horse that they awakened, apparently when making no noise at all. this prowler was a shadow in a world of shadows. if hercules detected his presence, the man succeeded in soothing the fear of the hybrid. "_halt or i'll fire!_" vose adams's voice was low, but in the tomb-like stillness a thunderclap could not have been more distinct. the hail, however, produced no response. the angered vose drew his winchester to a level, with his finger on the trigger, but when he ran his eye along the barrel, he failed to perceive any target. he lowered the muzzle a few inches and peered over the top. nothing was discernible. "you're there somewhere and i'll find you!" instead of rising erect, the sentinel advanced in a crouching posture, so that his head was no higher than if he were on his hands and knees. this clever strategy was thrown away. within five seconds, he was at the side of hercules, prepared and expecting to grapple with his enemy, who, to his exasperation, continued invisible. vose did not require to have the matter explained to him, for he understood it. upon being hailed, the intruder instead of throwing up his hands or starting to run, had also assumed a stooping position. it was as if he had quietly sunk below the surface of a sea of darkness through which he was wading, and swum with noiseless celerity to a point beyond reach. vose was angered but took his defeat philosophically. "you was too smart for me that time; i never had it played finer on me, but i guess it's just as well; you've learned that we're on the lookout and you can't sneak into camp without _some_ risk of having a hole bored inter you." but vose was not yet through with his nocturnal experiences. he held his seat for some fifteen or twenty minutes without seeing or hearing anything to cause the slightest misgiving. the horses still slept, and even the uneasy hercules appeared to have become composed and to have made up his mind to slumber until morning. "i don't b'leve there'll be anything more to disturb me, onless some wild animal wants his supper----" the thought had hardly taken shape, when a shiver of affright ran through him, though the cause was so slight that it might have brought a smile, being nothing more than a pebble rolling down the ravine, up which the fugitives had passed the day before. the stone came slowly, loosening several similar obstructions, which joined with it, the rustling increasing and continuing until all reached the bottom and lay at rest a few feet from where he sat. nothing could have been easier than for this to occur in the natural course of things, since hundreds of such instances were taking place at every hour of the day and night, but in the tense state of the sentinel's nerves, he was inclined to attribute it either to the indian that had just visited camp and slunk away, or to one of his comrades trying to steal a march upon him. "i 'spose the next thing will be for him to climb over this boulder behind me and drop onto my head. howsumever, if he does, he'll find me awake." vose sat thus, depending almost wholly upon his sense of hearing to apprise him of the stealthy approach of an enemy, while the long silent hours gradually passed, without bringing additional cause for alarm. chapter xxv instinct or reason as the night wore away without bringing any further evidence of the presence of enemies, the solicitude of vose adams was transferred to the two, who, hardly a mile distant, were awaiting with equal anxiety the coming of morning. they and he had agreed upon the plan to be pursued, but now, with the crisis at hand, the guide became apprehensive about the final issue. suppose the couple should leave their hiding place to return to the main trail before their pursuers were out of the way? mutual discovery was certain with the dreadful catastrophe that none dreaded more than he. but it would seem that lieutenant russell was too cautious to run the risk of so fatal a mistake. he would reconnoitre the ground and keep out of sight until the coast was clear, but the restless adams was astir at the first streakings of light in the cañon. he first visited the animals. it was possible that the stealthy prowler of the night before had done them injury, but, so far as he could ascertain, nothing of the kind had occurred. except for what he had seen and heard during the darkness, he would not have known that a visitor had been in camp. it was not fully light when the others rose from their primitive couches. water was at hand, and after drinking and ablution, the group sat down to their morning meal, which disposed of the last remnant furnished by vose adams. while they were eating, he told of the occurrences of the night and was surprised that his companions made light of them. to them it was of less importance than to him. "so long as they do no more than prowl about the camp," remarked captain dawson, "we need feel no concern." "it seems to me," said brush, "that if the fellow intended mischief, he would have done it, but he has left no traces of anything of the kind." "which was because the right kind of chance didn't show itself," said vose; "if we don't have a lively fight before this bus'ness is over, i'm much mistook, but it's time we was moving." the guide seemed to have forgotten his resentment of the night before and his friends were too considerate to refer to it. it took but a short time to make the animals ready, when the procession started up the gorge, vose, as usual, leading, with the captain next, then wade ruggles, while the parson brought up the rear, that position naturally falling to him. men and beasts were refreshed by their rest and food, and it required but a brief while to reach the top of the gorge, where, as will be remembered, it terminated. it was here that vose adams began his fine work, and he showed no more hesitancy in drawing a "long bow," than on the previous night, when pretending to account for his long absence. "the trail leads to the right," he said, with a glance at the ground, as if to refresh his memory. his first thrill of misgiving came when he saw the parson pause and look searchingly at the ground. had he possessed one-half the skill of vose in trailing, he would have discovered that the guide was misleading them, but he did not have that cleverness nor did any other member of the party. the glance of the parson was perfunctory and his brief pause was to regain his breath after the short but laborious climb of the steep slope. vose was watching him closely and quickly saw the meaning of his action, for, whatever brush may have observed on the ground in front of him, it was not the faint impressions left on the stones by the fugitives. neither the captain nor ruggles so much as looked at the earth, accepting the dictum of their guide without question. it was not deemed best to mount the animals, because of the roughness of the ground and the belief that they were close upon the parties for whom they were searching. vose took care to turn so sharply to the right that they were speedily out of sight of the spot where he had parted from the fugitives. everything was going promisingly when wade ruggles startled his companions by the exclamation: "helloa! there's that dog timon!" a hundred yards to the left rose a pile of rocks, the highest of which reached an altitude of two hundred feet or more. upon the crest of one of the lower rocks, which had only a slight height, the immense dog stood in plain sight. it looked as if he had started to ascend the rocks, when he discovered the party and paused to learn their business. the picture was a striking one. the enormous size of the brute gave the impression at first that he was a wolf or some wild animal that had challenged the advance of the four men. this error would have been made had not each been so familiar with the creature. as he stood, his formidable head raised, his forequarters being slightly higher than the remainder of his body, his position was diagonal. he was surveying his acquaintances, who surveyed him in turn with equal curiosity. vose adams's heart sank. what was the meaning of this? as he viewed it, the presence of the dog could have no other significance than that the lieutenant and nellie dawson were close at hand. timon was in their company and would not have strayed far, so that he had betrayed them. from some cause, which the guide could not comprehend, lieutenant russell had made a change of plan and placed himself almost in the path along which vose was leading the pursuers, in the belief that the fugitives were at a safe distance. the four men looked at the dog for several moments in silence, when the captain spoke: "we must be very near them." "you're dead right," added ruggles in the same undertone; "we've got 'em cornered sooner than we expected." "they can't go far," said the parson, "without being stopped by the rocks, when we shall have them in the nicest trap that was ever set for any game." the reflection of vose adams was of a different nature. "if they make fools of themselves and upset all my plans, what can i do to help 'em? why didn't they stay where they promised to stay, and why didn't they kill that blamed dog afore he played this trick on 'em?" timon stood for two or three minutes so immovable that he suggested a stone image of himself, carved out of the rock on which he was perched. then he emitted a single husky bark and leaped lightly down from where he had been standing. it was no more than a dozen feet, and he alighted as gracefully as a panther. he trotted part way to the horsemen, who were closely watching his movements, stopped, barked again and wheeling, trotted forward over precisely the course vose adams was taking when checked by the appearance of the canine. the men looked at one another in astonishment. the action of the dog was unaccountable, but captain dawson's explanation sounded reasonable. "that shows we are on the right track and he has come to guide us to where they are awaiting him." there could be no doubt of it. the actions of the brute said as plainly as so many words: "come with me and i will take you straight to the people you want to see." instead of following timon at once, the party kept watch of him. he trotted a dozen steps and then paused and looked back. observing that he was not understood, he emitted several more barks, took a couple of steps and then repeated the performance. his object was so evident that captain dawson said: "that's as plain as the nose on your face; the animal is worth a dozen guides like you, vose." "then why don't you foller him?" sulkily asked the latter. "that's what we shall do; come on." observing that the captain left his horse standing, the parson inquired the reason. "they are of no use to us and will be only a bother; leave them here until we need them; i will follow the dog and you can take what order you choose, but," he added with unmistakable earnestness, "every one of you must keep in the background till i'm through." timon held his motionless position until the four men had taken several steps toward him and there could be no error as to their intention. vose adams observed that he was following, without a hair's variation, the course he had in mind. "it serves 'em right," was his angry reflection; "when the leftenant spoke 'bout hunting up a new trail through the mountains, i oughter knowed he hain't no sense and was sure to make a mess of things. now's he gone and sneaked off where these folks will stub their toes agin him; i'm 'sprised that the queen didn't hammer a little sense into his head." the guide was in a torture of apprehension. the impending outcome was likely to betray the deception he had used, but it was not for that he cared. there could be no mistaking the deadly mood of captain dawson and the equally intense hatred of ruggles and brush. a meeting with lieutenant russell made a frightful tragedy inevitable, and no one could be more vividly aware of the fact than the young officer himself, for vose had impressed it upon him, but the guide in his anguish of spirit, saw no possible escape from it. he stolidly followed, striving to brace himself for what must soon come. meanwhile, the strange leadership continued. timon seemed to be impatient, for occasionally he broke into a trot, abruptly pausing and looking back, as if to urge his followers to use more haste. since they did not do so, he checked himself, when about to pass beyond sight and waited for them to draw near. he led them around boulders and masses of rocks, over ridges, down declivities, across one small stream, through a ravine and again among the precipitous piles of stone, until even the hardy men were well nigh exhausted. they had traveled fully a mile over a route that was of the most trying nature. it was about this time that an extraordinary suspicion began forming in the mind of vose adams. he hardly dared give credence to it, but it took greater hold upon him with every few rods of advance. nothing in the world would have induced him to make known his suspicion, but it continued to grow. suddenly captain dawson stopped. as he looked around his face was agitated. "boys," said he, "there's something infernally strange about this." vose adams saw that his own suspicion had entered the mind of their leader, but the countenance of the guide was as blank as that of a child. "it's the worst tramp i ever had," remarked the parson, removing his hat and mopping his forehead. "if there's any harder work," added ruggles, "count me out." captain dawson looked angrily at vose. "do you know the meaning of this?" vose shook his head and prevaricated still further by adding: "nor what you're driving at either." "that dog has misled us; instead of conducting us to the couple he has taken us away from them." it was true and every one of the four knew it. the suspicion of the guide had become certainty. was it instinct or reason that controlled the animal? who shall draw the line in explaining many of the actions of the brute creation? vose adams was silent a moment and then emitted a low whistle. "hang me, if i don't b'leve you're right, captain. i've been told that that dog knowed more than a good many folks and there ain't no doubt of it now." the disgusted parson exclaimed: "why didn't one of us think of that? the idea of all four being fooled by a dog!" "it wouldn't have been so bad if there had been two dogs," said ruggles, who saw the grim humor of the thing, "but it is tough to have our eyes shet by only one." it was impossible for vose adams wholly to restrain all evidence of his pleasure. when in the depths of despair, he was awakened to the fact that the canine had performed one of the most brilliant exploits conceivable. he could not help smiling. the captain was in an ugly mood and in a threatening voice asked: "did you have anything to do with this?" "certainly; me and timon fixed up the thing afore he left dead man's gulch; it took us a good while; the dog didn't think it would work, but i stuck to it and finally he promised to have a try at it; certainly we fixed it up atween us." the guide did a clever thing in thus turning the fantastic belief of the captain into ridicule. had he protested, he might have added to the suspicion against himself. it was further in his favor that it was known he had never had much to do with timon. as already related, the brute had few friends among the miners and vose adams never sought his acquaintance. nevertheless, it was impossible to brush out of sight one significant fact,--the long absence of adams the day before. but for the last occurrence, nothing would have been thought of the former, but it was clear that captain dawson had begun to entertain doubts of the loyalty of his guide. "he'll never repeat his trick anyway," exclaimed the officer, facing about and bringing his rifle to his shoulder. but his intention of shooting timon was frustrated, for the brute was nowhere in sight. unreasonable as it might sound, it looked as if he suspected how things would turn out and took the occasion to place himself beyond danger from the indignant men. "in the army we shoot spies and traitors," remarked the captain, so angered by his repeated disappointments that he could not govern his feelings. in giving expression to the remark, the officer made a serious mistake, which he saw the moment the words left his lips. he was suspicious of vose adams, but he should have concealed all evidence of it, until the proof appeared. when that took place, he would shoot the man with no more hesitation that he would have shot the dog. but he had now put vose on his guard and the difficulty of detecting him was increased tenfold. as if to obliterate the memory of his words, the captain said in the most matter of fact tone he could assume: "the mistake we made has taken us from the right spot; they must have been near the rocks where timon showed himself." "no doubt," said the parson, "and were watching us." "the one thing to do is to retrace our steps; perhaps the two may be fools enough," bitterly added the captain, "to wait for us, since that seems to be the only way by which we shall ever come up with them." a single short bark startled them. the captain wheeled like a flash with his gun at his shoulder. but timon was too cunning to show himself. it is not improbable that he meant the expression for a note of triumph over his inimitable exploit, while such a wonderful dog was too wise to run any risk of punishment from his indignant victims. the hunter is sustained against fatigue by the excitement of the chase; and, despite the severe labor of following the canine guide, all four men stood it far better than the return to the spot where the pursuit began. angered, chagrined and in desperate mood, even the grim leader was forced occasionally to stop and rest. nearly two hours passed before they descried the familiar pile of rocks in their front. "that's the spot," he said, "but what good can it do us? it's a wonder if they have not run off with our horses; it would be a fitting climax to this folly." it was the secret wish of adams, from the moment of discovering the cleverness of timon, that this very thing should be done. if lieutenant russell took such a precaution, it could not fail to be effective. returning to the main trail after his pursuers were out of the way, he would have an open path through the mountains to sacramento. if the lameness of nellie's pony continued, her saddle could be transferred to one of the other horses, and, leading or driving the remainder of the animals, the four men would soon find their task a hopeless one. but the young officer was restrained from such action by a certain chivalry that governed all his actions. he could not consent to take so unfair an advantage of an enemy, even though the fate of one dearer than his own life was at stake. and yet it must be confessed that the lieutenant drew it very fine. his course did not win the respect of his enemies, who were inclined to attribute it to stupidity, rather than courtesy. but no time was to be lost in deciding their line of action. "i think we'd better make a hunt among them rocks," suggested wade ruggles. the others studied them with as much interest as if it were the first time they had been seen. if the couple had taken refuge among the caverns and crevices of this immense pile of stone, they must have left their animals on the ground below where they could be readily discovered. "we may as well have a look," remarked the captain; "what do you think, vose?" "i don't think anything; don't ask me any questions." he never looked more angry. he had not forgotten the slur of the captain and had spirit enough to resent it. dawson was too proud to apologize and he could not do so, when his suspicion of the fellow's loyalty was as strong as ever. on the contrary, having made his blunder, the officer drove the arrow home. "i am sorry you didn't take that resolution in the first place; it would have been better for all of us, though not so good for those we are looking for." the captain and ruggles now turned to the right, while the other two took the opposite direction. they were thus enabled, after more hard work, practically to pass around the mass of rocks, returning to their starting point, without having discovered any traces of man, woman or their animals. on the journey, adams and the parson exchanged few words, but it was different with the other couple. "what do you think of his long absence yesterday?" asked the captain. "it has a bad look,--worse than i thought when he come back." "why so?" "i take it with the action of that dog. you didn't fail to notice that timon took us along the exact route that vose was leadin' us over and we found out that it was the wrong one." "and you believe he purposely misled us?" "it's almost sartin." "suppose it _was_ certain, wade?" "i'd shoot him quicker'n lightning." "so would i." "but you see we can't be sartin just yit; if vose is in that kind of bus'ness, he'll give himself away purty soon." "i agree with you and we'll watch him." thus was the momentous bargain made. when the four came together once more, the parson remarked: "it's my belief that after we were well out of the way, the two went down the gorge to the main trail and are now making haste to sacramento." the exact line of action that had been agreed upon! vose adams was firmly convinced that this was the very thing that had taken place and the utmost he could do was to prevent the horsemen from acting on that theory until the fugitives were given opportunity to pass beyond reach. except for the words of captain dawson, the guide would have striven to delay the pursuit, but he dared not attempt it after the warning. ignoring the captain, he said to felix brush: "it's more'n likely you're right, parson; that would have been the most nat'ral thing for them to do and it's no use of our standing here and talking, when every minute counts." "we can quickly learn the truth; it isn't far to the gorge, where they must have left traces; leave the horses here, for we can soon return for them if it proves necessary." forgetting their fatigue, the four walked back over their own trail. the forenoon was well advanced, and, by this time, the fugitives were probably a good way off. adams was relieved because of this action, for it promised more delay. reaching the beginning of the gorge, all began an examination of the ground, for the imprints of the horses' feet were plainly seen. to the amazement of every one, each hoof pointed upward, that is away from the cañon. there was no evidence that any quadruped had descended the slope. all had gone up. vose adams was in despair. "they have let their only chance go by," he bitterly reflected; "it's too late now to save them!" chapter xxvi at bay lieutenant russell held a long consultation with nellie dawson, after the departure of vose adams. his first intention had been to press their flight with all possible vigor, and, as will be recalled, adams carried away that belief with him. "my view of matters has undergone a change," he said after a time to his companion, who looked up in his face for an explanation. "instead of waiting until we reach sacramento for a meeting with your father, i believe it will be much better to have it as soon as possible." "why?" she asked, though curious to say, she had been wavering for some time in her belief. "it will add to rather than lessen his anger, if he is obliged to follow us that far, and the fact that he is in a city instead of the mountains will not decrease his determination to do me injury." "what about those who are with him?" "your father is the only one to be considered. my proposal is that we wait here till to-morrow morning until they come up; what is your opinion?" "i believe you are right; let us do so; i don't think father will cast me off when i go to him." the plan was carried out, though the young man felt more misgiving than his companion suspected. he remained on guard a part of the night, sharing the duty with timon, whose almost human intelligence made him as reliable as a trained scout himself. straight to the spot came the pursuers soon after daylight, when the horses were saddled and bridled. nellie was in a state of feverish expectancy. when she caught sight of her father, leading the others, she joyfully uttered his name and ran toward him with outstretched arms. "father, my own father, are you not glad to see your nellie?" still holding his winchester half-raised, he glanced sternly at her and replied: "come no nearer; you are no daughter of mine!" she stopped as if shot, and with hands still outstretched stood motionless, with her eyes fixed yearningly upon him. she was like a marble statue, without the breath of life in her body. all were silent. even timon looked from one to another without moving. the whole thing was beyond his comprehension. then the dreadful truth seemed to force itself upon the consciousness of the girl, who staggered backward to the nearest boulder, upon which she sank and covered her face with her hands. she did not weep, for her grief was too deep. and who shall picture the sorrow that wrenched the heart strings of the parent? there was a strange look on his face and his massive frame trembled. but he quickly recovered his self-poise, and looking away from his child, fixed his eyes upon lieutenant russell. "it is with _you_ that i have to settle." "i am ready." the young officer was standing beside his pony, with one arm resting on the saddle, across which his rifle was supported, while the other hand lay idly on his hip, and his body was borne upon one foot. his pose was one of negligence, as if he and his animal had taken position before the camera, and the world contained no such thing as hatred and enmity. he looked calmly into the angered countenance, while he waited for the next words of the man who was impatient to send a bullet through his heart. wade ruggles and felix brush would have been glad of the privilege of doing this, but they felt that for the time they were out of it. the right of calling lieutenant russell to account lay with the father of nellie. they had nothing to do or say until that tragedy was ended, and they stood apart, silent, grim and watchful of everything. the coolness of the young man disconcerted the captain for the moment. feeling it unnecessary to hold his weapon, he lowered the point, but, never once removing his eyes from the face of the other, said: "i will give you the same chance as myself for your life; though you do not deserve to live, it shall never be said i took any advantage over you. each of us has a revolver and knows how to use it; you may pace off the distance for yourself, but make it short." "captain, i decline to fight you," replied lieutenant russell, without a change of pose and in his usual voice. "why?" demanded the other. "you have saved my life on the battle field; we have been comrades; we have drank from the same canteen; shoot me if you wish; i will keep the position i now hold and you may stand where you are; you have your winchester in your hands; you have but to raise it and it will be all over in a twinkling, but nothing that you can say or do will induce me to harm one of your gray hairs." this reply was unexpected to all, but it served if possible to intensify the wrath of captain dawson. he shook with tempestuous rage, and it was several seconds before he could command his voice. ruggles, brush and adams did not stir or whisper a word to one another. the white-faced nellie remained seated on the boulder, but she lowered her hands and stared at the two, as if she could not comprehend it all. once she made a motion to rise, but sank back and stared with a fixidity of gaze that went to the hearts of the three spectators. "you are a sneaking scoundrel to use those words," said captain dawson, when able to command his voice; "all the past is wiped out except that of the last two days; i shall shoot you for stealing my child from me." the lieutenant looked calmly into the countenance of the man, and, lowering his tones almost to a whisper, that was perfectly audible to all, replied: "i am at your disposal." from the moment captain dawson learned of the flight of his child, he had been eager for but one thing,--the opportunity to draw bead on the miscreant, without giving him an instant to prepare for death. that opportunity was his but he hesitated. something that he could not explain, but which incensed him, held his hand motionless. but perhaps the end would have been the same, when he rallied from the momentary struggle, had not his daughter awakened from the daze that had held her mute and motionless. like pocahontas, she sprang forward, with arms again outstretched, and with a faint shriek, flung them about the form of her lover. "shoot father, if you will, but you shall kill me too!" felix brush shivered and turning away his head, muttered in a broken voice: "my god, wade! i can't stand this!" ruggles attempted to reply, but the words choked in his throat. still he and adams kept their eyes upon the three before them. ruggles was on the point of interfering when nellie dawson averted the necessity. lieutenant russell was disconcerted. his lip quivered, and, with infinite tenderness, he sought to loosen the arms that entwined him, but she would not permit it. "no, no, no! he shall not part us! let him slay us both! do not repulse me! i will die with you!" the situation of captain dawson was awful. he was scarcely himself. the dainty form of his child could not fully shield the athletic figure of lieutenant russell, strive as much as she might, and the opening for the threatened shot was as clear as ever. whether he would have persisted in his intention can never be known, for at that juncture the startling incidents were succeeded by one still more startling and unexpected. chapter xxvii no braver deed ever was done the hearts of two of the party were wrung as never before. wade ruggles and felix brush saw with noonday clearness the dreadful mistake they had made in the past in hoping to win the heart of the maiden who had declared that if her beloved was to die she would die with him. it was contrary to nature and the laws of god, and it was characteristic of each that he felt a thrill of gratitude over the belief that no person suspected his secret. both would have died rather than allow it ever to become known. with this awakening came a transformation of feeling toward the couple. they sympathized with lieutenant russell, but more than all, they pitied her whose soul was distraught with grief. they had never before seen her in the agony of distress and neither could stand it. "brush," whispered ruggles, "this must stop." "_hold!_" called brush in a loud voice, striding commandingly forward with his arm upraised; "i have something to say!" there was a majesty and an impressiveness of mien like that of the hebrew prophet who hushed the tempest. captain dawson, without moving body or limb, turned and glared at the intruder; ruggles kept his position; nellie dawson, with arms still clasping the neck of her betrothed, looked over her shoulder at her old friend; lieutenant russell reached up so as to hold the wrists of the girl, while still retaining his grip upon his rifle and fixed his eyes upon the tall, gaunt figure that halted between him and captain dawson and a little to one side of him. "lieutenant frederic russell, do you love nellie dawson?" was the astounding question that fell from the lips of brush. "aye, more than my life," was the prompt response. "and you have started for sacramento with the purpose of making her your wife?" "that was my resolve with the help of heaven." "and, nellie, you agreed to this?" "yes, yes; we shall not be parted in life or death." "such being your feelings," continued felix brush, in the same loud, clear tones, "i pronounce you man and wife, and whom god hath joined together let not man put asunder!" it was a thunderclap. no one moved or spoke for a full minute. felix brush was the only one who seemed to retain command of his senses. stepping forward, with a strange smile on his seamed countenance, he extended his hand to the groom. "allow me to congratulate you, lieutenant; and, nellie, i don't think you will deny me my fee." with which he bent over and tenderly kissed her. "o, mr. brush, are we really married?" she asked in a faint, wild voice. "as legally as if it were done by the archbishop of canterbury and if--" but he got no further, for her arms were transferred from the neck of her husband to those of the parson, whom she smothered with her caresses. "bless your heart! you are the nicest, best, sweetest, loveliest man that ever lived,--excepting fred and father--" "and _me_," added wade ruggles, stepping forward. "yes, and you, you great big angel," she replied, bestowing an equally warm embrace upon him. the two rugged fellows had won the greatest victory that can be achieved by man, for they had conquered themselves. when the great light broke in upon their consciousness, each resolved to let the dead past bury its dead and to face the future like the manly heroes they were. and no braver deed ever was done. poor captain dawson! for a time he believed he was dreaming. then, when he grasped the meaning of it all, his winchester dropped from his nerveless grasp and he staggered and would have fallen, had not lieutenant russell leaped forward and caught him in his arms. he helped him to the boulder from which nellie had risen and then he collapsed utterly. the soldier who had faced unmoved the hell blast of battle had fainted for the first time in his life. nellie ran to the brook a few paces away, and catching some of the water in the hollow of her hand darted back and flung it into his face. "there, dear father; it is all right; rouse yourself; o, mr. brush, suppose he is dead!" she exclaimed, turning terrifiedly toward him. "he is as likely to die as you are, and you don't look just now as if you mean to put on wings and fly away." in a few minutes the veteran revived and looked confusedly around him. he seemed unable to comprehend what it all meant and his gaze wandered in a dazed way from one countenance to another without speaking. nellie was still caressing him, while lieutenant russell stood back a couple of steps, looking pityingly into the face of the man who had suffered so much. felix brush was the hero of the occasion. turning to the group, he said: "leftenant, you and nellie and ruggles and vose move off for a short distance and leave him with me for a little while." understanding his purpose the three withdrew, and the two men were left alone. the captain instantly roused himself. "what does all this mean, brush?" "it means that you and ruggles and i have been the three infernalist fools that ever pretended to have sense." "how?" "how? in every way conceivable. wade and i, as we told you, saw that those two were in love with each other; instead of persuading you to consent, we have helped you to prevent it. i must say, captain, that though wade and i played the idiot, i think the championship belongs to you." "i begin to suspect it." "there's no doubt of it." "but, you see, parson, i had never thought of anything like this." "which goes to prove the truth of what i have just said. if you hadn't been blind you would have seen it." "i got the belief into my head that his intentions were not honorable toward nellie." "you never made a greater mistake; lieutenant russell is the soul of honor; heaven intended him for the husband of nellie, and we were flying in the face of providence when we tried to prevent it." "i suppose it is all right; but how is it possible for a man to make such a consummate ass of himself?" "you have just given a demonstration of how it is done, wade and i adding material help in the demonstration." the captain looked to the ground in deep thought. when he raised his eyes there was an odd twinkle in them. "i say, parson, wasn't that a rather cheeky performance of yours, when you made them man and wife?" "the circumstances warranted it. there's no saying what might have happened, if it had been deferred for only a few minutes." "true," replied the veteran thoughtfully; "it begins to look as if the hand of providence was in it." "it is in everything that occurs in this life. it was in your coming to new constantinople; in the blessed influence of your child upon that barbarous community; in the impulse that led you to bring lieutenant russell to us, and now comes the crowning providence of all in their marriage." "parson, you ain't such a poor preacher after all." "perhaps i can preach a little, but my practice has been away off, though i hope to get back one of these days to where i was, but--" he suddenly turned and beckoned to his friends to join them. they came smilingly forward, for they suspected what it meant. captain dawson rose to his feet, and, without speaking extended his single arm toward his child. with a glad cry she flew into his embrace and pillowed her head on his breast. no one spoke, but there was not a dry eye among the spectators, while the silent embrace lasted. finally the daughter was released and then the captain reached his hand toward his son-in-law, who eagerly stepped forward and grasped it. "yes, lieutenant, we have drunk from the same canteen," he said, "and now let's all go home." and it was accordingly so done. the end by al haines. persuasion by jane austen ( ) chapter sir walter elliot, of kellynch hall, in somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the baronetage; there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs changed naturally into pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history with an interest which never failed. this was the page at which the favourite volume always opened: "elliot of kellynch hall. "walter elliot, born march , , married, july , , elizabeth, daughter of james stevenson, esq. of south park, in the county of gloucester, by which lady (who died ) he has issue elizabeth, born june , ; anne, born august , ; a still-born son, november , ; mary, born november , ." precisely such had the paragraph originally stood from the printer's hands; but sir walter had improved it by adding, for the information of himself and his family, these words, after the date of mary's birth-- "married, december , , charles, son and heir of charles musgrove, esq. of uppercross, in the county of somerset," and by inserting most accurately the day of the month on which he had lost his wife. then followed the history and rise of the ancient and respectable family, in the usual terms; how it had been first settled in cheshire; how mentioned in dugdale, serving the office of high sheriff, representing a borough in three successive parliaments, exertions of loyalty, and dignity of baronet, in the first year of charles ii, with all the marys and elizabeths they had married; forming altogether two handsome duodecimo pages, and concluding with the arms and motto:--"principal seat, kellynch hall, in the county of somerset," and sir walter's handwriting again in this finale:-- "heir presumptive, william walter elliot, esq., great grandson of the second sir walter." vanity was the beginning and the end of sir walter elliot's character; vanity of person and of situation. he had been remarkably handsome in his youth; and, at fifty-four, was still a very fine man. few women could think more of their personal appearance than he did, nor could the valet of any new made lord be more delighted with the place he held in society. he considered the blessing of beauty as inferior only to the blessing of a baronetcy; and the sir walter elliot, who united these gifts, was the constant object of his warmest respect and devotion. his good looks and his rank had one fair claim on his attachment; since to them he must have owed a wife of very superior character to any thing deserved by his own. lady elliot had been an excellent woman, sensible and amiable; whose judgement and conduct, if they might be pardoned the youthful infatuation which made her lady elliot, had never required indulgence afterwards.--she had humoured, or softened, or concealed his failings, and promoted his real respectability for seventeen years; and though not the very happiest being in the world herself, had found enough in her duties, her friends, and her children, to attach her to life, and make it no matter of indifference to her when she was called on to quit them.--three girls, the two eldest sixteen and fourteen, was an awful legacy for a mother to bequeath, an awful charge rather, to confide to the authority and guidance of a conceited, silly father. she had, however, one very intimate friend, a sensible, deserving woman, who had been brought, by strong attachment to herself, to settle close by her, in the village of kellynch; and on her kindness and advice, lady elliot mainly relied for the best help and maintenance of the good principles and instruction which she had been anxiously giving her daughters. this friend, and sir walter, did not marry, whatever might have been anticipated on that head by their acquaintance. thirteen years had passed away since lady elliot's death, and they were still near neighbours and intimate friends, and one remained a widower, the other a widow. that lady russell, of steady age and character, and extremely well provided for, should have no thought of a second marriage, needs no apology to the public, which is rather apt to be unreasonably discontented when a woman does marry again, than when she does not; but sir walter's continuing in singleness requires explanation. be it known then, that sir walter, like a good father, (having met with one or two private disappointments in very unreasonable applications), prided himself on remaining single for his dear daughters' sake. for one daughter, his eldest, he would really have given up any thing, which he had not been very much tempted to do. elizabeth had succeeded, at sixteen, to all that was possible, of her mother's rights and consequence; and being very handsome, and very like himself, her influence had always been great, and they had gone on together most happily. his two other children were of very inferior value. mary had acquired a little artificial importance, by becoming mrs charles musgrove; but anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness of character, which must have placed her high with any people of real understanding, was nobody with either father or sister; her word had no weight, her convenience was always to give way--she was only anne. to lady russell, indeed, she was a most dear and highly valued god-daughter, favourite, and friend. lady russell loved them all; but it was only in anne that she could fancy the mother to revive again. a few years before, anne elliot had been a very pretty girl, but her bloom had vanished early; and as even in its height, her father had found little to admire in her, (so totally different were her delicate features and mild dark eyes from his own), there could be nothing in them, now that she was faded and thin, to excite his esteem. he had never indulged much hope, he had now none, of ever reading her name in any other page of his favourite work. all equality of alliance must rest with elizabeth, for mary had merely connected herself with an old country family of respectability and large fortune, and had therefore given all the honour and received none: elizabeth would, one day or other, marry suitably. it sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she was ten years before; and, generally speaking, if there has been neither ill health nor anxiety, it is a time of life at which scarcely any charm is lost. it was so with elizabeth, still the same handsome miss elliot that she had begun to be thirteen years ago, and sir walter might be excused, therefore, in forgetting her age, or, at least, be deemed only half a fool, for thinking himself and elizabeth as blooming as ever, amidst the wreck of the good looks of everybody else; for he could plainly see how old all the rest of his family and acquaintance were growing. anne haggard, mary coarse, every face in the neighbourhood worsting, and the rapid increase of the crow's foot about lady russell's temples had long been a distress to him. elizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal contentment. thirteen years had seen her mistress of kellynch hall, presiding and directing with a self-possession and decision which could never have given the idea of her being younger than she was. for thirteen years had she been doing the honours, and laying down the domestic law at home, and leading the way to the chaise and four, and walking immediately after lady russell out of all the drawing-rooms and dining-rooms in the country. thirteen winters' revolving frosts had seen her opening every ball of credit which a scanty neighbourhood afforded, and thirteen springs shewn their blossoms, as she travelled up to london with her father, for a few weeks' annual enjoyment of the great world. she had the remembrance of all this, she had the consciousness of being nine-and-twenty to give her some regrets and some apprehensions; she was fully satisfied of being still quite as handsome as ever, but she felt her approach to the years of danger, and would have rejoiced to be certain of being properly solicited by baronet-blood within the next twelvemonth or two. then might she again take up the book of books with as much enjoyment as in her early youth, but now she liked it not. always to be presented with the date of her own birth and see no marriage follow but that of a youngest sister, made the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had left it open on the table near her, had she closed it, with averted eyes, and pushed it away. she had had a disappointment, moreover, which that book, and especially the history of her own family, must ever present the remembrance of. the heir presumptive, the very william walter elliot, esq., whose rights had been so generously supported by her father, had disappointed her. she had, while a very young girl, as soon as she had known him to be, in the event of her having no brother, the future baronet, meant to marry him, and her father had always meant that she should. he had not been known to them as a boy; but soon after lady elliot's death, sir walter had sought the acquaintance, and though his overtures had not been met with any warmth, he had persevered in seeking it, making allowance for the modest drawing-back of youth; and, in one of their spring excursions to london, when elizabeth was in her first bloom, mr elliot had been forced into the introduction. he was at that time a very young man, just engaged in the study of the law; and elizabeth found him extremely agreeable, and every plan in his favour was confirmed. he was invited to kellynch hall; he was talked of and expected all the rest of the year; but he never came. the following spring he was seen again in town, found equally agreeable, again encouraged, invited, and expected, and again he did not come; and the next tidings were that he was married. instead of pushing his fortune in the line marked out for the heir of the house of elliot, he had purchased independence by uniting himself to a rich woman of inferior birth. sir walter had resented it. as the head of the house, he felt that he ought to have been consulted, especially after taking the young man so publicly by the hand; "for they must have been seen together," he observed, "once at tattersall's, and twice in the lobby of the house of commons." his disapprobation was expressed, but apparently very little regarded. mr elliot had attempted no apology, and shewn himself as unsolicitous of being longer noticed by the family, as sir walter considered him unworthy of it: all acquaintance between them had ceased. this very awkward history of mr elliot was still, after an interval of several years, felt with anger by elizabeth, who had liked the man for himself, and still more for being her father's heir, and whose strong family pride could see only in him a proper match for sir walter elliot's eldest daughter. there was not a baronet from a to z whom her feelings could have so willingly acknowledged as an equal. yet so miserably had he conducted himself, that though she was at this present time (the summer of ) wearing black ribbons for his wife, she could not admit him to be worth thinking of again. the disgrace of his first marriage might, perhaps, as there was no reason to suppose it perpetuated by offspring, have been got over, had he not done worse; but he had, as by the accustomary intervention of kind friends, they had been informed, spoken most disrespectfully of them all, most slightingly and contemptuously of the very blood he belonged to, and the honours which were hereafter to be his own. this could not be pardoned. such were elizabeth elliot's sentiments and sensations; such the cares to alloy, the agitations to vary, the sameness and the elegance, the prosperity and the nothingness of her scene of life; such the feelings to give interest to a long, uneventful residence in one country circle, to fill the vacancies which there were no habits of utility abroad, no talents or accomplishments for home, to occupy. but now, another occupation and solicitude of mind was beginning to be added to these. her father was growing distressed for money. she knew, that when he now took up the baronetage, it was to drive the heavy bills of his tradespeople, and the unwelcome hints of mr shepherd, his agent, from his thoughts. the kellynch property was good, but not equal to sir walter's apprehension of the state required in its possessor. while lady elliot lived, there had been method, moderation, and economy, which had just kept him within his income; but with her had died all such right-mindedness, and from that period he had been constantly exceeding it. it had not been possible for him to spend less; he had done nothing but what sir walter elliot was imperiously called on to do; but blameless as he was, he was not only growing dreadfully in debt, but was hearing of it so often, that it became vain to attempt concealing it longer, even partially, from his daughter. he had given her some hints of it the last spring in town; he had gone so far even as to say, "can we retrench? does it occur to you that there is any one article in which we can retrench?" and elizabeth, to do her justice, had, in the first ardour of female alarm, set seriously to think what could be done, and had finally proposed these two branches of economy, to cut off some unnecessary charities, and to refrain from new furnishing the drawing-room; to which expedients she afterwards added the happy thought of their taking no present down to anne, as had been the usual yearly custom. but these measures, however good in themselves, were insufficient for the real extent of the evil, the whole of which sir walter found himself obliged to confess to her soon afterwards. elizabeth had nothing to propose of deeper efficacy. she felt herself ill-used and unfortunate, as did her father; and they were neither of them able to devise any means of lessening their expenses without compromising their dignity, or relinquishing their comforts in a way not to be borne. there was only a small part of his estate that sir walter could dispose of; but had every acre been alienable, it would have made no difference. he had condescended to mortgage as far as he had the power, but he would never condescend to sell. no; he would never disgrace his name so far. the kellynch estate should be transmitted whole and entire, as he had received it. their two confidential friends, mr shepherd, who lived in the neighbouring market town, and lady russell, were called to advise them; and both father and daughter seemed to expect that something should be struck out by one or the other to remove their embarrassments and reduce their expenditure, without involving the loss of any indulgence of taste or pride. chapter mr shepherd, a civil, cautious lawyer, who, whatever might be his hold or his views on sir walter, would rather have the disagreeable prompted by anybody else, excused himself from offering the slightest hint, and only begged leave to recommend an implicit reference to the excellent judgement of lady russell, from whose known good sense he fully expected to have just such resolute measures advised as he meant to see finally adopted. lady russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject, and gave it much serious consideration. she was a woman rather of sound than of quick abilities, whose difficulties in coming to any decision in this instance were great, from the opposition of two leading principles. she was of strict integrity herself, with a delicate sense of honour; but she was as desirous of saving sir walter's feelings, as solicitous for the credit of the family, as aristocratic in her ideas of what was due to them, as anybody of sense and honesty could well be. she was a benevolent, charitable, good woman, and capable of strong attachments, most correct in her conduct, strict in her notions of decorum, and with manners that were held a standard of good-breeding. she had a cultivated mind, and was, generally speaking, rational and consistent; but she had prejudices on the side of ancestry; she had a value for rank and consequence, which blinded her a little to the faults of those who possessed them. herself the widow of only a knight, she gave the dignity of a baronet all its due; and sir walter, independent of his claims as an old acquaintance, an attentive neighbour, an obliging landlord, the husband of her very dear friend, the father of anne and her sisters, was, as being sir walter, in her apprehension, entitled to a great deal of compassion and consideration under his present difficulties. they must retrench; that did not admit of a doubt. but she was very anxious to have it done with the least possible pain to him and elizabeth. she drew up plans of economy, she made exact calculations, and she did what nobody else thought of doing: she consulted anne, who never seemed considered by the others as having any interest in the question. she consulted, and in a degree was influenced by her in marking out the scheme of retrenchment which was at last submitted to sir walter. every emendation of anne's had been on the side of honesty against importance. she wanted more vigorous measures, a more complete reformation, a quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of indifference for everything but justice and equity. "if we can persuade your father to all this," said lady russell, looking over her paper, "much may be done. if he will adopt these regulations, in seven years he will be clear; and i hope we may be able to convince him and elizabeth, that kellynch hall has a respectability in itself which cannot be affected by these reductions; and that the true dignity of sir walter elliot will be very far from lessened in the eyes of sensible people, by acting like a man of principle. what will he be doing, in fact, but what very many of our first families have done, or ought to do? there will be nothing singular in his case; and it is singularity which often makes the worst part of our suffering, as it always does of our conduct. i have great hope of prevailing. we must be serious and decided; for after all, the person who has contracted debts must pay them; and though a great deal is due to the feelings of the gentleman, and the head of a house, like your father, there is still more due to the character of an honest man." this was the principle on which anne wanted her father to be proceeding, his friends to be urging him. she considered it as an act of indispensable duty to clear away the claims of creditors with all the expedition which the most comprehensive retrenchments could secure, and saw no dignity in anything short of it. she wanted it to be prescribed, and felt as a duty. she rated lady russell's influence highly; and as to the severe degree of self-denial which her own conscience prompted, she believed there might be little more difficulty in persuading them to a complete, than to half a reformation. her knowledge of her father and elizabeth inclined her to think that the sacrifice of one pair of horses would be hardly less painful than of both, and so on, through the whole list of lady russell's too gentle reductions. how anne's more rigid requisitions might have been taken is of little consequence. lady russell's had no success at all: could not be put up with, were not to be borne. "what! every comfort of life knocked off! journeys, london, servants, horses, table--contractions and restrictions every where! to live no longer with the decencies even of a private gentleman! no, he would sooner quit kellynch hall at once, than remain in it on such disgraceful terms." "quit kellynch hall." the hint was immediately taken up by mr shepherd, whose interest was involved in the reality of sir walter's retrenching, and who was perfectly persuaded that nothing would be done without a change of abode. "since the idea had been started in the very quarter which ought to dictate, he had no scruple," he said, "in confessing his judgement to be entirely on that side. it did not appear to him that sir walter could materially alter his style of living in a house which had such a character of hospitality and ancient dignity to support. in any other place sir walter might judge for himself; and would be looked up to, as regulating the modes of life in whatever way he might choose to model his household." sir walter would quit kellynch hall; and after a very few days more of doubt and indecision, the great question of whither he should go was settled, and the first outline of this important change made out. there had been three alternatives, london, bath, or another house in the country. all anne's wishes had been for the latter. a small house in their own neighbourhood, where they might still have lady russell's society, still be near mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes seeing the lawns and groves of kellynch, was the object of her ambition. but the usual fate of anne attended her, in having something very opposite from her inclination fixed on. she disliked bath, and did not think it agreed with her; and bath was to be her home. sir walter had at first thought more of london; but mr shepherd felt that he could not be trusted in london, and had been skilful enough to dissuade him from it, and make bath preferred. it was a much safer place for a gentleman in his predicament: he might there be important at comparatively little expense. two material advantages of bath over london had of course been given all their weight: its more convenient distance from kellynch, only fifty miles, and lady russell's spending some part of every winter there; and to the very great satisfaction of lady russell, whose first views on the projected change had been for bath, sir walter and elizabeth were induced to believe that they should lose neither consequence nor enjoyment by settling there. lady russell felt obliged to oppose her dear anne's known wishes. it would be too much to expect sir walter to descend into a small house in his own neighbourhood. anne herself would have found the mortifications of it more than she foresaw, and to sir walter's feelings they must have been dreadful. and with regard to anne's dislike of bath, she considered it as a prejudice and mistake arising, first, from the circumstance of her having been three years at school there, after her mother's death; and secondly, from her happening to be not in perfectly good spirits the only winter which she had afterwards spent there with herself. lady russell was fond of bath, in short, and disposed to think it must suit them all; and as to her young friend's health, by passing all the warm months with her at kellynch lodge, every danger would be avoided; and it was in fact, a change which must do both health and spirits good. anne had been too little from home, too little seen. her spirits were not high. a larger society would improve them. she wanted her to be more known. the undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for sir walter was certainly much strengthened by one part, and a very material part of the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the beginning. he was not only to quit his home, but to see it in the hands of others; a trial of fortitude, which stronger heads than sir walter's have found too much. kellynch hall was to be let. this, however, was a profound secret, not to be breathed beyond their own circle. sir walter could not have borne the degradation of being known to design letting his house. mr shepherd had once mentioned the word "advertise," but never dared approach it again. sir walter spurned the idea of its being offered in any manner; forbad the slightest hint being dropped of his having such an intention; and it was only on the supposition of his being spontaneously solicited by some most unexceptionable applicant, on his own terms, and as a great favour, that he would let it at all. how quick come the reasons for approving what we like! lady russell had another excellent one at hand, for being extremely glad that sir walter and his family were to remove from the country. elizabeth had been lately forming an intimacy, which she wished to see interrupted. it was with the daughter of mr shepherd, who had returned, after an unprosperous marriage, to her father's house, with the additional burden of two children. she was a clever young woman, who understood the art of pleasing--the art of pleasing, at least, at kellynch hall; and who had made herself so acceptable to miss elliot, as to have been already staying there more than once, in spite of all that lady russell, who thought it a friendship quite out of place, could hint of caution and reserve. lady russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with elizabeth, and seemed to love her, rather because she would love her, than because elizabeth deserved it. she had never received from her more than outward attention, nothing beyond the observances of complaisance; had never succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry, against previous inclination. she had been repeatedly very earnest in trying to get anne included in the visit to london, sensibly open to all the injustice and all the discredit of the selfish arrangements which shut her out, and on many lesser occasions had endeavoured to give elizabeth the advantage of her own better judgement and experience; but always in vain: elizabeth would go her own way; and never had she pursued it in more decided opposition to lady russell than in this selection of mrs clay; turning from the society of so deserving a sister, to bestow her affection and confidence on one who ought to have been nothing to her but the object of distant civility. from situation, mrs clay was, in lady russell's estimate, a very unequal, and in her character she believed a very dangerous companion; and a removal that would leave mrs clay behind, and bring a choice of more suitable intimates within miss elliot's reach, was therefore an object of first-rate importance. chapter "i must take leave to observe, sir walter," said mr shepherd one morning at kellynch hall, as he laid down the newspaper, "that the present juncture is much in our favour. this peace will be turning all our rich naval officers ashore. they will be all wanting a home. could not be a better time, sir walter, for having a choice of tenants, very responsible tenants. many a noble fortune has been made during the war. if a rich admiral were to come in our way, sir walter--" "he would be a very lucky man, shepherd," replied sir walter; "that's all i have to remark. a prize indeed would kellynch hall be to him; rather the greatest prize of all, let him have taken ever so many before; hey, shepherd?" mr shepherd laughed, as he knew he must, at this wit, and then added-- "i presume to observe, sir walter, that, in the way of business, gentlemen of the navy are well to deal with. i have had a little knowledge of their methods of doing business; and i am free to confess that they have very liberal notions, and are as likely to make desirable tenants as any set of people one should meet with. therefore, sir walter, what i would take leave to suggest is, that if in consequence of any rumours getting abroad of your intention; which must be contemplated as a possible thing, because we know how difficult it is to keep the actions and designs of one part of the world from the notice and curiosity of the other; consequence has its tax; i, john shepherd, might conceal any family-matters that i chose, for nobody would think it worth their while to observe me; but sir walter elliot has eyes upon him which it may be very difficult to elude; and therefore, thus much i venture upon, that it will not greatly surprise me if, with all our caution, some rumour of the truth should get abroad; in the supposition of which, as i was going to observe, since applications will unquestionably follow, i should think any from our wealthy naval commanders particularly worth attending to; and beg leave to add, that two hours will bring me over at any time, to save you the trouble of replying." sir walter only nodded. but soon afterwards, rising and pacing the room, he observed sarcastically-- "there are few among the gentlemen of the navy, i imagine, who would not be surprised to find themselves in a house of this description." "they would look around them, no doubt, and bless their good fortune," said mrs clay, for mrs clay was present: her father had driven her over, nothing being of so much use to mrs clay's health as a drive to kellynch: "but i quite agree with my father in thinking a sailor might be a very desirable tenant. i have known a good deal of the profession; and besides their liberality, they are so neat and careful in all their ways! these valuable pictures of yours, sir walter, if you chose to leave them, would be perfectly safe. everything in and about the house would be taken such excellent care of! the gardens and shrubberies would be kept in almost as high order as they are now. you need not be afraid, miss elliot, of your own sweet flower gardens being neglected." "as to all that," rejoined sir walter coolly, "supposing i were induced to let my house, i have by no means made up my mind as to the privileges to be annexed to it. i am not particularly disposed to favour a tenant. the park would be open to him of course, and few navy officers, or men of any other description, can have had such a range; but what restrictions i might impose on the use of the pleasure-grounds, is another thing. i am not fond of the idea of my shrubberies being always approachable; and i should recommend miss elliot to be on her guard with respect to her flower garden. i am very little disposed to grant a tenant of kellynch hall any extraordinary favour, i assure you, be he sailor or soldier." after a short pause, mr shepherd presumed to say-- "in all these cases, there are established usages which make everything plain and easy between landlord and tenant. your interest, sir walter, is in pretty safe hands. depend upon me for taking care that no tenant has more than his just rights. i venture to hint, that sir walter elliot cannot be half so jealous for his own, as john shepherd will be for him." here anne spoke-- "the navy, i think, who have done so much for us, have at least an equal claim with any other set of men, for all the comforts and all the privileges which any home can give. sailors work hard enough for their comforts, we must all allow." "very true, very true. what miss anne says, is very true," was mr shepherd's rejoinder, and "oh! certainly," was his daughter's; but sir walter's remark was, soon afterwards-- "the profession has its utility, but i should be sorry to see any friend of mine belonging to it." "indeed!" was the reply, and with a look of surprise. "yes; it is in two points offensive to me; i have two strong grounds of objection to it. first, as being the means of bringing persons of obscure birth into undue distinction, and raising men to honours which their fathers and grandfathers never dreamt of; and secondly, as it cuts up a man's youth and vigour most horribly; a sailor grows old sooner than any other man. i have observed it all my life. a man is in greater danger in the navy of being insulted by the rise of one whose father, his father might have disdained to speak to, and of becoming prematurely an object of disgust himself, than in any other line. one day last spring, in town, i was in company with two men, striking instances of what i am talking of; lord st ives, whose father we all know to have been a country curate, without bread to eat; i was to give place to lord st ives, and a certain admiral baldwin, the most deplorable-looking personage you can imagine; his face the colour of mahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree; all lines and wrinkles, nine grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top. 'in the name of heaven, who is that old fellow?' said i to a friend of mine who was standing near, (sir basil morley). 'old fellow!' cried sir basil, 'it is admiral baldwin. what do you take his age to be?' 'sixty,' said i, 'or perhaps sixty-two.' 'forty,' replied sir basil, 'forty, and no more.' picture to yourselves my amazement; i shall not easily forget admiral baldwin. i never saw quite so wretched an example of what a sea-faring life can do; but to a degree, i know it is the same with them all: they are all knocked about, and exposed to every climate, and every weather, till they are not fit to be seen. it is a pity they are not knocked on the head at once, before they reach admiral baldwin's age." "nay, sir walter," cried mrs clay, "this is being severe indeed. have a little mercy on the poor men. we are not all born to be handsome. the sea is no beautifier, certainly; sailors do grow old betimes; i have observed it; they soon lose the look of youth. but then, is not it the same with many other professions, perhaps most other? soldiers, in active service, are not at all better off: and even in the quieter professions, there is a toil and a labour of the mind, if not of the body, which seldom leaves a man's looks to the natural effect of time. the lawyer plods, quite care-worn; the physician is up at all hours, and travelling in all weather; and even the clergyman--" she stopt a moment to consider what might do for the clergyman;--"and even the clergyman, you know is obliged to go into infected rooms, and expose his health and looks to all the injury of a poisonous atmosphere. in fact, as i have long been convinced, though every profession is necessary and honourable in its turn, it is only the lot of those who are not obliged to follow any, who can live in a regular way, in the country, choosing their own hours, following their own pursuits, and living on their own property, without the torment of trying for more; it is only their lot, i say, to hold the blessings of health and a good appearance to the utmost: i know no other set of men but what lose something of their personableness when they cease to be quite young." it seemed as if mr shepherd, in this anxiety to bespeak sir walter's good will towards a naval officer as tenant, had been gifted with foresight; for the very first application for the house was from an admiral croft, with whom he shortly afterwards fell into company in attending the quarter sessions at taunton; and indeed, he had received a hint of the admiral from a london correspondent. by the report which he hastened over to kellynch to make, admiral croft was a native of somersetshire, who having acquired a very handsome fortune, was wishing to settle in his own country, and had come down to taunton in order to look at some advertised places in that immediate neighbourhood, which, however, had not suited him; that accidentally hearing--(it was just as he had foretold, mr shepherd observed, sir walter's concerns could not be kept a secret,)--accidentally hearing of the possibility of kellynch hall being to let, and understanding his (mr shepherd's) connection with the owner, he had introduced himself to him in order to make particular inquiries, and had, in the course of a pretty long conference, expressed as strong an inclination for the place as a man who knew it only by description could feel; and given mr shepherd, in his explicit account of himself, every proof of his being a most responsible, eligible tenant. "and who is admiral croft?" was sir walter's cold suspicious inquiry. mr shepherd answered for his being of a gentleman's family, and mentioned a place; and anne, after the little pause which followed, added-- "he is a rear admiral of the white. he was in the trafalgar action, and has been in the east indies since; he was stationed there, i believe, several years." "then i take it for granted," observed sir walter, "that his face is about as orange as the cuffs and capes of my livery." mr shepherd hastened to assure him, that admiral croft was a very hale, hearty, well-looking man, a little weather-beaten, to be sure, but not much, and quite the gentleman in all his notions and behaviour; not likely to make the smallest difficulty about terms, only wanted a comfortable home, and to get into it as soon as possible; knew he must pay for his convenience; knew what rent a ready-furnished house of that consequence might fetch; should not have been surprised if sir walter had asked more; had inquired about the manor; would be glad of the deputation, certainly, but made no great point of it; said he sometimes took out a gun, but never killed; quite the gentleman. mr shepherd was eloquent on the subject; pointing out all the circumstances of the admiral's family, which made him peculiarly desirable as a tenant. he was a married man, and without children; the very state to be wished for. a house was never taken good care of, mr shepherd observed, without a lady: he did not know, whether furniture might not be in danger of suffering as much where there was no lady, as where there were many children. a lady, without a family, was the very best preserver of furniture in the world. he had seen mrs croft, too; she was at taunton with the admiral, and had been present almost all the time they were talking the matter over. "and a very well-spoken, genteel, shrewd lady, she seemed to be," continued he; "asked more questions about the house, and terms, and taxes, than the admiral himself, and seemed more conversant with business; and moreover, sir walter, i found she was not quite unconnected in this country, any more than her husband; that is to say, she is sister to a gentleman who did live amongst us once; she told me so herself: sister to the gentleman who lived a few years back at monkford. bless me! what was his name? at this moment i cannot recollect his name, though i have heard it so lately. penelope, my dear, can you help me to the name of the gentleman who lived at monkford: mrs croft's brother?" but mrs clay was talking so eagerly with miss elliot, that she did not hear the appeal. "i have no conception whom you can mean, shepherd; i remember no gentleman resident at monkford since the time of old governor trent." "bless me! how very odd! i shall forget my own name soon, i suppose. a name that i am so very well acquainted with; knew the gentleman so well by sight; seen him a hundred times; came to consult me once, i remember, about a trespass of one of his neighbours; farmer's man breaking into his orchard; wall torn down; apples stolen; caught in the fact; and afterwards, contrary to my judgement, submitted to an amicable compromise. very odd indeed!" after waiting another moment-- "you mean mr wentworth, i suppose?" said anne. mr shepherd was all gratitude. "wentworth was the very name! mr wentworth was the very man. he had the curacy of monkford, you know, sir walter, some time back, for two or three years. came there about the year --- , i take it. you remember him, i am sure." "wentworth? oh! ay,--mr wentworth, the curate of monkford. you misled me by the term gentleman. i thought you were speaking of some man of property: mr wentworth was nobody, i remember; quite unconnected; nothing to do with the strafford family. one wonders how the names of many of our nobility become so common." as mr shepherd perceived that this connexion of the crofts did them no service with sir walter, he mentioned it no more; returning, with all his zeal, to dwell on the circumstances more indisputably in their favour; their age, and number, and fortune; the high idea they had formed of kellynch hall, and extreme solicitude for the advantage of renting it; making it appear as if they ranked nothing beyond the happiness of being the tenants of sir walter elliot: an extraordinary taste, certainly, could they have been supposed in the secret of sir walter's estimate of the dues of a tenant. it succeeded, however; and though sir walter must ever look with an evil eye on anyone intending to inhabit that house, and think them infinitely too well off in being permitted to rent it on the highest terms, he was talked into allowing mr shepherd to proceed in the treaty, and authorising him to wait on admiral croft, who still remained at taunton, and fix a day for the house being seen. sir walter was not very wise; but still he had experience enough of the world to feel, that a more unobjectionable tenant, in all essentials, than admiral croft bid fair to be, could hardly offer. so far went his understanding; and his vanity supplied a little additional soothing, in the admiral's situation in life, which was just high enough, and not too high. "i have let my house to admiral croft," would sound extremely well; very much better than to any mere mr--; a mr (save, perhaps, some half dozen in the nation,) always needs a note of explanation. an admiral speaks his own consequence, and, at the same time, can never make a baronet look small. in all their dealings and intercourse, sir walter elliot must ever have the precedence. nothing could be done without a reference to elizabeth: but her inclination was growing so strong for a removal, that she was happy to have it fixed and expedited by a tenant at hand; and not a word to suspend decision was uttered by her. mr shepherd was completely empowered to act; and no sooner had such an end been reached, than anne, who had been a most attentive listener to the whole, left the room, to seek the comfort of cool air for her flushed cheeks; and as she walked along a favourite grove, said, with a gentle sigh, "a few months more, and he, perhaps, may be walking here." chapter he was not mr wentworth, the former curate of monkford, however suspicious appearances may be, but a captain frederick wentworth, his brother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off st domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into somersetshire, in the summer of ; and having no parent living, found a home for half a year at monkford. he was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; and anne an extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling. half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail. they were gradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love. it would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the other, or which had been the happiest: she, in receiving his declarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted. a short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one. troubles soon arose. sir walter, on being applied to, without actually withholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the negative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a professed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter. he thought it a very degrading alliance; and lady russell, though with more tempered and pardonable pride, received it as a most unfortunate one. anne elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind, to throw herself away at nineteen; involve herself at nineteen in an engagement with a young man, who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no hopes of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain profession, and no connexions to secure even his farther rise in the profession, would be, indeed, a throwing away, which she grieved to think of! anne elliot, so young; known to so few, to be snatched off by a stranger without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a state of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence! it must not be, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representations from one who had almost a mother's love, and mother's rights, it would be prevented. captain wentworth had no fortune. he had been lucky in his profession; but spending freely, what had come freely, had realized nothing. but he was confident that he should soon be rich: full of life and ardour, he knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that would lead to everything he wanted. he had always been lucky; he knew he should be so still. such confidence, powerful in its own warmth, and bewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been enough for anne; but lady russell saw it very differently. his sanguine temper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very differently on her. she saw in it but an aggravation of the evil. it only added a dangerous character to himself. he was brilliant, he was headstrong. lady russell had little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to imprudence a horror. she deprecated the connexion in every light. such opposition, as these feelings produced, was more than anne could combat. young and gentle as she was, it might yet have been possible to withstand her father's ill-will, though unsoftened by one kind word or look on the part of her sister; but lady russell, whom she had always loved and relied on, could not, with such steadiness of opinion, and such tenderness of manner, be continually advising her in vain. she was persuaded to believe the engagement a wrong thing: indiscreet, improper, hardly capable of success, and not deserving it. but it was not a merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end to it. had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more than her own, she could hardly have given him up. the belief of being prudent, and self-denying, principally for his advantage, was her chief consolation, under the misery of a parting, a final parting; and every consolation was required, for she had to encounter all the additional pain of opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and unbending, and of his feeling himself ill used by so forced a relinquishment. he had left the country in consequence. a few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance; but not with a few months ended anne's share of suffering from it. her attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of youth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect. more than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful interest had reached its close; and time had softened down much, perhaps nearly all of peculiar attachment to him, but she had been too dependent on time alone; no aid had been given in change of place (except in one visit to bath soon after the rupture), or in any novelty or enlargement of society. no one had ever come within the kellynch circle, who could bear a comparison with frederick wentworth, as he stood in her memory. no second attachment, the only thoroughly natural, happy, and sufficient cure, at her time of life, had been possible to the nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste, in the small limits of the society around them. she had been solicited, when about two-and-twenty, to change her name, by the young man, who not long afterwards found a more willing mind in her younger sister; and lady russell had lamented her refusal; for charles musgrove was the eldest son of a man, whose landed property and general importance were second in that country, only to sir walter's, and of good character and appearance; and however lady russell might have asked yet for something more, while anne was nineteen, she would have rejoiced to see her at twenty-two so respectably removed from the partialities and injustice of her father's house, and settled so permanently near herself. but in this case, anne had left nothing for advice to do; and though lady russell, as satisfied as ever with her own discretion, never wished the past undone, she began now to have the anxiety which borders on hopelessness for anne's being tempted, by some man of talents and independence, to enter a state for which she held her to be peculiarly fitted by her warm affections and domestic habits. they knew not each other's opinion, either its constancy or its change, on the one leading point of anne's conduct, for the subject was never alluded to; but anne, at seven-and-twenty, thought very differently from what she had been made to think at nineteen. she did not blame lady russell, she did not blame herself for having been guided by her; but she felt that were any young person, in similar circumstances, to apply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such certain immediate wretchedness, such uncertain future good. she was persuaded that under every disadvantage of disapprobation at home, and every anxiety attending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and disappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman in maintaining the engagement, than she had been in the sacrifice of it; and this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had even more than the usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense been theirs, without reference to the actual results of their case, which, as it happened, would have bestowed earlier prosperity than could be reasonably calculated on. all his sanguine expectations, all his confidence had been justified. his genius and ardour had seemed to foresee and to command his prosperous path. he had, very soon after their engagement ceased, got employ: and all that he had told her would follow, had taken place. he had distinguished himself, and early gained the other step in rank, and must now, by successive captures, have made a handsome fortune. she had only navy lists and newspapers for her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich; and, in favour of his constancy, she had no reason to believe him married. how eloquent could anne elliot have been! how eloquent, at least, were her wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful confidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems to insult exertion and distrust providence! she had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning. with all these circumstances, recollections and feelings, she could not hear that captain wentworth's sister was likely to live at kellynch without a revival of former pain; and many a stroll, and many a sigh, were necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea. she often told herself it was folly, before she could harden her nerves sufficiently to feel the continual discussion of the crofts and their business no evil. she was assisted, however, by that perfect indifference and apparent unconsciousness, among the only three of her own friends in the secret of the past, which seemed almost to deny any recollection of it. she could do justice to the superiority of lady russell's motives in this, over those of her father and elizabeth; she could honour all the better feelings of her calmness; but the general air of oblivion among them was highly important from whatever it sprung; and in the event of admiral croft's really taking kellynch hall, she rejoiced anew over the conviction which had always been most grateful to her, of the past being known to those three only among her connexions, by whom no syllable, she believed, would ever be whispered, and in the trust that among his, the brother only with whom he had been residing, had received any information of their short-lived engagement. that brother had been long removed from the country and being a sensible man, and, moreover, a single man at the time, she had a fond dependence on no human creature's having heard of it from him. the sister, mrs croft, had then been out of england, accompanying her husband on a foreign station, and her own sister, mary, had been at school while it all occurred; and never admitted by the pride of some, and the delicacy of others, to the smallest knowledge of it afterwards. with these supports, she hoped that the acquaintance between herself and the crofts, which, with lady russell, still resident in kellynch, and mary fixed only three miles off, must be anticipated, need not involve any particular awkwardness. chapter on the morning appointed for admiral and mrs croft's seeing kellynch hall, anne found it most natural to take her almost daily walk to lady russell's, and keep out of the way till all was over; when she found it most natural to be sorry that she had missed the opportunity of seeing them. this meeting of the two parties proved highly satisfactory, and decided the whole business at once. each lady was previously well disposed for an agreement, and saw nothing, therefore, but good manners in the other; and with regard to the gentlemen, there was such an hearty good humour, such an open, trusting liberality on the admiral's side, as could not but influence sir walter, who had besides been flattered into his very best and most polished behaviour by mr shepherd's assurances of his being known, by report, to the admiral, as a model of good breeding. the house and grounds, and furniture, were approved, the crofts were approved, terms, time, every thing, and every body, was right; and mr shepherd's clerks were set to work, without there having been a single preliminary difference to modify of all that "this indenture sheweth." sir walter, without hesitation, declared the admiral to be the best-looking sailor he had ever met with, and went so far as to say, that if his own man might have had the arranging of his hair, he should not be ashamed of being seen with him any where; and the admiral, with sympathetic cordiality, observed to his wife as they drove back through the park, "i thought we should soon come to a deal, my dear, in spite of what they told us at taunton. the baronet will never set the thames on fire, but there seems to be no harm in him."--reciprocal compliments, which would have been esteemed about equal. the crofts were to have possession at michaelmas; and as sir walter proposed removing to bath in the course of the preceding month, there was no time to be lost in making every dependent arrangement. lady russell, convinced that anne would not be allowed to be of any use, or any importance, in the choice of the house which they were going to secure, was very unwilling to have her hurried away so soon, and wanted to make it possible for her to stay behind till she might convey her to bath herself after christmas; but having engagements of her own which must take her from kellynch for several weeks, she was unable to give the full invitation she wished, and anne though dreading the possible heats of september in all the white glare of bath, and grieving to forego all the influence so sweet and so sad of the autumnal months in the country, did not think that, everything considered, she wished to remain. it would be most right, and most wise, and, therefore must involve least suffering to go with the others. something occurred, however, to give her a different duty. mary, often a little unwell, and always thinking a great deal of her own complaints, and always in the habit of claiming anne when anything was the matter, was indisposed; and foreseeing that she should not have a day's health all the autumn, entreated, or rather required her, for it was hardly entreaty, to come to uppercross cottage, and bear her company as long as she should want her, instead of going to bath. "i cannot possibly do without anne," was mary's reasoning; and elizabeth's reply was, "then i am sure anne had better stay, for nobody will want her in bath." to be claimed as a good, though in an improper style, is at least better than being rejected as no good at all; and anne, glad to be thought of some use, glad to have anything marked out as a duty, and certainly not sorry to have the scene of it in the country, and her own dear country, readily agreed to stay. this invitation of mary's removed all lady russell's difficulties, and it was consequently soon settled that anne should not go to bath till lady russell took her, and that all the intervening time should be divided between uppercross cottage and kellynch lodge. so far all was perfectly right; but lady russell was almost startled by the wrong of one part of the kellynch hall plan, when it burst on her, which was, mrs clay's being engaged to go to bath with sir walter and elizabeth, as a most important and valuable assistant to the latter in all the business before her. lady russell was extremely sorry that such a measure should have been resorted to at all, wondered, grieved, and feared; and the affront it contained to anne, in mrs clay's being of so much use, while anne could be of none, was a very sore aggravation. anne herself was become hardened to such affronts; but she felt the imprudence of the arrangement quite as keenly as lady russell. with a great deal of quiet observation, and a knowledge, which she often wished less, of her father's character, she was sensible that results the most serious to his family from the intimacy were more than possible. she did not imagine that her father had at present an idea of the kind. mrs clay had freckles, and a projecting tooth, and a clumsy wrist, which he was continually making severe remarks upon, in her absence; but she was young, and certainly altogether well-looking, and possessed, in an acute mind and assiduous pleasing manners, infinitely more dangerous attractions than any merely personal might have been. anne was so impressed by the degree of their danger, that she could not excuse herself from trying to make it perceptible to her sister. she had little hope of success; but elizabeth, who in the event of such a reverse would be so much more to be pitied than herself, should never, she thought, have reason to reproach her for giving no warning. she spoke, and seemed only to offend. elizabeth could not conceive how such an absurd suspicion should occur to her, and indignantly answered for each party's perfectly knowing their situation. "mrs clay," said she, warmly, "never forgets who she is; and as i am rather better acquainted with her sentiments than you can be, i can assure you, that upon the subject of marriage they are particularly nice, and that she reprobates all inequality of condition and rank more strongly than most people. and as to my father, i really should not have thought that he, who has kept himself single so long for our sakes, need be suspected now. if mrs clay were a very beautiful woman, i grant you, it might be wrong to have her so much with me; not that anything in the world, i am sure, would induce my father to make a degrading match, but he might be rendered unhappy. but poor mrs clay who, with all her merits, can never have been reckoned tolerably pretty, i really think poor mrs clay may be staying here in perfect safety. one would imagine you had never heard my father speak of her personal misfortunes, though i know you must fifty times. that tooth of her's and those freckles. freckles do not disgust me so very much as they do him. i have known a face not materially disfigured by a few, but he abominates them. you must have heard him notice mrs clay's freckles." "there is hardly any personal defect," replied anne, "which an agreeable manner might not gradually reconcile one to." "i think very differently," answered elizabeth, shortly; "an agreeable manner may set off handsome features, but can never alter plain ones. however, at any rate, as i have a great deal more at stake on this point than anybody else can have, i think it rather unnecessary in you to be advising me." anne had done; glad that it was over, and not absolutely hopeless of doing good. elizabeth, though resenting the suspicion, might yet be made observant by it. the last office of the four carriage-horses was to draw sir walter, miss elliot, and mrs clay to bath. the party drove off in very good spirits; sir walter prepared with condescending bows for all the afflicted tenantry and cottagers who might have had a hint to show themselves, and anne walked up at the same time, in a sort of desolate tranquillity, to the lodge, where she was to spend the first week. her friend was not in better spirits than herself. lady russell felt this break-up of the family exceedingly. their respectability was as dear to her as her own, and a daily intercourse had become precious by habit. it was painful to look upon their deserted grounds, and still worse to anticipate the new hands they were to fall into; and to escape the solitariness and the melancholy of so altered a village, and be out of the way when admiral and mrs croft first arrived, she had determined to make her own absence from home begin when she must give up anne. accordingly their removal was made together, and anne was set down at uppercross cottage, in the first stage of lady russell's journey. uppercross was a moderate-sized village, which a few years back had been completely in the old english style, containing only two houses superior in appearance to those of the yeomen and labourers; the mansion of the squire, with its high walls, great gates, and old trees, substantial and unmodernized, and the compact, tight parsonage, enclosed in its own neat garden, with a vine and a pear-tree trained round its casements; but upon the marriage of the young 'squire, it had received the improvement of a farm-house elevated into a cottage, for his residence, and uppercross cottage, with its veranda, french windows, and other prettiness, was quite as likely to catch the traveller's eye as the more consistent and considerable aspect and premises of the great house, about a quarter of a mile farther on. here anne had often been staying. she knew the ways of uppercross as well as those of kellynch. the two families were so continually meeting, so much in the habit of running in and out of each other's house at all hours, that it was rather a surprise to her to find mary alone; but being alone, her being unwell and out of spirits was almost a matter of course. though better endowed than the elder sister, mary had not anne's understanding nor temper. while well, and happy, and properly attended to, she had great good humour and excellent spirits; but any indisposition sunk her completely. she had no resources for solitude; and inheriting a considerable share of the elliot self-importance, was very prone to add to every other distress that of fancying herself neglected and ill-used. in person, she was inferior to both sisters, and had, even in her bloom, only reached the dignity of being "a fine girl." she was now lying on the faded sofa of the pretty little drawing-room, the once elegant furniture of which had been gradually growing shabby, under the influence of four summers and two children; and, on anne's appearing, greeted her with-- "so, you are come at last! i began to think i should never see you. i am so ill i can hardly speak. i have not seen a creature the whole morning!" "i am sorry to find you unwell," replied anne. "you sent me such a good account of yourself on thursday!" "yes, i made the best of it; i always do: but i was very far from well at the time; and i do not think i ever was so ill in my life as i have been all this morning: very unfit to be left alone, i am sure. suppose i were to be seized of a sudden in some dreadful way, and not able to ring the bell! so, lady russell would not get out. i do not think she has been in this house three times this summer." anne said what was proper, and enquired after her husband. "oh! charles is out shooting. i have not seen him since seven o'clock. he would go, though i told him how ill i was. he said he should not stay out long; but he has never come back, and now it is almost one. i assure you, i have not seen a soul this whole long morning." "you have had your little boys with you?" "yes, as long as i could bear their noise; but they are so unmanageable that they do me more harm than good. little charles does not mind a word i say, and walter is growing quite as bad." "well, you will soon be better now," replied anne, cheerfully. "you know i always cure you when i come. how are your neighbours at the great house?" "i can give you no account of them. i have not seen one of them to-day, except mr musgrove, who just stopped and spoke through the window, but without getting off his horse; and though i told him how ill i was, not one of them have been near me. it did not happen to suit the miss musgroves, i suppose, and they never put themselves out of their way." "you will see them yet, perhaps, before the morning is gone. it is early." "i never want them, i assure you. they talk and laugh a great deal too much for me. oh! anne, i am so very unwell! it was quite unkind of you not to come on thursday." "my dear mary, recollect what a comfortable account you sent me of yourself! you wrote in the cheerfullest manner, and said you were perfectly well, and in no hurry for me; and that being the case, you must be aware that my wish would be to remain with lady russell to the last: and besides what i felt on her account, i have really been so busy, have had so much to do, that i could not very conveniently have left kellynch sooner." "dear me! what can you possibly have to do?" "a great many things, i assure you. more than i can recollect in a moment; but i can tell you some. i have been making a duplicate of the catalogue of my father's books and pictures. i have been several times in the garden with mackenzie, trying to understand, and make him understand, which of elizabeth's plants are for lady russell. i have had all my own little concerns to arrange, books and music to divide, and all my trunks to repack, from not having understood in time what was intended as to the waggons: and one thing i have had to do, mary, of a more trying nature: going to almost every house in the parish, as a sort of take-leave. i was told that they wished it. but all these things took up a great deal of time." "oh! well!" and after a moment's pause, "but you have never asked me one word about our dinner at the pooles yesterday." "did you go then? i have made no enquiries, because i concluded you must have been obliged to give up the party." "oh yes! i went. i was very well yesterday; nothing at all the matter with me till this morning. it would have been strange if i had not gone." "i am very glad you were well enough, and i hope you had a pleasant party." "nothing remarkable. one always knows beforehand what the dinner will be, and who will be there; and it is so very uncomfortable not having a carriage of one's own. mr and mrs musgrove took me, and we were so crowded! they are both so very large, and take up so much room; and mr musgrove always sits forward. so, there was i, crowded into the back seat with henrietta and louisa; and i think it very likely that my illness to-day may be owing to it." a little further perseverance in patience and forced cheerfulness on anne's side produced nearly a cure on mary's. she could soon sit upright on the sofa, and began to hope she might be able to leave it by dinner-time. then, forgetting to think of it, she was at the other end of the room, beautifying a nosegay; then, she ate her cold meat; and then she was well enough to propose a little walk. "where shall we go?" said she, when they were ready. "i suppose you will not like to call at the great house before they have been to see you?" "i have not the smallest objection on that account," replied anne. "i should never think of standing on such ceremony with people i know so well as mrs and the miss musgroves." "oh! but they ought to call upon you as soon as possible. they ought to feel what is due to you as my sister. however, we may as well go and sit with them a little while, and when we have that over, we can enjoy our walk." anne had always thought such a style of intercourse highly imprudent; but she had ceased to endeavour to check it, from believing that, though there were on each side continual subjects of offence, neither family could now do without it. to the great house accordingly they went, to sit the full half hour in the old-fashioned square parlour, with a small carpet and shining floor, to which the present daughters of the house were gradually giving the proper air of confusion by a grand piano-forte and a harp, flower-stands and little tables placed in every direction. oh! could the originals of the portraits against the wainscot, could the gentlemen in brown velvet and the ladies in blue satin have seen what was going on, have been conscious of such an overthrow of all order and neatness! the portraits themselves seemed to be staring in astonishment. the musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration, perhaps of improvement. the father and mother were in the old english style, and the young people in the new. mr and mrs musgrove were a very good sort of people; friendly and hospitable, not much educated, and not at all elegant. their children had more modern minds and manners. there was a numerous family; but the only two grown up, excepting charles, were henrietta and louisa, young ladies of nineteen and twenty, who had brought from school at exeter all the usual stock of accomplishments, and were now like thousands of other young ladies, living to be fashionable, happy, and merry. their dress had every advantage, their faces were rather pretty, their spirits extremely good, their manner unembarrassed and pleasant; they were of consequence at home, and favourites abroad. anne always contemplated them as some of the happiest creatures of her acquaintance; but still, saved as we all are, by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing for the possibility of exchange, she would not have given up her own more elegant and cultivated mind for all their enjoyments; and envied them nothing but that seemingly perfect good understanding and agreement together, that good-humoured mutual affection, of which she had known so little herself with either of her sisters. they were received with great cordiality. nothing seemed amiss on the side of the great house family, which was generally, as anne very well knew, the least to blame. the half hour was chatted away pleasantly enough; and she was not at all surprised, at the end of it, to have their walking party joined by both the miss musgroves, at mary's particular invitation. chapter anne had not wanted this visit to uppercross, to learn that a removal from one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three miles, will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and idea. she had never been staying there before, without being struck by it, or without wishing that other elliots could have her advantage in seeing how unknown, or unconsidered there, were the affairs which at kellynch hall were treated as of such general publicity and pervading interest; yet, with all this experience, she believed she must now submit to feel that another lesson, in the art of knowing our own nothingness beyond our own circle, was become necessary for her; for certainly, coming as she did, with a heart full of the subject which had been completely occupying both houses in kellynch for many weeks, she had expected rather more curiosity and sympathy than she found in the separate but very similar remark of mr and mrs musgrove: "so, miss anne, sir walter and your sister are gone; and what part of bath do you think they will settle in?" and this, without much waiting for an answer; or in the young ladies' addition of, "i hope we shall be in bath in the winter; but remember, papa, if we do go, we must be in a good situation: none of your queen squares for us!" or in the anxious supplement from mary, of--"upon my word, i shall be pretty well off, when you are all gone away to be happy at bath!" she could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in future, and think with heightened gratitude of the extraordinary blessing of having one such truly sympathising friend as lady russell. the mr musgroves had their own game to guard, and to destroy, their own horses, dogs, and newspapers to engage them, and the females were fully occupied in all the other common subjects of housekeeping, neighbours, dress, dancing, and music. she acknowledged it to be very fitting, that every little social commonwealth should dictate its own matters of discourse; and hoped, ere long, to become a not unworthy member of the one she was now transplanted into. with the prospect of spending at least two months at uppercross, it was highly incumbent on her to clothe her imagination, her memory, and all her ideas in as much of uppercross as possible. she had no dread of these two months. mary was not so repulsive and unsisterly as elizabeth, nor so inaccessible to all influence of hers; neither was there anything among the other component parts of the cottage inimical to comfort. she was always on friendly terms with her brother-in-law; and in the children, who loved her nearly as well, and respected her a great deal more than their mother, she had an object of interest, amusement, and wholesome exertion. charles musgrove was civil and agreeable; in sense and temper he was undoubtedly superior to his wife, but not of powers, or conversation, or grace, to make the past, as they were connected together, at all a dangerous contemplation; though, at the same time, anne could believe, with lady russell, that a more equal match might have greatly improved him; and that a woman of real understanding might have given more consequence to his character, and more usefulness, rationality, and elegance to his habits and pursuits. as it was, he did nothing with much zeal, but sport; and his time was otherwise trifled away, without benefit from books or anything else. he had very good spirits, which never seemed much affected by his wife's occasional lowness, bore with her unreasonableness sometimes to anne's admiration, and upon the whole, though there was very often a little disagreement (in which she had sometimes more share than she wished, being appealed to by both parties), they might pass for a happy couple. they were always perfectly agreed in the want of more money, and a strong inclination for a handsome present from his father; but here, as on most topics, he had the superiority, for while mary thought it a great shame that such a present was not made, he always contended for his father's having many other uses for his money, and a right to spend it as he liked. as to the management of their children, his theory was much better than his wife's, and his practice not so bad. "i could manage them very well, if it were not for mary's interference," was what anne often heard him say, and had a good deal of faith in; but when listening in turn to mary's reproach of "charles spoils the children so that i cannot get them into any order," she never had the smallest temptation to say, "very true." one of the least agreeable circumstances of her residence there was her being treated with too much confidence by all parties, and being too much in the secret of the complaints of each house. known to have some influence with her sister, she was continually requested, or at least receiving hints to exert it, beyond what was practicable. "i wish you could persuade mary not to be always fancying herself ill," was charles's language; and, in an unhappy mood, thus spoke mary: "i do believe if charles were to see me dying, he would not think there was anything the matter with me. i am sure, anne, if you would, you might persuade him that i really am very ill--a great deal worse than i ever own." mary's declaration was, "i hate sending the children to the great house, though their grandmamma is always wanting to see them, for she humours and indulges them to such a degree, and gives them so much trash and sweet things, that they are sure to come back sick and cross for the rest of the day." and mrs musgrove took the first opportunity of being alone with anne, to say, "oh! miss anne, i cannot help wishing mrs charles had a little of your method with those children. they are quite different creatures with you! but to be sure, in general they are so spoilt! it is a pity you cannot put your sister in the way of managing them. they are as fine healthy children as ever were seen, poor little dears! without partiality; but mrs charles knows no more how they should be treated--! bless me! how troublesome they are sometimes. i assure you, miss anne, it prevents my wishing to see them at our house so often as i otherwise should. i believe mrs charles is not quite pleased with my not inviting them oftener; but you know it is very bad to have children with one that one is obligated to be checking every moment; "don't do this," and "don't do that;" or that one can only keep in tolerable order by more cake than is good for them." she had this communication, moreover, from mary. "mrs musgrove thinks all her servants so steady, that it would be high treason to call it in question; but i am sure, without exaggeration, that her upper house-maid and laundry-maid, instead of being in their business, are gadding about the village, all day long. i meet them wherever i go; and i declare, i never go twice into my nursery without seeing something of them. if jemima were not the trustiest, steadiest creature in the world, it would be enough to spoil her; for she tells me, they are always tempting her to take a walk with them." and on mrs musgrove's side, it was, "i make a rule of never interfering in any of my daughter-in-law's concerns, for i know it would not do; but i shall tell you, miss anne, because you may be able to set things to rights, that i have no very good opinion of mrs charles's nursery-maid: i hear strange stories of her; she is always upon the gad; and from my own knowledge, i can declare, she is such a fine-dressing lady, that she is enough to ruin any servants she comes near. mrs charles quite swears by her, i know; but i just give you this hint, that you may be upon the watch; because, if you see anything amiss, you need not be afraid of mentioning it." again, it was mary's complaint, that mrs musgrove was very apt not to give her the precedence that was her due, when they dined at the great house with other families; and she did not see any reason why she was to be considered so much at home as to lose her place. and one day when anne was walking with only the musgroves, one of them after talking of rank, people of rank, and jealousy of rank, said, "i have no scruple of observing to you, how nonsensical some persons are about their place, because all the world knows how easy and indifferent you are about it; but i wish anybody could give mary a hint that it would be a great deal better if she were not so very tenacious, especially if she would not be always putting herself forward to take place of mamma. nobody doubts her right to have precedence of mamma, but it would be more becoming in her not to be always insisting on it. it is not that mamma cares about it the least in the world, but i know it is taken notice of by many persons." how was anne to set all these matters to rights? she could do little more than listen patiently, soften every grievance, and excuse each to the other; give them all hints of the forbearance necessary between such near neighbours, and make those hints broadest which were meant for her sister's benefit. in all other respects, her visit began and proceeded very well. her own spirits improved by change of place and subject, by being removed three miles from kellynch; mary's ailments lessened by having a constant companion, and their daily intercourse with the other family, since there was neither superior affection, confidence, nor employment in the cottage, to be interrupted by it, was rather an advantage. it was certainly carried nearly as far as possible, for they met every morning, and hardly ever spent an evening asunder; but she believed they should not have done so well without the sight of mr and mrs musgrove's respectable forms in the usual places, or without the talking, laughing, and singing of their daughters. she played a great deal better than either of the miss musgroves, but having no voice, no knowledge of the harp, and no fond parents, to sit by and fancy themselves delighted, her performance was little thought of, only out of civility, or to refresh the others, as she was well aware. she knew that when she played she was giving pleasure only to herself; but this was no new sensation. excepting one short period of her life, she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the loss of her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened to, or encouraged by any just appreciation or real taste. in music she had been always used to feel alone in the world; and mr and mrs musgrove's fond partiality for their own daughters' performance, and total indifference to any other person's, gave her much more pleasure for their sakes, than mortification for her own. the party at the great house was sometimes increased by other company. the neighbourhood was not large, but the musgroves were visited by everybody, and had more dinner-parties, and more callers, more visitors by invitation and by chance, than any other family. they were more completely popular. the girls were wild for dancing; and the evenings ended, occasionally, in an unpremeditated little ball. there was a family of cousins within a walk of uppercross, in less affluent circumstances, who depended on the musgroves for all their pleasures: they would come at any time, and help play at anything, or dance anywhere; and anne, very much preferring the office of musician to a more active post, played country dances to them by the hour together; a kindness which always recommended her musical powers to the notice of mr and mrs musgrove more than anything else, and often drew this compliment;--"well done, miss anne! very well done indeed! lord bless me! how those little fingers of yours fly about!" so passed the first three weeks. michaelmas came; and now anne's heart must be in kellynch again. a beloved home made over to others; all the precious rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects, beginning to own other eyes and other limbs! she could not think of much else on the th of september; and she had this sympathetic touch in the evening from mary, who, on having occasion to note down the day of the month, exclaimed, "dear me, is not this the day the crofts were to come to kellynch? i am glad i did not think of it before. how low it makes me!" the crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and were to be visited. mary deplored the necessity for herself. "nobody knew how much she should suffer. she should put it off as long as she could;" but was not easy till she had talked charles into driving her over on an early day, and was in a very animated, comfortable state of imaginary agitation, when she came back. anne had very sincerely rejoiced in there being no means of her going. she wished, however to see the crofts, and was glad to be within when the visit was returned. they came: the master of the house was not at home, but the two sisters were together; and as it chanced that mrs croft fell to the share of anne, while the admiral sat by mary, and made himself very agreeable by his good-humoured notice of her little boys, she was well able to watch for a likeness, and if it failed her in the features, to catch it in the voice, or in the turn of sentiment and expression. mrs croft, though neither tall nor fat, had a squareness, uprightness, and vigour of form, which gave importance to her person. she had bright dark eyes, good teeth, and altogether an agreeable face; though her reddened and weather-beaten complexion, the consequence of her having been almost as much at sea as her husband, made her seem to have lived some years longer in the world than her real eight-and-thirty. her manners were open, easy, and decided, like one who had no distrust of herself, and no doubts of what to do; without any approach to coarseness, however, or any want of good humour. anne gave her credit, indeed, for feelings of great consideration towards herself, in all that related to kellynch, and it pleased her: especially, as she had satisfied herself in the very first half minute, in the instant even of introduction, that there was not the smallest symptom of any knowledge or suspicion on mrs croft's side, to give a bias of any sort. she was quite easy on that head, and consequently full of strength and courage, till for a moment electrified by mrs croft's suddenly saying,-- "it was you, and not your sister, i find, that my brother had the pleasure of being acquainted with, when he was in this country." anne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing; but the age of emotion she certainly had not. "perhaps you may not have heard that he is married?" added mrs croft. she could now answer as she ought; and was happy to feel, when mrs croft's next words explained it to be mr wentworth of whom she spoke, that she had said nothing which might not do for either brother. she immediately felt how reasonable it was, that mrs croft should be thinking and speaking of edward, and not of frederick; and with shame at her own forgetfulness applied herself to the knowledge of their former neighbour's present state with proper interest. the rest was all tranquillity; till, just as they were moving, she heard the admiral say to mary-- "we are expecting a brother of mrs croft's here soon; i dare say you know him by name." he was cut short by the eager attacks of the little boys, clinging to him like an old friend, and declaring he should not go; and being too much engrossed by proposals of carrying them away in his coat pockets, &c., to have another moment for finishing or recollecting what he had begun, anne was left to persuade herself, as well as she could, that the same brother must still be in question. she could not, however, reach such a degree of certainty, as not to be anxious to hear whether anything had been said on the subject at the other house, where the crofts had previously been calling. the folks of the great house were to spend the evening of this day at the cottage; and it being now too late in the year for such visits to be made on foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the youngest miss musgrove walked in. that she was coming to apologize, and that they should have to spend the evening by themselves, was the first black idea; and mary was quite ready to be affronted, when louisa made all right by saying, that she only came on foot, to leave more room for the harp, which was bringing in the carriage. "and i will tell you our reason," she added, "and all about it. i am come on to give you notice, that papa and mamma are out of spirits this evening, especially mamma; she is thinking so much of poor richard! and we agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse her more than the piano-forte. i will tell you why she is out of spirits. when the crofts called this morning, (they called here afterwards, did not they?), they happened to say, that her brother, captain wentworth, is just returned to england, or paid off, or something, and is coming to see them almost directly; and most unluckily it came into mamma's head, when they were gone, that wentworth, or something very like it, was the name of poor richard's captain at one time; i do not know when or where, but a great while before he died, poor fellow! and upon looking over his letters and things, she found it was so, and is perfectly sure that this must be the very man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor richard! so we must be as merry as we can, that she may not be dwelling upon such gloomy things." the real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were, that the musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome, hopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his twentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and unmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any time by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard of, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence of his death abroad had worked its way to uppercross, two years before. he had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for him, by calling him "poor richard," been nothing better than a thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable dick musgrove, who had never done anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead. he had been several years at sea, and had, in the course of those removals to which all midshipmen are liable, and especially such midshipmen as every captain wishes to get rid of, been six months on board captain frederick wentworth's frigate, the laconia; and from the laconia he had, under the influence of his captain, written the only two letters which his father and mother had ever received from him during the whole of his absence; that is to say, the only two disinterested letters; all the rest had been mere applications for money. in each letter he had spoken well of his captain; but yet, so little were they in the habit of attending to such matters, so unobservant and incurious were they as to the names of men or ships, that it had made scarcely any impression at the time; and that mrs musgrove should have been suddenly struck, this very day, with a recollection of the name of wentworth, as connected with her son, seemed one of those extraordinary bursts of mind which do sometimes occur. she had gone to her letters, and found it all as she supposed; and the re-perusal of these letters, after so long an interval, her poor son gone for ever, and all the strength of his faults forgotten, had affected her spirits exceedingly, and thrown her into greater grief for him than she had known on first hearing of his death. mr musgrove was, in a lesser degree, affected likewise; and when they reached the cottage, they were evidently in want, first, of being listened to anew on this subject, and afterwards, of all the relief which cheerful companions could give them. to hear them talking so much of captain wentworth, repeating his name so often, puzzling over past years, and at last ascertaining that it might, that it probably would, turn out to be the very same captain wentworth whom they recollected meeting, once or twice, after their coming back from clifton--a very fine young man--but they could not say whether it was seven or eight years ago, was a new sort of trial to anne's nerves. she found, however, that it was one to which she must inure herself. since he actually was expected in the country, she must teach herself to be insensible on such points. and not only did it appear that he was expected, and speedily, but the musgroves, in their warm gratitude for the kindness he had shewn poor dick, and very high respect for his character, stamped as it was by poor dick's having been six months under his care, and mentioning him in strong, though not perfectly well-spelt praise, as "a fine dashing felow, only two perticular about the schoolmaster," were bent on introducing themselves, and seeking his acquaintance, as soon as they could hear of his arrival. the resolution of doing so helped to form the comfort of their evening. chapter a very few days more, and captain wentworth was known to be at kellynch, and mr musgrove had called on him, and come back warm in his praise, and he was engaged with the crofts to dine at uppercross, by the end of another week. it had been a great disappointment to mr musgrove to find that no earlier day could be fixed, so impatient was he to shew his gratitude, by seeing captain wentworth under his own roof, and welcoming him to all that was strongest and best in his cellars. but a week must pass; only a week, in anne's reckoning, and then, she supposed, they must meet; and soon she began to wish that she could feel secure even for a week. captain wentworth made a very early return to mr musgrove's civility, and she was all but calling there in the same half hour. she and mary were actually setting forward for the great house, where, as she afterwards learnt, they must inevitably have found him, when they were stopped by the eldest boy's being at that moment brought home in consequence of a bad fall. the child's situation put the visit entirely aside; but she could not hear of her escape with indifference, even in the midst of the serious anxiety which they afterwards felt on his account. his collar-bone was found to be dislocated, and such injury received in the back, as roused the most alarming ideas. it was an afternoon of distress, and anne had every thing to do at once; the apothecary to send for, the father to have pursued and informed, the mother to support and keep from hysterics, the servants to control, the youngest child to banish, and the poor suffering one to attend and soothe; besides sending, as soon as she recollected it, proper notice to the other house, which brought her an accession rather of frightened, enquiring companions, than of very useful assistants. her brother's return was the first comfort; he could take best care of his wife; and the second blessing was the arrival of the apothecary. till he came and had examined the child, their apprehensions were the worse for being vague; they suspected great injury, but knew not where; but now the collar-bone was soon replaced, and though mr robinson felt and felt, and rubbed, and looked grave, and spoke low words both to the father and the aunt, still they were all to hope the best, and to be able to part and eat their dinner in tolerable ease of mind; and then it was, just before they parted, that the two young aunts were able so far to digress from their nephew's state, as to give the information of captain wentworth's visit; staying five minutes behind their father and mother, to endeavour to express how perfectly delighted they were with him, how much handsomer, how infinitely more agreeable they thought him than any individual among their male acquaintance, who had been at all a favourite before. how glad they had been to hear papa invite him to stay dinner, how sorry when he said it was quite out of his power, and how glad again when he had promised in reply to papa and mamma's farther pressing invitations to come and dine with them on the morrow--actually on the morrow; and he had promised it in so pleasant a manner, as if he felt all the motive of their attention just as he ought. and in short, he had looked and said everything with such exquisite grace, that they could assure them all, their heads were both turned by him; and off they ran, quite as full of glee as of love, and apparently more full of captain wentworth than of little charles. the same story and the same raptures were repeated, when the two girls came with their father, through the gloom of the evening, to make enquiries; and mr musgrove, no longer under the first uneasiness about his heir, could add his confirmation and praise, and hope there would be now no occasion for putting captain wentworth off, and only be sorry to think that the cottage party, probably, would not like to leave the little boy, to give him the meeting. "oh no; as to leaving the little boy," both father and mother were in much too strong and recent alarm to bear the thought; and anne, in the joy of the escape, could not help adding her warm protestations to theirs. charles musgrove, indeed, afterwards, shewed more of inclination; "the child was going on so well, and he wished so much to be introduced to captain wentworth, that, perhaps, he might join them in the evening; he would not dine from home, but he might walk in for half an hour." but in this he was eagerly opposed by his wife, with "oh! no, indeed, charles, i cannot bear to have you go away. only think if anything should happen?" the child had a good night, and was going on well the next day. it must be a work of time to ascertain that no injury had been done to the spine; but mr robinson found nothing to increase alarm, and charles musgrove began, consequently, to feel no necessity for longer confinement. the child was to be kept in bed and amused as quietly as possible; but what was there for a father to do? this was quite a female case, and it would be highly absurd in him, who could be of no use at home, to shut himself up. his father very much wished him to meet captain wentworth, and there being no sufficient reason against it, he ought to go; and it ended in his making a bold, public declaration, when he came in from shooting, of his meaning to dress directly, and dine at the other house. "nothing can be going on better than the child," said he; "so i told my father, just now, that i would come, and he thought me quite right. your sister being with you, my love, i have no scruple at all. you would not like to leave him yourself, but you see i can be of no use. anne will send for me if anything is the matter." husbands and wives generally understand when opposition will be vain. mary knew, from charles's manner of speaking, that he was quite determined on going, and that it would be of no use to teaze him. she said nothing, therefore, till he was out of the room, but as soon as there was only anne to hear-- "so you and i are to be left to shift by ourselves, with this poor sick child; and not a creature coming near us all the evening! i knew how it would be. this is always my luck. if there is anything disagreeable going on men are always sure to get out of it, and charles is as bad as any of them. very unfeeling! i must say it is very unfeeling of him to be running away from his poor little boy. talks of his being going on so well! how does he know that he is going on well, or that there may not be a sudden change half an hour hence? i did not think charles would have been so unfeeling. so here he is to go away and enjoy himself, and because i am the poor mother, i am not to be allowed to stir; and yet, i am sure, i am more unfit than anybody else to be about the child. my being the mother is the very reason why my feelings should not be tried. i am not at all equal to it. you saw how hysterical i was yesterday." "but that was only the effect of the suddenness of your alarm--of the shock. you will not be hysterical again. i dare say we shall have nothing to distress us. i perfectly understand mr robinson's directions, and have no fears; and indeed, mary, i cannot wonder at your husband. nursing does not belong to a man; it is not his province. a sick child is always the mother's property: her own feelings generally make it so." "i hope i am as fond of my child as any mother, but i do not know that i am of any more use in the sick-room than charles, for i cannot be always scolding and teazing the poor child when it is ill; and you saw, this morning, that if i told him to keep quiet, he was sure to begin kicking about. i have not nerves for the sort of thing." "but, could you be comfortable yourself, to be spending the whole evening away from the poor boy?" "yes; you see his papa can, and why should not i? jemima is so careful; and she could send us word every hour how he was. i really think charles might as well have told his father we would all come. i am not more alarmed about little charles now than he is. i was dreadfully alarmed yesterday, but the case is very different to-day." "well, if you do not think it too late to give notice for yourself, suppose you were to go, as well as your husband. leave little charles to my care. mr and mrs musgrove cannot think it wrong while i remain with him." "are you serious?" cried mary, her eyes brightening. "dear me! that's a very good thought, very good, indeed. to be sure, i may just as well go as not, for i am of no use at home--am i? and it only harasses me. you, who have not a mother's feelings, are a great deal the properest person. you can make little charles do anything; he always minds you at a word. it will be a great deal better than leaving him only with jemima. oh! i shall certainly go; i am sure i ought if i can, quite as much as charles, for they want me excessively to be acquainted with captain wentworth, and i know you do not mind being left alone. an excellent thought of yours, indeed, anne. i will go and tell charles, and get ready directly. you can send for us, you know, at a moment's notice, if anything is the matter; but i dare say there will be nothing to alarm you. i should not go, you may be sure, if i did not feel quite at ease about my dear child." the next moment she was tapping at her husband's dressing-room door, and as anne followed her up stairs, she was in time for the whole conversation, which began with mary's saying, in a tone of great exultation-- "i mean to go with you, charles, for i am of no more use at home than you are. if i were to shut myself up for ever with the child, i should not be able to persuade him to do anything he did not like. anne will stay; anne undertakes to stay at home and take care of him. it is anne's own proposal, and so i shall go with you, which will be a great deal better, for i have not dined at the other house since tuesday." "this is very kind of anne," was her husband's answer, "and i should be very glad to have you go; but it seems rather hard that she should be left at home by herself, to nurse our sick child." anne was now at hand to take up her own cause, and the sincerity of her manner being soon sufficient to convince him, where conviction was at least very agreeable, he had no farther scruples as to her being left to dine alone, though he still wanted her to join them in the evening, when the child might be at rest for the night, and kindly urged her to let him come and fetch her, but she was quite unpersuadable; and this being the case, she had ere long the pleasure of seeing them set off together in high spirits. they were gone, she hoped, to be happy, however oddly constructed such happiness might seem; as for herself, she was left with as many sensations of comfort, as were, perhaps, ever likely to be hers. she knew herself to be of the first utility to the child; and what was it to her if frederick wentworth were only half a mile distant, making himself agreeable to others? she would have liked to know how he felt as to a meeting. perhaps indifferent, if indifference could exist under such circumstances. he must be either indifferent or unwilling. had he wished ever to see her again, he need not have waited till this time; he would have done what she could not but believe that in his place she should have done long ago, when events had been early giving him the independence which alone had been wanting. her brother and sister came back delighted with their new acquaintance, and their visit in general. there had been music, singing, talking, laughing, all that was most agreeable; charming manners in captain wentworth, no shyness or reserve; they seemed all to know each other perfectly, and he was coming the very next morning to shoot with charles. he was to come to breakfast, but not at the cottage, though that had been proposed at first; but then he had been pressed to come to the great house instead, and he seemed afraid of being in mrs charles musgrove's way, on account of the child, and therefore, somehow, they hardly knew how, it ended in charles's being to meet him to breakfast at his father's. anne understood it. he wished to avoid seeing her. he had inquired after her, she found, slightly, as might suit a former slight acquaintance, seeming to acknowledge such as she had acknowledged, actuated, perhaps, by the same view of escaping introduction when they were to meet. the morning hours of the cottage were always later than those of the other house, and on the morrow the difference was so great that mary and anne were not more than beginning breakfast when charles came in to say that they were just setting off, that he was come for his dogs, that his sisters were following with captain wentworth; his sisters meaning to visit mary and the child, and captain wentworth proposing also to wait on her for a few minutes if not inconvenient; and though charles had answered for the child's being in no such state as could make it inconvenient, captain wentworth would not be satisfied without his running on to give notice. mary, very much gratified by this attention, was delighted to receive him, while a thousand feelings rushed on anne, of which this was the most consoling, that it would soon be over. and it was soon over. in two minutes after charles's preparation, the others appeared; they were in the drawing-room. her eye half met captain wentworth's, a bow, a curtsey passed; she heard his voice; he talked to mary, said all that was right, said something to the miss musgroves, enough to mark an easy footing; the room seemed full, full of persons and voices, but a few minutes ended it. charles shewed himself at the window, all was ready, their visitor had bowed and was gone, the miss musgroves were gone too, suddenly resolving to walk to the end of the village with the sportsmen: the room was cleared, and anne might finish her breakfast as she could. "it is over! it is over!" she repeated to herself again and again, in nervous gratitude. "the worst is over!" mary talked, but she could not attend. she had seen him. they had met. they had been once more in the same room. soon, however, she began to reason with herself, and try to be feeling less. eight years, almost eight years had passed, since all had been given up. how absurd to be resuming the agitation which such an interval had banished into distance and indistinctness! what might not eight years do? events of every description, changes, alienations, removals--all, all must be comprised in it, and oblivion of the past-- how natural, how certain too! it included nearly a third part of her own life. alas! with all her reasoning, she found, that to retentive feelings eight years may be little more than nothing. now, how were his sentiments to be read? was this like wishing to avoid her? and the next moment she was hating herself for the folly which asked the question. on one other question which perhaps her utmost wisdom might not have prevented, she was soon spared all suspense; for, after the miss musgroves had returned and finished their visit at the cottage she had this spontaneous information from mary:-- "captain wentworth is not very gallant by you, anne, though he was so attentive to me. henrietta asked him what he thought of you, when they went away, and he said, 'you were so altered he should not have known you again.'" mary had no feelings to make her respect her sister's in a common way, but she was perfectly unsuspicious of being inflicting any peculiar wound. "altered beyond his knowledge." anne fully submitted, in silent, deep mortification. doubtless it was so, and she could take no revenge, for he was not altered, or not for the worse. she had already acknowledged it to herself, and she could not think differently, let him think of her as he would. no: the years which had destroyed her youth and bloom had only given him a more glowing, manly, open look, in no respect lessening his personal advantages. she had seen the same frederick wentworth. "so altered that he should not have known her again!" these were words which could not but dwell with her. yet she soon began to rejoice that she had heard them. they were of sobering tendency; they allayed agitation; they composed, and consequently must make her happier. frederick wentworth had used such words, or something like them, but without an idea that they would be carried round to her. he had thought her wretchedly altered, and in the first moment of appeal, had spoken as he felt. he had not forgiven anne elliot. she had used him ill, deserted and disappointed him; and worse, she had shewn a feebleness of character in doing so, which his own decided, confident temper could not endure. she had given him up to oblige others. it had been the effect of over-persuasion. it had been weakness and timidity. he had been most warmly attached to her, and had never seen a woman since whom he thought her equal; but, except from some natural sensation of curiosity, he had no desire of meeting her again. her power with him was gone for ever. it was now his object to marry. he was rich, and being turned on shore, fully intended to settle as soon as he could be properly tempted; actually looking round, ready to fall in love with all the speed which a clear head and a quick taste could allow. he had a heart for either of the miss musgroves, if they could catch it; a heart, in short, for any pleasing young woman who came in his way, excepting anne elliot. this was his only secret exception, when he said to his sister, in answer to her suppositions:-- "yes, here i am, sophia, quite ready to make a foolish match. anybody between fifteen and thirty may have me for asking. a little beauty, and a few smiles, and a few compliments to the navy, and i am a lost man. should not this be enough for a sailor, who has had no society among women to make him nice?" he said it, she knew, to be contradicted. his bright proud eye spoke the conviction that he was nice; and anne elliot was not out of his thoughts, when he more seriously described the woman he should wish to meet with. "a strong mind, with sweetness of manner," made the first and the last of the description. "that is the woman i want," said he. "something a little inferior i shall of course put up with, but it must not be much. if i am a fool, i shall be a fool indeed, for i have thought on the subject more than most men." chapter from this time captain wentworth and anne elliot were repeatedly in the same circle. they were soon dining in company together at mr musgrove's, for the little boy's state could no longer supply his aunt with a pretence for absenting herself; and this was but the beginning of other dinings and other meetings. whether former feelings were to be renewed must be brought to the proof; former times must undoubtedly be brought to the recollection of each; they could not but be reverted to; the year of their engagement could not but be named by him, in the little narratives or descriptions which conversation called forth. his profession qualified him, his disposition lead him, to talk; and "that was in the year six;" "that happened before i went to sea in the year six," occurred in the course of the first evening they spent together: and though his voice did not falter, and though she had no reason to suppose his eye wandering towards her while he spoke, anne felt the utter impossibility, from her knowledge of his mind, that he could be unvisited by remembrance any more than herself. there must be the same immediate association of thought, though she was very far from conceiving it to be of equal pain. they had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the commonest civility required. once so much to each other! now nothing! there had been a time, when of all the large party now filling the drawing-room at uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to cease to speak to one another. with the exception, perhaps, of admiral and mrs croft, who seemed particularly attached and happy, (anne could allow no other exceptions even among the married couples), there could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved. now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. it was a perpetual estrangement. when he talked, she heard the same voice, and discerned the same mind. there was a very general ignorance of all naval matters throughout the party; and he was very much questioned, and especially by the two miss musgroves, who seemed hardly to have any eyes but for him, as to the manner of living on board, daily regulations, food, hours, &c., and their surprise at his accounts, at learning the degree of accommodation and arrangement which was practicable, drew from him some pleasant ridicule, which reminded anne of the early days when she too had been ignorant, and she too had been accused of supposing sailors to be living on board without anything to eat, or any cook to dress it if there were, or any servant to wait, or any knife and fork to use. from thus listening and thinking, she was roused by a whisper of mrs musgrove's who, overcome by fond regrets, could not help saying-- "ah! miss anne, if it had pleased heaven to spare my poor son, i dare say he would have been just such another by this time." anne suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while mrs musgrove relieved her heart a little more; and for a few minutes, therefore, could not keep pace with the conversation of the others. when she could let her attention take its natural course again, she found the miss musgroves just fetching the navy list (their own navy list, the first that had ever been at uppercross), and sitting down together to pore over it, with the professed view of finding out the ships that captain wentworth had commanded. "your first was the asp, i remember; we will look for the asp." "you will not find her there. quite worn out and broken up. i was the last man who commanded her. hardly fit for service then. reported fit for home service for a year or two, and so i was sent off to the west indies." the girls looked all amazement. "the admiralty," he continued, "entertain themselves now and then, with sending a few hundred men to sea, in a ship not fit to be employed. but they have a great many to provide for; and among the thousands that may just as well go to the bottom as not, it is impossible for them to distinguish the very set who may be least missed." "phoo! phoo!" cried the admiral, "what stuff these young fellows talk! never was a better sloop than the asp in her day. for an old built sloop, you would not see her equal. lucky fellow to get her! he knows there must have been twenty better men than himself applying for her at the same time. lucky fellow to get anything so soon, with no more interest than his." "i felt my luck, admiral, i assure you;" replied captain wentworth, seriously. "i was as well satisfied with my appointment as you can desire. it was a great object with me at that time to be at sea; a very great object, i wanted to be doing something." "to be sure you did. what should a young fellow like you do ashore for half a year together? if a man had not a wife, he soon wants to be afloat again." "but, captain wentworth," cried louisa, "how vexed you must have been when you came to the asp, to see what an old thing they had given you." "i knew pretty well what she was before that day;" said he, smiling. "i had no more discoveries to make than you would have as to the fashion and strength of any old pelisse, which you had seen lent about among half your acquaintance ever since you could remember, and which at last, on some very wet day, is lent to yourself. ah! she was a dear old asp to me. she did all that i wanted. i knew she would. i knew that we should either go to the bottom together, or that she would be the making of me; and i never had two days of foul weather all the time i was at sea in her; and after taking privateers enough to be very entertaining, i had the good luck in my passage home the next autumn, to fall in with the very french frigate i wanted. i brought her into plymouth; and here another instance of luck. we had not been six hours in the sound, when a gale came on, which lasted four days and nights, and which would have done for poor old asp in half the time; our touch with the great nation not having much improved our condition. four-and-twenty hours later, and i should only have been a gallant captain wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the newspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought about me." anne's shudderings were to herself alone; but the miss musgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations of pity and horror. "and so then, i suppose," said mrs musgrove, in a low voice, as if thinking aloud, "so then he went away to the laconia, and there he met with our poor boy. charles, my dear," (beckoning him to her), "do ask captain wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother. i always forgot." "it was at gibraltar, mother, i know. dick had been left ill at gibraltar, with a recommendation from his former captain to captain wentworth." "oh! but, charles, tell captain wentworth, he need not be afraid of mentioning poor dick before me, for it would be rather a pleasure to hear him talked of by such a good friend." charles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabilities of the case, only nodded in reply, and walked away. the girls were now hunting for the laconia; and captain wentworth could not deny himself the pleasure of taking the precious volume into his own hands to save them the trouble, and once more read aloud the little statement of her name and rate, and present non-commissioned class, observing over it that she too had been one of the best friends man ever had. "ah! those were pleasant days when i had the laconia! how fast i made money in her. a friend of mine and i had such a lovely cruise together off the western islands. poor harville, sister! you know how much he wanted money: worse than myself. he had a wife. excellent fellow. i shall never forget his happiness. he felt it all, so much for her sake. i wished for him again the next summer, when i had still the same luck in the mediterranean." "and i am sure, sir," said mrs musgrove, "it was a lucky day for us, when you were put captain into that ship. we shall never forget what you did." her feelings made her speak low; and captain wentworth, hearing only in part, and probably not having dick musgrove at all near his thoughts, looked rather in suspense, and as if waiting for more. "my brother," whispered one of the girls; "mamma is thinking of poor richard." "poor dear fellow!" continued mrs musgrove; "he was grown so steady, and such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care! ah! it would have been a happy thing, if he had never left you. i assure you, captain wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you." there was a momentary expression in captain wentworth's face at this speech, a certain glance of his bright eye, and curl of his handsome mouth, which convinced anne, that instead of sharing in mrs musgrove's kind wishes, as to her son, he had probably been at some pains to get rid of him; but it was too transient an indulgence of self-amusement to be detected by any who understood him less than herself; in another moment he was perfectly collected and serious, and almost instantly afterwards coming up to the sofa, on which she and mrs musgrove were sitting, took a place by the latter, and entered into conversation with her, in a low voice, about her son, doing it with so much sympathy and natural grace, as shewed the kindest consideration for all that was real and unabsurd in the parent's feelings. they were actually on the same sofa, for mrs musgrove had most readily made room for him; they were divided only by mrs musgrove. it was no insignificant barrier, indeed. mrs musgrove was of a comfortable, substantial size, infinitely more fitted by nature to express good cheer and good humour, than tenderness and sentiment; and while the agitations of anne's slender form, and pensive face, may be considered as very completely screened, captain wentworth should be allowed some credit for the self-command with which he attended to her large fat sighings over the destiny of a son, whom alive nobody had cared for. personal size and mental sorrow have certainly no necessary proportions. a large bulky figure has as good a right to be in deep affliction, as the most graceful set of limbs in the world. but, fair or not fair, there are unbecoming conjunctions, which reason will patronize in vain--which taste cannot tolerate--which ridicule will seize. the admiral, after taking two or three refreshing turns about the room with his hands behind him, being called to order by his wife, now came up to captain wentworth, and without any observation of what he might be interrupting, thinking only of his own thoughts, began with-- "if you had been a week later at lisbon, last spring, frederick, you would have been asked to give a passage to lady mary grierson and her daughters." "should i? i am glad i was not a week later then." the admiral abused him for his want of gallantry. he defended himself; though professing that he would never willingly admit any ladies on board a ship of his, excepting for a ball, or a visit, which a few hours might comprehend. "but, if i know myself," said he, "this is from no want of gallantry towards them. it is rather from feeling how impossible it is, with all one's efforts, and all one's sacrifices, to make the accommodations on board such as women ought to have. there can be no want of gallantry, admiral, in rating the claims of women to every personal comfort high, and this is what i do. i hate to hear of women on board, or to see them on board; and no ship under my command shall ever convey a family of ladies anywhere, if i can help it." this brought his sister upon him. "oh! frederick! but i cannot believe it of you.--all idle refinement!--women may be as comfortable on board, as in the best house in england. i believe i have lived as much on board as most women, and i know nothing superior to the accommodations of a man-of-war. i declare i have not a comfort or an indulgence about me, even at kellynch hall," (with a kind bow to anne), "beyond what i always had in most of the ships i have lived in; and they have been five altogether." "nothing to the purpose," replied her brother. "you were living with your husband, and were the only woman on board." "but you, yourself, brought mrs harville, her sister, her cousin, and three children, round from portsmouth to plymouth. where was this superfine, extraordinary sort of gallantry of yours then?" "all merged in my friendship, sophia. i would assist any brother officer's wife that i could, and i would bring anything of harville's from the world's end, if he wanted it. but do not imagine that i did not feel it an evil in itself." "depend upon it, they were all perfectly comfortable." "i might not like them the better for that perhaps. such a number of women and children have no right to be comfortable on board." "my dear frederick, you are talking quite idly. pray, what would become of us poor sailors' wives, who often want to be conveyed to one port or another, after our husbands, if everybody had your feelings?" "my feelings, you see, did not prevent my taking mrs harville and all her family to plymouth." "but i hate to hear you talking so like a fine gentleman, and as if women were all fine ladies, instead of rational creatures. we none of us expect to be in smooth water all our days." "ah! my dear," said the admiral, "when he had got a wife, he will sing a different tune. when he is married, if we have the good luck to live to another war, we shall see him do as you and i, and a great many others, have done. we shall have him very thankful to anybody that will bring him his wife." "ay, that we shall." "now i have done," cried captain wentworth. "when once married people begin to attack me with,--'oh! you will think very differently, when you are married.' i can only say, 'no, i shall not;' and then they say again, 'yes, you will,' and there is an end of it." he got up and moved away. "what a great traveller you must have been, ma'am!" said mrs musgrove to mrs croft. "pretty well, ma'am in the fifteen years of my marriage; though many women have done more. i have crossed the atlantic four times, and have been once to the east indies, and back again, and only once; besides being in different places about home: cork, and lisbon, and gibraltar. but i never went beyond the streights, and never was in the west indies. we do not call bermuda or bahama, you know, the west indies." mrs musgrove had not a word to say in dissent; she could not accuse herself of having ever called them anything in the whole course of her life. "and i do assure you, ma'am," pursued mrs croft, "that nothing can exceed the accommodations of a man-of-war; i speak, you know, of the higher rates. when you come to a frigate, of course, you are more confined; though any reasonable woman may be perfectly happy in one of them; and i can safely say, that the happiest part of my life has been spent on board a ship. while we were together, you know, there was nothing to be feared. thank god! i have always been blessed with excellent health, and no climate disagrees with me. a little disordered always the first twenty-four hours of going to sea, but never knew what sickness was afterwards. the only time i ever really suffered in body or mind, the only time that i ever fancied myself unwell, or had any ideas of danger, was the winter that i passed by myself at deal, when the admiral (captain croft then) was in the north seas. i lived in perpetual fright at that time, and had all manner of imaginary complaints from not knowing what to do with myself, or when i should hear from him next; but as long as we could be together, nothing ever ailed me, and i never met with the smallest inconvenience." "aye, to be sure. yes, indeed, oh yes! i am quite of your opinion, mrs croft," was mrs musgrove's hearty answer. "there is nothing so bad as a separation. i am quite of your opinion. i know what it is, for mr musgrove always attends the assizes, and i am so glad when they are over, and he is safe back again." the evening ended with dancing. on its being proposed, anne offered her services, as usual; and though her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she sat at the instrument, she was extremely glad to be employed, and desired nothing in return but to be unobserved. it was a merry, joyous party, and no one seemed in higher spirits than captain wentworth. she felt that he had every thing to elevate him which general attention and deference, and especially the attention of all the young women, could do. the miss hayters, the females of the family of cousins already mentioned, were apparently admitted to the honour of being in love with him; and as for henrietta and louisa, they both seemed so entirely occupied by him, that nothing but the continued appearance of the most perfect good-will between themselves could have made it credible that they were not decided rivals. if he were a little spoilt by such universal, such eager admiration, who could wonder? these were some of the thoughts which occupied anne, while her fingers were mechanically at work, proceeding for half an hour together, equally without error, and without consciousness. once she felt that he was looking at herself, observing her altered features, perhaps, trying to trace in them the ruins of the face which had once charmed him; and once she knew that he must have spoken of her; she was hardly aware of it, till she heard the answer; but then she was sure of his having asked his partner whether miss elliot never danced? the answer was, "oh, no; never; she has quite given up dancing. she had rather play. she is never tired of playing." once, too, he spoke to her. she had left the instrument on the dancing being over, and he had sat down to try to make out an air which he wished to give the miss musgroves an idea of. unintentionally she returned to that part of the room; he saw her, and, instantly rising, said, with studied politeness-- "i beg your pardon, madam, this is your seat;" and though she immediately drew back with a decided negative, he was not to be induced to sit down again. anne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches. his cold politeness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than anything. chapter captain wentworth was come to kellynch as to a home, to stay as long as he liked, being as thoroughly the object of the admiral's fraternal kindness as of his wife's. he had intended, on first arriving, to proceed very soon into shropshire, and visit the brother settled in that country, but the attractions of uppercross induced him to put this off. there was so much of friendliness, and of flattery, and of everything most bewitching in his reception there; the old were so hospitable, the young so agreeable, that he could not but resolve to remain where he was, and take all the charms and perfections of edward's wife upon credit a little longer. it was soon uppercross with him almost every day. the musgroves could hardly be more ready to invite than he to come, particularly in the morning, when he had no companion at home, for the admiral and mrs croft were generally out of doors together, interesting themselves in their new possessions, their grass, and their sheep, and dawdling about in a way not endurable to a third person, or driving out in a gig, lately added to their establishment. hitherto there had been but one opinion of captain wentworth among the musgroves and their dependencies. it was unvarying, warm admiration everywhere; but this intimate footing was not more than established, when a certain charles hayter returned among them, to be a good deal disturbed by it, and to think captain wentworth very much in the way. charles hayter was the eldest of all the cousins, and a very amiable, pleasing young man, between whom and henrietta there had been a considerable appearance of attachment previous to captain wentworth's introduction. he was in orders; and having a curacy in the neighbourhood, where residence was not required, lived at his father's house, only two miles from uppercross. a short absence from home had left his fair one unguarded by his attentions at this critical period, and when he came back he had the pain of finding very altered manners, and of seeing captain wentworth. mrs musgrove and mrs hayter were sisters. they had each had money, but their marriages had made a material difference in their degree of consequence. mr hayter had some property of his own, but it was insignificant compared with mr musgrove's; and while the musgroves were in the first class of society in the country, the young hayters would, from their parents' inferior, retired, and unpolished way of living, and their own defective education, have been hardly in any class at all, but for their connexion with uppercross, this eldest son of course excepted, who had chosen to be a scholar and a gentleman, and who was very superior in cultivation and manners to all the rest. the two families had always been on excellent terms, there being no pride on one side, and no envy on the other, and only such a consciousness of superiority in the miss musgroves, as made them pleased to improve their cousins. charles's attentions to henrietta had been observed by her father and mother without any disapprobation. "it would not be a great match for her; but if henrietta liked him,"-- and henrietta did seem to like him. henrietta fully thought so herself, before captain wentworth came; but from that time cousin charles had been very much forgotten. which of the two sisters was preferred by captain wentworth was as yet quite doubtful, as far as anne's observation reached. henrietta was perhaps the prettiest, louisa had the higher spirits; and she knew not now, whether the more gentle or the more lively character were most likely to attract him. mr and mrs musgrove, either from seeing little, or from an entire confidence in the discretion of both their daughters, and of all the young men who came near them, seemed to leave everything to take its chance. there was not the smallest appearance of solicitude or remark about them in the mansion-house; but it was different at the cottage: the young couple there were more disposed to speculate and wonder; and captain wentworth had not been above four or five times in the miss musgroves' company, and charles hayter had but just reappeared, when anne had to listen to the opinions of her brother and sister, as to which was the one liked best. charles gave it for louisa, mary for henrietta, but quite agreeing that to have him marry either could be extremely delightful. charles "had never seen a pleasanter man in his life; and from what he had once heard captain wentworth himself say, was very sure that he had not made less than twenty thousand pounds by the war. here was a fortune at once; besides which, there would be the chance of what might be done in any future war; and he was sure captain wentworth was as likely a man to distinguish himself as any officer in the navy. oh! it would be a capital match for either of his sisters." "upon my word it would," replied mary. "dear me! if he should rise to any very great honours! if he should ever be made a baronet! 'lady wentworth' sounds very well. that would be a noble thing, indeed, for henrietta! she would take place of me then, and henrietta would not dislike that. sir frederick and lady wentworth! it would be but a new creation, however, and i never think much of your new creations." it suited mary best to think henrietta the one preferred on the very account of charles hayter, whose pretensions she wished to see put an end to. she looked down very decidedly upon the hayters, and thought it would be quite a misfortune to have the existing connection between the families renewed--very sad for herself and her children. "you know," said she, "i cannot think him at all a fit match for henrietta; and considering the alliances which the musgroves have made, she has no right to throw herself away. i do not think any young woman has a right to make a choice that may be disagreeable and inconvenient to the principal part of her family, and be giving bad connections to those who have not been used to them. and, pray, who is charles hayter? nothing but a country curate. a most improper match for miss musgrove of uppercross." her husband, however, would not agree with her here; for besides having a regard for his cousin, charles hayter was an eldest son, and he saw things as an eldest son himself. "now you are talking nonsense, mary," was therefore his answer. "it would not be a great match for henrietta, but charles has a very fair chance, through the spicers, of getting something from the bishop in the course of a year or two; and you will please to remember, that he is the eldest son; whenever my uncle dies, he steps into very pretty property. the estate at winthrop is not less than two hundred and fifty acres, besides the farm near taunton, which is some of the best land in the country. i grant you, that any of them but charles would be a very shocking match for henrietta, and indeed it could not be; he is the only one that could be possible; but he is a very good-natured, good sort of a fellow; and whenever winthrop comes into his hands, he will make a different sort of place of it, and live in a very different sort of way; and with that property, he will never be a contemptible man--good, freehold property. no, no; henrietta might do worse than marry charles hayter; and if she has him, and louisa can get captain wentworth, i shall be very well satisfied." "charles may say what he pleases," cried mary to anne, as soon as he was out of the room, "but it would be shocking to have henrietta marry charles hayter; a very bad thing for her, and still worse for me; and therefore it is very much to be wished that captain wentworth may soon put him quite out of her head, and i have very little doubt that he has. she took hardly any notice of charles hayter yesterday. i wish you had been there to see her behaviour. and as to captain wentworth's liking louisa as well as henrietta, it is nonsense to say so; for he certainly does like henrietta a great deal the best. but charles is so positive! i wish you had been with us yesterday, for then you might have decided between us; and i am sure you would have thought as i did, unless you had been determined to give it against me." a dinner at mr musgrove's had been the occasion when all these things should have been seen by anne; but she had staid at home, under the mixed plea of a headache of her own, and some return of indisposition in little charles. she had thought only of avoiding captain wentworth; but an escape from being appealed to as umpire was now added to the advantages of a quiet evening. as to captain wentworth's views, she deemed it of more consequence that he should know his own mind early enough not to be endangering the happiness of either sister, or impeaching his own honour, than that he should prefer henrietta to louisa, or louisa to henrietta. either of them would, in all probability, make him an affectionate, good-humoured wife. with regard to charles hayter, she had delicacy which must be pained by any lightness of conduct in a well-meaning young woman, and a heart to sympathize in any of the sufferings it occasioned; but if henrietta found herself mistaken in the nature of her feelings, the alteration could not be understood too soon. charles hayter had met with much to disquiet and mortify him in his cousin's behaviour. she had too old a regard for him to be so wholly estranged as might in two meetings extinguish every past hope, and leave him nothing to do but to keep away from uppercross: but there was such a change as became very alarming, when such a man as captain wentworth was to be regarded as the probable cause. he had been absent only two sundays, and when they parted, had left her interested, even to the height of his wishes, in his prospect of soon quitting his present curacy, and obtaining that of uppercross instead. it had then seemed the object nearest her heart, that dr shirley, the rector, who for more than forty years had been zealously discharging all the duties of his office, but was now growing too infirm for many of them, should be quite fixed on engaging a curate; should make his curacy quite as good as he could afford, and should give charles hayter the promise of it. the advantage of his having to come only to uppercross, instead of going six miles another way; of his having, in every respect, a better curacy; of his belonging to their dear dr shirley, and of dear, good dr shirley's being relieved from the duty which he could no longer get through without most injurious fatigue, had been a great deal, even to louisa, but had been almost everything to henrietta. when he came back, alas! the zeal of the business was gone by. louisa could not listen at all to his account of a conversation which he had just held with dr shirley: she was at a window, looking out for captain wentworth; and even henrietta had at best only a divided attention to give, and seemed to have forgotten all the former doubt and solicitude of the negotiation. "well, i am very glad indeed: but i always thought you would have it; i always thought you sure. it did not appear to me that--in short, you know, dr shirley must have a curate, and you had secured his promise. is he coming, louisa?" one morning, very soon after the dinner at the musgroves, at which anne had not been present, captain wentworth walked into the drawing-room at the cottage, where were only herself and the little invalid charles, who was lying on the sofa. the surprise of finding himself almost alone with anne elliot, deprived his manners of their usual composure: he started, and could only say, "i thought the miss musgroves had been here: mrs musgrove told me i should find them here," before he walked to the window to recollect himself, and feel how he ought to behave. "they are up stairs with my sister: they will be down in a few moments, i dare say," had been anne's reply, in all the confusion that was natural; and if the child had not called her to come and do something for him, she would have been out of the room the next moment, and released captain wentworth as well as herself. he continued at the window; and after calmly and politely saying, "i hope the little boy is better," was silent. she was obliged to kneel down by the sofa, and remain there to satisfy her patient; and thus they continued a few minutes, when, to her very great satisfaction, she heard some other person crossing the little vestibule. she hoped, on turning her head, to see the master of the house; but it proved to be one much less calculated for making matters easy--charles hayter, probably not at all better pleased by the sight of captain wentworth than captain wentworth had been by the sight of anne. she only attempted to say, "how do you do? will you not sit down? the others will be here presently." captain wentworth, however, came from his window, apparently not ill-disposed for conversation; but charles hayter soon put an end to his attempts by seating himself near the table, and taking up the newspaper; and captain wentworth returned to his window. another minute brought another addition. the younger boy, a remarkable stout, forward child, of two years old, having got the door opened for him by some one without, made his determined appearance among them, and went straight to the sofa to see what was going on, and put in his claim to anything good that might be giving away. there being nothing to eat, he could only have some play; and as his aunt would not let him tease his sick brother, he began to fasten himself upon her, as she knelt, in such a way that, busy as she was about charles, she could not shake him off. she spoke to him, ordered, entreated, and insisted in vain. once she did contrive to push him away, but the boy had the greater pleasure in getting upon her back again directly. "walter," said she, "get down this moment. you are extremely troublesome. i am very angry with you." "walter," cried charles hayter, "why do you not do as you are bid? do not you hear your aunt speak? come to me, walter, come to cousin charles." but not a bit did walter stir. in another moment, however, she found herself in the state of being released from him; some one was taking him from her, though he had bent down her head so much, that his little sturdy hands were unfastened from around her neck, and he was resolutely borne away, before she knew that captain wentworth had done it. her sensations on the discovery made her perfectly speechless. she could not even thank him. she could only hang over little charles, with most disordered feelings. his kindness in stepping forward to her relief, the manner, the silence in which it had passed, the little particulars of the circumstance, with the conviction soon forced on her by the noise he was studiously making with the child, that he meant to avoid hearing her thanks, and rather sought to testify that her conversation was the last of his wants, produced such a confusion of varying, but very painful agitation, as she could not recover from, till enabled by the entrance of mary and the miss musgroves to make over her little patient to their cares, and leave the room. she could not stay. it might have been an opportunity of watching the loves and jealousies of the four--they were now altogether; but she could stay for none of it. it was evident that charles hayter was not well inclined towards captain wentworth. she had a strong impression of his having said, in a vext tone of voice, after captain wentworth's interference, "you ought to have minded me, walter; i told you not to teaze your aunt;" and could comprehend his regretting that captain wentworth should do what he ought to have done himself. but neither charles hayter's feelings, nor anybody's feelings, could interest her, till she had a little better arranged her own. she was ashamed of herself, quite ashamed of being so nervous, so overcome by such a trifle; but so it was, and it required a long application of solitude and reflection to recover her. chapter other opportunities of making her observations could not fail to occur. anne had soon been in company with all the four together often enough to have an opinion, though too wise to acknowledge as much at home, where she knew it would have satisfied neither husband nor wife; for while she considered louisa to be rather the favourite, she could not but think, as far as she might dare to judge from memory and experience, that captain wentworth was not in love with either. they were more in love with him; yet there it was not love. it was a little fever of admiration; but it might, probably must, end in love with some. charles hayter seemed aware of being slighted, and yet henrietta had sometimes the air of being divided between them. anne longed for the power of representing to them all what they were about, and of pointing out some of the evils they were exposing themselves to. she did not attribute guile to any. it was the highest satisfaction to her to believe captain wentworth not in the least aware of the pain he was occasioning. there was no triumph, no pitiful triumph in his manner. he had, probably, never heard, and never thought of any claims of charles hayter. he was only wrong in accepting the attentions (for accepting must be the word) of two young women at once. after a short struggle, however, charles hayter seemed to quit the field. three days had passed without his coming once to uppercross; a most decided change. he had even refused one regular invitation to dinner; and having been found on the occasion by mr musgrove with some large books before him, mr and mrs musgrove were sure all could not be right, and talked, with grave faces, of his studying himself to death. it was mary's hope and belief that he had received a positive dismissal from henrietta, and her husband lived under the constant dependence of seeing him to-morrow. anne could only feel that charles hayter was wise. one morning, about this time charles musgrove and captain wentworth being gone a-shooting together, as the sisters in the cottage were sitting quietly at work, they were visited at the window by the sisters from the mansion-house. it was a very fine november day, and the miss musgroves came through the little grounds, and stopped for no other purpose than to say, that they were going to take a long walk, and therefore concluded mary could not like to go with them; and when mary immediately replied, with some jealousy at not being supposed a good walker, "oh, yes, i should like to join you very much, i am very fond of a long walk;" anne felt persuaded, by the looks of the two girls, that it was precisely what they did not wish, and admired again the sort of necessity which the family habits seemed to produce, of everything being to be communicated, and everything being to be done together, however undesired and inconvenient. she tried to dissuade mary from going, but in vain; and that being the case, thought it best to accept the miss musgroves' much more cordial invitation to herself to go likewise, as she might be useful in turning back with her sister, and lessening the interference in any plan of their own. "i cannot imagine why they should suppose i should not like a long walk," said mary, as she went up stairs. "everybody is always supposing that i am not a good walker; and yet they would not have been pleased, if we had refused to join them. when people come in this manner on purpose to ask us, how can one say no?" just as they were setting off, the gentlemen returned. they had taken out a young dog, who had spoilt their sport, and sent them back early. their time and strength, and spirits, were, therefore, exactly ready for this walk, and they entered into it with pleasure. could anne have foreseen such a junction, she would have staid at home; but, from some feelings of interest and curiosity, she fancied now that it was too late to retract, and the whole six set forward together in the direction chosen by the miss musgroves, who evidently considered the walk as under their guidance. anne's object was, not to be in the way of anybody; and where the narrow paths across the fields made many separations necessary, to keep with her brother and sister. her pleasure in the walk must arise from the exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year upon the tawny leaves, and withered hedges, and from repeating to herself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of autumn, that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste and tenderness, that season which had drawn from every poet, worthy of being read, some attempt at description, or some lines of feeling. she occupied her mind as much as possible in such like musings and quotations; but it was not possible, that when within reach of captain wentworth's conversation with either of the miss musgroves, she should not try to hear it; yet she caught little very remarkable. it was mere lively chat, such as any young persons, on an intimate footing, might fall into. he was more engaged with louisa than with henrietta. louisa certainly put more forward for his notice than her sister. this distinction appeared to increase, and there was one speech of louisa's which struck her. after one of the many praises of the day, which were continually bursting forth, captain wentworth added:-- "what glorious weather for the admiral and my sister! they meant to take a long drive this morning; perhaps we may hail them from some of these hills. they talked of coming into this side of the country. i wonder whereabouts they will upset to-day. oh! it does happen very often, i assure you; but my sister makes nothing of it; she would as lieve be tossed out as not." "ah! you make the most of it, i know," cried louisa, "but if it were really so, i should do just the same in her place. if i loved a man, as she loves the admiral, i would always be with him, nothing should ever separate us, and i would rather be overturned by him, than driven safely by anybody else." it was spoken with enthusiasm. "had you?" cried he, catching the same tone; "i honour you!" and there was silence between them for a little while. anne could not immediately fall into a quotation again. the sweet scenes of autumn were for a while put by, unless some tender sonnet, fraught with the apt analogy of the declining year, with declining happiness, and the images of youth and hope, and spring, all gone together, blessed her memory. she roused herself to say, as they struck by order into another path, "is not this one of the ways to winthrop?" but nobody heard, or, at least, nobody answered her. winthrop, however, or its environs--for young men are, sometimes to be met with, strolling about near home--was their destination; and after another half mile of gradual ascent through large enclosures, where the ploughs at work, and the fresh made path spoke the farmer counteracting the sweets of poetical despondence, and meaning to have spring again, they gained the summit of the most considerable hill, which parted uppercross and winthrop, and soon commanded a full view of the latter, at the foot of the hill on the other side. winthrop, without beauty and without dignity, was stretched before them; an indifferent house, standing low, and hemmed in by the barns and buildings of a farm-yard. mary exclaimed, "bless me! here is winthrop. i declare i had no idea! well now, i think we had better turn back; i am excessively tired." henrietta, conscious and ashamed, and seeing no cousin charles walking along any path, or leaning against any gate, was ready to do as mary wished; but "no!" said charles musgrove, and "no, no!" cried louisa more eagerly, and taking her sister aside, seemed to be arguing the matter warmly. charles, in the meanwhile, was very decidedly declaring his resolution of calling on his aunt, now that he was so near; and very evidently, though more fearfully, trying to induce his wife to go too. but this was one of the points on which the lady shewed her strength; and when he recommended the advantage of resting herself a quarter of an hour at winthrop, as she felt so tired, she resolutely answered, "oh! no, indeed! walking up that hill again would do her more harm than any sitting down could do her good;" and, in short, her look and manner declared, that go she would not. after a little succession of these sort of debates and consultations, it was settled between charles and his two sisters, that he and henrietta should just run down for a few minutes, to see their aunt and cousins, while the rest of the party waited for them at the top of the hill. louisa seemed the principal arranger of the plan; and, as she went a little way with them, down the hill, still talking to henrietta, mary took the opportunity of looking scornfully around her, and saying to captain wentworth-- "it is very unpleasant, having such connexions! but, i assure you, i have never been in the house above twice in my life." she received no other answer, than an artificial, assenting smile, followed by a contemptuous glance, as he turned away, which anne perfectly knew the meaning of. the brow of the hill, where they remained, was a cheerful spot: louisa returned; and mary, finding a comfortable seat for herself on the step of a stile, was very well satisfied so long as the others all stood about her; but when louisa drew captain wentworth away, to try for a gleaning of nuts in an adjoining hedge-row, and they were gone by degrees quite out of sight and sound, mary was happy no longer; she quarrelled with her own seat, was sure louisa had got a much better somewhere, and nothing could prevent her from going to look for a better also. she turned through the same gate, but could not see them. anne found a nice seat for her, on a dry sunny bank, under the hedge-row, in which she had no doubt of their still being, in some spot or other. mary sat down for a moment, but it would not do; she was sure louisa had found a better seat somewhere else, and she would go on till she overtook her. anne, really tired herself, was glad to sit down; and she very soon heard captain wentworth and louisa in the hedge-row, behind her, as if making their way back along the rough, wild sort of channel, down the centre. they were speaking as they drew near. louisa's voice was the first distinguished. she seemed to be in the middle of some eager speech. what anne first heard was-- "and so, i made her go. i could not bear that she should be frightened from the visit by such nonsense. what! would i be turned back from doing a thing that i had determined to do, and that i knew to be right, by the airs and interference of such a person, or of any person i may say? no, i have no idea of being so easily persuaded. when i have made up my mind, i have made it; and henrietta seemed entirely to have made up hers to call at winthrop to-day; and yet, she was as near giving it up, out of nonsensical complaisance!" "she would have turned back then, but for you?" "she would indeed. i am almost ashamed to say it." "happy for her, to have such a mind as yours at hand! after the hints you gave just now, which did but confirm my own observations, the last time i was in company with him, i need not affect to have no comprehension of what is going on. i see that more than a mere dutiful morning visit to your aunt was in question; and woe betide him, and her too, when it comes to things of consequence, when they are placed in circumstances requiring fortitude and strength of mind, if she have not resolution enough to resist idle interference in such a trifle as this. your sister is an amiable creature; but yours is the character of decision and firmness, i see. if you value her conduct or happiness, infuse as much of your own spirit into her as you can. but this, no doubt, you have been always doing. it is the worst evil of too yielding and indecisive a character, that no influence over it can be depended on. you are never sure of a good impression being durable; everybody may sway it. let those who would be happy be firm. here is a nut," said he, catching one down from an upper bough, "to exemplify: a beautiful glossy nut, which, blessed with original strength, has outlived all the storms of autumn. not a puncture, not a weak spot anywhere. this nut," he continued, with playful solemnity, "while so many of his brethren have fallen and been trodden under foot, is still in possession of all the happiness that a hazel nut can be supposed capable of." then returning to his former earnest tone--"my first wish for all whom i am interested in, is that they should be firm. if louisa musgrove would be beautiful and happy in her november of life, she will cherish all her present powers of mind." he had done, and was unanswered. it would have surprised anne if louisa could have readily answered such a speech: words of such interest, spoken with such serious warmth! she could imagine what louisa was feeling. for herself, she feared to move, lest she should be seen. while she remained, a bush of low rambling holly protected her, and they were moving on. before they were beyond her hearing, however, louisa spoke again. "mary is good-natured enough in many respects," said she; "but she does sometimes provoke me excessively, by her nonsense and pride--the elliot pride. she has a great deal too much of the elliot pride. we do so wish that charles had married anne instead. i suppose you know he wanted to marry anne?" after a moment's pause, captain wentworth said-- "do you mean that she refused him?" "oh! yes; certainly." "when did that happen?" "i do not exactly know, for henrietta and i were at school at the time; but i believe about a year before he married mary. i wish she had accepted him. we should all have liked her a great deal better; and papa and mamma always think it was her great friend lady russell's doing, that she did not. they think charles might not be learned and bookish enough to please lady russell, and that therefore, she persuaded anne to refuse him." the sounds were retreating, and anne distinguished no more. her own emotions still kept her fixed. she had much to recover from, before she could move. the listener's proverbial fate was not absolutely hers; she had heard no evil of herself, but she had heard a great deal of very painful import. she saw how her own character was considered by captain wentworth, and there had been just that degree of feeling and curiosity about her in his manner which must give her extreme agitation. as soon as she could, she went after mary, and having found, and walked back with her to their former station, by the stile, felt some comfort in their whole party being immediately afterwards collected, and once more in motion together. her spirits wanted the solitude and silence which only numbers could give. charles and henrietta returned, bringing, as may be conjectured, charles hayter with them. the minutiae of the business anne could not attempt to understand; even captain wentworth did not seem admitted to perfect confidence here; but that there had been a withdrawing on the gentleman's side, and a relenting on the lady's, and that they were now very glad to be together again, did not admit a doubt. henrietta looked a little ashamed, but very well pleased;--charles hayter exceedingly happy: and they were devoted to each other almost from the first instant of their all setting forward for uppercross. everything now marked out louisa for captain wentworth; nothing could be plainer; and where many divisions were necessary, or even where they were not, they walked side by side nearly as much as the other two. in a long strip of meadow land, where there was ample space for all, they were thus divided, forming three distinct parties; and to that party of the three which boasted least animation, and least complaisance, anne necessarily belonged. she joined charles and mary, and was tired enough to be very glad of charles's other arm; but charles, though in very good humour with her, was out of temper with his wife. mary had shewn herself disobliging to him, and was now to reap the consequence, which consequence was his dropping her arm almost every moment to cut off the heads of some nettles in the hedge with his switch; and when mary began to complain of it, and lament her being ill-used, according to custom, in being on the hedge side, while anne was never incommoded on the other, he dropped the arms of both to hunt after a weasel which he had a momentary glance of, and they could hardly get him along at all. this long meadow bordered a lane, which their footpath, at the end of it was to cross, and when the party had all reached the gate of exit, the carriage advancing in the same direction, which had been some time heard, was just coming up, and proved to be admiral croft's gig. he and his wife had taken their intended drive, and were returning home. upon hearing how long a walk the young people had engaged in, they kindly offered a seat to any lady who might be particularly tired; it would save her a full mile, and they were going through uppercross. the invitation was general, and generally declined. the miss musgroves were not at all tired, and mary was either offended, by not being asked before any of the others, or what louisa called the elliot pride could not endure to make a third in a one horse chaise. the walking party had crossed the lane, and were surmounting an opposite stile, and the admiral was putting his horse in motion again, when captain wentworth cleared the hedge in a moment to say something to his sister. the something might be guessed by its effects. "miss elliot, i am sure you are tired," cried mrs croft. "do let us have the pleasure of taking you home. here is excellent room for three, i assure you. if we were all like you, i believe we might sit four. you must, indeed, you must." anne was still in the lane; and though instinctively beginning to decline, she was not allowed to proceed. the admiral's kind urgency came in support of his wife's; they would not be refused; they compressed themselves into the smallest possible space to leave her a corner, and captain wentworth, without saying a word, turned to her, and quietly obliged her to be assisted into the carriage. yes; he had done it. she was in the carriage, and felt that he had placed her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she owed it to his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give her rest. she was very much affected by the view of his disposition towards her, which all these things made apparent. this little circumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before. she understood him. he could not forgive her, but he could not be unfeeling. though condemning her for the past, and considering it with high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer, without the desire of giving her relief. it was a remainder of former sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that she knew not which prevailed. her answers to the kindness and the remarks of her companions were at first unconsciously given. they had travelled half their way along the rough lane, before she was quite awake to what they said. she then found them talking of "frederick." "he certainly means to have one or other of those two girls, sophy," said the admiral; "but there is no saying which. he has been running after them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. ay, this comes of the peace. if it were war now, he would have settled it long ago. we sailors, miss elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war. how many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at north yarmouth?" "we had better not talk about it, my dear," replied mrs croft, pleasantly; "for if miss elliot were to hear how soon we came to an understanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy together. i had known you by character, however, long before." "well, and i had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we to wait for besides? i do not like having such things so long in hand. i wish frederick would spread a little more canvass, and bring us home one of these young ladies to kellynch. then there would always be company for them. and very nice young ladies they both are; i hardly know one from the other." "very good humoured, unaffected girls, indeed," said mrs croft, in a tone of calmer praise, such as made anne suspect that her keener powers might not consider either of them as quite worthy of her brother; "and a very respectable family. one could not be connected with better people. my dear admiral, that post! we shall certainly take that post." but by coolly giving the reins a better direction herself they happily passed the danger; and by once afterwards judiciously putting out her hand they neither fell into a rut, nor ran foul of a dung-cart; and anne, with some amusement at their style of driving, which she imagined no bad representation of the general guidance of their affairs, found herself safely deposited by them at the cottage. chapter the time now approached for lady russell's return: the day was even fixed; and anne, being engaged to join her as soon as she was resettled, was looking forward to an early removal to kellynch, and beginning to think how her own comfort was likely to be affected by it. it would place her in the same village with captain wentworth, within half a mile of him; they would have to frequent the same church, and there must be intercourse between the two families. this was against her; but on the other hand, he spent so much of his time at uppercross, that in removing thence she might be considered rather as leaving him behind, than as going towards him; and, upon the whole, she believed she must, on this interesting question, be the gainer, almost as certainly as in her change of domestic society, in leaving poor mary for lady russell. she wished it might be possible for her to avoid ever seeing captain wentworth at the hall: those rooms had witnessed former meetings which would be brought too painfully before her; but she was yet more anxious for the possibility of lady russell and captain wentworth never meeting anywhere. they did not like each other, and no renewal of acquaintance now could do any good; and were lady russell to see them together, she might think that he had too much self-possession, and she too little. these points formed her chief solicitude in anticipating her removal from uppercross, where she felt she had been stationed quite long enough. her usefulness to little charles would always give some sweetness to the memory of her two months' visit there, but he was gaining strength apace, and she had nothing else to stay for. the conclusion of her visit, however, was diversified in a way which she had not at all imagined. captain wentworth, after being unseen and unheard of at uppercross for two whole days, appeared again among them to justify himself by a relation of what had kept him away. a letter from his friend, captain harville, having found him out at last, had brought intelligence of captain harville's being settled with his family at lyme for the winter; of their being therefore, quite unknowingly, within twenty miles of each other. captain harville had never been in good health since a severe wound which he received two years before, and captain wentworth's anxiety to see him had determined him to go immediately to lyme. he had been there for four-and-twenty hours. his acquittal was complete, his friendship warmly honoured, a lively interest excited for his friend, and his description of the fine country about lyme so feelingly attended to by the party, that an earnest desire to see lyme themselves, and a project for going thither was the consequence. the young people were all wild to see lyme. captain wentworth talked of going there again himself, it was only seventeen miles from uppercross; though november, the weather was by no means bad; and, in short, louisa, who was the most eager of the eager, having formed the resolution to go, and besides the pleasure of doing as she liked, being now armed with the idea of merit in maintaining her own way, bore down all the wishes of her father and mother for putting it off till summer; and to lyme they were to go--charles, mary, anne, henrietta, louisa, and captain wentworth. the first heedless scheme had been to go in the morning and return at night; but to this mr musgrove, for the sake of his horses, would not consent; and when it came to be rationally considered, a day in the middle of november would not leave much time for seeing a new place, after deducting seven hours, as the nature of the country required, for going and returning. they were, consequently, to stay the night there, and not to be expected back till the next day's dinner. this was felt to be a considerable amendment; and though they all met at the great house at rather an early breakfast hour, and set off very punctually, it was so much past noon before the two carriages, mr musgrove's coach containing the four ladies, and charles's curricle, in which he drove captain wentworth, were descending the long hill into lyme, and entering upon the still steeper street of the town itself, that it was very evident they would not have more than time for looking about them, before the light and warmth of the day were gone. after securing accommodations, and ordering a dinner at one of the inns, the next thing to be done was unquestionably to walk directly down to the sea. they were come too late in the year for any amusement or variety which lyme, as a public place, might offer. the rooms were shut up, the lodgers almost all gone, scarcely any family but of the residents left; and, as there is nothing to admire in the buildings themselves, the remarkable situation of the town, the principal street almost hurrying into the water, the walk to the cobb, skirting round the pleasant little bay, which, in the season, is animated with bathing machines and company; the cobb itself, its old wonders and new improvements, with the very beautiful line of cliffs stretching out to the east of the town, are what the stranger's eye will seek; and a very strange stranger it must be, who does not see charms in the immediate environs of lyme, to make him wish to know it better. the scenes in its neighbourhood, charmouth, with its high grounds and extensive sweeps of country, and still more, its sweet, retired bay, backed by dark cliffs, where fragments of low rock among the sands, make it the happiest spot for watching the flow of the tide, for sitting in unwearied contemplation; the woody varieties of the cheerful village of up lyme; and, above all, pinny, with its green chasms between romantic rocks, where the scattered forest trees and orchards of luxuriant growth, declare that many a generation must have passed away since the first partial falling of the cliff prepared the ground for such a state, where a scene so wonderful and so lovely is exhibited, as may more than equal any of the resembling scenes of the far-famed isle of wight: these places must be visited, and visited again, to make the worth of lyme understood. the party from uppercross passing down by the now deserted and melancholy looking rooms, and still descending, soon found themselves on the sea-shore; and lingering only, as all must linger and gaze on a first return to the sea, who ever deserved to look on it at all, proceeded towards the cobb, equally their object in itself and on captain wentworth's account: for in a small house, near the foot of an old pier of unknown date, were the harvilles settled. captain wentworth turned in to call on his friend; the others walked on, and he was to join them on the cobb. they were by no means tired of wondering and admiring; and not even louisa seemed to feel that they had parted with captain wentworth long, when they saw him coming after them, with three companions, all well known already, by description, to be captain and mrs harville, and a captain benwick, who was staying with them. captain benwick had some time ago been first lieutenant of the laconia; and the account which captain wentworth had given of him, on his return from lyme before, his warm praise of him as an excellent young man and an officer, whom he had always valued highly, which must have stamped him well in the esteem of every listener, had been followed by a little history of his private life, which rendered him perfectly interesting in the eyes of all the ladies. he had been engaged to captain harville's sister, and was now mourning her loss. they had been a year or two waiting for fortune and promotion. fortune came, his prize-money as lieutenant being great; promotion, too, came at last; but fanny harville did not live to know it. she had died the preceding summer while he was at sea. captain wentworth believed it impossible for man to be more attached to woman than poor benwick had been to fanny harville, or to be more deeply afflicted under the dreadful change. he considered his disposition as of the sort which must suffer heavily, uniting very strong feelings with quiet, serious, and retiring manners, and a decided taste for reading, and sedentary pursuits. to finish the interest of the story, the friendship between him and the harvilles seemed, if possible, augmented by the event which closed all their views of alliance, and captain benwick was now living with them entirely. captain harville had taken his present house for half a year; his taste, and his health, and his fortune, all directing him to a residence inexpensive, and by the sea; and the grandeur of the country, and the retirement of lyme in the winter, appeared exactly adapted to captain benwick's state of mind. the sympathy and good-will excited towards captain benwick was very great. "and yet," said anne to herself, as they now moved forward to meet the party, "he has not, perhaps, a more sorrowing heart than i have. i cannot believe his prospects so blighted for ever. he is younger than i am; younger in feeling, if not in fact; younger as a man. he will rally again, and be happy with another." they all met, and were introduced. captain harville was a tall, dark man, with a sensible, benevolent countenance; a little lame; and from strong features and want of health, looking much older than captain wentworth. captain benwick looked, and was, the youngest of the three, and, compared with either of them, a little man. he had a pleasing face and a melancholy air, just as he ought to have, and drew back from conversation. captain harville, though not equalling captain wentworth in manners, was a perfect gentleman, unaffected, warm, and obliging. mrs harville, a degree less polished than her husband, seemed, however, to have the same good feelings; and nothing could be more pleasant than their desire of considering the whole party as friends of their own, because the friends of captain wentworth, or more kindly hospitable than their entreaties for their all promising to dine with them. the dinner, already ordered at the inn, was at last, though unwillingly, accepted as a excuse; but they seemed almost hurt that captain wentworth should have brought any such party to lyme, without considering it as a thing of course that they should dine with them. there was so much attachment to captain wentworth in all this, and such a bewitching charm in a degree of hospitality so uncommon, so unlike the usual style of give-and-take invitations, and dinners of formality and display, that anne felt her spirits not likely to be benefited by an increasing acquaintance among his brother-officers. "these would have been all my friends," was her thought; and she had to struggle against a great tendency to lowness. on quitting the cobb, they all went in-doors with their new friends, and found rooms so small as none but those who invite from the heart could think capable of accommodating so many. anne had a moment's astonishment on the subject herself; but it was soon lost in the pleasanter feelings which sprang from the sight of all the ingenious contrivances and nice arrangements of captain harville, to turn the actual space to the best account, to supply the deficiencies of lodging-house furniture, and defend the windows and doors against the winter storms to be expected. the varieties in the fitting-up of the rooms, where the common necessaries provided by the owner, in the common indifferent plight, were contrasted with some few articles of a rare species of wood, excellently worked up, and with something curious and valuable from all the distant countries captain harville had visited, were more than amusing to anne; connected as it all was with his profession, the fruit of its labours, the effect of its influence on his habits, the picture of repose and domestic happiness it presented, made it to her a something more, or less, than gratification. captain harville was no reader; but he had contrived excellent accommodations, and fashioned very pretty shelves, for a tolerable collection of well-bound volumes, the property of captain benwick. his lameness prevented him from taking much exercise; but a mind of usefulness and ingenuity seemed to furnish him with constant employment within. he drew, he varnished, he carpentered, he glued; he made toys for the children; he fashioned new netting-needles and pins with improvements; and if everything else was done, sat down to his large fishing-net at one corner of the room. anne thought she left great happiness behind her when they quitted the house; and louisa, by whom she found herself walking, burst forth into raptures of admiration and delight on the character of the navy; their friendliness, their brotherliness, their openness, their uprightness; protesting that she was convinced of sailors having more worth and warmth than any other set of men in england; that they only knew how to live, and they only deserved to be respected and loved. they went back to dress and dine; and so well had the scheme answered already, that nothing was found amiss; though its being "so entirely out of season," and the "no thoroughfare of lyme," and the "no expectation of company," had brought many apologies from the heads of the inn. anne found herself by this time growing so much more hardened to being in captain wentworth's company than she had at first imagined could ever be, that the sitting down to the same table with him now, and the interchange of the common civilities attending on it (they never got beyond), was become a mere nothing. the nights were too dark for the ladies to meet again till the morrow, but captain harville had promised them a visit in the evening; and he came, bringing his friend also, which was more than had been expected, it having been agreed that captain benwick had all the appearance of being oppressed by the presence of so many strangers. he ventured among them again, however, though his spirits certainly did not seem fit for the mirth of the party in general. while captains wentworth and harville led the talk on one side of the room, and by recurring to former days, supplied anecdotes in abundance to occupy and entertain the others, it fell to anne's lot to be placed rather apart with captain benwick; and a very good impulse of her nature obliged her to begin an acquaintance with him. he was shy, and disposed to abstraction; but the engaging mildness of her countenance, and gentleness of her manners, soon had their effect; and anne was well repaid the first trouble of exertion. he was evidently a young man of considerable taste in reading, though principally in poetry; and besides the persuasion of having given him at least an evening's indulgence in the discussion of subjects, which his usual companions had probably no concern in, she had the hope of being of real use to him in some suggestions as to the duty and benefit of struggling against affliction, which had naturally grown out of their conversation. for, though shy, he did not seem reserved; it had rather the appearance of feelings glad to burst their usual restraints; and having talked of poetry, the richness of the present age, and gone through a brief comparison of opinion as to the first-rate poets, trying to ascertain whether marmion or the lady of the lake were to be preferred, and how ranked the giaour and the bride of abydos; and moreover, how the giaour was to be pronounced, he showed himself so intimately acquainted with all the tenderest songs of the one poet, and all the impassioned descriptions of hopeless agony of the other; he repeated, with such tremulous feeling, the various lines which imaged a broken heart, or a mind destroyed by wretchedness, and looked so entirely as if he meant to be understood, that she ventured to hope he did not always read only poetry, and to say, that she thought it was the misfortune of poetry to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoyed it completely; and that the strong feelings which alone could estimate it truly were the very feelings which ought to taste it but sparingly. his looks shewing him not pained, but pleased with this allusion to his situation, she was emboldened to go on; and feeling in herself the right of seniority of mind, she ventured to recommend a larger allowance of prose in his daily study; and on being requested to particularize, mentioned such works of our best moralists, such collections of the finest letters, such memoirs of characters of worth and suffering, as occurred to her at the moment as calculated to rouse and fortify the mind by the highest precepts, and the strongest examples of moral and religious endurances. captain benwick listened attentively, and seemed grateful for the interest implied; and though with a shake of the head, and sighs which declared his little faith in the efficacy of any books on grief like his, noted down the names of those she recommended, and promised to procure and read them. when the evening was over, anne could not but be amused at the idea of her coming to lyme to preach patience and resignation to a young man whom she had never seen before; nor could she help fearing, on more serious reflection, that, like many other great moralists and preachers, she had been eloquent on a point in which her own conduct would ill bear examination. chapter anne and henrietta, finding themselves the earliest of the party the next morning, agreed to stroll down to the sea before breakfast. they went to the sands, to watch the flowing of the tide, which a fine south-easterly breeze was bringing in with all the grandeur which so flat a shore admitted. they praised the morning; gloried in the sea; sympathized in the delight of the fresh-feeling breeze--and were silent; till henrietta suddenly began again with-- "oh! yes,--i am quite convinced that, with very few exceptions, the sea-air always does good. there can be no doubt of its having been of the greatest service to dr shirley, after his illness, last spring twelve-month. he declares himself, that coming to lyme for a month, did him more good than all the medicine he took; and, that being by the sea, always makes him feel young again. now, i cannot help thinking it a pity that he does not live entirely by the sea. i do think he had better leave uppercross entirely, and fix at lyme. do not you, anne? do not you agree with me, that it is the best thing he could do, both for himself and mrs shirley? she has cousins here, you know, and many acquaintance, which would make it cheerful for her, and i am sure she would be glad to get to a place where she could have medical attendance at hand, in case of his having another seizure. indeed i think it quite melancholy to have such excellent people as dr and mrs shirley, who have been doing good all their lives, wearing out their last days in a place like uppercross, where, excepting our family, they seem shut out from all the world. i wish his friends would propose it to him. i really think they ought. and, as to procuring a dispensation, there could be no difficulty at his time of life, and with his character. my only doubt is, whether anything could persuade him to leave his parish. he is so very strict and scrupulous in his notions; over-scrupulous i must say. do not you think, anne, it is being over-scrupulous? do not you think it is quite a mistaken point of conscience, when a clergyman sacrifices his health for the sake of duties, which may be just as well performed by another person? and at lyme too, only seventeen miles off, he would be near enough to hear, if people thought there was anything to complain of." anne smiled more than once to herself during this speech, and entered into the subject, as ready to do good by entering into the feelings of a young lady as of a young man, though here it was good of a lower standard, for what could be offered but general acquiescence? she said all that was reasonable and proper on the business; felt the claims of dr shirley to repose as she ought; saw how very desirable it was that he should have some active, respectable young man, as a resident curate, and was even courteous enough to hint at the advantage of such resident curate's being married. "i wish," said henrietta, very well pleased with her companion, "i wish lady russell lived at uppercross, and were intimate with dr shirley. i have always heard of lady russell as a woman of the greatest influence with everybody! i always look upon her as able to persuade a person to anything! i am afraid of her, as i have told you before, quite afraid of her, because she is so very clever; but i respect her amazingly, and wish we had such a neighbour at uppercross." anne was amused by henrietta's manner of being grateful, and amused also that the course of events and the new interests of henrietta's views should have placed her friend at all in favour with any of the musgrove family; she had only time, however, for a general answer, and a wish that such another woman were at uppercross, before all subjects suddenly ceased, on seeing louisa and captain wentworth coming towards them. they came also for a stroll till breakfast was likely to be ready; but louisa recollecting, immediately afterwards that she had something to procure at a shop, invited them all to go back with her into the town. they were all at her disposal. when they came to the steps, leading upwards from the beach, a gentleman, at the same moment preparing to come down, politely drew back, and stopped to give them way. they ascended and passed him; and as they passed, anne's face caught his eye, and he looked at her with a degree of earnest admiration, which she could not be insensible of. she was looking remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty features, having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine wind which had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of eye which it had also produced. it was evident that the gentleman, (completely a gentleman in manner) admired her exceedingly. captain wentworth looked round at her instantly in a way which shewed his noticing of it. he gave her a momentary glance, a glance of brightness, which seemed to say, "that man is struck with you, and even i, at this moment, see something like anne elliot again." after attending louisa through her business, and loitering about a little longer, they returned to the inn; and anne, in passing afterwards quickly from her own chamber to their dining-room, had nearly run against the very same gentleman, as he came out of an adjoining apartment. she had before conjectured him to be a stranger like themselves, and determined that a well-looking groom, who was strolling about near the two inns as they came back, should be his servant. both master and man being in mourning assisted the idea. it was now proved that he belonged to the same inn as themselves; and this second meeting, short as it was, also proved again by the gentleman's looks, that he thought hers very lovely, and by the readiness and propriety of his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good manners. he seemed about thirty, and though not handsome, had an agreeable person. anne felt that she should like to know who he was. they had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a carriage, (almost the first they had heard since entering lyme) drew half the party to the window. it was a gentleman's carriage, a curricle, but only coming round from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going away. it was driven by a servant in mourning. the word curricle made charles musgrove jump up that he might compare it with his own; the servant in mourning roused anne's curiosity, and the whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the curricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and civilities of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off. "ah!" cried captain wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at anne, "it is the very man we passed." the miss musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as far up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table. the waiter came into the room soon afterwards. "pray," said captain wentworth, immediately, "can you tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone away?" "yes, sir, a mr elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last night from sidmouth. dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner; and going on now for crewkherne, in his way to bath and london." "elliot!" many had looked on each other, and many had repeated the name, before all this had been got through, even by the smart rapidity of a waiter. "bless me!" cried mary; "it must be our cousin; it must be our mr elliot, it must, indeed! charles, anne, must not it? in mourning, you see, just as our mr elliot must be. how very extraordinary! in the very same inn with us! anne, must not it be our mr elliot? my father's next heir? pray sir," turning to the waiter, "did not you hear, did not his servant say whether he belonged to the kellynch family?" "no, ma'am, he did not mention no particular family; but he said his master was a very rich gentleman, and would be a baronight some day." "there! you see!" cried mary in an ecstasy, "just as i said! heir to sir walter elliot! i was sure that would come out, if it was so. depend upon it, that is a circumstance which his servants take care to publish, wherever he goes. but, anne, only conceive how extraordinary! i wish i had looked at him more. i wish we had been aware in time, who it was, that he might have been introduced to us. what a pity that we should not have been introduced to each other! do you think he had the elliot countenance? i hardly looked at him, i was looking at the horses; but i think he had something of the elliot countenance, i wonder the arms did not strike me! oh! the great-coat was hanging over the panel, and hid the arms, so it did; otherwise, i am sure, i should have observed them, and the livery too; if the servant had not been in mourning, one should have known him by the livery." "putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together," said captain wentworth, "we must consider it to be the arrangement of providence, that you should not be introduced to your cousin." when she could command mary's attention, anne quietly tried to convince her that their father and mr elliot had not, for many years, been on such terms as to make the power of attempting an introduction at all desirable. at the same time, however, it was a secret gratification to herself to have seen her cousin, and to know that the future owner of kellynch was undoubtedly a gentleman, and had an air of good sense. she would not, upon any account, mention her having met with him the second time; luckily mary did not much attend to their having passed close by him in their earlier walk, but she would have felt quite ill-used by anne's having actually run against him in the passage, and received his very polite excuses, while she had never been near him at all; no, that cousinly little interview must remain a perfect secret. "of course," said mary, "you will mention our seeing mr elliot, the next time you write to bath. i think my father certainly ought to hear of it; do mention all about him." anne avoided a direct reply, but it was just the circumstance which she considered as not merely unnecessary to be communicated, but as what ought to be suppressed. the offence which had been given her father, many years back, she knew; elizabeth's particular share in it she suspected; and that mr elliot's idea always produced irritation in both was beyond a doubt. mary never wrote to bath herself; all the toil of keeping up a slow and unsatisfactory correspondence with elizabeth fell on anne. breakfast had not been long over, when they were joined by captain and mrs harville and captain benwick; with whom they had appointed to take their last walk about lyme. they ought to be setting off for uppercross by one, and in the meanwhile were to be all together, and out of doors as long as they could. anne found captain benwick getting near her, as soon as they were all fairly in the street. their conversation the preceding evening did not disincline him to seek her again; and they walked together some time, talking as before of mr scott and lord byron, and still as unable as before, and as unable as any other two readers, to think exactly alike of the merits of either, till something occasioned an almost general change amongst their party, and instead of captain benwick, she had captain harville by her side. "miss elliot," said he, speaking rather low, "you have done a good deed in making that poor fellow talk so much. i wish he could have such company oftener. it is bad for him, i know, to be shut up as he is; but what can we do? we cannot part." "no," said anne, "that i can easily believe to be impossible; but in time, perhaps--we know what time does in every case of affliction, and you must remember, captain harville, that your friend may yet be called a young mourner--only last summer, i understand." "ay, true enough," (with a deep sigh) "only june." "and not known to him, perhaps, so soon." "not till the first week of august, when he came home from the cape, just made into the grappler. i was at plymouth dreading to hear of him; he sent in letters, but the grappler was under orders for portsmouth. there the news must follow him, but who was to tell it? not i. i would as soon have been run up to the yard-arm. nobody could do it, but that good fellow" (pointing to captain wentworth.) "the laconia had come into plymouth the week before; no danger of her being sent to sea again. he stood his chance for the rest; wrote up for leave of absence, but without waiting the return, travelled night and day till he got to portsmouth, rowed off to the grappler that instant, and never left the poor fellow for a week. that's what he did, and nobody else could have saved poor james. you may think, miss elliot, whether he is dear to us!" anne did think on the question with perfect decision, and said as much in reply as her own feeling could accomplish, or as his seemed able to bear, for he was too much affected to renew the subject, and when he spoke again, it was of something totally different. mrs harville's giving it as her opinion that her husband would have quite walking enough by the time he reached home, determined the direction of all the party in what was to be their last walk; they would accompany them to their door, and then return and set off themselves. by all their calculations there was just time for this; but as they drew near the cobb, there was such a general wish to walk along it once more, all were so inclined, and louisa soon grew so determined, that the difference of a quarter of an hour, it was found, would be no difference at all; so with all the kind leave-taking, and all the kind interchange of invitations and promises which may be imagined, they parted from captain and mrs harville at their own door, and still accompanied by captain benwick, who seemed to cling to them to the last, proceeded to make the proper adieus to the cobb. anne found captain benwick again drawing near her. lord byron's "dark blue seas" could not fail of being brought forward by their present view, and she gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention was possible. it was soon drawn, perforce another way. there was too much wind to make the high part of the new cobb pleasant for the ladies, and they agreed to get down the steps to the lower, and all were contented to pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight, excepting louisa; she must be jumped down them by captain wentworth. in all their walks, he had had to jump her from the stiles; the sensation was delightful to her. the hardness of the pavement for her feet, made him less willing upon the present occasion; he did it, however. she was safely down, and instantly, to show her enjoyment, ran up the steps to be jumped down again. he advised her against it, thought the jar too great; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she smiled and said, "i am determined i will:" he put out his hands; she was too precipitate by half a second, she fell on the pavement on the lower cobb, and was taken up lifeless! there was no wound, no blood, no visible bruise; but her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face was like death. the horror of the moment to all who stood around! captain wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms, looking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of silence. "she is dead! she is dead!" screamed mary, catching hold of her husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him immoveable; and in another moment, henrietta, sinking under the conviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps, but for captain benwick and anne, who caught and supported her between them. "is there no one to help me?" were the first words which burst from captain wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength were gone. "go to him, go to him," cried anne, "for heaven's sake go to him. i can support her myself. leave me, and go to him. rub her hands, rub her temples; here are salts; take them, take them." captain benwick obeyed, and charles at the same moment, disengaging himself from his wife, they were both with him; and louisa was raised up and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that anne had prompted, but in vain; while captain wentworth, staggering against the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony-- "oh god! her father and mother!" "a surgeon!" said anne. he caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only-- "true, true, a surgeon this instant," was darting away, when anne eagerly suggested-- "captain benwick, would not it be better for captain benwick? he knows where a surgeon is to be found." every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid moments) captain benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity. as to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which of the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: captain wentworth, anne, or charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give. anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet mary, to animate charles, to assuage the feelings of captain wentworth. both seemed to look to her for directions. "anne, anne," cried charles, "what is to be done next? what, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" captain wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "had not she better be carried to the inn? yes, i am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "yes, yes, to the inn," repeated captain wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "i will carry her myself. musgrove, take care of the others." by this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. to some of the best-looking of these good people henrietta was consigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this manner, anne walking by her side, and charles attending to his wife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the ground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they had passed along. they were not off the cobb, before the harvilles met them. captain benwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which showed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately, informed and directed as they passed, towards the spot. shocked as captain harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be instantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was to be done. she must be taken to their house; all must go to their house; and await the surgeon's arrival there. they would not listen to scruples: he was obeyed; they were all beneath his roof; and while louisa, under mrs harville's direction, was conveyed up stairs, and given possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives were supplied by her husband to all who needed them. louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness. this had been a proof of life, however, of service to her sister; and henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same room with louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return of her own insensibility. mary, too, was growing calmer. the surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. they were sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless. the head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from: he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully. that he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a few hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and the ecstasy of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a few fervent ejaculations of gratitude to heaven had been offered, may be conceived. the tone, the look, with which "thank god!" was uttered by captain wentworth, anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight of him afterwards, as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded arms and face concealed, as if overpowered by the various feelings of his soul, and trying by prayer and reflection to calm them. louisa's limbs had escaped. there was no injury but to the head. it now became necessary for the party to consider what was best to be done, as to their general situation. they were now able to speak to each other and consult. that louisa must remain where she was, however distressing to her friends to be involving the harvilles in such trouble, did not admit a doubt. her removal was impossible. the harvilles silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all gratitude. they had looked forward and arranged everything before the others began to reflect. captain benwick must give up his room to them, and get another bed elsewhere; and the whole was settled. they were only concerned that the house could accommodate no more; and yet perhaps, by "putting the children away in the maid's room, or swinging a cot somewhere," they could hardly bear to think of not finding room for two or three besides, supposing they might wish to stay; though, with regard to any attendance on miss musgrove, there need not be the least uneasiness in leaving her to mrs harville's care entirely. mrs harville was a very experienced nurse, and her nursery-maid, who had lived with her long, and gone about with her everywhere, was just such another. between these two, she could want no possible attendance by day or night. and all this was said with a truth and sincerity of feeling irresistible. charles, henrietta, and captain wentworth were the three in consultation, and for a little while it was only an interchange of perplexity and terror. "uppercross, the necessity of some one's going to uppercross; the news to be conveyed; how it could be broken to mr and mrs musgrove; the lateness of the morning; an hour already gone since they ought to have been off; the impossibility of being in tolerable time." at first, they were capable of nothing more to the purpose than such exclamations; but, after a while, captain wentworth, exerting himself, said-- "we must be decided, and without the loss of another minute. every minute is valuable. some one must resolve on being off for uppercross instantly. musgrove, either you or i must go." charles agreed, but declared his resolution of not going away. he would be as little incumbrance as possible to captain and mrs harville; but as to leaving his sister in such a state, he neither ought, nor would. so far it was decided; and henrietta at first declared the same. she, however, was soon persuaded to think differently. the usefulness of her staying! she who had not been able to remain in louisa's room, or to look at her, without sufferings which made her worse than helpless! she was forced to acknowledge that she could do no good, yet was still unwilling to be away, till, touched by the thought of her father and mother, she gave it up; she consented, she was anxious to be at home. the plan had reached this point, when anne, coming quietly down from louisa's room, could not but hear what followed, for the parlour door was open. "then it is settled, musgrove," cried captain wentworth, "that you stay, and that i take care of your sister home. but as to the rest, as to the others, if one stays to assist mrs harville, i think it need be only one. mrs charles musgrove will, of course, wish to get back to her children; but if anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as anne." she paused a moment to recover from the emotion of hearing herself so spoken of. the other two warmly agreed with what he said, and she then appeared. "you will stay, i am sure; you will stay and nurse her;" cried he, turning to her and speaking with a glow, and yet a gentleness, which seemed almost restoring the past. she coloured deeply, and he recollected himself and moved away. she expressed herself most willing, ready, happy to remain. "it was what she had been thinking of, and wishing to be allowed to do. a bed on the floor in louisa's room would be sufficient for her, if mrs harville would but think so." one thing more, and all seemed arranged. though it was rather desirable that mr and mrs musgrove should be previously alarmed by some share of delay; yet the time required by the uppercross horses to take them back, would be a dreadful extension of suspense; and captain wentworth proposed, and charles musgrove agreed, that it would be much better for him to take a chaise from the inn, and leave mr musgrove's carriage and horses to be sent home the next morning early, when there would be the farther advantage of sending an account of louisa's night. captain wentworth now hurried off to get everything ready on his part, and to be soon followed by the two ladies. when the plan was made known to mary, however, there was an end of all peace in it. she was so wretched and so vehement, complained so much of injustice in being expected to go away instead of anne; anne, who was nothing to louisa, while she was her sister, and had the best right to stay in henrietta's stead! why was not she to be as useful as anne? and to go home without charles, too, without her husband! no, it was too unkind. and in short, she said more than her husband could long withstand, and as none of the others could oppose when he gave way, there was no help for it; the change of mary for anne was inevitable. anne had never submitted more reluctantly to the jealous and ill-judging claims of mary; but so it must be, and they set off for the town, charles taking care of his sister, and captain benwick attending to her. she gave a moment's recollection, as they hurried along, to the little circumstances which the same spots had witnessed earlier in the morning. there she had listened to henrietta's schemes for dr shirley's leaving uppercross; farther on, she had first seen mr elliot; a moment seemed all that could now be given to any one but louisa, or those who were wrapt up in her welfare. captain benwick was most considerately attentive to her; and, united as they all seemed by the distress of the day, she felt an increasing degree of good-will towards him, and a pleasure even in thinking that it might, perhaps, be the occasion of continuing their acquaintance. captain wentworth was on the watch for them, and a chaise and four in waiting, stationed for their convenience in the lowest part of the street; but his evident surprise and vexation at the substitution of one sister for the other, the change in his countenance, the astonishment, the expressions begun and suppressed, with which charles was listened to, made but a mortifying reception of anne; or must at least convince her that she was valued only as she could be useful to louisa. she endeavoured to be composed, and to be just. without emulating the feelings of an emma towards her henry, she would have attended on louisa with a zeal above the common claims of regard, for his sake; and she hoped he would not long be so unjust as to suppose she would shrink unnecessarily from the office of a friend. in the meanwhile she was in the carriage. he had handed them both in, and placed himself between them; and in this manner, under these circumstances, full of astonishment and emotion to anne, she quitted lyme. how the long stage would pass; how it was to affect their manners; what was to be their sort of intercourse, she could not foresee. it was all quite natural, however. he was devoted to henrietta; always turning towards her; and when he spoke at all, always with the view of supporting her hopes and raising her spirits. in general, his voice and manner were studiously calm. to spare henrietta from agitation seemed the governing principle. once only, when she had been grieving over the last ill-judged, ill-fated walk to the cobb, bitterly lamenting that it ever had been thought of, he burst forth, as if wholly overcome-- "don't talk of it, don't talk of it," he cried. "oh god! that i had not given way to her at the fatal moment! had i done as i ought! but so eager and so resolute! dear, sweet louisa!" anne wondered whether it ever occurred to him now, to question the justness of his own previous opinion as to the universal felicity and advantage of firmness of character; and whether it might not strike him that, like all other qualities of the mind, it should have its proportions and limits. she thought it could scarcely escape him to feel that a persuadable temper might sometimes be as much in favour of happiness as a very resolute character. they got on fast. anne was astonished to recognise the same hills and the same objects so soon. their actual speed, heightened by some dread of the conclusion, made the road appear but half as long as on the day before. it was growing quite dusk, however, before they were in the neighbourhood of uppercross, and there had been total silence among them for some time, henrietta leaning back in the corner, with a shawl over her face, giving the hope of her having cried herself to sleep; when, as they were going up their last hill, anne found herself all at once addressed by captain wentworth. in a low, cautious voice, he said:-- "i have been considering what we had best do. she must not appear at first. she could not stand it. i have been thinking whether you had not better remain in the carriage with her, while i go in and break it to mr and mrs musgrove. do you think this is a good plan?" she did: he was satisfied, and said no more. but the remembrance of the appeal remained a pleasure to her, as a proof of friendship, and of deference for her judgement, a great pleasure; and when it became a sort of parting proof, its value did not lessen. when the distressing communication at uppercross was over, and he had seen the father and mother quite as composed as could be hoped, and the daughter all the better for being with them, he announced his intention of returning in the same carriage to lyme; and when the horses were baited, he was off. (end of volume one.) chapter the remainder of anne's time at uppercross, comprehending only two days, was spent entirely at the mansion house; and she had the satisfaction of knowing herself extremely useful there, both as an immediate companion, and as assisting in all those arrangements for the future, which, in mr and mrs musgrove's distressed state of spirits, would have been difficulties. they had an early account from lyme the next morning. louisa was much the same. no symptoms worse than before had appeared. charles came a few hours afterwards, to bring a later and more particular account. he was tolerably cheerful. a speedy cure must not be hoped, but everything was going on as well as the nature of the case admitted. in speaking of the harvilles, he seemed unable to satisfy his own sense of their kindness, especially of mrs harville's exertions as a nurse. "she really left nothing for mary to do. he and mary had been persuaded to go early to their inn last night. mary had been hysterical again this morning. when he came away, she was going to walk out with captain benwick, which, he hoped, would do her good. he almost wished she had been prevailed on to come home the day before; but the truth was, that mrs harville left nothing for anybody to do." charles was to return to lyme the same afternoon, and his father had at first half a mind to go with him, but the ladies could not consent. it would be going only to multiply trouble to the others, and increase his own distress; and a much better scheme followed and was acted upon. a chaise was sent for from crewkherne, and charles conveyed back a far more useful person in the old nursery-maid of the family, one who having brought up all the children, and seen the very last, the lingering and long-petted master harry, sent to school after his brothers, was now living in her deserted nursery to mend stockings and dress all the blains and bruises she could get near her, and who, consequently, was only too happy in being allowed to go and help nurse dear miss louisa. vague wishes of getting sarah thither, had occurred before to mrs musgrove and henrietta; but without anne, it would hardly have been resolved on, and found practicable so soon. they were indebted, the next day, to charles hayter, for all the minute knowledge of louisa, which it was so essential to obtain every twenty-four hours. he made it his business to go to lyme, and his account was still encouraging. the intervals of sense and consciousness were believed to be stronger. every report agreed in captain wentworth's appearing fixed in lyme. anne was to leave them on the morrow, an event which they all dreaded. "what should they do without her? they were wretched comforters for one another." and so much was said in this way, that anne thought she could not do better than impart among them the general inclination to which she was privy, and persuaded them all to go to lyme at once. she had little difficulty; it was soon determined that they would go; go to-morrow, fix themselves at the inn, or get into lodgings, as it suited, and there remain till dear louisa could be moved. they must be taking off some trouble from the good people she was with; they might at least relieve mrs harville from the care of her own children; and in short, they were so happy in the decision, that anne was delighted with what she had done, and felt that she could not spend her last morning at uppercross better than in assisting their preparations, and sending them off at an early hour, though her being left to the solitary range of the house was the consequence. she was the last, excepting the little boys at the cottage, she was the very last, the only remaining one of all that had filled and animated both houses, of all that had given uppercross its cheerful character. a few days had made a change indeed! if louisa recovered, it would all be well again. more than former happiness would be restored. there could not be a doubt, to her mind there was none, of what would follow her recovery. a few months hence, and the room now so deserted, occupied but by her silent, pensive self, might be filled again with all that was happy and gay, all that was glowing and bright in prosperous love, all that was most unlike anne elliot! an hour's complete leisure for such reflections as these, on a dark november day, a small thick rain almost blotting out the very few objects ever to be discerned from the windows, was enough to make the sound of lady russell's carriage exceedingly welcome; and yet, though desirous to be gone, she could not quit the mansion house, or look an adieu to the cottage, with its black, dripping and comfortless veranda, or even notice through the misty glasses the last humble tenements of the village, without a saddened heart. scenes had passed in uppercross which made it precious. it stood the record of many sensations of pain, once severe, but now softened; and of some instances of relenting feeling, some breathings of friendship and reconciliation, which could never be looked for again, and which could never cease to be dear. she left it all behind her, all but the recollection that such things had been. anne had never entered kellynch since her quitting lady russell's house in september. it had not been necessary, and the few occasions of its being possible for her to go to the hall she had contrived to evade and escape from. her first return was to resume her place in the modern and elegant apartments of the lodge, and to gladden the eyes of its mistress. there was some anxiety mixed with lady russell's joy in meeting her. she knew who had been frequenting uppercross. but happily, either anne was improved in plumpness and looks, or lady russell fancied her so; and anne, in receiving her compliments on the occasion, had the amusement of connecting them with the silent admiration of her cousin, and of hoping that she was to be blessed with a second spring of youth and beauty. when they came to converse, she was soon sensible of some mental change. the subjects of which her heart had been full on leaving kellynch, and which she had felt slighted, and been compelled to smother among the musgroves, were now become but of secondary interest. she had lately lost sight even of her father and sister and bath. their concerns had been sunk under those of uppercross; and when lady russell reverted to their former hopes and fears, and spoke her satisfaction in the house in camden place, which had been taken, and her regret that mrs clay should still be with them, anne would have been ashamed to have it known how much more she was thinking of lyme and louisa musgrove, and all her acquaintance there; how much more interesting to her was the home and the friendship of the harvilles and captain benwick, than her own father's house in camden place, or her own sister's intimacy with mrs clay. she was actually forced to exert herself to meet lady russell with anything like the appearance of equal solicitude, on topics which had by nature the first claim on her. there was a little awkwardness at first in their discourse on another subject. they must speak of the accident at lyme. lady russell had not been arrived five minutes the day before, when a full account of the whole had burst on her; but still it must be talked of, she must make enquiries, she must regret the imprudence, lament the result, and captain wentworth's name must be mentioned by both. anne was conscious of not doing it so well as lady russell. she could not speak the name, and look straight forward to lady russell's eye, till she had adopted the expedient of telling her briefly what she thought of the attachment between him and louisa. when this was told, his name distressed her no longer. lady russell had only to listen composedly, and wish them happy, but internally her heart revelled in angry pleasure, in pleased contempt, that the man who at twenty-three had seemed to understand somewhat of the value of an anne elliot, should, eight years afterwards, be charmed by a louisa musgrove. the first three or four days passed most quietly, with no circumstance to mark them excepting the receipt of a note or two from lyme, which found their way to anne, she could not tell how, and brought a rather improving account of louisa. at the end of that period, lady russell's politeness could repose no longer, and the fainter self-threatenings of the past became in a decided tone, "i must call on mrs croft; i really must call upon her soon. anne, have you courage to go with me, and pay a visit in that house? it will be some trial to us both." anne did not shrink from it; on the contrary, she truly felt as she said, in observing-- "i think you are very likely to suffer the most of the two; your feelings are less reconciled to the change than mine. by remaining in the neighbourhood, i am become inured to it." she could have said more on the subject; for she had in fact so high an opinion of the crofts, and considered her father so very fortunate in his tenants, felt the parish to be so sure of a good example, and the poor of the best attention and relief, that however sorry and ashamed for the necessity of the removal, she could not but in conscience feel that they were gone who deserved not to stay, and that kellynch hall had passed into better hands than its owners'. these convictions must unquestionably have their own pain, and severe was its kind; but they precluded that pain which lady russell would suffer in entering the house again, and returning through the well-known apartments. in such moments anne had no power of saying to herself, "these rooms ought to belong only to us. oh, how fallen in their destination! how unworthily occupied! an ancient family to be so driven away! strangers filling their place!" no, except when she thought of her mother, and remembered where she had been used to sit and preside, she had no sigh of that description to heave. mrs croft always met her with a kindness which gave her the pleasure of fancying herself a favourite, and on the present occasion, receiving her in that house, there was particular attention. the sad accident at lyme was soon the prevailing topic, and on comparing their latest accounts of the invalid, it appeared that each lady dated her intelligence from the same hour of yestermorn; that captain wentworth had been in kellynch yesterday (the first time since the accident), had brought anne the last note, which she had not been able to trace the exact steps of; had staid a few hours and then returned again to lyme, and without any present intention of quitting it any more. he had enquired after her, she found, particularly; had expressed his hope of miss elliot's not being the worse for her exertions, and had spoken of those exertions as great. this was handsome, and gave her more pleasure than almost anything else could have done. as to the sad catastrophe itself, it could be canvassed only in one style by a couple of steady, sensible women, whose judgements had to work on ascertained events; and it was perfectly decided that it had been the consequence of much thoughtlessness and much imprudence; that its effects were most alarming, and that it was frightful to think, how long miss musgrove's recovery might yet be doubtful, and how liable she would still remain to suffer from the concussion hereafter! the admiral wound it up summarily by exclaiming-- "ay, a very bad business indeed. a new sort of way this, for a young fellow to be making love, by breaking his mistress's head, is not it, miss elliot? this is breaking a head and giving a plaster, truly!" admiral croft's manners were not quite of the tone to suit lady russell, but they delighted anne. his goodness of heart and simplicity of character were irresistible. "now, this must be very bad for you," said he, suddenly rousing from a little reverie, "to be coming and finding us here. i had not recollected it before, i declare, but it must be very bad. but now, do not stand upon ceremony. get up and go over all the rooms in the house if you like it." "another time, sir, i thank you, not now." "well, whenever it suits you. you can slip in from the shrubbery at any time; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by that door. a good place is not it? but," (checking himself), "you will not think it a good place, for yours were always kept in the butler's room. ay, so it always is, i believe. one man's ways may be as good as another's, but we all like our own best. and so you must judge for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the house or not." anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully. "we have made very few changes either," continued the admiral, after thinking a moment. "very few. we told you about the laundry-door, at uppercross. that has been a very great improvement. the wonder was, how any family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its opening as it did, so long! you will tell sir walter what we have done, and that mr shepherd thinks it the greatest improvement the house ever had. indeed, i must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few alterations we have made have been all very much for the better. my wife should have the credit of them, however. i have done very little besides sending away some of the large looking-glasses from my dressing-room, which was your father's. a very good man, and very much the gentleman i am sure: but i should think, miss elliot," (looking with serious reflection), "i should think he must be rather a dressy man for his time of life. such a number of looking-glasses! oh lord! there was no getting away from one's self. so i got sophy to lend me a hand, and we soon shifted their quarters; and now i am quite snug, with my little shaving glass in one corner, and another great thing that i never go near." anne, amused in spite of herself, was rather distressed for an answer, and the admiral, fearing he might not have been civil enough, took up the subject again, to say-- "the next time you write to your good father, miss elliot, pray give him my compliments and mrs croft's, and say that we are settled here quite to our liking, and have no fault at all to find with the place. the breakfast-room chimney smokes a little, i grant you, but it is only when the wind is due north and blows hard, which may not happen three times a winter. and take it altogether, now that we have been into most of the houses hereabouts and can judge, there is not one that we like better than this. pray say so, with my compliments. he will be glad to hear it." lady russell and mrs croft were very well pleased with each other: but the acquaintance which this visit began was fated not to proceed far at present; for when it was returned, the crofts announced themselves to be going away for a few weeks, to visit their connexions in the north of the county, and probably might not be at home again before lady russell would be removing to bath. so ended all danger to anne of meeting captain wentworth at kellynch hall, or of seeing him in company with her friend. everything was safe enough, and she smiled over the many anxious feelings she had wasted on the subject. chapter though charles and mary had remained at lyme much longer after mr and mrs musgrove's going than anne conceived they could have been at all wanted, they were yet the first of the family to be at home again; and as soon as possible after their return to uppercross they drove over to the lodge. they had left louisa beginning to sit up; but her head, though clear, was exceedingly weak, and her nerves susceptible to the highest extreme of tenderness; and though she might be pronounced to be altogether doing very well, it was still impossible to say when she might be able to bear the removal home; and her father and mother, who must return in time to receive their younger children for the christmas holidays, had hardly a hope of being allowed to bring her with them. they had been all in lodgings together. mrs musgrove had got mrs harville's children away as much as she could, every possible supply from uppercross had been furnished, to lighten the inconvenience to the harvilles, while the harvilles had been wanting them to come to dinner every day; and in short, it seemed to have been only a struggle on each side as to which should be most disinterested and hospitable. mary had had her evils; but upon the whole, as was evident by her staying so long, she had found more to enjoy than to suffer. charles hayter had been at lyme oftener than suited her; and when they dined with the harvilles there had been only a maid-servant to wait, and at first mrs harville had always given mrs musgrove precedence; but then, she had received so very handsome an apology from her on finding out whose daughter she was, and there had been so much going on every day, there had been so many walks between their lodgings and the harvilles, and she had got books from the library, and changed them so often, that the balance had certainly been much in favour of lyme. she had been taken to charmouth too, and she had bathed, and she had gone to church, and there were a great many more people to look at in the church at lyme than at uppercross; and all this, joined to the sense of being so very useful, had made really an agreeable fortnight. anne enquired after captain benwick. mary's face was clouded directly. charles laughed. "oh! captain benwick is very well, i believe, but he is a very odd young man. i do not know what he would be at. we asked him to come home with us for a day or two: charles undertook to give him some shooting, and he seemed quite delighted, and, for my part, i thought it was all settled; when behold! on tuesday night, he made a very awkward sort of excuse; 'he never shot' and he had 'been quite misunderstood,' and he had promised this and he had promised that, and the end of it was, i found, that he did not mean to come. i suppose he was afraid of finding it dull; but upon my word i should have thought we were lively enough at the cottage for such a heart-broken man as captain benwick." charles laughed again and said, "now mary, you know very well how it really was. it was all your doing," (turning to anne.) "he fancied that if he went with us, he should find you close by: he fancied everybody to be living in uppercross; and when he discovered that lady russell lived three miles off, his heart failed him, and he had not courage to come. that is the fact, upon my honour. mary knows it is." but mary did not give into it very graciously, whether from not considering captain benwick entitled by birth and situation to be in love with an elliot, or from not wanting to believe anne a greater attraction to uppercross than herself, must be left to be guessed. anne's good-will, however, was not to be lessened by what she heard. she boldly acknowledged herself flattered, and continued her enquiries. "oh! he talks of you," cried charles, "in such terms--" mary interrupted him. "i declare, charles, i never heard him mention anne twice all the time i was there. i declare, anne, he never talks of you at all." "no," admitted charles, "i do not know that he ever does, in a general way; but however, it is a very clear thing that he admires you exceedingly. his head is full of some books that he is reading upon your recommendation, and he wants to talk to you about them; he has found out something or other in one of them which he thinks--oh! i cannot pretend to remember it, but it was something very fine--i overheard him telling henrietta all about it; and then 'miss elliot' was spoken of in the highest terms! now mary, i declare it was so, i heard it myself, and you were in the other room. 'elegance, sweetness, beauty.' oh! there was no end of miss elliot's charms." "and i am sure," cried mary, warmly, "it was a very little to his credit, if he did. miss harville only died last june. such a heart is very little worth having; is it, lady russell? i am sure you will agree with me." "i must see captain benwick before i decide," said lady russell, smiling. "and that you are very likely to do very soon, i can tell you, ma'am," said charles. "though he had not nerves for coming away with us, and setting off again afterwards to pay a formal visit here, he will make his way over to kellynch one day by himself, you may depend on it. i told him the distance and the road, and i told him of the church's being so very well worth seeing; for as he has a taste for those sort of things, i thought that would be a good excuse, and he listened with all his understanding and soul; and i am sure from his manner that you will have him calling here soon. so, i give you notice, lady russell." "any acquaintance of anne's will always be welcome to me," was lady russell's kind answer. "oh! as to being anne's acquaintance," said mary, "i think he is rather my acquaintance, for i have been seeing him every day this last fortnight." "well, as your joint acquaintance, then, i shall be very happy to see captain benwick." "you will not find anything very agreeable in him, i assure you, ma'am. he is one of the dullest young men that ever lived. he has walked with me, sometimes, from one end of the sands to the other, without saying a word. he is not at all a well-bred young man. i am sure you will not like him." "there we differ, mary," said anne. "i think lady russell would like him. i think she would be so much pleased with his mind, that she would very soon see no deficiency in his manner." "so do i, anne," said charles. "i am sure lady russell would like him. he is just lady russell's sort. give him a book, and he will read all day long." "yes, that he will!" exclaimed mary, tauntingly. "he will sit poring over his book, and not know when a person speaks to him, or when one drops one's scissors, or anything that happens. do you think lady russell would like that?" lady russell could not help laughing. "upon my word," said she, "i should not have supposed that my opinion of any one could have admitted of such difference of conjecture, steady and matter of fact as i may call myself. i have really a curiosity to see the person who can give occasion to such directly opposite notions. i wish he may be induced to call here. and when he does, mary, you may depend upon hearing my opinion; but i am determined not to judge him beforehand." "you will not like him, i will answer for it." lady russell began talking of something else. mary spoke with animation of their meeting with, or rather missing, mr elliot so extraordinarily. "he is a man," said lady russell, "whom i have no wish to see. his declining to be on cordial terms with the head of his family, has left a very strong impression in his disfavour with me." this decision checked mary's eagerness, and stopped her short in the midst of the elliot countenance. with regard to captain wentworth, though anne hazarded no enquiries, there was voluntary communication sufficient. his spirits had been greatly recovering lately as might be expected. as louisa improved, he had improved, and he was now quite a different creature from what he had been the first week. he had not seen louisa; and was so extremely fearful of any ill consequence to her from an interview, that he did not press for it at all; and, on the contrary, seemed to have a plan of going away for a week or ten days, till her head was stronger. he had talked of going down to plymouth for a week, and wanted to persuade captain benwick to go with him; but, as charles maintained to the last, captain benwick seemed much more disposed to ride over to kellynch. there can be no doubt that lady russell and anne were both occasionally thinking of captain benwick, from this time. lady russell could not hear the door-bell without feeling that it might be his herald; nor could anne return from any stroll of solitary indulgence in her father's grounds, or any visit of charity in the village, without wondering whether she might see him or hear of him. captain benwick came not, however. he was either less disposed for it than charles had imagined, or he was too shy; and after giving him a week's indulgence, lady russell determined him to be unworthy of the interest which he had been beginning to excite. the musgroves came back to receive their happy boys and girls from school, bringing with them mrs harville's little children, to improve the noise of uppercross, and lessen that of lyme. henrietta remained with louisa; but all the rest of the family were again in their usual quarters. lady russell and anne paid their compliments to them once, when anne could not but feel that uppercross was already quite alive again. though neither henrietta, nor louisa, nor charles hayter, nor captain wentworth were there, the room presented as strong a contrast as could be wished to the last state she had seen it in. immediately surrounding mrs musgrove were the little harvilles, whom she was sedulously guarding from the tyranny of the two children from the cottage, expressly arrived to amuse them. on one side was a table occupied by some chattering girls, cutting up silk and gold paper; and on the other were tressels and trays, bending under the weight of brawn and cold pies, where riotous boys were holding high revel; the whole completed by a roaring christmas fire, which seemed determined to be heard, in spite of all the noise of the others. charles and mary also came in, of course, during their visit, and mr musgrove made a point of paying his respects to lady russell, and sat down close to her for ten minutes, talking with a very raised voice, but from the clamour of the children on his knees, generally in vain. it was a fine family-piece. anne, judging from her own temperament, would have deemed such a domestic hurricane a bad restorative of the nerves, which louisa's illness must have so greatly shaken. but mrs musgrove, who got anne near her on purpose to thank her most cordially, again and again, for all her attentions to them, concluded a short recapitulation of what she had suffered herself by observing, with a happy glance round the room, that after all she had gone through, nothing was so likely to do her good as a little quiet cheerfulness at home. louisa was now recovering apace. her mother could even think of her being able to join their party at home, before her brothers and sisters went to school again. the harvilles had promised to come with her and stay at uppercross, whenever she returned. captain wentworth was gone, for the present, to see his brother in shropshire. "i hope i shall remember, in future," said lady russell, as soon as they were reseated in the carriage, "not to call at uppercross in the christmas holidays." everybody has their taste in noises as well as in other matters; and sounds are quite innoxious, or most distressing, by their sort rather than their quantity. when lady russell not long afterwards, was entering bath on a wet afternoon, and driving through the long course of streets from the old bridge to camden place, amidst the dash of other carriages, the heavy rumble of carts and drays, the bawling of newspapermen, muffin-men and milkmen, and the ceaseless clink of pattens, she made no complaint. no, these were noises which belonged to the winter pleasures; her spirits rose under their influence; and like mrs musgrove, she was feeling, though not saying, that after being long in the country, nothing could be so good for her as a little quiet cheerfulness. anne did not share these feelings. she persisted in a very determined, though very silent disinclination for bath; caught the first dim view of the extensive buildings, smoking in rain, without any wish of seeing them better; felt their progress through the streets to be, however disagreeable, yet too rapid; for who would be glad to see her when she arrived? and looked back, with fond regret, to the bustles of uppercross and the seclusion of kellynch. elizabeth's last letter had communicated a piece of news of some interest. mr elliot was in bath. he had called in camden place; had called a second time, a third; had been pointedly attentive. if elizabeth and her father did not deceive themselves, had been taking much pains to seek the acquaintance, and proclaim the value of the connection, as he had formerly taken pains to shew neglect. this was very wonderful if it were true; and lady russell was in a state of very agreeable curiosity and perplexity about mr elliot, already recanting the sentiment she had so lately expressed to mary, of his being "a man whom she had no wish to see." she had a great wish to see him. if he really sought to reconcile himself like a dutiful branch, he must be forgiven for having dismembered himself from the paternal tree. anne was not animated to an equal pitch by the circumstance, but she felt that she would rather see mr elliot again than not, which was more than she could say for many other persons in bath. she was put down in camden place; and lady russell then drove to her own lodgings, in rivers street. chapter sir walter had taken a very good house in camden place, a lofty dignified situation, such as becomes a man of consequence; and both he and elizabeth were settled there, much to their satisfaction. anne entered it with a sinking heart, anticipating an imprisonment of many months, and anxiously saying to herself, "oh! when shall i leave you again?" a degree of unexpected cordiality, however, in the welcome she received, did her good. her father and sister were glad to see her, for the sake of shewing her the house and furniture, and met her with kindness. her making a fourth, when they sat down to dinner, was noticed as an advantage. mrs clay was very pleasant, and very smiling, but her courtesies and smiles were more a matter of course. anne had always felt that she would pretend what was proper on her arrival, but the complaisance of the others was unlooked for. they were evidently in excellent spirits, and she was soon to listen to the causes. they had no inclination to listen to her. after laying out for some compliments of being deeply regretted in their old neighbourhood, which anne could not pay, they had only a few faint enquiries to make, before the talk must be all their own. uppercross excited no interest, kellynch very little: it was all bath. they had the pleasure of assuring her that bath more than answered their expectations in every respect. their house was undoubtedly the best in camden place; their drawing-rooms had many decided advantages over all the others which they had either seen or heard of, and the superiority was not less in the style of the fitting-up, or the taste of the furniture. their acquaintance was exceedingly sought after. everybody was wanting to visit them. they had drawn back from many introductions, and still were perpetually having cards left by people of whom they knew nothing. here were funds of enjoyment. could anne wonder that her father and sister were happy? she might not wonder, but she must sigh that her father should feel no degradation in his change, should see nothing to regret in the duties and dignity of the resident landholder, should find so much to be vain of in the littlenesses of a town; and she must sigh, and smile, and wonder too, as elizabeth threw open the folding-doors and walked with exultation from one drawing-room to the other, boasting of their space; at the possibility of that woman, who had been mistress of kellynch hall, finding extent to be proud of between two walls, perhaps thirty feet asunder. but this was not all which they had to make them happy. they had mr elliot too. anne had a great deal to hear of mr elliot. he was not only pardoned, they were delighted with him. he had been in bath about a fortnight; (he had passed through bath in november, in his way to london, when the intelligence of sir walter's being settled there had of course reached him, though only twenty-four hours in the place, but he had not been able to avail himself of it;) but he had now been a fortnight in bath, and his first object on arriving, had been to leave his card in camden place, following it up by such assiduous endeavours to meet, and when they did meet, by such great openness of conduct, such readiness to apologize for the past, such solicitude to be received as a relation again, that their former good understanding was completely re-established. they had not a fault to find in him. he had explained away all the appearance of neglect on his own side. it had originated in misapprehension entirely. he had never had an idea of throwing himself off; he had feared that he was thrown off, but knew not why, and delicacy had kept him silent. upon the hint of having spoken disrespectfully or carelessly of the family and the family honours, he was quite indignant. he, who had ever boasted of being an elliot, and whose feelings, as to connection, were only too strict to suit the unfeudal tone of the present day. he was astonished, indeed, but his character and general conduct must refute it. he could refer sir walter to all who knew him; and certainly, the pains he had been taking on this, the first opportunity of reconciliation, to be restored to the footing of a relation and heir-presumptive, was a strong proof of his opinions on the subject. the circumstances of his marriage, too, were found to admit of much extenuation. this was an article not to be entered on by himself; but a very intimate friend of his, a colonel wallis, a highly respectable man, perfectly the gentleman, (and not an ill-looking man, sir walter added), who was living in very good style in marlborough buildings, and had, at his own particular request, been admitted to their acquaintance through mr elliot, had mentioned one or two things relative to the marriage, which made a material difference in the discredit of it. colonel wallis had known mr elliot long, had been well acquainted also with his wife, had perfectly understood the whole story. she was certainly not a woman of family, but well educated, accomplished, rich, and excessively in love with his friend. there had been the charm. she had sought him. without that attraction, not all her money would have tempted elliot, and sir walter was, moreover, assured of her having been a very fine woman. here was a great deal to soften the business. a very fine woman with a large fortune, in love with him! sir walter seemed to admit it as complete apology; and though elizabeth could not see the circumstance in quite so favourable a light, she allowed it be a great extenuation. mr elliot had called repeatedly, had dined with them once, evidently delighted by the distinction of being asked, for they gave no dinners in general; delighted, in short, by every proof of cousinly notice, and placing his whole happiness in being on intimate terms in camden place. anne listened, but without quite understanding it. allowances, large allowances, she knew, must be made for the ideas of those who spoke. she heard it all under embellishment. all that sounded extravagant or irrational in the progress of the reconciliation might have no origin but in the language of the relators. still, however, she had the sensation of there being something more than immediately appeared, in mr elliot's wishing, after an interval of so many years, to be well received by them. in a worldly view, he had nothing to gain by being on terms with sir walter; nothing to risk by a state of variance. in all probability he was already the richer of the two, and the kellynch estate would as surely be his hereafter as the title. a sensible man, and he had looked like a very sensible man, why should it be an object to him? she could only offer one solution; it was, perhaps, for elizabeth's sake. there might really have been a liking formerly, though convenience and accident had drawn him a different way; and now that he could afford to please himself, he might mean to pay his addresses to her. elizabeth was certainly very handsome, with well-bred, elegant manners, and her character might never have been penetrated by mr elliot, knowing her but in public, and when very young himself. how her temper and understanding might bear the investigation of his present keener time of life was another concern and rather a fearful one. most earnestly did she wish that he might not be too nice, or too observant if elizabeth were his object; and that elizabeth was disposed to believe herself so, and that her friend mrs clay was encouraging the idea, seemed apparent by a glance or two between them, while mr elliot's frequent visits were talked of. anne mentioned the glimpses she had had of him at lyme, but without being much attended to. "oh! yes, perhaps, it had been mr elliot. they did not know. it might be him, perhaps." they could not listen to her description of him. they were describing him themselves; sir walter especially. he did justice to his very gentlemanlike appearance, his air of elegance and fashion, his good shaped face, his sensible eye; but, at the same time, "must lament his being very much under-hung, a defect which time seemed to have increased; nor could he pretend to say that ten years had not altered almost every feature for the worse. mr elliot appeared to think that he (sir walter) was looking exactly as he had done when they last parted;" but sir walter had "not been able to return the compliment entirely, which had embarrassed him. he did not mean to complain, however. mr elliot was better to look at than most men, and he had no objection to being seen with him anywhere." mr elliot, and his friends in marlborough buildings, were talked of the whole evening. "colonel wallis had been so impatient to be introduced to them! and mr elliot so anxious that he should!" and there was a mrs wallis, at present known only to them by description, as she was in daily expectation of her confinement; but mr elliot spoke of her as "a most charming woman, quite worthy of being known in camden place," and as soon as she recovered they were to be acquainted. sir walter thought much of mrs wallis; she was said to be an excessively pretty woman, beautiful. "he longed to see her. he hoped she might make some amends for the many very plain faces he was continually passing in the streets. the worst of bath was the number of its plain women. he did not mean to say that there were no pretty women, but the number of the plain was out of all proportion. he had frequently observed, as he walked, that one handsome face would be followed by thirty, or five-and-thirty frights; and once, as he had stood in a shop on bond street, he had counted eighty-seven women go by, one after another, without there being a tolerable face among them. it had been a frosty morning, to be sure, a sharp frost, which hardly one woman in a thousand could stand the test of. but still, there certainly were a dreadful multitude of ugly women in bath; and as for the men! they were infinitely worse. such scarecrows as the streets were full of! it was evident how little the women were used to the sight of anything tolerable, by the effect which a man of decent appearance produced. he had never walked anywhere arm-in-arm with colonel wallis (who was a fine military figure, though sandy-haired) without observing that every woman's eye was upon him; every woman's eye was sure to be upon colonel wallis." modest sir walter! he was not allowed to escape, however. his daughter and mrs clay united in hinting that colonel wallis's companion might have as good a figure as colonel wallis, and certainly was not sandy-haired. "how is mary looking?" said sir walter, in the height of his good humour. "the last time i saw her she had a red nose, but i hope that may not happen every day." "oh! no, that must have been quite accidental. in general she has been in very good health and very good looks since michaelmas." "if i thought it would not tempt her to go out in sharp winds, and grow coarse, i would send her a new hat and pelisse." anne was considering whether she should venture to suggest that a gown, or a cap, would not be liable to any such misuse, when a knock at the door suspended everything. "a knock at the door! and so late! it was ten o'clock. could it be mr elliot? they knew he was to dine in lansdown crescent. it was possible that he might stop in his way home to ask them how they did. they could think of no one else. mrs clay decidedly thought it mr elliot's knock." mrs clay was right. with all the state which a butler and foot-boy could give, mr elliot was ushered into the room. it was the same, the very same man, with no difference but of dress. anne drew a little back, while the others received his compliments, and her sister his apologies for calling at so unusual an hour, but "he could not be so near without wishing to know that neither she nor her friend had taken cold the day before," &c. &c; which was all as politely done, and as politely taken, as possible, but her part must follow then. sir walter talked of his youngest daughter; "mr elliot must give him leave to present him to his youngest daughter" (there was no occasion for remembering mary); and anne, smiling and blushing, very becomingly shewed to mr elliot the pretty features which he had by no means forgotten, and instantly saw, with amusement at his little start of surprise, that he had not been at all aware of who she was. he looked completely astonished, but not more astonished than pleased; his eyes brightened! and with the most perfect alacrity he welcomed the relationship, alluded to the past, and entreated to be received as an acquaintance already. he was quite as good-looking as he had appeared at lyme, his countenance improved by speaking, and his manners were so exactly what they ought to be, so polished, so easy, so particularly agreeable, that she could compare them in excellence to only one person's manners. they were not the same, but they were, perhaps, equally good. he sat down with them, and improved their conversation very much. there could be no doubt of his being a sensible man. ten minutes were enough to certify that. his tone, his expressions, his choice of subject, his knowing where to stop; it was all the operation of a sensible, discerning mind. as soon as he could, he began to talk to her of lyme, wanting to compare opinions respecting the place, but especially wanting to speak of the circumstance of their happening to be guests in the same inn at the same time; to give his own route, understand something of hers, and regret that he should have lost such an opportunity of paying his respects to her. she gave him a short account of her party and business at lyme. his regret increased as he listened. he had spent his whole solitary evening in the room adjoining theirs; had heard voices, mirth continually; thought they must be a most delightful set of people, longed to be with them, but certainly without the smallest suspicion of his possessing the shadow of a right to introduce himself. if he had but asked who the party were! the name of musgrove would have told him enough. "well, it would serve to cure him of an absurd practice of never asking a question at an inn, which he had adopted, when quite a young man, on the principal of its being very ungenteel to be curious. "the notions of a young man of one or two and twenty," said he, "as to what is necessary in manners to make him quite the thing, are more absurd, i believe, than those of any other set of beings in the world. the folly of the means they often employ is only to be equalled by the folly of what they have in view." but he must not be addressing his reflections to anne alone: he knew it; he was soon diffused again among the others, and it was only at intervals that he could return to lyme. his enquiries, however, produced at length an account of the scene she had been engaged in there, soon after his leaving the place. having alluded to "an accident," he must hear the whole. when he questioned, sir walter and elizabeth began to question also, but the difference in their manner of doing it could not be unfelt. she could only compare mr elliot to lady russell, in the wish of really comprehending what had passed, and in the degree of concern for what she must have suffered in witnessing it. he staid an hour with them. the elegant little clock on the mantel-piece had struck "eleven with its silver sounds," and the watchman was beginning to be heard at a distance telling the same tale, before mr elliot or any of them seemed to feel that he had been there long. anne could not have supposed it possible that her first evening in camden place could have passed so well! chapter there was one point which anne, on returning to her family, would have been more thankful to ascertain even than mr elliot's being in love with elizabeth, which was, her father's not being in love with mrs clay; and she was very far from easy about it, when she had been at home a few hours. on going down to breakfast the next morning, she found there had just been a decent pretence on the lady's side of meaning to leave them. she could imagine mrs clay to have said, that "now miss anne was come, she could not suppose herself at all wanted;" for elizabeth was replying in a sort of whisper, "that must not be any reason, indeed. i assure you i feel it none. she is nothing to me, compared with you;" and she was in full time to hear her father say, "my dear madam, this must not be. as yet, you have seen nothing of bath. you have been here only to be useful. you must not run away from us now. you must stay to be acquainted with mrs wallis, the beautiful mrs wallis. to your fine mind, i well know the sight of beauty is a real gratification." he spoke and looked so much in earnest, that anne was not surprised to see mrs clay stealing a glance at elizabeth and herself. her countenance, perhaps, might express some watchfulness; but the praise of the fine mind did not appear to excite a thought in her sister. the lady could not but yield to such joint entreaties, and promise to stay. in the course of the same morning, anne and her father chancing to be alone together, he began to compliment her on her improved looks; he thought her "less thin in her person, in her cheeks; her skin, her complexion, greatly improved; clearer, fresher. had she been using any thing in particular?" "no, nothing." "merely gowland," he supposed. "no, nothing at all." "ha! he was surprised at that;" and added, "certainly you cannot do better than to continue as you are; you cannot be better than well; or i should recommend gowland, the constant use of gowland, during the spring months. mrs clay has been using it at my recommendation, and you see what it has done for her. you see how it has carried away her freckles." if elizabeth could but have heard this! such personal praise might have struck her, especially as it did not appear to anne that the freckles were at all lessened. but everything must take its chance. the evil of a marriage would be much diminished, if elizabeth were also to marry. as for herself, she might always command a home with lady russell. lady russell's composed mind and polite manners were put to some trial on this point, in her intercourse in camden place. the sight of mrs clay in such favour, and of anne so overlooked, was a perpetual provocation to her there; and vexed her as much when she was away, as a person in bath who drinks the water, gets all the new publications, and has a very large acquaintance, has time to be vexed. as mr elliot became known to her, she grew more charitable, or more indifferent, towards the others. his manners were an immediate recommendation; and on conversing with him she found the solid so fully supporting the superficial, that she was at first, as she told anne, almost ready to exclaim, "can this be mr elliot?" and could not seriously picture to herself a more agreeable or estimable man. everything united in him; good understanding, correct opinions, knowledge of the world, and a warm heart. he had strong feelings of family attachment and family honour, without pride or weakness; he lived with the liberality of a man of fortune, without display; he judged for himself in everything essential, without defying public opinion in any point of worldly decorum. he was steady, observant, moderate, candid; never run away with by spirits or by selfishness, which fancied itself strong feeling; and yet, with a sensibility to what was amiable and lovely, and a value for all the felicities of domestic life, which characters of fancied enthusiasm and violent agitation seldom really possess. she was sure that he had not been happy in marriage. colonel wallis said it, and lady russell saw it; but it had been no unhappiness to sour his mind, nor (she began pretty soon to suspect) to prevent his thinking of a second choice. her satisfaction in mr elliot outweighed all the plague of mrs clay. it was now some years since anne had begun to learn that she and her excellent friend could sometimes think differently; and it did not surprise her, therefore, that lady russell should see nothing suspicious or inconsistent, nothing to require more motives than appeared, in mr elliot's great desire of a reconciliation. in lady russell's view, it was perfectly natural that mr elliot, at a mature time of life, should feel it a most desirable object, and what would very generally recommend him among all sensible people, to be on good terms with the head of his family; the simplest process in the world of time upon a head naturally clear, and only erring in the heyday of youth. anne presumed, however, still to smile about it, and at last to mention "elizabeth." lady russell listened, and looked, and made only this cautious reply:--"elizabeth! very well; time will explain." it was a reference to the future, which anne, after a little observation, felt she must submit to. she could determine nothing at present. in that house elizabeth must be first; and she was in the habit of such general observance as "miss elliot," that any particularity of attention seemed almost impossible. mr elliot, too, it must be remembered, had not been a widower seven months. a little delay on his side might be very excusable. in fact, anne could never see the crape round his hat, without fearing that she was the inexcusable one, in attributing to him such imaginations; for though his marriage had not been very happy, still it had existed so many years that she could not comprehend a very rapid recovery from the awful impression of its being dissolved. however it might end, he was without any question their pleasantest acquaintance in bath: she saw nobody equal to him; and it was a great indulgence now and then to talk to him about lyme, which he seemed to have as lively a wish to see again, and to see more of, as herself. they went through the particulars of their first meeting a great many times. he gave her to understand that he had looked at her with some earnestness. she knew it well; and she remembered another person's look also. they did not always think alike. his value for rank and connexion she perceived was greater than hers. it was not merely complaisance, it must be a liking to the cause, which made him enter warmly into her father and sister's solicitudes on a subject which she thought unworthy to excite them. the bath paper one morning announced the arrival of the dowager viscountess dalrymple, and her daughter, the honourable miss carteret; and all the comfort of no. --, camden place, was swept away for many days; for the dalrymples (in anne's opinion, most unfortunately) were cousins of the elliots; and the agony was how to introduce themselves properly. anne had never seen her father and sister before in contact with nobility, and she must acknowledge herself disappointed. she had hoped better things from their high ideas of their own situation in life, and was reduced to form a wish which she had never foreseen; a wish that they had more pride; for "our cousins lady dalrymple and miss carteret;" "our cousins, the dalrymples," sounded in her ears all day long. sir walter had once been in company with the late viscount, but had never seen any of the rest of the family; and the difficulties of the case arose from there having been a suspension of all intercourse by letters of ceremony, ever since the death of that said late viscount, when, in consequence of a dangerous illness of sir walter's at the same time, there had been an unlucky omission at kellynch. no letter of condolence had been sent to ireland. the neglect had been visited on the head of the sinner; for when poor lady elliot died herself, no letter of condolence was received at kellynch, and, consequently, there was but too much reason to apprehend that the dalrymples considered the relationship as closed. how to have this anxious business set to rights, and be admitted as cousins again, was the question: and it was a question which, in a more rational manner, neither lady russell nor mr elliot thought unimportant. "family connexions were always worth preserving, good company always worth seeking; lady dalrymple had taken a house, for three months, in laura place, and would be living in style. she had been at bath the year before, and lady russell had heard her spoken of as a charming woman. it was very desirable that the connexion should be renewed, if it could be done, without any compromise of propriety on the side of the elliots." sir walter, however, would choose his own means, and at last wrote a very fine letter of ample explanation, regret, and entreaty, to his right honourable cousin. neither lady russell nor mr elliot could admire the letter; but it did all that was wanted, in bringing three lines of scrawl from the dowager viscountess. "she was very much honoured, and should be happy in their acquaintance." the toils of the business were over, the sweets began. they visited in laura place, they had the cards of dowager viscountess dalrymple, and the honourable miss carteret, to be arranged wherever they might be most visible: and "our cousins in laura place,"--"our cousin, lady dalrymple and miss carteret," were talked of to everybody. anne was ashamed. had lady dalrymple and her daughter even been very agreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they created, but they were nothing. there was no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding. lady dalrymple had acquired the name of "a charming woman," because she had a smile and a civil answer for everybody. miss carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so awkward, that she would never have been tolerated in camden place but for her birth. lady russell confessed she had expected something better; but yet "it was an acquaintance worth having;" and when anne ventured to speak her opinion of them to mr elliot, he agreed to their being nothing in themselves, but still maintained that, as a family connexion, as good company, as those who would collect good company around them, they had their value. anne smiled and said, "my idea of good company, mr elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what i call good company." "you are mistaken," said he gently, "that is not good company; that is the best. good company requires only birth, education, and manners, and with regard to education is not very nice. birth and good manners are essential; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing in good company; on the contrary, it will do very well. my cousin anne shakes her head. she is not satisfied. she is fastidious. my dear cousin" (sitting down by her), "you have a better right to be fastidious than almost any other woman i know; but will it answer? will it make you happy? will it not be wiser to accept the society of those good ladies in laura place, and enjoy all the advantages of the connexion as far as possible? you may depend upon it, that they will move in the first set in bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your being known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your family (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we must all wish for." "yes," sighed anne, "we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them!" then recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added, "i certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance. i suppose" (smiling) "i have more pride than any of you; but i confess it does vex me, that we should be so solicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very sure is a matter of perfect indifference to them." "pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims. in london, perhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say: but in bath; sir walter elliot and his family will always be worth knowing: always acceptable as acquaintance." "well," said anne, "i certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome which depends so entirely upon place." "i love your indignation," said he; "it is very natural. but here you are in bath, and the object is to be established here with all the credit and dignity which ought to belong to sir walter elliot. you talk of being proud; i am called proud, i know, and i shall not wish to believe myself otherwise; for our pride, if investigated, would have the same object, i have no doubt, though the kind may seem a little different. in one point, i am sure, my dear cousin," (he continued, speaking lower, though there was no one else in the room) "in one point, i am sure, we must feel alike. we must feel that every addition to your father's society, among his equals or superiors, may be of use in diverting his thoughts from those who are beneath him." he looked, as he spoke, to the seat which mrs clay had been lately occupying: a sufficient explanation of what he particularly meant; and though anne could not believe in their having the same sort of pride, she was pleased with him for not liking mrs clay; and her conscience admitted that his wishing to promote her father's getting great acquaintance was more than excusable in the view of defeating her. chapter while sir walter and elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good fortune in laura place, anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very different description. she had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there being an old school-fellow in bath, who had the two strong claims on her attention of past kindness and present suffering. miss hamilton, now mrs smith, had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her life when it had been most valuable. anne had gone unhappy to school, grieving for the loss of a mother whom she had dearly loved, feeling her separation from home, and suffering as a girl of fourteen, of strong sensibility and not high spirits, must suffer at such a time; and miss hamilton, three years older than herself, but still from the want of near relations and a settled home, remaining another year at school, had been useful and good to her in a way which had considerably lessened her misery, and could never be remembered with indifference. miss hamilton had left school, had married not long afterwards, was said to have married a man of fortune, and this was all that anne had known of her, till now that their governess's account brought her situation forward in a more decided but very different form. she was a widow and poor. her husband had been extravagant; and at his death, about two years before, had left his affairs dreadfully involved. she had had difficulties of every sort to contend with, and in addition to these distresses had been afflicted with a severe rheumatic fever, which, finally settling in her legs, had made her for the present a cripple. she had come to bath on that account, and was now in lodgings near the hot baths, living in a very humble way, unable even to afford herself the comfort of a servant, and of course almost excluded from society. their mutual friend answered for the satisfaction which a visit from miss elliot would give mrs smith, and anne therefore lost no time in going. she mentioned nothing of what she had heard, or what she intended, at home. it would excite no proper interest there. she only consulted lady russell, who entered thoroughly into her sentiments, and was most happy to convey her as near to mrs smith's lodgings in westgate buildings, as anne chose to be taken. the visit was paid, their acquaintance re-established, their interest in each other more than re-kindled. the first ten minutes had its awkwardness and its emotion. twelve years were gone since they had parted, and each presented a somewhat different person from what the other had imagined. twelve years had changed anne from the blooming, silent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the elegant little woman of seven-and-twenty, with every beauty except bloom, and with manners as consciously right as they were invariably gentle; and twelve years had transformed the fine-looking, well-grown miss hamilton, in all the glow of health and confidence of superiority, into a poor, infirm, helpless widow, receiving the visit of her former protegee as a favour; but all that was uncomfortable in the meeting had soon passed away, and left only the interesting charm of remembering former partialities and talking over old times. anne found in mrs smith the good sense and agreeable manners which she had almost ventured to depend on, and a disposition to converse and be cheerful beyond her expectation. neither the dissipations of the past--and she had lived very much in the world--nor the restrictions of the present, neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her heart or ruined her spirits. in the course of a second visit she talked with great openness, and anne's astonishment increased. she could scarcely imagine a more cheerless situation in itself than mrs smith's. she had been very fond of her husband: she had buried him. she had been used to affluence: it was gone. she had no child to connect her with life and happiness again, no relations to assist in the arrangement of perplexed affairs, no health to make all the rest supportable. her accommodations were limited to a noisy parlour, and a dark bedroom behind, with no possibility of moving from one to the other without assistance, which there was only one servant in the house to afford, and she never quitted the house but to be conveyed into the warm bath. yet, in spite of all this, anne had reason to believe that she had moments only of languor and depression, to hours of occupation and enjoyment. how could it be? she watched, observed, reflected, and finally determined that this was not a case of fortitude or of resignation only. a submissive spirit might be patient, a strong understanding would supply resolution, but here was something more; here was that elasticity of mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily from evil to good, and of finding employment which carried her out of herself, which was from nature alone. it was the choicest gift of heaven; and anne viewed her friend as one of those instances in which, by a merciful appointment, it seems designed to counterbalance almost every other want. there had been a time, mrs smith told her, when her spirits had nearly failed. she could not call herself an invalid now, compared with her state on first reaching bath. then she had, indeed, been a pitiable object; for she had caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken possession of her lodgings before she was again confined to her bed and suffering under severe and constant pain; and all this among strangers, with the absolute necessity of having a regular nurse, and finances at that moment particularly unfit to meet any extraordinary expense. she had weathered it, however, and could truly say that it had done her good. it had increased her comforts by making her feel herself to be in good hands. she had seen too much of the world, to expect sudden or disinterested attachment anywhere, but her illness had proved to her that her landlady had a character to preserve, and would not use her ill; and she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister of her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in that house when unemployed, chanced to be at liberty just in time to attend her. "and she," said mrs smith, "besides nursing me most admirably, has really proved an invaluable acquaintance. as soon as i could use my hands she taught me to knit, which has been a great amusement; and she put me in the way of making these little thread-cases, pin-cushions and card-racks, which you always find me so busy about, and which supply me with the means of doing a little good to one or two very poor families in this neighbourhood. she had a large acquaintance, of course professionally, among those who can afford to buy, and she disposes of my merchandise. she always takes the right time for applying. everybody's heart is open, you know, when they have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the blessing of health, and nurse rooke thoroughly understands when to speak. she is a shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman. hers is a line for seeing human nature; and she has a fund of good sense and observation, which, as a companion, make her infinitely superior to thousands of those who having only received 'the best education in the world,' know nothing worth attending to. call it gossip, if you will, but when nurse rooke has half an hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is sure to have something to relate that is entertaining and profitable: something that makes one know one's species better. one likes to hear what is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being trifling and silly. to me, who live so much alone, her conversation, i assure you, is a treat." anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied, "i can easily believe it. women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to. such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing! and it is not merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting. what instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most. a sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes." "yes," said mrs smith more doubtingly, "sometimes it may, though i fear its lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe. here and there, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally speaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a sick chamber: it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity and fortitude, that one hears of. there is so little real friendship in the world! and unfortunately" (speaking low and tremulously) "there are so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late." anne saw the misery of such feelings. the husband had not been what he ought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made her think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved. it was but a passing emotion however with mrs smith; she shook it off, and soon added in a different tone-- "i do not suppose the situation my friend mrs rooke is in at present, will furnish much either to interest or edify me. she is only nursing mrs wallis of marlborough buildings; a mere pretty, silly, expensive, fashionable woman, i believe; and of course will have nothing to report but of lace and finery. i mean to make my profit of mrs wallis, however. she has plenty of money, and i intend she shall buy all the high-priced things i have in hand now." anne had called several times on her friend, before the existence of such a person was known in camden place. at last, it became necessary to speak of her. sir walter, elizabeth and mrs clay, returned one morning from laura place, with a sudden invitation from lady dalrymple for the same evening, and anne was already engaged, to spend that evening in westgate buildings. she was not sorry for the excuse. they were only asked, she was sure, because lady dalrymple being kept at home by a bad cold, was glad to make use of the relationship which had been so pressed on her; and she declined on her own account with great alacrity--"she was engaged to spend the evening with an old schoolfellow." they were not much interested in anything relative to anne; but still there were questions enough asked, to make it understood what this old schoolfellow was; and elizabeth was disdainful, and sir walter severe. "westgate buildings!" said he, "and who is miss anne elliot to be visiting in westgate buildings? a mrs smith. a widow mrs smith; and who was her husband? one of five thousand mr smiths whose names are to be met with everywhere. and what is her attraction? that she is old and sickly. upon my word, miss anne elliot, you have the most extraordinary taste! everything that revolts other people, low company, paltry rooms, foul air, disgusting associations are inviting to you. but surely you may put off this old lady till to-morrow: she is not so near her end, i presume, but that she may hope to see another day. what is her age? forty?" "no, sir, she is not one-and-thirty; but i do not think i can put off my engagement, because it is the only evening for some time which will at once suit her and myself. she goes into the warm bath to-morrow, and for the rest of the week, you know, we are engaged." "but what does lady russell think of this acquaintance?" asked elizabeth. "she sees nothing to blame in it," replied anne; "on the contrary, she approves it, and has generally taken me when i have called on mrs smith." "westgate buildings must have been rather surprised by the appearance of a carriage drawn up near its pavement," observed sir walter. "sir henry russell's widow, indeed, has no honours to distinguish her arms, but still it is a handsome equipage, and no doubt is well known to convey a miss elliot. a widow mrs smith lodging in westgate buildings! a poor widow barely able to live, between thirty and forty; a mere mrs smith, an every-day mrs smith, of all people and all names in the world, to be the chosen friend of miss anne elliot, and to be preferred by her to her own family connections among the nobility of england and ireland! mrs smith! such a name!" mrs clay, who had been present while all this passed, now thought it advisable to leave the room, and anne could have said much, and did long to say a little in defence of her friend's not very dissimilar claims to theirs, but her sense of personal respect to her father prevented her. she made no reply. she left it to himself to recollect, that mrs smith was not the only widow in bath between thirty and forty, with little to live on, and no surname of dignity. anne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and of course she heard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening. she had been the only one of the set absent, for sir walter and elizabeth had not only been quite at her ladyship's service themselves, but had actually been happy to be employed by her in collecting others, and had been at the trouble of inviting both lady russell and mr elliot; and mr elliot had made a point of leaving colonel wallis early, and lady russell had fresh arranged all her evening engagements in order to wait on her. anne had the whole history of all that such an evening could supply from lady russell. to her, its greatest interest must be, in having been very much talked of between her friend and mr elliot; in having been wished for, regretted, and at the same time honoured for staying away in such a cause. her kind, compassionate visits to this old schoolfellow, sick and reduced, seemed to have quite delighted mr elliot. he thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her temper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence. he could meet even lady russell in a discussion of her merits; and anne could not be given to understand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be so highly rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable sensations which her friend meant to create. lady russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of mr elliot. she was as much convinced of his meaning to gain anne in time as of his deserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which would free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing. she would not speak to anne with half the certainty she felt on the subject, she would venture on little more than hints of what might be hereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness of the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real and returned. anne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled, blushed, and gently shook her head. "i am no match-maker, as you well know," said lady russell, "being much too well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations. i only mean that if mr elliot should some time hence pay his addresses to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, i think there would be every possibility of your being happy together. a most suitable connection everybody must consider it, but i think it might be a very happy one." "mr elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects i think highly of him," said anne; "but we should not suit." lady russell let this pass, and only said in rejoinder, "i own that to be able to regard you as the future mistress of kellynch, the future lady elliot, to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother's place, succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as well as to all her virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me. you are your mother's self in countenance and disposition; and if i might be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation and name, and home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to her in being more highly valued! my dearest anne, it would give me more delight than is often felt at my time of life!" anne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table, and, leaning there in pretended employment, try to subdue the feelings this picture excited. for a few moments her imagination and her heart were bewitched. the idea of becoming what her mother had been; of having the precious name of "lady elliot" first revived in herself; of being restored to kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for ever, was a charm which she could not immediately resist. lady russell said not another word, willing to leave the matter to its own operation; and believing that, could mr elliot at that moment with propriety have spoken for himself!--she believed, in short, what anne did not believe. the same image of mr elliot speaking for himself brought anne to composure again. the charm of kellynch and of "lady elliot" all faded away. she never could accept him. and it was not only that her feelings were still adverse to any man save one; her judgement, on a serious consideration of the possibilities of such a case was against mr elliot. though they had now been acquainted a month, she could not be satisfied that she really knew his character. that he was a sensible man, an agreeable man, that he talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to judge properly and as a man of principle, this was all clear enough. he certainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on any one article of moral duty evidently transgressed; but yet she would have been afraid to answer for his conduct. she distrusted the past, if not the present. the names which occasionally dropt of former associates, the allusions to former practices and pursuits, suggested suspicions not favourable of what he had been. she saw that there had been bad habits; that sunday travelling had been a common thing; that there had been a period of his life (and probably not a short one) when he had been, at least, careless in all serious matters; and, though he might now think very differently, who could answer for the true sentiments of a clever, cautious man, grown old enough to appreciate a fair character? how could it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly cleansed? mr elliot was rational, discreet, polished, but he was not open. there was never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight, at the evil or good of others. this, to anne, was a decided imperfection. her early impressions were incurable. she prized the frank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others. warmth and enthusiasm did captivate her still. she felt that she could so much more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or said a careless or a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind never varied, whose tongue never slipped. mr elliot was too generally agreeable. various as were the tempers in her father's house, he pleased them all. he endured too well, stood too well with every body. he had spoken to her with some degree of openness of mrs clay; had appeared completely to see what mrs clay was about, and to hold her in contempt; and yet mrs clay found him as agreeable as any body. lady russell saw either less or more than her young friend, for she saw nothing to excite distrust. she could not imagine a man more exactly what he ought to be than mr elliot; nor did she ever enjoy a sweeter feeling than the hope of seeing him receive the hand of her beloved anne in kellynch church, in the course of the following autumn. chapter it was the beginning of february; and anne, having been a month in bath, was growing very eager for news from uppercross and lyme. she wanted to hear much more than mary had communicated. it was three weeks since she had heard at all. she only knew that henrietta was at home again; and that louisa, though considered to be recovering fast, was still in lyme; and she was thinking of them all very intently one evening, when a thicker letter than usual from mary was delivered to her; and, to quicken the pleasure and surprise, with admiral and mrs croft's compliments. the crofts must be in bath! a circumstance to interest her. they were people whom her heart turned to very naturally. "what is this?" cried sir walter. "the crofts have arrived in bath? the crofts who rent kellynch? what have they brought you?" "a letter from uppercross cottage, sir." "oh! those letters are convenient passports. they secure an introduction. i should have visited admiral croft, however, at any rate. i know what is due to my tenant." anne could listen no longer; she could not even have told how the poor admiral's complexion escaped; her letter engrossed her. it had been begun several days back. "february st. "my dear anne,--i make no apology for my silence, because i know how little people think of letters in such a place as bath. you must be a great deal too happy to care for uppercross, which, as you well know, affords little to write about. we have had a very dull christmas; mr and mrs musgrove have not had one dinner party all the holidays. i do not reckon the hayters as anybody. the holidays, however, are over at last: i believe no children ever had such long ones. i am sure i had not. the house was cleared yesterday, except of the little harvilles; but you will be surprised to hear they have never gone home. mrs harville must be an odd mother to part with them so long. i do not understand it. they are not at all nice children, in my opinion; but mrs musgrove seems to like them quite as well, if not better, than her grandchildren. what dreadful weather we have had! it may not be felt in bath, with your nice pavements; but in the country it is of some consequence. i have not had a creature call on me since the second week in january, except charles hayter, who had been calling much oftener than was welcome. between ourselves, i think it a great pity henrietta did not remain at lyme as long as louisa; it would have kept her a little out of his way. the carriage is gone to-day, to bring louisa and the harvilles to-morrow. we are not asked to dine with them, however, till the day after, mrs musgrove is so afraid of her being fatigued by the journey, which is not very likely, considering the care that will be taken of her; and it would be much more convenient to me to dine there to-morrow. i am glad you find mr elliot so agreeable, and wish i could be acquainted with him too; but i have my usual luck: i am always out of the way when any thing desirable is going on; always the last of my family to be noticed. what an immense time mrs clay has been staying with elizabeth! does she never mean to go away? but perhaps if she were to leave the room vacant, we might not be invited. let me know what you think of this. i do not expect my children to be asked, you know. i can leave them at the great house very well, for a month or six weeks. i have this moment heard that the crofts are going to bath almost immediately; they think the admiral gouty. charles heard it quite by chance; they have not had the civility to give me any notice, or of offering to take anything. i do not think they improve at all as neighbours. we see nothing of them, and this is really an instance of gross inattention. charles joins me in love, and everything proper. yours affectionately, "mary m---. "i am sorry to say that i am very far from well; and jemima has just told me that the butcher says there is a bad sore-throat very much about. i dare say i shall catch it; and my sore-throats, you know, are always worse than anybody's." so ended the first part, which had been afterwards put into an envelope, containing nearly as much more. "i kept my letter open, that i might send you word how louisa bore her journey, and now i am extremely glad i did, having a great deal to add. in the first place, i had a note from mrs croft yesterday, offering to convey anything to you; a very kind, friendly note indeed, addressed to me, just as it ought; i shall therefore be able to make my letter as long as i like. the admiral does not seem very ill, and i sincerely hope bath will do him all the good he wants. i shall be truly glad to have them back again. our neighbourhood cannot spare such a pleasant family. but now for louisa. i have something to communicate that will astonish you not a little. she and the harvilles came on tuesday very safely, and in the evening we went to ask her how she did, when we were rather surprised not to find captain benwick of the party, for he had been invited as well as the harvilles; and what do you think was the reason? neither more nor less than his being in love with louisa, and not choosing to venture to uppercross till he had had an answer from mr musgrove; for it was all settled between him and her before she came away, and he had written to her father by captain harville. true, upon my honour! are not you astonished? i shall be surprised at least if you ever received a hint of it, for i never did. mrs musgrove protests solemnly that she knew nothing of the matter. we are all very well pleased, however, for though it is not equal to her marrying captain wentworth, it is infinitely better than charles hayter; and mr musgrove has written his consent, and captain benwick is expected to-day. mrs harville says her husband feels a good deal on his poor sister's account; but, however, louisa is a great favourite with both. indeed, mrs harville and i quite agree that we love her the better for having nursed her. charles wonders what captain wentworth will say; but if you remember, i never thought him attached to louisa; i never could see anything of it. and this is the end, you see, of captain benwick's being supposed to be an admirer of yours. how charles could take such a thing into his head was always incomprehensible to me. i hope he will be more agreeable now. certainly not a great match for louisa musgrove, but a million times better than marrying among the hayters." mary need not have feared her sister's being in any degree prepared for the news. she had never in her life been more astonished. captain benwick and louisa musgrove! it was almost too wonderful for belief, and it was with the greatest effort that she could remain in the room, preserve an air of calmness, and answer the common questions of the moment. happily for her, they were not many. sir walter wanted to know whether the crofts travelled with four horses, and whether they were likely to be situated in such a part of bath as it might suit miss elliot and himself to visit in; but had little curiosity beyond. "how is mary?" said elizabeth; and without waiting for an answer, "and pray what brings the crofts to bath?" "they come on the admiral's account. he is thought to be gouty." "gout and decrepitude!" said sir walter. "poor old gentleman." "have they any acquaintance here?" asked elizabeth. "i do not know; but i can hardly suppose that, at admiral croft's time of life, and in his profession, he should not have many acquaintance in such a place as this." "i suspect," said sir walter coolly, "that admiral croft will be best known in bath as the renter of kellynch hall. elizabeth, may we venture to present him and his wife in laura place?" "oh, no! i think not. situated as we are with lady dalrymple, cousins, we ought to be very careful not to embarrass her with acquaintance she might not approve. if we were not related, it would not signify; but as cousins, she would feel scrupulous as to any proposal of ours. we had better leave the crofts to find their own level. there are several odd-looking men walking about here, who, i am told, are sailors. the crofts will associate with them." this was sir walter and elizabeth's share of interest in the letter; when mrs clay had paid her tribute of more decent attention, in an enquiry after mrs charles musgrove, and her fine little boys, anne was at liberty. in her own room, she tried to comprehend it. well might charles wonder how captain wentworth would feel! perhaps he had quitted the field, had given louisa up, had ceased to love, had found he did not love her. she could not endure the idea of treachery or levity, or anything akin to ill usage between him and his friend. she could not endure that such a friendship as theirs should be severed unfairly. captain benwick and louisa musgrove! the high-spirited, joyous-talking louisa musgrove, and the dejected, thinking, feeling, reading, captain benwick, seemed each of them everything that would not suit the other. their minds most dissimilar! where could have been the attraction? the answer soon presented itself. it had been in situation. they had been thrown together several weeks; they had been living in the same small family party: since henrietta's coming away, they must have been depending almost entirely on each other, and louisa, just recovering from illness, had been in an interesting state, and captain benwick was not inconsolable. that was a point which anne had not been able to avoid suspecting before; and instead of drawing the same conclusion as mary, from the present course of events, they served only to confirm the idea of his having felt some dawning of tenderness toward herself. she did not mean, however, to derive much more from it to gratify her vanity, than mary might have allowed. she was persuaded that any tolerably pleasing young woman who had listened and seemed to feel for him would have received the same compliment. he had an affectionate heart. he must love somebody. she saw no reason against their being happy. louisa had fine naval fervour to begin with, and they would soon grow more alike. he would gain cheerfulness, and she would learn to be an enthusiast for scott and lord byron; nay, that was probably learnt already; of course they had fallen in love over poetry. the idea of louisa musgrove turned into a person of literary taste, and sentimental reflection was amusing, but she had no doubt of its being so. the day at lyme, the fall from the cobb, might influence her health, her nerves, her courage, her character to the end of her life, as thoroughly as it appeared to have influenced her fate. the conclusion of the whole was, that if the woman who had been sensible of captain wentworth's merits could be allowed to prefer another man, there was nothing in the engagement to excite lasting wonder; and if captain wentworth lost no friend by it, certainly nothing to be regretted. no, it was not regret which made anne's heart beat in spite of herself, and brought the colour into her cheeks when she thought of captain wentworth unshackled and free. she had some feelings which she was ashamed to investigate. they were too much like joy, senseless joy! she longed to see the crofts; but when the meeting took place, it was evident that no rumour of the news had yet reached them. the visit of ceremony was paid and returned; and louisa musgrove was mentioned, and captain benwick, too, without even half a smile. the crofts had placed themselves in lodgings in gay street, perfectly to sir walter's satisfaction. he was not at all ashamed of the acquaintance, and did, in fact, think and talk a great deal more about the admiral, than the admiral ever thought or talked about him. the crofts knew quite as many people in bath as they wished for, and considered their intercourse with the elliots as a mere matter of form, and not in the least likely to afford them any pleasure. they brought with them their country habit of being almost always together. he was ordered to walk to keep off the gout, and mrs croft seemed to go shares with him in everything, and to walk for her life to do him good. anne saw them wherever she went. lady russell took her out in her carriage almost every morning, and she never failed to think of them, and never failed to see them. knowing their feelings as she did, it was a most attractive picture of happiness to her. she always watched them as long as she could, delighted to fancy she understood what they might be talking of, as they walked along in happy independence, or equally delighted to see the admiral's hearty shake of the hand when he encountered an old friend, and observe their eagerness of conversation when occasionally forming into a little knot of the navy, mrs croft looking as intelligent and keen as any of the officers around her. anne was too much engaged with lady russell to be often walking herself; but it so happened that one morning, about a week or ten days after the croft's arrival, it suited her best to leave her friend, or her friend's carriage, in the lower part of the town, and return alone to camden place, and in walking up milsom street she had the good fortune to meet with the admiral. he was standing by himself at a printshop window, with his hands behind him, in earnest contemplation of some print, and she not only might have passed him unseen, but was obliged to touch as well as address him before she could catch his notice. when he did perceive and acknowledge her, however, it was done with all his usual frankness and good humour. "ha! is it you? thank you, thank you. this is treating me like a friend. here i am, you see, staring at a picture. i can never get by this shop without stopping. but what a thing here is, by way of a boat! do look at it. did you ever see the like? what queer fellows your fine painters must be, to think that anybody would venture their lives in such a shapeless old cockleshell as that? and yet here are two gentlemen stuck up in it mightily at their ease, and looking about them at the rocks and mountains, as if they were not to be upset the next moment, which they certainly must be. i wonder where that boat was built!" (laughing heartily); "i would not venture over a horsepond in it. well," (turning away), "now, where are you bound? can i go anywhere for you, or with you? can i be of any use?" "none, i thank you, unless you will give me the pleasure of your company the little way our road lies together. i am going home." "that i will, with all my heart, and farther, too. yes, yes we will have a snug walk together, and i have something to tell you as we go along. there, take my arm; that's right; i do not feel comfortable if i have not a woman there. lord! what a boat it is!" taking a last look at the picture, as they began to be in motion. "did you say that you had something to tell me, sir?" "yes, i have, presently. but here comes a friend, captain brigden; i shall only say, 'how d'ye do?' as we pass, however. i shall not stop. 'how d'ye do?' brigden stares to see anybody with me but my wife. she, poor soul, is tied by the leg. she has a blister on one of her heels, as large as a three-shilling piece. if you look across the street, you will see admiral brand coming down and his brother. shabby fellows, both of them! i am glad they are not on this side of the way. sophy cannot bear them. they played me a pitiful trick once: got away with some of my best men. i will tell you the whole story another time. there comes old sir archibald drew and his grandson. look, he sees us; he kisses his hand to you; he takes you for my wife. ah! the peace has come too soon for that younker. poor old sir archibald! how do you like bath, miss elliot? it suits us very well. we are always meeting with some old friend or other; the streets full of them every morning; sure to have plenty of chat; and then we get away from them all, and shut ourselves in our lodgings, and draw in our chairs, and are as snug as if we were at kellynch, ay, or as we used to be even at north yarmouth and deal. we do not like our lodgings here the worse, i can tell you, for putting us in mind of those we first had at north yarmouth. the wind blows through one of the cupboards just in the same way." when they were got a little farther, anne ventured to press again for what he had to communicate. she hoped when clear of milsom street to have her curiosity gratified; but she was still obliged to wait, for the admiral had made up his mind not to begin till they had gained the greater space and quiet of belmont; and as she was not really mrs croft, she must let him have his own way. as soon as they were fairly ascending belmont, he began-- "well, now you shall hear something that will surprise you. but first of all, you must tell me the name of the young lady i am going to talk about. that young lady, you know, that we have all been so concerned for. the miss musgrove, that all this has been happening to. her christian name: i always forget her christian name." anne had been ashamed to appear to comprehend so soon as she really did; but now she could safely suggest the name of "louisa." "ay, ay, miss louisa musgrove, that is the name. i wish young ladies had not such a number of fine christian names. i should never be out if they were all sophys, or something of that sort. well, this miss louisa, we all thought, you know, was to marry frederick. he was courting her week after week. the only wonder was, what they could be waiting for, till the business at lyme came; then, indeed, it was clear enough that they must wait till her brain was set to right. but even then there was something odd in their way of going on. instead of staying at lyme, he went off to plymouth, and then he went off to see edward. when we came back from minehead he was gone down to edward's, and there he has been ever since. we have seen nothing of him since november. even sophy could not understand it. but now, the matter has taken the strangest turn of all; for this young lady, the same miss musgrove, instead of being to marry frederick, is to marry james benwick. you know james benwick." "a little. i am a little acquainted with captain benwick." "well, she is to marry him. nay, most likely they are married already, for i do not know what they should wait for." "i thought captain benwick a very pleasing young man," said anne, "and i understand that he bears an excellent character." "oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against james benwick. he is only a commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad times for getting on, but he has not another fault that i know of. an excellent, good-hearted fellow, i assure you; a very active, zealous officer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that soft sort of manner does not do him justice." "indeed you are mistaken there, sir; i should never augur want of spirit from captain benwick's manners. i thought them particularly pleasing, and i will answer for it, they would generally please." "well, well, ladies are the best judges; but james benwick is rather too piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality, sophy and i cannot help thinking frederick's manners better than his. there is something about frederick more to our taste." anne was caught. she had only meant to oppose the too common idea of spirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to represent captain benwick's manners as the very best that could possibly be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say, "i was not entering into any comparison of the two friends," but the admiral interrupted her with-- "and the thing is certainly true. it is not a mere bit of gossip. we have it from frederick himself. his sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from harville, written upon the spot, from uppercross. i fancy they are all at uppercross." this was an opportunity which anne could not resist; she said, therefore, "i hope, admiral, i hope there is nothing in the style of captain wentworth's letter to make you and mrs croft particularly uneasy. it did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment between him and louisa musgrove; but i hope it may be understood to have worn out on each side equally, and without violence. i hope his letter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man." "not at all, not at all; there is not an oath or a murmur from beginning to end." anne looked down to hide her smile. "no, no; frederick is not a man to whine and complain; he has too much spirit for that. if the girl likes another man better, it is very fit she should have him." "certainly. but what i mean is, that i hope there is nothing in captain wentworth's manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks himself ill-used by his friend, which might appear, you know, without its being absolutely said. i should be very sorry that such a friendship as has subsisted between him and captain benwick should be destroyed, or even wounded, by a circumstance of this sort." "yes, yes, i understand you. but there is nothing at all of that nature in the letter. he does not give the least fling at benwick; does not so much as say, 'i wonder at it, i have a reason of my own for wondering at it.' no, you would not guess, from his way of writing, that he had ever thought of this miss (what's her name?) for himself. he very handsomely hopes they will be happy together; and there is nothing very unforgiving in that, i think." anne did not receive the perfect conviction which the admiral meant to convey, but it would have been useless to press the enquiry farther. she therefore satisfied herself with common-place remarks or quiet attention, and the admiral had it all his own way. "poor frederick!" said he at last. "now he must begin all over again with somebody else. i think we must get him to bath. sophy must write, and beg him to come to bath. here are pretty girls enough, i am sure. it would be of no use to go to uppercross again, for that other miss musgrove, i find, is bespoke by her cousin, the young parson. do not you think, miss elliot, we had better try to get him to bath?" chapter while admiral croft was taking this walk with anne, and expressing his wish of getting captain wentworth to bath, captain wentworth was already on his way thither. before mrs croft had written, he was arrived, and the very next time anne walked out, she saw him. mr elliot was attending his two cousins and mrs clay. they were in milsom street. it began to rain, not much, but enough to make shelter desirable for women, and quite enough to make it very desirable for miss elliot to have the advantage of being conveyed home in lady dalrymple's carriage, which was seen waiting at a little distance; she, anne, and mrs clay, therefore, turned into molland's, while mr elliot stepped to lady dalrymple, to request her assistance. he soon joined them again, successful, of course; lady dalrymple would be most happy to take them home, and would call for them in a few minutes. her ladyship's carriage was a barouche, and did not hold more than four with any comfort. miss carteret was with her mother; consequently it was not reasonable to expect accommodation for all the three camden place ladies. there could be no doubt as to miss elliot. whoever suffered inconvenience, she must suffer none, but it occupied a little time to settle the point of civility between the other two. the rain was a mere trifle, and anne was most sincere in preferring a walk with mr elliot. but the rain was also a mere trifle to mrs clay; she would hardly allow it even to drop at all, and her boots were so thick! much thicker than miss anne's; and, in short, her civility rendered her quite as anxious to be left to walk with mr elliot as anne could be, and it was discussed between them with a generosity so polite and so determined, that the others were obliged to settle it for them; miss elliot maintaining that mrs clay had a little cold already, and mr elliot deciding on appeal, that his cousin anne's boots were rather the thickest. it was fixed accordingly, that mrs clay should be of the party in the carriage; and they had just reached this point, when anne, as she sat near the window, descried, most decidedly and distinctly, captain wentworth walking down the street. her start was perceptible only to herself; but she instantly felt that she was the greatest simpleton in the world, the most unaccountable and absurd! for a few minutes she saw nothing before her; it was all confusion. she was lost, and when she had scolded back her senses, she found the others still waiting for the carriage, and mr elliot (always obliging) just setting off for union street on a commission of mrs clay's. she now felt a great inclination to go to the outer door; she wanted to see if it rained. why was she to suspect herself of another motive? captain wentworth must be out of sight. she left her seat, she would go; one half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other half, or always suspecting the other of being worse than it was. she would see if it rained. she was sent back, however, in a moment by the entrance of captain wentworth himself, among a party of gentlemen and ladies, evidently his acquaintance, and whom he must have joined a little below milsom street. he was more obviously struck and confused by the sight of her than she had ever observed before; he looked quite red. for the first time, since their renewed acquaintance, she felt that she was betraying the least sensibility of the two. she had the advantage of him in the preparation of the last few moments. all the overpowering, blinding, bewildering, first effects of strong surprise were over with her. still, however, she had enough to feel! it was agitation, pain, pleasure, a something between delight and misery. he spoke to her, and then turned away. the character of his manner was embarrassment. she could not have called it either cold or friendly, or anything so certainly as embarrassed. after a short interval, however, he came towards her, and spoke again. mutual enquiries on common subjects passed: neither of them, probably, much the wiser for what they heard, and anne continuing fully sensible of his being less at ease than formerly. they had by dint of being so very much together, got to speak to each other with a considerable portion of apparent indifference and calmness; but he could not do it now. time had changed him, or louisa had changed him. there was consciousness of some sort or other. he looked very well, not as if he had been suffering in health or spirits, and he talked of uppercross, of the musgroves, nay, even of louisa, and had even a momentary look of his own arch significance as he named her; but yet it was captain wentworth not comfortable, not easy, not able to feign that he was. it did not surprise, but it grieved anne to observe that elizabeth would not know him. she saw that he saw elizabeth, that elizabeth saw him, that there was complete internal recognition on each side; she was convinced that he was ready to be acknowledged as an acquaintance, expecting it, and she had the pain of seeing her sister turn away with unalterable coldness. lady dalrymple's carriage, for which miss elliot was growing very impatient, now drew up; the servant came in to announce it. it was beginning to rain again, and altogether there was a delay, and a bustle, and a talking, which must make all the little crowd in the shop understand that lady dalrymple was calling to convey miss elliot. at last miss elliot and her friend, unattended but by the servant, (for there was no cousin returned), were walking off; and captain wentworth, watching them, turned again to anne, and by manner, rather than words, was offering his services to her. "i am much obliged to you," was her answer, "but i am not going with them. the carriage would not accommodate so many. i walk: i prefer walking." "but it rains." "oh! very little, nothing that i regard." after a moment's pause he said: "though i came only yesterday, i have equipped myself properly for bath already, you see," (pointing to a new umbrella); "i wish you would make use of it, if you are determined to walk; though i think it would be more prudent to let me get you a chair." she was very much obliged to him, but declined it all, repeating her conviction, that the rain would come to nothing at present, and adding, "i am only waiting for mr elliot. he will be here in a moment, i am sure." she had hardly spoken the words when mr elliot walked in. captain wentworth recollected him perfectly. there was no difference between him and the man who had stood on the steps at lyme, admiring anne as she passed, except in the air and look and manner of the privileged relation and friend. he came in with eagerness, appeared to see and think only of her, apologised for his stay, was grieved to have kept her waiting, and anxious to get her away without further loss of time and before the rain increased; and in another moment they walked off together, her arm under his, a gentle and embarrassed glance, and a "good morning to you!" being all that she had time for, as she passed away. as soon as they were out of sight, the ladies of captain wentworth's party began talking of them. "mr elliot does not dislike his cousin, i fancy?" "oh! no, that is clear enough. one can guess what will happen there. he is always with them; half lives in the family, i believe. what a very good-looking man!" "yes, and miss atkinson, who dined with him once at the wallises, says he is the most agreeable man she ever was in company with." "she is pretty, i think; anne elliot; very pretty, when one comes to look at her. it is not the fashion to say so, but i confess i admire her more than her sister." "oh! so do i." "and so do i. no comparison. but the men are all wild after miss elliot. anne is too delicate for them." anne would have been particularly obliged to her cousin, if he would have walked by her side all the way to camden place, without saying a word. she had never found it so difficult to listen to him, though nothing could exceed his solicitude and care, and though his subjects were principally such as were wont to be always interesting: praise, warm, just, and discriminating, of lady russell, and insinuations highly rational against mrs clay. but just now she could think only of captain wentworth. she could not understand his present feelings, whether he were really suffering much from disappointment or not; and till that point were settled, she could not be quite herself. she hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas! alas! she must confess to herself that she was not wise yet. another circumstance very essential for her to know, was how long he meant to be in bath; he had not mentioned it, or she could not recollect it. he might be only passing through. but it was more probable that he should be come to stay. in that case, so liable as every body was to meet every body in bath, lady russell would in all likelihood see him somewhere. would she recollect him? how would it all be? she had already been obliged to tell lady russell that louisa musgrove was to marry captain benwick. it had cost her something to encounter lady russell's surprise; and now, if she were by any chance to be thrown into company with captain wentworth, her imperfect knowledge of the matter might add another shade of prejudice against him. the following morning anne was out with her friend, and for the first hour, in an incessant and fearful sort of watch for him in vain; but at last, in returning down pulteney street, she distinguished him on the right hand pavement at such a distance as to have him in view the greater part of the street. there were many other men about him, many groups walking the same way, but there was no mistaking him. she looked instinctively at lady russell; but not from any mad idea of her recognising him so soon as she did herself. no, it was not to be supposed that lady russell would perceive him till they were nearly opposite. she looked at her however, from time to time, anxiously; and when the moment approached which must point him out, though not daring to look again (for her own countenance she knew was unfit to be seen), she was yet perfectly conscious of lady russell's eyes being turned exactly in the direction for him--of her being, in short, intently observing him. she could thoroughly comprehend the sort of fascination he must possess over lady russell's mind, the difficulty it must be for her to withdraw her eyes, the astonishment she must be feeling that eight or nine years should have passed over him, and in foreign climes and in active service too, without robbing him of one personal grace! at last, lady russell drew back her head. "now, how would she speak of him?" "you will wonder," said she, "what has been fixing my eye so long; but i was looking after some window-curtains, which lady alicia and mrs frankland were telling me of last night. they described the drawing-room window-curtains of one of the houses on this side of the way, and this part of the street, as being the handsomest and best hung of any in bath, but could not recollect the exact number, and i have been trying to find out which it could be; but i confess i can see no curtains hereabouts that answer their description." anne sighed and blushed and smiled, in pity and disdain, either at her friend or herself. the part which provoked her most, was that in all this waste of foresight and caution, she should have lost the right moment for seeing whether he saw them. a day or two passed without producing anything. the theatre or the rooms, where he was most likely to be, were not fashionable enough for the elliots, whose evening amusements were solely in the elegant stupidity of private parties, in which they were getting more and more engaged; and anne, wearied of such a state of stagnation, sick of knowing nothing, and fancying herself stronger because her strength was not tried, was quite impatient for the concert evening. it was a concert for the benefit of a person patronised by lady dalrymple. of course they must attend. it was really expected to be a good one, and captain wentworth was very fond of music. if she could only have a few minutes conversation with him again, she fancied she should be satisfied; and as to the power of addressing him, she felt all over courage if the opportunity occurred. elizabeth had turned from him, lady russell overlooked him; her nerves were strengthened by these circumstances; she felt that she owed him attention. she had once partly promised mrs smith to spend the evening with her; but in a short hurried call she excused herself and put it off, with the more decided promise of a longer visit on the morrow. mrs smith gave a most good-humoured acquiescence. "by all means," said she; "only tell me all about it, when you do come. who is your party?" anne named them all. mrs smith made no reply; but when she was leaving her said, and with an expression half serious, half arch, "well, i heartily wish your concert may answer; and do not fail me to-morrow if you can come; for i begin to have a foreboding that i may not have many more visits from you." anne was startled and confused; but after standing in a moment's suspense, was obliged, and not sorry to be obliged, to hurry away. chapter sir walter, his two daughters, and mrs clay, were the earliest of all their party at the rooms in the evening; and as lady dalrymple must be waited for, they took their station by one of the fires in the octagon room. but hardly were they so settled, when the door opened again, and captain wentworth walked in alone. anne was the nearest to him, and making yet a little advance, she instantly spoke. he was preparing only to bow and pass on, but her gentle "how do you do?" brought him out of the straight line to stand near her, and make enquiries in return, in spite of the formidable father and sister in the back ground. their being in the back ground was a support to anne; she knew nothing of their looks, and felt equal to everything which she believed right to be done. while they were speaking, a whispering between her father and elizabeth caught her ear. she could not distinguish, but she must guess the subject; and on captain wentworth's making a distant bow, she comprehended that her father had judged so well as to give him that simple acknowledgement of acquaintance, and she was just in time by a side glance to see a slight curtsey from elizabeth herself. this, though late, and reluctant, and ungracious, was yet better than nothing, and her spirits improved. after talking, however, of the weather, and bath, and the concert, their conversation began to flag, and so little was said at last, that she was expecting him to go every moment, but he did not; he seemed in no hurry to leave her; and presently with renewed spirit, with a little smile, a little glow, he said-- "i have hardly seen you since our day at lyme. i am afraid you must have suffered from the shock, and the more from its not overpowering you at the time." she assured him that she had not. "it was a frightful hour," said he, "a frightful day!" and he passed his hand across his eyes, as if the remembrance were still too painful, but in a moment, half smiling again, added, "the day has produced some effects however; has had some consequences which must be considered as the very reverse of frightful. when you had the presence of mind to suggest that benwick would be the properest person to fetch a surgeon, you could have little idea of his being eventually one of those most concerned in her recovery." "certainly i could have none. but it appears--i should hope it would be a very happy match. there are on both sides good principles and good temper." "yes," said he, looking not exactly forward; "but there, i think, ends the resemblance. with all my soul i wish them happy, and rejoice over every circumstance in favour of it. they have no difficulties to contend with at home, no opposition, no caprice, no delays. the musgroves are behaving like themselves, most honourably and kindly, only anxious with true parental hearts to promote their daughter's comfort. all this is much, very much in favour of their happiness; more than perhaps--" he stopped. a sudden recollection seemed to occur, and to give him some taste of that emotion which was reddening anne's cheeks and fixing her eyes on the ground. after clearing his throat, however, he proceeded thus-- "i confess that i do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity, and in a point no less essential than mind. i regard louisa musgrove as a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in understanding, but benwick is something more. he is a clever man, a reading man; and i confess, that i do consider his attaching himself to her with some surprise. had it been the effect of gratitude, had he learnt to love her, because he believed her to be preferring him, it would have been another thing. but i have no reason to suppose it so. it seems, on the contrary, to have been a perfectly spontaneous, untaught feeling on his side, and this surprises me. a man like him, in his situation! with a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken! fanny harville was a very superior creature, and his attachment to her was indeed attachment. a man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman. he ought not; he does not." either from the consciousness, however, that his friend had recovered, or from other consciousness, he went no farther; and anne who, in spite of the agitated voice in which the latter part had been uttered, and in spite of all the various noises of the room, the almost ceaseless slam of the door, and ceaseless buzz of persons walking through, had distinguished every word, was struck, gratified, confused, and beginning to breathe very quick, and feel an hundred things in a moment. it was impossible for her to enter on such a subject; and yet, after a pause, feeling the necessity of speaking, and having not the smallest wish for a total change, she only deviated so far as to say-- "you were a good while at lyme, i think?" "about a fortnight. i could not leave it till louisa's doing well was quite ascertained. i had been too deeply concerned in the mischief to be soon at peace. it had been my doing, solely mine. she would not have been obstinate if i had not been weak. the country round lyme is very fine. i walked and rode a great deal; and the more i saw, the more i found to admire." "i should very much like to see lyme again," said anne. "indeed! i should not have supposed that you could have found anything in lyme to inspire such a feeling. the horror and distress you were involved in, the stretch of mind, the wear of spirits! i should have thought your last impressions of lyme must have been strong disgust." "the last hours were certainly very painful," replied anne; "but when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. one does not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at lyme. we were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours, and previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment. so much novelty and beauty! i have travelled so little, that every fresh place would be interesting to me; but there is real beauty at lyme; and in short" (with a faint blush at some recollections), "altogether my impressions of the place are very agreeable." as she ceased, the entrance door opened again, and the very party appeared for whom they were waiting. "lady dalrymple, lady dalrymple," was the rejoicing sound; and with all the eagerness compatible with anxious elegance, sir walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet her. lady dalrymple and miss carteret, escorted by mr elliot and colonel wallis, who had happened to arrive nearly at the same instant, advanced into the room. the others joined them, and it was a group in which anne found herself also necessarily included. she was divided from captain wentworth. their interesting, almost too interesting conversation must be broken up for a time, but slight was the penance compared with the happiness which brought it on! she had learnt, in the last ten minutes, more of his feelings towards louisa, more of all his feelings than she dared to think of; and she gave herself up to the demands of the party, to the needful civilities of the moment, with exquisite, though agitated sensations. she was in good humour with all. she had received ideas which disposed her to be courteous and kind to all, and to pity every one, as being less happy than herself. the delightful emotions were a little subdued, when on stepping back from the group, to be joined again by captain wentworth, she saw that he was gone. she was just in time to see him turn into the concert room. he was gone; he had disappeared, she felt a moment's regret. but "they should meet again. he would look for her, he would find her out before the evening were over, and at present, perhaps, it was as well to be asunder. she was in need of a little interval for recollection." upon lady russell's appearance soon afterwards, the whole party was collected, and all that remained was to marshal themselves, and proceed into the concert room; and be of all the consequence in their power, draw as many eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many people as they could. very, very happy were both elizabeth and anne elliot as they walked in. elizabeth arm in arm with miss carteret, and looking on the broad back of the dowager viscountess dalrymple before her, had nothing to wish for which did not seem within her reach; and anne--but it would be an insult to the nature of anne's felicity, to draw any comparison between it and her sister's; the origin of one all selfish vanity, of the other all generous attachment. anne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy of the room. her happiness was from within. her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed; but she knew nothing about it. she was thinking only of the last half hour, and as they passed to their seats, her mind took a hasty range over it. his choice of subjects, his expressions, and still more his manner and look, had been such as she could see in only one light. his opinion of louisa musgrove's inferiority, an opinion which he had seemed solicitous to give, his wonder at captain benwick, his feelings as to a first, strong attachment; sentences begun which he could not finish, his half averted eyes and more than half expressive glance, all, all declared that he had a heart returning to her at least; that anger, resentment, avoidance, were no more; and that they were succeeded, not merely by friendship and regard, but by the tenderness of the past. yes, some share of the tenderness of the past. she could not contemplate the change as implying less. he must love her. these were thoughts, with their attendant visions, which occupied and flurried her too much to leave her any power of observation; and she passed along the room without having a glimpse of him, without even trying to discern him. when their places were determined on, and they were all properly arranged, she looked round to see if he should happen to be in the same part of the room, but he was not; her eye could not reach him; and the concert being just opening, she must consent for a time to be happy in a humbler way. the party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches: anne was among those on the foremost, and mr elliot had manoeuvred so well, with the assistance of his friend colonel wallis, as to have a seat by her. miss elliot, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal object of colonel wallis's gallantry, was quite contented. anne's mind was in a most favourable state for the entertainment of the evening; it was just occupation enough: she had feelings for the tender, spirits for the gay, attention for the scientific, and patience for the wearisome; and had never liked a concert better, at least during the first act. towards the close of it, in the interval succeeding an italian song, she explained the words of the song to mr elliot. they had a concert bill between them. "this," said she, "is nearly the sense, or rather the meaning of the words, for certainly the sense of an italian love-song must not be talked of, but it is as nearly the meaning as i can give; for i do not pretend to understand the language. i am a very poor italian scholar." "yes, yes, i see you are. i see you know nothing of the matter. you have only knowledge enough of the language to translate at sight these inverted, transposed, curtailed italian lines, into clear, comprehensible, elegant english. you need not say anything more of your ignorance. here is complete proof." "i will not oppose such kind politeness; but i should be sorry to be examined by a real proficient." "i have not had the pleasure of visiting in camden place so long," replied he, "without knowing something of miss anne elliot; and i do regard her as one who is too modest for the world in general to be aware of half her accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for modesty to be natural in any other woman." "for shame! for shame! this is too much flattery. i forget what we are to have next," turning to the bill. "perhaps," said mr elliot, speaking low, "i have had a longer acquaintance with your character than you are aware of." "indeed! how so? you can have been acquainted with it only since i came to bath, excepting as you might hear me previously spoken of in my own family." "i knew you by report long before you came to bath. i had heard you described by those who knew you intimately. i have been acquainted with you by character many years. your person, your disposition, accomplishments, manner; they were all present to me." mr elliot was not disappointed in the interest he hoped to raise. no one can withstand the charm of such a mystery. to have been described long ago to a recent acquaintance, by nameless people, is irresistible; and anne was all curiosity. she wondered, and questioned him eagerly; but in vain. he delighted in being asked, but he would not tell. "no, no, some time or other, perhaps, but not now. he would mention no names now; but such, he could assure her, had been the fact. he had many years ago received such a description of miss anne elliot as had inspired him with the highest idea of her merit, and excited the warmest curiosity to know her." anne could think of no one so likely to have spoken with partiality of her many years ago as the mr wentworth of monkford, captain wentworth's brother. he might have been in mr elliot's company, but she had not courage to ask the question. "the name of anne elliot," said he, "has long had an interesting sound to me. very long has it possessed a charm over my fancy; and, if i dared, i would breathe my wishes that the name might never change." such, she believed, were his words; but scarcely had she received their sound, than her attention was caught by other sounds immediately behind her, which rendered every thing else trivial. her father and lady dalrymple were speaking. "a well-looking man," said sir walter, "a very well-looking man." "a very fine young man indeed!" said lady dalrymple. "more air than one often sees in bath. irish, i dare say." "no, i just know his name. a bowing acquaintance. wentworth; captain wentworth of the navy. his sister married my tenant in somersetshire, the croft, who rents kellynch." before sir walter had reached this point, anne's eyes had caught the right direction, and distinguished captain wentworth standing among a cluster of men at a little distance. as her eyes fell on him, his seemed to be withdrawn from her. it had that appearance. it seemed as if she had been one moment too late; and as long as she dared observe, he did not look again: but the performance was recommencing, and she was forced to seem to restore her attention to the orchestra and look straight forward. when she could give another glance, he had moved away. he could not have come nearer to her if he would; she was so surrounded and shut in: but she would rather have caught his eye. mr elliot's speech, too, distressed her. she had no longer any inclination to talk to him. she wished him not so near her. the first act was over. now she hoped for some beneficial change; and, after a period of nothing-saying amongst the party, some of them did decide on going in quest of tea. anne was one of the few who did not choose to move. she remained in her seat, and so did lady russell; but she had the pleasure of getting rid of mr elliot; and she did not mean, whatever she might feel on lady russell's account, to shrink from conversation with captain wentworth, if he gave her the opportunity. she was persuaded by lady russell's countenance that she had seen him. he did not come however. anne sometimes fancied she discerned him at a distance, but he never came. the anxious interval wore away unproductively. the others returned, the room filled again, benches were reclaimed and repossessed, and another hour of pleasure or of penance was to be sat out, another hour of music was to give delight or the gapes, as real or affected taste for it prevailed. to anne, it chiefly wore the prospect of an hour of agitation. she could not quit that room in peace without seeing captain wentworth once more, without the interchange of one friendly look. in re-settling themselves there were now many changes, the result of which was favourable for her. colonel wallis declined sitting down again, and mr elliot was invited by elizabeth and miss carteret, in a manner not to be refused, to sit between them; and by some other removals, and a little scheming of her own, anne was enabled to place herself much nearer the end of the bench than she had been before, much more within reach of a passer-by. she could not do so, without comparing herself with miss larolles, the inimitable miss larolles; but still she did it, and not with much happier effect; though by what seemed prosperity in the shape of an early abdication in her next neighbours, she found herself at the very end of the bench before the concert closed. such was her situation, with a vacant space at hand, when captain wentworth was again in sight. she saw him not far off. he saw her too; yet he looked grave, and seemed irresolute, and only by very slow degrees came at last near enough to speak to her. she felt that something must be the matter. the change was indubitable. the difference between his present air and what it had been in the octagon room was strikingly great. why was it? she thought of her father, of lady russell. could there have been any unpleasant glances? he began by speaking of the concert gravely, more like the captain wentworth of uppercross; owned himself disappointed, had expected singing; and in short, must confess that he should not be sorry when it was over. anne replied, and spoke in defence of the performance so well, and yet in allowance for his feelings so pleasantly, that his countenance improved, and he replied again with almost a smile. they talked for a few minutes more; the improvement held; he even looked down towards the bench, as if he saw a place on it well worth occupying; when at that moment a touch on her shoulder obliged anne to turn round. it came from mr elliot. he begged her pardon, but she must be applied to, to explain italian again. miss carteret was very anxious to have a general idea of what was next to be sung. anne could not refuse; but never had she sacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit. a few minutes, though as few as possible, were inevitably consumed; and when her own mistress again, when able to turn and look as she had done before, she found herself accosted by captain wentworth, in a reserved yet hurried sort of farewell. "he must wish her good night; he was going; he should get home as fast as he could." "is not this song worth staying for?" said anne, suddenly struck by an idea which made her yet more anxious to be encouraging. "no!" he replied impressively, "there is nothing worth my staying for;" and he was gone directly. jealousy of mr elliot! it was the only intelligible motive. captain wentworth jealous of her affection! could she have believed it a week ago; three hours ago! for a moment the gratification was exquisite. but, alas! there were very different thoughts to succeed. how was such jealousy to be quieted? how was the truth to reach him? how, in all the peculiar disadvantages of their respective situations, would he ever learn of her real sentiments? it was misery to think of mr elliot's attentions. their evil was incalculable. chapter anne recollected with pleasure the next morning her promise of going to mrs smith, meaning that it should engage her from home at the time when mr elliot would be most likely to call; for to avoid mr elliot was almost a first object. she felt a great deal of good-will towards him. in spite of the mischief of his attentions, she owed him gratitude and regard, perhaps compassion. she could not help thinking much of the extraordinary circumstances attending their acquaintance, of the right which he seemed to have to interest her, by everything in situation, by his own sentiments, by his early prepossession. it was altogether very extraordinary; flattering, but painful. there was much to regret. how she might have felt had there been no captain wentworth in the case, was not worth enquiry; for there was a captain wentworth; and be the conclusion of the present suspense good or bad, her affection would be his for ever. their union, she believed, could not divide her more from other men, than their final separation. prettier musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy, could never have passed along the streets of bath, than anne was sporting with from camden place to westgate buildings. it was almost enough to spread purification and perfume all the way. she was sure of a pleasant reception; and her friend seemed this morning particularly obliged to her for coming, seemed hardly to have expected her, though it had been an appointment. an account of the concert was immediately claimed; and anne's recollections of the concert were quite happy enough to animate her features and make her rejoice to talk of it. all that she could tell she told most gladly, but the all was little for one who had been there, and unsatisfactory for such an enquirer as mrs smith, who had already heard, through the short cut of a laundress and a waiter, rather more of the general success and produce of the evening than anne could relate, and who now asked in vain for several particulars of the company. everybody of any consequence or notoriety in bath was well know by name to mrs smith. "the little durands were there, i conclude," said she, "with their mouths open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be fed. they never miss a concert." "yes; i did not see them myself, but i heard mr elliot say they were in the room." "the ibbotsons, were they there? and the two new beauties, with the tall irish officer, who is talked of for one of them." "i do not know. i do not think they were." "old lady mary maclean? i need not ask after her. she never misses, i know; and you must have seen her. she must have been in your own circle; for as you went with lady dalrymple, you were in the seats of grandeur, round the orchestra, of course." "no, that was what i dreaded. it would have been very unpleasant to me in every respect. but happily lady dalrymple always chooses to be farther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing; i must not say for seeing, because i appear to have seen very little." "oh! you saw enough for your own amusement. i can understand. there is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you had. you were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing beyond." "but i ought to have looked about me more," said anne, conscious while she spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that the object only had been deficient. "no, no; you were better employed. you need not tell me that you had a pleasant evening. i see it in your eye. i perfectly see how the hours passed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to. in the intervals of the concert it was conversation." anne half smiled and said, "do you see that in my eye?" "yes, i do. your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together." a blush overspread anne's cheeks. she could say nothing. "and such being the case," continued mrs smith, after a short pause, "i hope you believe that i do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. it is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time." anne heard nothing of this. she was still in the astonishment and confusion excited by her friend's penetration, unable to imagine how any report of captain wentworth could have reached her. after another short silence-- "pray," said mrs smith, "is mr elliot aware of your acquaintance with me? does he know that i am in bath?" "mr elliot!" repeated anne, looking up surprised. a moment's reflection shewed her the mistake she had been under. she caught it instantaneously; and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety, soon added, more composedly, "are you acquainted with mr elliot?" "i have been a good deal acquainted with him," replied mrs smith, gravely, "but it seems worn out now. it is a great while since we met." "i was not at all aware of this. you never mentioned it before. had i known it, i would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you." "to confess the truth," said mrs smith, assuming her usual air of cheerfulness, "that is exactly the pleasure i want you to have. i want you to talk about me to mr elliot. i want your interest with him. he can be of essential service to me; and if you would have the goodness, my dear miss elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is done." "i should be extremely happy; i hope you cannot doubt my willingness to be of even the slightest use to you," replied anne; "but i suspect that you are considering me as having a higher claim on mr elliot, a greater right to influence him, than is really the case. i am sure you have, somehow or other, imbibed such a notion. you must consider me only as mr elliot's relation. if in that light there is anything which you suppose his cousin might fairly ask of him, i beg you would not hesitate to employ me." mrs smith gave her a penetrating glance, and then, smiling, said-- "i have been a little premature, i perceive; i beg your pardon. i ought to have waited for official information. but now, my dear miss elliot, as an old friend, do give me a hint as to when i may speak. next week? to be sure by next week i may be allowed to think it all settled, and build my own selfish schemes on mr elliot's good fortune." "no," replied anne, "nor next week, nor next, nor next. i assure you that nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled any week. i am not going to marry mr elliot. i should like to know why you imagine i am?" mrs smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her head, and exclaimed-- "now, how i do wish i understood you! how i do wish i knew what you were at! i have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when the right moment occurs. till it does come, you know, we women never mean to have anybody. it is a thing of course among us, that every man is refused, till he offers. but why should you be cruel? let me plead for my--present friend i cannot call him, but for my former friend. where can you look for a more suitable match? where could you expect a more gentlemanlike, agreeable man? let me recommend mr elliot. i am sure you hear nothing but good of him from colonel wallis; and who can know him better than colonel wallis?" "my dear mrs smith, mr elliot's wife has not been dead much above half a year. he ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any one." "oh! if these are your only objections," cried mrs smith, archly, "mr elliot is safe, and i shall give myself no more trouble about him. do not forget me when you are married, that's all. let him know me to be a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble required, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs and engagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very natural, perhaps. ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same. of course, he cannot be aware of the importance to me. well, my dear miss elliot, i hope and trust you will be very happy. mr elliot has sense to understand the value of such a woman. your peace will not be shipwrecked as mine has been. you are safe in all worldly matters, and safe in his character. he will not be led astray; he will not be misled by others to his ruin." "no," said anne, "i can readily believe all that of my cousin. he seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. i consider him with great respect. i have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. but i have not known him long; and he is not a man, i think, to be known intimately soon. will not this manner of speaking of him, mrs smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? surely this must be calm enough. and, upon my word, he is nothing to me. should he ever propose to me (which i have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), i shall not accept him. i assure you i shall not. i assure you, mr elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not mr elliot; it is not mr elliot that--" she stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. mrs smith would hardly have believed so soon in mr elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. as it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why mrs smith should have fancied she was to marry mr elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. "do tell me how it first came into your head." "it first came into my head," replied mrs smith, "upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. but i never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "and has it indeed been spoken of?" "did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "no. was not it mrs speed, as usual, or the maid? i observed no one in particular." "it was my friend mrs rooke; nurse rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. she came away from marlborough buildings only on sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry mr elliot. she had had it from mrs wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. she sat an hour with me on monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "the whole history," repeated anne, laughing. "she could not make a very long history, i think, of one such little article of unfounded news." mrs smith said nothing. "but," continued anne, presently, "though there is no truth in my having this claim on mr elliot, i should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that i could. shall i mention to him your being in bath? shall i take any message?" "no, i thank you: no, certainly not. in the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, i might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. no, i thank you, i have nothing to trouble you with." "i think you spoke of having known mr elliot many years?" "i did." "not before he was married, i suppose?" "yes; he was not married when i knew him first." "and--were you much acquainted?" "intimately." "indeed! then do tell me what he was at that time of life. i have a great curiosity to know what mr elliot was as a very young man. was he at all such as he appears now?" "i have not seen mr elliot these three years," was mrs smith's answer, given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther; and anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. they were both silent: mrs smith very thoughtful. at last-- "i beg your pardon, my dear miss elliot," she cried, in her natural tone of cordiality, "i beg your pardon for the short answers i have been giving you, but i have been uncertain what i ought to do. i have been doubting and considering as to what i ought to tell you. there were many things to be taken into the account. one hates to be officious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief. even the smooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable beneath. however, i have determined; i think i am right; i think you ought to be made acquainted with mr elliot's real character. though i fully believe that, at present, you have not the smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may happen. you might, some time or other, be differently affected towards him. hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced. mr elliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that could be perpetrated without risk of his general character. he has no feeling for others. those whom he has been the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest compunction. he is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or compassion. oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black!" anne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and in a calmer manner, she added, "my expressions startle you. you must allow for an injured, angry woman. but i will try to command myself. i will not abuse him. i will only tell you what i have found him. facts shall speak. he was the intimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and thought him as good as himself. the intimacy had been formed before our marriage. i found them most intimate friends; and i, too, became excessively pleased with mr elliot, and entertained the highest opinion of him. at nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously; but mr elliot appeared to me quite as good as others, and much more agreeable than most others, and we were almost always together. we were principally in town, living in very good style. he was then the inferior in circumstances; he was then the poor one; he had chambers in the temple, and it was as much as he could do to support the appearance of a gentleman. he had always a home with us whenever he chose it; he was always welcome; he was like a brother. my poor charles, who had the finest, most generous spirit in the world, would have divided his last farthing with him; and i know that his purse was open to him; i know that he often assisted him." "this must have been about that very period of mr elliot's life," said anne, "which has always excited my particular curiosity. it must have been about the same time that he became known to my father and sister. i never knew him myself; i only heard of him; but there was a something in his conduct then, with regard to my father and sister, and afterwards in the circumstances of his marriage, which i never could quite reconcile with present times. it seemed to announce a different sort of man." "i know it all, i know it all," cried mrs smith. "he had been introduced to sir walter and your sister before i was acquainted with him, but i heard him speak of them for ever. i know he was invited and encouraged, and i know he did not choose to go. i can satisfy you, perhaps, on points which you would little expect; and as to his marriage, i knew all about it at the time. i was privy to all the fors and againsts; i was the friend to whom he confided his hopes and plans; and though i did not know his wife previously, her inferior situation in society, indeed, rendered that impossible, yet i knew her all her life afterwards, or at least till within the last two years of her life, and can answer any question you may wish to put." "nay," said anne, "i have no particular enquiry to make about her. i have always understood they were not a happy couple. but i should like to know why, at that time of his life, he should slight my father's acquaintance as he did. my father was certainly disposed to take very kind and proper notice of him. why did mr elliot draw back?" "mr elliot," replied mrs smith, "at that period of his life, had one object in view: to make his fortune, and by a rather quicker process than the law. he was determined to make it by marriage. he was determined, at least, not to mar it by an imprudent marriage; and i know it was his belief (whether justly or not, of course i cannot decide), that your father and sister, in their civilities and invitations, were designing a match between the heir and the young lady, and it was impossible that such a match should have answered his ideas of wealth and independence. that was his motive for drawing back, i can assure you. he told me the whole story. he had no concealments with me. it was curious, that having just left you behind me in bath, my first and principal acquaintance on marrying should be your cousin; and that, through him, i should be continually hearing of your father and sister. he described one miss elliot, and i thought very affectionately of the other." "perhaps," cried anne, struck by a sudden idea, "you sometimes spoke of me to mr elliot?" "to be sure i did; very often. i used to boast of my own anne elliot, and vouch for your being a very different creature from--" she checked herself just in time. "this accounts for something which mr elliot said last night," cried anne. "this explains it. i found he had been used to hear of me. i could not comprehend how. what wild imaginations one forms where dear self is concerned! how sure to be mistaken! but i beg your pardon; i have interrupted you. mr elliot married then completely for money? the circumstances, probably, which first opened your eyes to his character." mrs smith hesitated a little here. "oh! those things are too common. when one lives in the world, a man or woman's marrying for money is too common to strike one as it ought. i was very young, and associated only with the young, and we were a thoughtless, gay set, without any strict rules of conduct. we lived for enjoyment. i think differently now; time and sickness and sorrow have given me other notions; but at that period i must own i saw nothing reprehensible in what mr elliot was doing. 'to do the best for himself,' passed as a duty." "but was not she a very low woman?" "yes; which i objected to, but he would not regard. money, money, was all that he wanted. her father was a grazier, her grandfather had been a butcher, but that was all nothing. she was a fine woman, had had a decent education, was brought forward by some cousins, thrown by chance into mr elliot's company, and fell in love with him; and not a difficulty or a scruple was there on his side, with respect to her birth. all his caution was spent in being secured of the real amount of her fortune, before he committed himself. depend upon it, whatever esteem mr elliot may have for his own situation in life now, as a young man he had not the smallest value for it. his chance for the kellynch estate was something, but all the honour of the family he held as cheap as dirt. i have often heard him declare, that if baronetcies were saleable, anybody should have his for fifty pounds, arms and motto, name and livery included; but i will not pretend to repeat half that i used to hear him say on that subject. it would not be fair; and yet you ought to have proof, for what is all this but assertion, and you shall have proof." "indeed, my dear mrs smith, i want none," cried anne. "you have asserted nothing contradictory to what mr elliot appeared to be some years ago. this is all in confirmation, rather, of what we used to hear and believe. i am more curious to know why he should be so different now." "but for my satisfaction, if you will have the goodness to ring for mary; stay: i am sure you will have the still greater goodness of going yourself into my bedroom, and bringing me the small inlaid box which you will find on the upper shelf of the closet." anne, seeing her friend to be earnestly bent on it, did as she was desired. the box was brought and placed before her, and mrs smith, sighing over it as she unlocked it, said-- "this is full of papers belonging to him, to my husband; a small portion only of what i had to look over when i lost him. the letter i am looking for was one written by mr elliot to him before our marriage, and happened to be saved; why, one can hardly imagine. but he was careless and immethodical, like other men, about those things; and when i came to examine his papers, i found it with others still more trivial, from different people scattered here and there, while many letters and memorandums of real importance had been destroyed. here it is; i would not burn it, because being even then very little satisfied with mr elliot, i was determined to preserve every document of former intimacy. i have now another motive for being glad that i can produce it." this was the letter, directed to "charles smith, esq. tunbridge wells," and dated from london, as far back as july, :-- "dear smith,--i have received yours. your kindness almost overpowers me. i wish nature had made such hearts as yours more common, but i have lived three-and-twenty years in the world, and have seen none like it. at present, believe me, i have no need of your services, being in cash again. give me joy: i have got rid of sir walter and miss. they are gone back to kellynch, and almost made me swear to visit them this summer; but my first visit to kellynch will be with a surveyor, to tell me how to bring it with best advantage to the hammer. the baronet, nevertheless, is not unlikely to marry again; he is quite fool enough. if he does, however, they will leave me in peace, which may be a decent equivalent for the reversion. he is worse than last year. "i wish i had any name but elliot. i am sick of it. the name of walter i can drop, thank god! and i desire you will never insult me with my second w. again, meaning, for the rest of my life, to be only yours truly,--wm. elliot." such a letter could not be read without putting anne in a glow; and mrs smith, observing the high colour in her face, said-- "the language, i know, is highly disrespectful. though i have forgot the exact terms, i have a perfect impression of the general meaning. but it shows you the man. mark his professions to my poor husband. can any thing be stronger?" anne could not immediately get over the shock and mortification of finding such words applied to her father. she was obliged to recollect that her seeing the letter was a violation of the laws of honour, that no one ought to be judged or to be known by such testimonies, that no private correspondence could bear the eye of others, before she could recover calmness enough to return the letter which she had been meditating over, and say-- "thank you. this is full proof undoubtedly; proof of every thing you were saying. but why be acquainted with us now?" "i can explain this too," cried mrs smith, smiling. "can you really?" "yes. i have shewn you mr elliot as he was a dozen years ago, and i will shew him as he is now. i cannot produce written proof again, but i can give as authentic oral testimony as you can desire, of what he is now wanting, and what he is now doing. he is no hypocrite now. he truly wants to marry you. his present attentions to your family are very sincere: quite from the heart. i will give you my authority: his friend colonel wallis." "colonel wallis! you are acquainted with him?" "no. it does not come to me in quite so direct a line as that; it takes a bend or two, but nothing of consequence. the stream is as good as at first; the little rubbish it collects in the turnings is easily moved away. mr elliot talks unreservedly to colonel wallis of his views on you, which said colonel wallis, i imagine to be, in himself, a sensible, careful, discerning sort of character; but colonel wallis has a very pretty silly wife, to whom he tells things which he had better not, and he repeats it all to her. she in the overflowing spirits of her recovery, repeats it all to her nurse; and the nurse knowing my acquaintance with you, very naturally brings it all to me. on monday evening, my good friend mrs rooke let me thus much into the secrets of marlborough buildings. when i talked of a whole history, therefore, you see i was not romancing so much as you supposed." "my dear mrs smith, your authority is deficient. this will not do. mr elliot's having any views on me will not in the least account for the efforts he made towards a reconciliation with my father. that was all prior to my coming to bath. i found them on the most friendly terms when i arrived." "i know you did; i know it all perfectly, but--" "indeed, mrs smith, we must not expect to get real information in such a line. facts or opinions which are to pass through the hands of so many, to be misconceived by folly in one, and ignorance in another, can hardly have much truth left." "only give me a hearing. you will soon be able to judge of the general credit due, by listening to some particulars which you can yourself immediately contradict or confirm. nobody supposes that you were his first inducement. he had seen you indeed, before he came to bath, and admired you, but without knowing it to be you. so says my historian, at least. is this true? did he see you last summer or autumn, 'somewhere down in the west,' to use her own words, without knowing it to be you?" "he certainly did. so far it is very true. at lyme. i happened to be at lyme." "well," continued mrs smith, triumphantly, "grant my friend the credit due to the establishment of the first point asserted. he saw you then at lyme, and liked you so well as to be exceedingly pleased to meet with you again in camden place, as miss anne elliot, and from that moment, i have no doubt, had a double motive in his visits there. but there was another, and an earlier, which i will now explain. if there is anything in my story which you know to be either false or improbable, stop me. my account states, that your sister's friend, the lady now staying with you, whom i have heard you mention, came to bath with miss elliot and sir walter as long ago as september (in short when they first came themselves), and has been staying there ever since; that she is a clever, insinuating, handsome woman, poor and plausible, and altogether such in situation and manner, as to give a general idea, among sir walter's acquaintance, of her meaning to be lady elliot, and as general a surprise that miss elliot should be apparently, blind to the danger." here mrs smith paused a moment; but anne had not a word to say, and she continued-- "this was the light in which it appeared to those who knew the family, long before you returned to it; and colonel wallis had his eye upon your father enough to be sensible of it, though he did not then visit in camden place; but his regard for mr elliot gave him an interest in watching all that was going on there, and when mr elliot came to bath for a day or two, as he happened to do a little before christmas, colonel wallis made him acquainted with the appearance of things, and the reports beginning to prevail. now you are to understand, that time had worked a very material change in mr elliot's opinions as to the value of a baronetcy. upon all points of blood and connexion he is a completely altered man. having long had as much money as he could spend, nothing to wish for on the side of avarice or indulgence, he has been gradually learning to pin his happiness upon the consequence he is heir to. i thought it coming on before our acquaintance ceased, but it is now a confirmed feeling. he cannot bear the idea of not being sir william. you may guess, therefore, that the news he heard from his friend could not be very agreeable, and you may guess what it produced; the resolution of coming back to bath as soon as possible, and of fixing himself here for a time, with the view of renewing his former acquaintance, and recovering such a footing in the family as might give him the means of ascertaining the degree of his danger, and of circumventing the lady if he found it material. this was agreed upon between the two friends as the only thing to be done; and colonel wallis was to assist in every way that he could. he was to be introduced, and mrs wallis was to be introduced, and everybody was to be introduced. mr elliot came back accordingly; and on application was forgiven, as you know, and re-admitted into the family; and there it was his constant object, and his only object (till your arrival added another motive), to watch sir walter and mrs clay. he omitted no opportunity of being with them, threw himself in their way, called at all hours; but i need not be particular on this subject. you can imagine what an artful man would do; and with this guide, perhaps, may recollect what you have seen him do." "yes," said anne, "you tell me nothing which does not accord with what i have known, or could imagine. there is always something offensive in the details of cunning. the manoeuvres of selfishness and duplicity must ever be revolting, but i have heard nothing which really surprises me. i know those who would be shocked by such a representation of mr elliot, who would have difficulty in believing it; but i have never been satisfied. i have always wanted some other motive for his conduct than appeared. i should like to know his present opinion, as to the probability of the event he has been in dread of; whether he considers the danger to be lessening or not." "lessening, i understand," replied mrs smith. "he thinks mrs clay afraid of him, aware that he sees through her, and not daring to proceed as she might do in his absence. but since he must be absent some time or other, i do not perceive how he can ever be secure while she holds her present influence. mrs wallis has an amusing idea, as nurse tells me, that it is to be put into the marriage articles when you and mr elliot marry, that your father is not to marry mrs clay. a scheme, worthy of mrs wallis's understanding, by all accounts; but my sensible nurse rooke sees the absurdity of it. 'why, to be sure, ma'am,' said she, 'it would not prevent his marrying anybody else.' and, indeed, to own the truth, i do not think nurse, in her heart, is a very strenuous opposer of sir walter's making a second match. she must be allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and (since self will intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying visions of attending the next lady elliot, through mrs wallis's recommendation?" "i am very glad to know all this," said anne, after a little thoughtfulness. "it will be more painful to me in some respects to be in company with him, but i shall know better what to do. my line of conduct will be more direct. mr elliot is evidently a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to guide him than selfishness." but mr elliot was not done with. mrs smith had been carried away from her first direction, and anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own family concerns, how much had been originally implied against him; but her attention was now called to the explanation of those first hints, and she listened to a recital which, if it did not perfectly justify the unqualified bitterness of mrs smith, proved him to have been very unfeeling in his conduct towards her; very deficient both in justice and compassion. she learned that (the intimacy between them continuing unimpaired by mr elliot's marriage) they had been as before always together, and mr elliot had led his friend into expenses much beyond his fortune. mrs smith did not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender of throwing any on her husband; but anne could collect that their income had never been equal to their style of living, and that from the first there had been a great deal of general and joint extravagance. from his wife's account of him she could discern mr smith to have been a man of warm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and not strong understanding, much more amiable than his friend, and very unlike him, led by him, and probably despised by him. mr elliot, raised by his marriage to great affluence, and disposed to every gratification of pleasure and vanity which could be commanded without involving himself, (for with all his self-indulgence he had become a prudent man), and beginning to be rich, just as his friend ought to have found himself to be poor, seemed to have had no concern at all for that friend's probable finances, but, on the contrary, had been prompting and encouraging expenses which could end only in ruin; and the smiths accordingly had been ruined. the husband had died just in time to be spared the full knowledge of it. they had previously known embarrassments enough to try the friendship of their friends, and to prove that mr elliot's had better not be tried; but it was not till his death that the wretched state of his affairs was fully known. with a confidence in mr elliot's regard, more creditable to his feelings than his judgement, mr smith had appointed him the executor of his will; but mr elliot would not act, and the difficulties and distress which this refusal had heaped on her, in addition to the inevitable sufferings of her situation, had been such as could not be related without anguish of spirit, or listened to without corresponding indignation. anne was shewn some letters of his on the occasion, answers to urgent applications from mrs smith, which all breathed the same stern resolution of not engaging in a fruitless trouble, and, under a cold civility, the same hard-hearted indifference to any of the evils it might bring on her. it was a dreadful picture of ingratitude and inhumanity; and anne felt, at some moments, that no flagrant open crime could have been worse. she had a great deal to listen to; all the particulars of past sad scenes, all the minutiae of distress upon distress, which in former conversations had been merely hinted at, were dwelt on now with a natural indulgence. anne could perfectly comprehend the exquisite relief, and was only the more inclined to wonder at the composure of her friend's usual state of mind. there was one circumstance in the history of her grievances of particular irritation. she had good reason to believe that some property of her husband in the west indies, which had been for many years under a sort of sequestration for the payment of its own incumbrances, might be recoverable by proper measures; and this property, though not large, would be enough to make her comparatively rich. but there was nobody to stir in it. mr elliot would do nothing, and she could do nothing herself, equally disabled from personal exertion by her state of bodily weakness, and from employing others by her want of money. she had no natural connexions to assist her even with their counsel, and she could not afford to purchase the assistance of the law. this was a cruel aggravation of actually straitened means. to feel that she ought to be in better circumstances, that a little trouble in the right place might do it, and to fear that delay might be even weakening her claims, was hard to bear. it was on this point that she had hoped to engage anne's good offices with mr elliot. she had previously, in the anticipation of their marriage, been very apprehensive of losing her friend by it; but on being assured that he could have made no attempt of that nature, since he did not even know her to be in bath, it immediately occurred, that something might be done in her favour by the influence of the woman he loved, and she had been hastily preparing to interest anne's feelings, as far as the observances due to mr elliot's character would allow, when anne's refutation of the supposed engagement changed the face of everything; and while it took from her the new-formed hope of succeeding in the object of her first anxiety, left her at least the comfort of telling the whole story her own way. after listening to this full description of mr elliot, anne could not but express some surprise at mrs smith's having spoken of him so favourably in the beginning of their conversation. "she had seemed to recommend and praise him!" "my dear," was mrs smith's reply, "there was nothing else to be done. i considered your marrying him as certain, though he might not yet have made the offer, and i could no more speak the truth of him, than if he had been your husband. my heart bled for you, as i talked of happiness; and yet he is sensible, he is agreeable, and with such a woman as you, it was not absolutely hopeless. he was very unkind to his first wife. they were wretched together. but she was too ignorant and giddy for respect, and he had never loved her. i was willing to hope that you must fare better." anne could just acknowledge within herself such a possibility of having been induced to marry him, as made her shudder at the idea of the misery which must have followed. it was just possible that she might have been persuaded by lady russell! and under such a supposition, which would have been most miserable, when time had disclosed all, too late? it was very desirable that lady russell should be no longer deceived; and one of the concluding arrangements of this important conference, which carried them through the greater part of the morning, was, that anne had full liberty to communicate to her friend everything relative to mrs smith, in which his conduct was involved. chapter anne went home to think over all that she had heard. in one point, her feelings were relieved by this knowledge of mr elliot. there was no longer anything of tenderness due to him. he stood as opposed to captain wentworth, in all his own unwelcome obtrusiveness; and the evil of his attentions last night, the irremediable mischief he might have done, was considered with sensations unqualified, unperplexed. pity for him was all over. but this was the only point of relief. in every other respect, in looking around her, or penetrating forward, she saw more to distrust and to apprehend. she was concerned for the disappointment and pain lady russell would be feeling; for the mortifications which must be hanging over her father and sister, and had all the distress of foreseeing many evils, without knowing how to avert any one of them. she was most thankful for her own knowledge of him. she had never considered herself as entitled to reward for not slighting an old friend like mrs smith, but here was a reward indeed springing from it! mrs smith had been able to tell her what no one else could have done. could the knowledge have been extended through her family? but this was a vain idea. she must talk to lady russell, tell her, consult with her, and having done her best, wait the event with as much composure as possible; and after all, her greatest want of composure would be in that quarter of the mind which could not be opened to lady russell; in that flow of anxieties and fears which must be all to herself. she found, on reaching home, that she had, as she intended, escaped seeing mr elliot; that he had called and paid them a long morning visit; but hardly had she congratulated herself, and felt safe, when she heard that he was coming again in the evening. "i had not the smallest intention of asking him," said elizabeth, with affected carelessness, "but he gave so many hints; so mrs clay says, at least." "indeed, i do say it. i never saw anybody in my life spell harder for an invitation. poor man! i was really in pain for him; for your hard-hearted sister, miss anne, seems bent on cruelty." "oh!" cried elizabeth, "i have been rather too much used to the game to be soon overcome by a gentleman's hints. however, when i found how excessively he was regretting that he should miss my father this morning, i gave way immediately, for i would never really omit an opportunity of bringing him and sir walter together. they appear to so much advantage in company with each other. each behaving so pleasantly. mr elliot looking up with so much respect." "quite delightful!" cried mrs clay, not daring, however, to turn her eyes towards anne. "exactly like father and son! dear miss elliot, may i not say father and son?" "oh! i lay no embargo on any body's words. if you will have such ideas! but, upon my word, i am scarcely sensible of his attentions being beyond those of other men." "my dear miss elliot!" exclaimed mrs clay, lifting her hands and eyes, and sinking all the rest of her astonishment in a convenient silence. "well, my dear penelope, you need not be so alarmed about him. i did invite him, you know. i sent him away with smiles. when i found he was really going to his friends at thornberry park for the whole day to-morrow, i had compassion on him." anne admired the good acting of the friend, in being able to shew such pleasure as she did, in the expectation and in the actual arrival of the very person whose presence must really be interfering with her prime object. it was impossible but that mrs clay must hate the sight of mr elliot; and yet she could assume a most obliging, placid look, and appear quite satisfied with the curtailed license of devoting herself only half as much to sir walter as she would have done otherwise. to anne herself it was most distressing to see mr elliot enter the room; and quite painful to have him approach and speak to her. she had been used before to feel that he could not be always quite sincere, but now she saw insincerity in everything. his attentive deference to her father, contrasted with his former language, was odious; and when she thought of his cruel conduct towards mrs smith, she could hardly bear the sight of his present smiles and mildness, or the sound of his artificial good sentiments. she meant to avoid any such alteration of manners as might provoke a remonstrance on his side. it was a great object to her to escape all enquiry or eclat; but it was her intention to be as decidedly cool to him as might be compatible with their relationship; and to retrace, as quietly as she could, the few steps of unnecessary intimacy she had been gradually led along. she was accordingly more guarded, and more cool, than she had been the night before. he wanted to animate her curiosity again as to how and where he could have heard her formerly praised; wanted very much to be gratified by more solicitation; but the charm was broken: he found that the heat and animation of a public room was necessary to kindle his modest cousin's vanity; he found, at least, that it was not to be done now, by any of those attempts which he could hazard among the too-commanding claims of the others. he little surmised that it was a subject acting now exactly against his interest, bringing immediately to her thoughts all those parts of his conduct which were least excusable. she had some satisfaction in finding that he was really going out of bath the next morning, going early, and that he would be gone the greater part of two days. he was invited again to camden place the very evening of his return; but from thursday to saturday evening his absence was certain. it was bad enough that a mrs clay should be always before her; but that a deeper hypocrite should be added to their party, seemed the destruction of everything like peace and comfort. it was so humiliating to reflect on the constant deception practised on her father and elizabeth; to consider the various sources of mortification preparing for them! mrs clay's selfishness was not so complicate nor so revolting as his; and anne would have compounded for the marriage at once, with all its evils, to be clear of mr elliot's subtleties in endeavouring to prevent it. on friday morning she meant to go very early to lady russell, and accomplish the necessary communication; and she would have gone directly after breakfast, but that mrs clay was also going out on some obliging purpose of saving her sister trouble, which determined her to wait till she might be safe from such a companion. she saw mrs clay fairly off, therefore, before she began to talk of spending the morning in rivers street. "very well," said elizabeth, "i have nothing to send but my love. oh! you may as well take back that tiresome book she would lend me, and pretend i have read it through. i really cannot be plaguing myself for ever with all the new poems and states of the nation that come out. lady russell quite bores one with her new publications. you need not tell her so, but i thought her dress hideous the other night. i used to think she had some taste in dress, but i was ashamed of her at the concert. something so formal and _arrangé_ in her air! and she sits so upright! my best love, of course." "and mine," added sir walter. "kindest regards. and you may say, that i mean to call upon her soon. make a civil message; but i shall only leave my card. morning visits are never fair by women at her time of life, who make themselves up so little. if she would only wear rouge she would not be afraid of being seen; but last time i called, i observed the blinds were let down immediately." while her father spoke, there was a knock at the door. who could it be? anne, remembering the preconcerted visits, at all hours, of mr elliot, would have expected him, but for his known engagement seven miles off. after the usual period of suspense, the usual sounds of approach were heard, and "mr and mrs charles musgrove" were ushered into the room. surprise was the strongest emotion raised by their appearance; but anne was really glad to see them; and the others were not so sorry but that they could put on a decent air of welcome; and as soon as it became clear that these, their nearest relations, were not arrived with any views of accommodation in that house, sir walter and elizabeth were able to rise in cordiality, and do the honours of it very well. they were come to bath for a few days with mrs musgrove, and were at the white hart. so much was pretty soon understood; but till sir walter and elizabeth were walking mary into the other drawing-room, and regaling themselves with her admiration, anne could not draw upon charles's brain for a regular history of their coming, or an explanation of some smiling hints of particular business, which had been ostentatiously dropped by mary, as well as of some apparent confusion as to whom their party consisted of. she then found that it consisted of mrs musgrove, henrietta, and captain harville, beside their two selves. he gave her a very plain, intelligible account of the whole; a narration in which she saw a great deal of most characteristic proceeding. the scheme had received its first impulse by captain harville's wanting to come to bath on business. he had begun to talk of it a week ago; and by way of doing something, as shooting was over, charles had proposed coming with him, and mrs harville had seemed to like the idea of it very much, as an advantage to her husband; but mary could not bear to be left, and had made herself so unhappy about it, that for a day or two everything seemed to be in suspense, or at an end. but then, it had been taken up by his father and mother. his mother had some old friends in bath whom she wanted to see; it was thought a good opportunity for henrietta to come and buy wedding-clothes for herself and her sister; and, in short, it ended in being his mother's party, that everything might be comfortable and easy to captain harville; and he and mary were included in it by way of general convenience. they had arrived late the night before. mrs harville, her children, and captain benwick, remained with mr musgrove and louisa at uppercross. anne's only surprise was, that affairs should be in forwardness enough for henrietta's wedding-clothes to be talked of. she had imagined such difficulties of fortune to exist there as must prevent the marriage from being near at hand; but she learned from charles that, very recently, (since mary's last letter to herself), charles hayter had been applied to by a friend to hold a living for a youth who could not possibly claim it under many years; and that on the strength of his present income, with almost a certainty of something more permanent long before the term in question, the two families had consented to the young people's wishes, and that their marriage was likely to take place in a few months, quite as soon as louisa's. "and a very good living it was," charles added: "only five-and-twenty miles from uppercross, and in a very fine country: fine part of dorsetshire. in the centre of some of the best preserves in the kingdom, surrounded by three great proprietors, each more careful and jealous than the other; and to two of the three at least, charles hayter might get a special recommendation. not that he will value it as he ought," he observed, "charles is too cool about sporting. that's the worst of him." "i am extremely glad, indeed," cried anne, "particularly glad that this should happen; and that of two sisters, who both deserve equally well, and who have always been such good friends, the pleasant prospect of one should not be dimming those of the other--that they should be so equal in their prosperity and comfort. i hope your father and mother are quite happy with regard to both." "oh! yes. my father would be well pleased if the gentlemen were richer, but he has no other fault to find. money, you know, coming down with money--two daughters at once--it cannot be a very agreeable operation, and it streightens him as to many things. however, i do not mean to say they have not a right to it. it is very fit they should have daughters' shares; and i am sure he has always been a very kind, liberal father to me. mary does not above half like henrietta's match. she never did, you know. but she does not do him justice, nor think enough about winthrop. i cannot make her attend to the value of the property. it is a very fair match, as times go; and i have liked charles hayter all my life, and i shall not leave off now." "such excellent parents as mr and mrs musgrove," exclaimed anne, "should be happy in their children's marriages. they do everything to confer happiness, i am sure. what a blessing to young people to be in such hands! your father and mother seem so totally free from all those ambitious feelings which have led to so much misconduct and misery, both in young and old. i hope you think louisa perfectly recovered now?" he answered rather hesitatingly, "yes, i believe i do; very much recovered; but she is altered; there is no running or jumping about, no laughing or dancing; it is quite different. if one happens only to shut the door a little hard, she starts and wriggles like a young dab-chick in the water; and benwick sits at her elbow, reading verses, or whispering to her, all day long." anne could not help laughing. "that cannot be much to your taste, i know," said she; "but i do believe him to be an excellent young man." "to be sure he is. nobody doubts it; and i hope you do not think i am so illiberal as to want every man to have the same objects and pleasures as myself. i have a great value for benwick; and when one can but get him to talk, he has plenty to say. his reading has done him no harm, for he has fought as well as read. he is a brave fellow. i got more acquainted with him last monday than ever i did before. we had a famous set-to at rat-hunting all the morning in my father's great barns; and he played his part so well that i have liked him the better ever since." here they were interrupted by the absolute necessity of charles's following the others to admire mirrors and china; but anne had heard enough to understand the present state of uppercross, and rejoice in its happiness; and though she sighed as she rejoiced, her sigh had none of the ill-will of envy in it. she would certainly have risen to their blessings if she could, but she did not want to lessen theirs. the visit passed off altogether in high good humour. mary was in excellent spirits, enjoying the gaiety and the change, and so well satisfied with the journey in her mother-in-law's carriage with four horses, and with her own complete independence of camden place, that she was exactly in a temper to admire everything as she ought, and enter most readily into all the superiorities of the house, as they were detailed to her. she had no demands on her father or sister, and her consequence was just enough increased by their handsome drawing-rooms. elizabeth was, for a short time, suffering a good deal. she felt that mrs musgrove and all her party ought to be asked to dine with them; but she could not bear to have the difference of style, the reduction of servants, which a dinner must betray, witnessed by those who had been always so inferior to the elliots of kellynch. it was a struggle between propriety and vanity; but vanity got the better, and then elizabeth was happy again. these were her internal persuasions: "old fashioned notions; country hospitality; we do not profess to give dinners; few people in bath do; lady alicia never does; did not even ask her own sister's family, though they were here a month: and i dare say it would be very inconvenient to mrs musgrove; put her quite out of her way. i am sure she would rather not come; she cannot feel easy with us. i will ask them all for an evening; that will be much better; that will be a novelty and a treat. they have not seen two such drawing rooms before. they will be delighted to come to-morrow evening. it shall be a regular party, small, but most elegant." and this satisfied elizabeth: and when the invitation was given to the two present, and promised for the absent, mary was as completely satisfied. she was particularly asked to meet mr elliot, and be introduced to lady dalrymple and miss carteret, who were fortunately already engaged to come; and she could not have received a more gratifying attention. miss elliot was to have the honour of calling on mrs musgrove in the course of the morning; and anne walked off with charles and mary, to go and see her and henrietta directly. her plan of sitting with lady russell must give way for the present. they all three called in rivers street for a couple of minutes; but anne convinced herself that a day's delay of the intended communication could be of no consequence, and hastened forward to the white hart, to see again the friends and companions of the last autumn, with an eagerness of good-will which many associations contributed to form. they found mrs musgrove and her daughter within, and by themselves, and anne had the kindest welcome from each. henrietta was exactly in that state of recently-improved views, of fresh-formed happiness, which made her full of regard and interest for everybody she had ever liked before at all; and mrs musgrove's real affection had been won by her usefulness when they were in distress. it was a heartiness, and a warmth, and a sincerity which anne delighted in the more, from the sad want of such blessings at home. she was entreated to give them as much of her time as possible, invited for every day and all day long, or rather claimed as part of the family; and, in return, she naturally fell into all her wonted ways of attention and assistance, and on charles's leaving them together, was listening to mrs musgrove's history of louisa, and to henrietta's of herself, giving opinions on business, and recommendations to shops; with intervals of every help which mary required, from altering her ribbon to settling her accounts; from finding her keys, and assorting her trinkets, to trying to convince her that she was not ill-used by anybody; which mary, well amused as she generally was, in her station at a window overlooking the entrance to the pump room, could not but have her moments of imagining. a morning of thorough confusion was to be expected. a large party in an hotel ensured a quick-changing, unsettled scene. one five minutes brought a note, the next a parcel; and anne had not been there half an hour, when their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed more than half filled: a party of steady old friends were seated around mrs musgrove, and charles came back with captains harville and wentworth. the appearance of the latter could not be more than the surprise of the moment. it was impossible for her to have forgotten to feel that this arrival of their common friends must be soon bringing them together again. their last meeting had been most important in opening his feelings; she had derived from it a delightful conviction; but she feared from his looks, that the same unfortunate persuasion, which had hastened him away from the concert room, still governed. he did not seem to want to be near enough for conversation. she tried to be calm, and leave things to take their course, and tried to dwell much on this argument of rational dependence:--"surely, if there be constant attachment on each side, our hearts must understand each other ere long. we are not boy and girl, to be captiously irritable, misled by every moment's inadvertence, and wantonly playing with our own happiness." and yet, a few minutes afterwards, she felt as if their being in company with each other, under their present circumstances, could only be exposing them to inadvertencies and misconstructions of the most mischievous kind. "anne," cried mary, still at her window, "there is mrs clay, i am sure, standing under the colonnade, and a gentleman with her. i saw them turn the corner from bath street just now. they seemed deep in talk. who is it? come, and tell me. good heavens! i recollect. it is mr elliot himself." "no," cried anne, quickly, "it cannot be mr elliot, i assure you. he was to leave bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till to-morrow." as she spoke, she felt that captain wentworth was looking at her, the consciousness of which vexed and embarrassed her, and made her regret that she had said so much, simple as it was. mary, resenting that she should be supposed not to know her own cousin, began talking very warmly about the family features, and protesting still more positively that it was mr elliot, calling again upon anne to come and look for herself, but anne did not mean to stir, and tried to be cool and unconcerned. her distress returned, however, on perceiving smiles and intelligent glances pass between two or three of the lady visitors, as if they believed themselves quite in the secret. it was evident that the report concerning her had spread, and a short pause succeeded, which seemed to ensure that it would now spread farther. "do come, anne," cried mary, "come and look yourself. you will be too late if you do not make haste. they are parting; they are shaking hands. he is turning away. not know mr elliot, indeed! you seem to have forgot all about lyme." to pacify mary, and perhaps screen her own embarrassment, anne did move quietly to the window. she was just in time to ascertain that it really was mr elliot, which she had never believed, before he disappeared on one side, as mrs clay walked quickly off on the other; and checking the surprise which she could not but feel at such an appearance of friendly conference between two persons of totally opposite interest, she calmly said, "yes, it is mr elliot, certainly. he has changed his hour of going, i suppose, that is all, or i may be mistaken, i might not attend;" and walked back to her chair, recomposed, and with the comfortable hope of having acquitted herself well. the visitors took their leave; and charles, having civilly seen them off, and then made a face at them, and abused them for coming, began with-- "well, mother, i have done something for you that you will like. i have been to the theatre, and secured a box for to-morrow night. a'n't i a good boy? i know you love a play; and there is room for us all. it holds nine. i have engaged captain wentworth. anne will not be sorry to join us, i am sure. we all like a play. have not i done well, mother?" mrs musgrove was good humouredly beginning to express her perfect readiness for the play, if henrietta and all the others liked it, when mary eagerly interrupted her by exclaiming-- "good heavens, charles! how can you think of such a thing? take a box for to-morrow night! have you forgot that we are engaged to camden place to-morrow night? and that we were most particularly asked to meet lady dalrymple and her daughter, and mr elliot, and all the principal family connexions, on purpose to be introduced to them? how can you be so forgetful?" "phoo! phoo!" replied charles, "what's an evening party? never worth remembering. your father might have asked us to dinner, i think, if he had wanted to see us. you may do as you like, but i shall go to the play." "oh! charles, i declare it will be too abominable if you do, when you promised to go." "no, i did not promise. i only smirked and bowed, and said the word 'happy.' there was no promise." "but you must go, charles. it would be unpardonable to fail. we were asked on purpose to be introduced. there was always such a great connexion between the dalrymples and ourselves. nothing ever happened on either side that was not announced immediately. we are quite near relations, you know; and mr elliot too, whom you ought so particularly to be acquainted with! every attention is due to mr elliot. consider, my father's heir: the future representative of the family." "don't talk to me about heirs and representatives," cried charles. "i am not one of those who neglect the reigning power to bow to the rising sun. if i would not go for the sake of your father, i should think it scandalous to go for the sake of his heir. what is mr elliot to me?" the careless expression was life to anne, who saw that captain wentworth was all attention, looking and listening with his whole soul; and that the last words brought his enquiring eyes from charles to herself. charles and mary still talked on in the same style; he, half serious and half jesting, maintaining the scheme for the play, and she, invariably serious, most warmly opposing it, and not omitting to make it known that, however determined to go to camden place herself, she should not think herself very well used, if they went to the play without her. mrs musgrove interposed. "we had better put it off. charles, you had much better go back and change the box for tuesday. it would be a pity to be divided, and we should be losing miss anne, too, if there is a party at her father's; and i am sure neither henrietta nor i should care at all for the play, if miss anne could not be with us." anne felt truly obliged to her for such kindness; and quite as much so for the opportunity it gave her of decidedly saying-- "if it depended only on my inclination, ma'am, the party at home (excepting on mary's account) would not be the smallest impediment. i have no pleasure in the sort of meeting, and should be too happy to change it for a play, and with you. but, it had better not be attempted, perhaps." she had spoken it; but she trembled when it was done, conscious that her words were listened to, and daring not even to try to observe their effect. it was soon generally agreed that tuesday should be the day; charles only reserving the advantage of still teasing his wife, by persisting that he would go to the play to-morrow if nobody else would. captain wentworth left his seat, and walked to the fire-place; probably for the sake of walking away from it soon afterwards, and taking a station, with less bare-faced design, by anne. "you have not been long enough in bath," said he, "to enjoy the evening parties of the place." "oh! no. the usual character of them has nothing for me. i am no card-player." "you were not formerly, i know. you did not use to like cards; but time makes many changes." "i am not yet so much changed," cried anne, and stopped, fearing she hardly knew what misconstruction. after waiting a few moments he said, and as if it were the result of immediate feeling, "it is a period, indeed! eight years and a half is a period." whether he would have proceeded farther was left to anne's imagination to ponder over in a calmer hour; for while still hearing the sounds he had uttered, she was startled to other subjects by henrietta, eager to make use of the present leisure for getting out, and calling on her companions to lose no time, lest somebody else should come in. they were obliged to move. anne talked of being perfectly ready, and tried to look it; but she felt that could henrietta have known the regret and reluctance of her heart in quitting that chair, in preparing to quit the room, she would have found, in all her own sensations for her cousin, in the very security of his affection, wherewith to pity her. their preparations, however, were stopped short. alarming sounds were heard; other visitors approached, and the door was thrown open for sir walter and miss elliot, whose entrance seemed to give a general chill. anne felt an instant oppression, and wherever she looked saw symptoms of the same. the comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the room was over, hushed into cold composure, determined silence, or insipid talk, to meet the heartless elegance of her father and sister. how mortifying to feel that it was so! her jealous eye was satisfied in one particular. captain wentworth was acknowledged again by each, by elizabeth more graciously than before. she even addressed him once, and looked at him more than once. elizabeth was, in fact, revolving a great measure. the sequel explained it. after the waste of a few minutes in saying the proper nothings, she began to give the invitation which was to comprise all the remaining dues of the musgroves. "to-morrow evening, to meet a few friends: no formal party." it was all said very gracefully, and the cards with which she had provided herself, the "miss elliot at home," were laid on the table, with a courteous, comprehensive smile to all, and one smile and one card more decidedly for captain wentworth. the truth was, that elizabeth had been long enough in bath to understand the importance of a man of such an air and appearance as his. the past was nothing. the present was that captain wentworth would move about well in her drawing-room. the card was pointedly given, and sir walter and elizabeth arose and disappeared. the interruption had been short, though severe, and ease and animation returned to most of those they left as the door shut them out, but not to anne. she could think only of the invitation she had with such astonishment witnessed, and of the manner in which it had been received; a manner of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than gratification, of polite acknowledgement rather than acceptance. she knew him; she saw disdain in his eye, and could not venture to believe that he had determined to accept such an offering, as an atonement for all the insolence of the past. her spirits sank. he held the card in his hand after they were gone, as if deeply considering it. "only think of elizabeth's including everybody!" whispered mary very audibly. "i do not wonder captain wentworth is delighted! you see he cannot put the card out of his hand." anne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth form itself into a momentary expression of contempt, and turned away, that she might neither see nor hear more to vex her. the party separated. the gentlemen had their own pursuits, the ladies proceeded on their own business, and they met no more while anne belonged to them. she was earnestly begged to return and dine, and give them all the rest of the day, but her spirits had been so long exerted that at present she felt unequal to more, and fit only for home, where she might be sure of being as silent as she chose. promising to be with them the whole of the following morning, therefore, she closed the fatigues of the present by a toilsome walk to camden place, there to spend the evening chiefly in listening to the busy arrangements of elizabeth and mrs clay for the morrow's party, the frequent enumeration of the persons invited, and the continually improving detail of all the embellishments which were to make it the most completely elegant of its kind in bath, while harassing herself with the never-ending question, of whether captain wentworth would come or not? they were reckoning him as certain, but with her it was a gnawing solicitude never appeased for five minutes together. she generally thought he would come, because she generally thought he ought; but it was a case which she could not so shape into any positive act of duty or discretion, as inevitably to defy the suggestions of very opposite feelings. she only roused herself from the broodings of this restless agitation, to let mrs clay know that she had been seen with mr elliot three hours after his being supposed to be out of bath, for having watched in vain for some intimation of the interview from the lady herself, she determined to mention it, and it seemed to her there was guilt in mrs clay's face as she listened. it was transient: cleared away in an instant; but anne could imagine she read there the consciousness of having, by some complication of mutual trick, or some overbearing authority of his, been obliged to attend (perhaps for half an hour) to his lectures and restrictions on her designs on sir walter. she exclaimed, however, with a very tolerable imitation of nature:-- "oh! dear! very true. only think, miss elliot, to my great surprise i met with mr elliot in bath street. i was never more astonished. he turned back and walked with me to the pump yard. he had been prevented setting off for thornberry, but i really forget by what; for i was in a hurry, and could not much attend, and i can only answer for his being determined not to be delayed in his return. he wanted to know how early he might be admitted to-morrow. he was full of 'to-morrow,' and it is very evident that i have been full of it too, ever since i entered the house, and learnt the extension of your plan and all that had happened, or my seeing him could never have gone so entirely out of my head." chapter one day only had passed since anne's conversation with mrs smith; but a keener interest had succeeded, and she was now so little touched by mr elliot's conduct, except by its effects in one quarter, that it became a matter of course the next morning, still to defer her explanatory visit in rivers street. she had promised to be with the musgroves from breakfast to dinner. her faith was plighted, and mr elliot's character, like the sultaness scheherazade's head, must live another day. she could not keep her appointment punctually, however; the weather was unfavourable, and she had grieved over the rain on her friends' account, and felt it very much on her own, before she was able to attempt the walk. when she reached the white hart, and made her way to the proper apartment, she found herself neither arriving quite in time, nor the first to arrive. the party before her were, mrs musgrove, talking to mrs croft, and captain harville to captain wentworth; and she immediately heard that mary and henrietta, too impatient to wait, had gone out the moment it had cleared, but would be back again soon, and that the strictest injunctions had been left with mrs musgrove to keep her there till they returned. she had only to submit, sit down, be outwardly composed, and feel herself plunged at once in all the agitations which she had merely laid her account of tasting a little before the morning closed. there was no delay, no waste of time. she was deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such happiness, instantly. two minutes after her entering the room, captain wentworth said-- "we will write the letter we were talking of, harville, now, if you will give me materials." materials were at hand, on a separate table; he went to it, and nearly turning his back to them all, was engrossed by writing. mrs musgrove was giving mrs croft the history of her eldest daughter's engagement, and just in that inconvenient tone of voice which was perfectly audible while it pretended to be a whisper. anne felt that she did not belong to the conversation, and yet, as captain harville seemed thoughtful and not disposed to talk, she could not avoid hearing many undesirable particulars; such as, "how mr musgrove and my brother hayter had met again and again to talk it over; what my brother hayter had said one day, and what mr musgrove had proposed the next, and what had occurred to my sister hayter, and what the young people had wished, and what i said at first i never could consent to, but was afterwards persuaded to think might do very well," and a great deal in the same style of open-hearted communication: minutiae which, even with every advantage of taste and delicacy, which good mrs musgrove could not give, could be properly interesting only to the principals. mrs croft was attending with great good-humour, and whenever she spoke at all, it was very sensibly. anne hoped the gentlemen might each be too much self-occupied to hear. "and so, ma'am, all these thing considered," said mrs musgrove, in her powerful whisper, "though we could have wished it different, yet, altogether, we did not think it fair to stand out any longer, for charles hayter was quite wild about it, and henrietta was pretty near as bad; and so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the best of it, as many others have done before them. at any rate, said i, it will be better than a long engagement." "that is precisely what i was going to observe," cried mrs croft. "i would rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and have to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in a long engagement. i always think that no mutual--" "oh! dear mrs croft," cried mrs musgrove, unable to let her finish her speech, "there is nothing i so abominate for young people as a long engagement. it is what i always protested against for my children. it is all very well, i used to say, for young people to be engaged, if there is a certainty of their being able to marry in six months, or even in twelve; but a long engagement--" "yes, dear ma'am," said mrs croft, "or an uncertain engagement, an engagement which may be long. to begin without knowing that at such a time there will be the means of marrying, i hold to be very unsafe and unwise, and what i think all parents should prevent as far as they can." anne found an unexpected interest here. she felt its application to herself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over her; and at the same moment that her eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table, captain wentworth's pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing, listening, and he turned round the next instant to give a look, one quick, conscious look at her. the two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same admitted truths, and enforce them with such examples of the ill effect of a contrary practice as had fallen within their observation, but anne heard nothing distinctly; it was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in confusion. captain harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left his seat, and moved to a window, and anne seeming to watch him, though it was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he was inviting her to join him where he stood. he looked at her with a smile, and a little motion of the head, which expressed, "come to me, i have something to say;" and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner which denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was, strongly enforced the invitation. she roused herself and went to him. the window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from where the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to captain wentworth's table, not very near. as she joined him, captain harville's countenance re-assumed the serious, thoughtful expression which seemed its natural character. "look here," said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a small miniature painting, "do you know who that is?" "certainly: captain benwick." "yes, and you may guess who it is for. but," (in a deep tone,) "it was not done for her. miss elliot, do you remember our walking together at lyme, and grieving for him? i little thought then--but no matter. this was drawn at the cape. he met with a clever young german artist at the cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it home for her; and i have now the charge of getting it properly set for another! it was a commission to me! but who else was there to employ? i hope i can allow for him. i am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. he undertakes it;" (looking towards captain wentworth,) "he is writing about it now." and with a quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, "poor fanny! she would not have forgotten him so soon!" "no," replied anne, in a low, feeling voice. "that i can easily believe." "it was not in her nature. she doted on him." "it would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved." captain harville smiled, as much as to say, "do you claim that for your sex?" and she answered the question, smiling also, "yes. we certainly do not forget you as soon as you forget us. it is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. we cannot help ourselves. we live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. you are forced on exertion. you have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions." "granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men (which, however, i do not think i shall grant), it does not apply to benwick. he has not been forced upon any exertion. the peace turned him on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our little family circle, ever since." "true," said anne, "very true; i did not recollect; but what shall we say now, captain harville? if the change be not from outward circumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man's nature, which has done the business for captain benwick." "no, no, it is not man's nature. i will not allow it to be more man's nature than woman's to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or have loved. i believe the reverse. i believe in a true analogy between our bodily frames and our mental; and that as our bodies are the strongest, so are our feelings; capable of bearing most rough usage, and riding out the heaviest weather." "your feelings may be the strongest," replied anne, "but the same spirit of analogy will authorise me to assert that ours are the most tender. man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived; which exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments. nay, it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise. you have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with. you are always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship. your home, country, friends, all quitted. neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. it would be hard, indeed" (with a faltering voice), "if woman's feelings were to be added to all this." "we shall never agree upon this question," captain harville was beginning to say, when a slight noise called their attention to captain wentworth's hitherto perfectly quiet division of the room. it was nothing more than that his pen had fallen down; but anne was startled at finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to suspect that the pen had only fallen because he had been occupied by them, striving to catch sounds, which yet she did not think he could have caught. "have you finished your letter?" said captain harville. "not quite, a few lines more. i shall have done in five minutes." "there is no hurry on my side. i am only ready whenever you are. i am in very good anchorage here," (smiling at anne,) "well supplied, and want for nothing. no hurry for a signal at all. well, miss elliot," (lowering his voice,) "as i was saying we shall never agree, i suppose, upon this point. no man and woman, would, probably. but let me observe that all histories are against you--all stories, prose and verse. if i had such a memory as benwick, i could bring you fifty quotations in a moment on my side the argument, and i do not think i ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman's inconstancy. songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness. but perhaps you will say, these were all written by men." "perhaps i shall. yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. i will not allow books to prove anything." "but how shall we prove anything?" "we never shall. we never can expect to prove any thing upon such a point. it is a difference of opinion which does not admit of proof. we each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has occurred within our own circle; many of which circumstances (perhaps those very cases which strike us the most) may be precisely such as cannot be brought forward without betraying a confidence, or in some respect saying what should not be said." "ah!" cried captain harville, in a tone of strong feeling, "if i could but make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at his wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off in, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, 'god knows whether we ever meet again!' and then, if i could convey to you the glow of his soul when he does see them again; when, coming back after a twelvemonth's absence, perhaps, and obliged to put into another port, he calculates how soon it be possible to get them there, pretending to deceive himself, and saying, 'they cannot be here till such a day,' but all the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them arrive at last, as if heaven had given them wings, by many hours sooner still! if i could explain to you all this, and all that a man can bear and do, and glories to do, for the sake of these treasures of his existence! i speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts!" pressing his own with emotion. "oh!" cried anne eagerly, "i hope i do justice to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. god forbid that i should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures! i should deserve utter contempt if i dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman. no, i believe you capable of everything great and good in your married lives. i believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as--if i may be allowed the expression--so long as you have an object. i mean while the woman you love lives, and lives for you. all the privilege i claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone." she could not immediately have uttered another sentence; her heart was too full, her breath too much oppressed. "you are a good soul," cried captain harville, putting his hand on her arm, quite affectionately. "there is no quarrelling with you. and when i think of benwick, my tongue is tied." their attention was called towards the others. mrs croft was taking leave. "here, frederick, you and i part company, i believe," said she. "i am going home, and you have an engagement with your friend. to-night we may have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party," (turning to anne.) "we had your sister's card yesterday, and i understood frederick had a card too, though i did not see it; and you are disengaged, frederick, are you not, as well as ourselves?" captain wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either could not or would not answer fully. "yes," said he, "very true; here we separate, but harville and i shall soon be after you; that is, harville, if you are ready, i am in half a minute. i know you will not be sorry to be off. i shall be at your service in half a minute." mrs croft left them, and captain wentworth, having sealed his letter with great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated air, which shewed impatience to be gone. anne knew not how to understand it. she had the kindest "good morning, god bless you!" from captain harville, but from him not a word, nor a look! he had passed out of the room without a look! she had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had been writing, when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened, it was himself. he begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves, and instantly crossing the room to the writing table, he drew out a letter from under the scattered paper, placed it before anne with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her for a time, and hastily collecting his gloves, was again out of the room, almost before mrs musgrove was aware of his being in it: the work of an instant! the revolution which one instant had made in anne, was almost beyond expression. the letter, with a direction hardly legible, to "miss a. e.--," was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily. while supposed to be writing only to captain benwick, he had been also addressing her! on the contents of that letter depended all which this world could do for her. anything was possible, anything might be defied rather than suspense. mrs musgrove had little arrangements of her own at her own table; to their protection she must trust, and sinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words: "i can listen no longer in silence. i must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. you pierce my soul. i am half agony, half hope. tell me not that i am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. i offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. i have loved none but you. unjust i may have been, weak and resentful i have been, but never inconstant. you alone have brought me to bath. for you alone, i think and plan. have you not seen this? can you fail to have understood my wishes? i had not waited even these ten days, could i have read your feelings, as i think you must have penetrated mine. i can hardly write. i am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. you sink your voice, but i can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. too good, too excellent creature! you do us justice, indeed. you do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in f. w. "i must go, uncertain of my fate; but i shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. a word, a look, will be enough to decide whether i enter your father's house this evening or never." such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. half an hour's solitude and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten minutes only which now passed before she was interrupted, with all the restraints of her situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity. every moment rather brought fresh agitation. it was overpowering happiness. and before she was beyond the first stage of full sensation, charles, mary, and henrietta all came in. the absolute necessity of seeming like herself produced then an immediate struggle; but after a while she could do no more. she began not to understand a word they said, and was obliged to plead indisposition and excuse herself. they could then see that she looked very ill, were shocked and concerned, and would not stir without her for the world. this was dreadful. would they only have gone away, and left her in the quiet possession of that room it would have been her cure; but to have them all standing or waiting around her was distracting, and in desperation, she said she would go home. "by all means, my dear," cried mrs musgrove, "go home directly, and take care of yourself, that you may be fit for the evening. i wish sarah was here to doctor you, but i am no doctor myself. charles, ring and order a chair. she must not walk." but the chair would never do. worse than all! to lose the possibility of speaking two words to captain wentworth in the course of her quiet, solitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting him) could not be borne. the chair was earnestly protested against, and mrs musgrove, who thought only of one sort of illness, having assured herself with some anxiety, that there had been no fall in the case; that anne had not at any time lately slipped down, and got a blow on her head; that she was perfectly convinced of having had no fall; could part with her cheerfully, and depend on finding her better at night. anxious to omit no possible precaution, anne struggled, and said-- "i am afraid, ma'am, that it is not perfectly understood. pray be so good as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your whole party this evening. i am afraid there had been some mistake; and i wish you particularly to assure captain harville and captain wentworth, that we hope to see them both." "oh! my dear, it is quite understood, i give you my word. captain harville has no thought but of going." "do you think so? but i am afraid; and i should be so very sorry. will you promise me to mention it, when you see them again? you will see them both this morning, i dare say. do promise me." "to be sure i will, if you wish it. charles, if you see captain harville anywhere, remember to give miss anne's message. but indeed, my dear, you need not be uneasy. captain harville holds himself quite engaged, i'll answer for it; and captain wentworth the same, i dare say." anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp the perfection of her felicity. it could not be very lasting, however. even if he did not come to camden place himself, it would be in her power to send an intelligible sentence by captain harville. another momentary vexation occurred. charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. this was almost cruel. but she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent. they were on union street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of captain wentworth. he joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. the cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. he walked by her side. presently, struck by a sudden thought, charles said-- "captain wentworth, which way are you going? only to gay street, or farther up the town?" "i hardly know," replied captain wentworth, surprised. "are you going as high as belmont? are you going near camden place? because, if you are, i shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give anne your arm to her father's door. she is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and i ought to be at that fellow's in the market place. he promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible moment, that i might see it; and if i do not turn back now, i have no chance. by his description, a good deal like the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day round winthrop." there could not be an objection. there could be only the most proper alacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined in and spirits dancing in private rapture. in half a minute charles was at the bottom of union street again, and the other two proceeding together: and soon words enough had passed between them to decide their direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel walk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a blessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immortality which the happiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow. there they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once before seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and estrangement. there they returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their re-union, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other's character, truth, and attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting. and there, as they slowly paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around them, seeing neither sauntering politicians, bustling housekeepers, flirting girls, nor nursery-maids and children, they could indulge in those retrospections and acknowledgements, and especially in those explanations of what had directly preceded the present moment, which were so poignant and so ceaseless in interest. all the little variations of the last week were gone through; and of yesterday and today there could scarcely be an end. she had not mistaken him. jealousy of mr elliot had been the retarding weight, the doubt, the torment. that had begun to operate in the very hour of first meeting her in bath; that had returned, after a short suspension, to ruin the concert; and that had influenced him in everything he had said and done, or omitted to say and do, in the last four-and-twenty hours. it had been gradually yielding to the better hopes which her looks, or words, or actions occasionally encouraged; it had been vanquished at last by those sentiments and those tones which had reached him while she talked with captain harville; and under the irresistible governance of which he had seized a sheet of paper, and poured out his feelings. of what he had then written, nothing was to be retracted or qualified. he persisted in having loved none but her. she had never been supplanted. he never even believed himself to see her equal. thus much indeed he was obliged to acknowledge: that he had been constant unconsciously, nay unintentionally; that he had meant to forget her, and believed it to be done. he had imagined himself indifferent, when he had only been angry; and he had been unjust to her merits, because he had been a sufferer from them. her character was now fixed on his mind as perfection itself, maintaining the loveliest medium of fortitude and gentleness; but he was obliged to acknowledge that only at uppercross had he learnt to do her justice, and only at lyme had he begun to understand himself. at lyme, he had received lessons of more than one sort. the passing admiration of mr elliot had at least roused him, and the scenes on the cobb and at captain harville's had fixed her superiority. in his preceding attempts to attach himself to louisa musgrove (the attempts of angry pride), he protested that he had for ever felt it to be impossible; that he had not cared, could not care, for louisa; though till that day, till the leisure for reflection which followed it, he had not understood the perfect excellence of the mind with which louisa's could so ill bear a comparison, or the perfect unrivalled hold it possessed over his own. there, he had learnt to distinguish between the steadiness of principle and the obstinacy of self-will, between the darings of heedlessness and the resolution of a collected mind. there he had seen everything to exalt in his estimation the woman he had lost; and there begun to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of resentment, which had kept him from trying to regain her when thrown in his way. from that period his penance had become severe. he had no sooner been free from the horror and remorse attending the first few days of louisa's accident, no sooner begun to feel himself alive again, than he had begun to feel himself, though alive, not at liberty. "i found," said he, "that i was considered by harville an engaged man! that neither harville nor his wife entertained a doubt of our mutual attachment. i was startled and shocked. to a degree, i could contradict this instantly; but, when i began to reflect that others might have felt the same--her own family, nay, perhaps herself--i was no longer at my own disposal. i was hers in honour if she wished it. i had been unguarded. i had not thought seriously on this subject before. i had not considered that my excessive intimacy must have its danger of ill consequence in many ways; and that i had no right to be trying whether i could attach myself to either of the girls, at the risk of raising even an unpleasant report, were there no other ill effects. i had been grossly wrong, and must abide the consequences." he found too late, in short, that he had entangled himself; and that precisely as he became fully satisfied of his not caring for louisa at all, he must regard himself as bound to her, if her sentiments for him were what the harvilles supposed. it determined him to leave lyme, and await her complete recovery elsewhere. he would gladly weaken, by any fair means, whatever feelings or speculations concerning him might exist; and he went, therefore, to his brother's, meaning after a while to return to kellynch, and act as circumstances might require. "i was six weeks with edward," said he, "and saw him happy. i could have no other pleasure. i deserved none. he enquired after you very particularly; asked even if you were personally altered, little suspecting that to my eye you could never alter." anne smiled, and let it pass. it was too pleasing a blunder for a reproach. it is something for a woman to be assured, in her eight-and-twentieth year, that she has not lost one charm of earlier youth; but the value of such homage was inexpressibly increased to anne, by comparing it with former words, and feeling it to be the result, not the cause of a revival of his warm attachment. he had remained in shropshire, lamenting the blindness of his own pride, and the blunders of his own calculations, till at once released from louisa by the astonishing and felicitous intelligence of her engagement with benwick. "here," said he, "ended the worst of my state; for now i could at least put myself in the way of happiness; i could exert myself; i could do something. but to be waiting so long in inaction, and waiting only for evil, had been dreadful. within the first five minutes i said, 'i will be at bath on wednesday,' and i was. was it unpardonable to think it worth my while to come? and to arrive with some degree of hope? you were single. it was possible that you might retain the feelings of the past, as i did; and one encouragement happened to be mine. i could never doubt that you would be loved and sought by others, but i knew to a certainty that you had refused one man, at least, of better pretensions than myself; and i could not help often saying, 'was this for me?'" their first meeting in milsom street afforded much to be said, but the concert still more. that evening seemed to be made up of exquisite moments. the moment of her stepping forward in the octagon room to speak to him: the moment of mr elliot's appearing and tearing her away, and one or two subsequent moments, marked by returning hope or increasing despondency, were dwelt on with energy. "to see you," cried he, "in the midst of those who could not be my well-wishers; to see your cousin close by you, conversing and smiling, and feel all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match! to consider it as the certain wish of every being who could hope to influence you! even if your own feelings were reluctant or indifferent, to consider what powerful supports would be his! was it not enough to make the fool of me which i appeared? how could i look on without agony? was not the very sight of the friend who sat behind you, was not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her influence, the indelible, immoveable impression of what persuasion had once done--was it not all against me?" "you should have distinguished," replied anne. "you should not have suspected me now; the case is so different, and my age is so different. if i was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk. when i yielded, i thought it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here. in marrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred, and all duty violated." "perhaps i ought to have reasoned thus," he replied, "but i could not. i could not derive benefit from the late knowledge i had acquired of your character. i could not bring it into play; it was overwhelmed, buried, lost in those earlier feelings which i had been smarting under year after year. i could think of you only as one who had yielded, who had given me up, who had been influenced by any one rather than by me. i saw you with the very person who had guided you in that year of misery. i had no reason to believe her of less authority now. the force of habit was to be added." "i should have thought," said anne, "that my manner to yourself might have spared you much or all of this." "no, no! your manner might be only the ease which your engagement to another man would give. i left you in this belief; and yet, i was determined to see you again. my spirits rallied with the morning, and i felt that i had still a motive for remaining here." at last anne was at home again, and happier than any one in that house could have conceived. all the surprise and suspense, and every other painful part of the morning dissipated by this conversation, she re-entered the house so happy as to be obliged to find an alloy in some momentary apprehensions of its being impossible to last. an interval of meditation, serious and grateful, was the best corrective of everything dangerous in such high-wrought felicity; and she went to her room, and grew steadfast and fearless in the thankfulness of her enjoyment. the evening came, the drawing-rooms were lighted up, the company assembled. it was but a card party, it was but a mixture of those who had never met before, and those who met too often; a commonplace business, too numerous for intimacy, too small for variety; but anne had never found an evening shorter. glowing and lovely in sensibility and happiness, and more generally admired than she thought about or cared for, she had cheerful or forbearing feelings for every creature around her. mr elliot was there; she avoided, but she could pity him. the wallises, she had amusement in understanding them. lady dalrymple and miss carteret--they would soon be innoxious cousins to her. she cared not for mrs clay, and had nothing to blush for in the public manners of her father and sister. with the musgroves, there was the happy chat of perfect ease; with captain harville, the kind-hearted intercourse of brother and sister; with lady russell, attempts at conversation, which a delicious consciousness cut short; with admiral and mrs croft, everything of peculiar cordiality and fervent interest, which the same consciousness sought to conceal; and with captain wentworth, some moments of communications continually occurring, and always the hope of more, and always the knowledge of his being there. it was in one of these short meetings, each apparently occupied in admiring a fine display of greenhouse plants, that she said-- "i have been thinking over the past, and trying impartially to judge of the right and wrong, i mean with regard to myself; and i must believe that i was right, much as i suffered from it, that i was perfectly right in being guided by the friend whom you will love better than you do now. to me, she was in the place of a parent. do not mistake me, however. i am not saying that she did not err in her advice. it was, perhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the event decides; and for myself, i certainly never should, in any circumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice. but i mean, that i was right in submitting to her, and that if i had done otherwise, i should have suffered more in continuing the engagement than i did even in giving it up, because i should have suffered in my conscience. i have now, as far as such a sentiment is allowable in human nature, nothing to reproach myself with; and if i mistake not, a strong sense of duty is no bad part of a woman's portion." he looked at her, looked at lady russell, and looking again at her, replied, as if in cool deliberation-- "not yet. but there are hopes of her being forgiven in time. i trust to being in charity with her soon. but i too have been thinking over the past, and a question has suggested itself, whether there may not have been one person more my enemy even than that lady? my own self. tell me if, when i returned to england in the year eight, with a few thousand pounds, and was posted into the laconia, if i had then written to you, would you have answered my letter? would you, in short, have renewed the engagement then?" "would i!" was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough. "good god!" he cried, "you would! it is not that i did not think of it, or desire it, as what could alone crown all my other success; but i was proud, too proud to ask again. i did not understand you. i shut my eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice. this is a recollection which ought to make me forgive every one sooner than myself. six years of separation and suffering might have been spared. it is a sort of pain, too, which is new to me. i have been used to the gratification of believing myself to earn every blessing that i enjoyed. i have valued myself on honourable toils and just rewards. like other great men under reverses," he added, with a smile. "i must endeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune. i must learn to brook being happier than i deserve." chapter who can be in doubt of what followed? when any two young people take it into their heads to marry, they are pretty sure by perseverance to carry their point, be they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever so little likely to be necessary to each other's ultimate comfort. this may be bad morality to conclude with, but i believe it to be truth; and if such parties succeed, how should a captain wentworth and an anne elliot, with the advantage of maturity of mind, consciousness of right, and one independent fortune between them, fail of bearing down every opposition? they might in fact, have borne down a great deal more than they met with, for there was little to distress them beyond the want of graciousness and warmth. sir walter made no objection, and elizabeth did nothing worse than look cold and unconcerned. captain wentworth, with five-and-twenty thousand pounds, and as high in his profession as merit and activity could place him, was no longer nobody. he was now esteemed quite worthy to address the daughter of a foolish, spendthrift baronet, who had not had principle or sense enough to maintain himself in the situation in which providence had placed him, and who could give his daughter at present but a small part of the share of ten thousand pounds which must be hers hereafter. sir walter, indeed, though he had no affection for anne, and no vanity flattered, to make him really happy on the occasion, was very far from thinking it a bad match for her. on the contrary, when he saw more of captain wentworth, saw him repeatedly by daylight, and eyed him well, he was very much struck by his personal claims, and felt that his superiority of appearance might be not unfairly balanced against her superiority of rank; and all this, assisted by his well-sounding name, enabled sir walter at last to prepare his pen, with a very good grace, for the insertion of the marriage in the volume of honour. the only one among them, whose opposition of feeling could excite any serious anxiety was lady russell. anne knew that lady russell must be suffering some pain in understanding and relinquishing mr elliot, and be making some struggles to become truly acquainted with, and do justice to captain wentworth. this however was what lady russell had now to do. she must learn to feel that she had been mistaken with regard to both; that she had been unfairly influenced by appearances in each; that because captain wentworth's manners had not suited her own ideas, she had been too quick in suspecting them to indicate a character of dangerous impetuosity; and that because mr elliot's manners had precisely pleased her in their propriety and correctness, their general politeness and suavity, she had been too quick in receiving them as the certain result of the most correct opinions and well-regulated mind. there was nothing less for lady russell to do, than to admit that she had been pretty completely wrong, and to take up a new set of opinions and of hopes. there is a quickness of perception in some, a nicety in the discernment of character, a natural penetration, in short, which no experience in others can equal, and lady russell had been less gifted in this part of understanding than her young friend. but she was a very good woman, and if her second object was to be sensible and well-judging, her first was to see anne happy. she loved anne better than she loved her own abilities; and when the awkwardness of the beginning was over, found little hardship in attaching herself as a mother to the man who was securing the happiness of her other child. of all the family, mary was probably the one most immediately gratified by the circumstance. it was creditable to have a sister married, and she might flatter herself with having been greatly instrumental to the connexion, by keeping anne with her in the autumn; and as her own sister must be better than her husband's sisters, it was very agreeable that captain wentworth should be a richer man than either captain benwick or charles hayter. she had something to suffer, perhaps, when they came into contact again, in seeing anne restored to the rights of seniority, and the mistress of a very pretty landaulette; but she had a future to look forward to, of powerful consolation. anne had no uppercross hall before her, no landed estate, no headship of a family; and if they could but keep captain wentworth from being made a baronet, she would not change situations with anne. it would be well for the eldest sister if she were equally satisfied with her situation, for a change is not very probable there. she had soon the mortification of seeing mr elliot withdraw, and no one of proper condition has since presented himself to raise even the unfounded hopes which sunk with him. the news of his cousin anne's engagement burst on mr elliot most unexpectedly. it deranged his best plan of domestic happiness, his best hope of keeping sir walter single by the watchfulness which a son-in-law's rights would have given. but, though discomfited and disappointed, he could still do something for his own interest and his own enjoyment. he soon quitted bath; and on mrs clay's quitting it soon afterwards, and being next heard of as established under his protection in london, it was evident how double a game he had been playing, and how determined he was to save himself from being cut out by one artful woman, at least. mrs clay's affections had overpowered her interest, and she had sacrificed, for the young man's sake, the possibility of scheming longer for sir walter. she has abilities, however, as well as affections; and it is now a doubtful point whether his cunning, or hers, may finally carry the day; whether, after preventing her from being the wife of sir walter, he may not be wheedled and caressed at last into making her the wife of sir william. it cannot be doubted that sir walter and elizabeth were shocked and mortified by the loss of their companion, and the discovery of their deception in her. they had their great cousins, to be sure, to resort to for comfort; but they must long feel that to flatter and follow others, without being flattered and followed in turn, is but a state of half enjoyment. anne, satisfied at a very early period of lady russell's meaning to love captain wentworth as she ought, had no other alloy to the happiness of her prospects than what arose from the consciousness of having no relations to bestow on him which a man of sense could value. there she felt her own inferiority very keenly. the disproportion in their fortune was nothing; it did not give her a moment's regret; but to have no family to receive and estimate him properly, nothing of respectability, of harmony, of good will to offer in return for all the worth and all the prompt welcome which met her in his brothers and sisters, was a source of as lively pain as her mind could well be sensible of under circumstances of otherwise strong felicity. she had but two friends in the world to add to his list, lady russell and mrs smith. to those, however, he was very well disposed to attach himself. lady russell, in spite of all her former transgressions, he could now value from his heart. while he was not obliged to say that he believed her to have been right in originally dividing them, he was ready to say almost everything else in her favour, and as for mrs smith, she had claims of various kinds to recommend her quickly and permanently. her recent good offices by anne had been enough in themselves, and their marriage, instead of depriving her of one friend, secured her two. she was their earliest visitor in their settled life; and captain wentworth, by putting her in the way of recovering her husband's property in the west indies, by writing for her, acting for her, and seeing her through all the petty difficulties of the case with the activity and exertion of a fearless man and a determined friend, fully requited the services which she had rendered, or ever meant to render, to his wife. mrs smith's enjoyments were not spoiled by this improvement of income, with some improvement of health, and the acquisition of such friends to be often with, for her cheerfulness and mental alacrity did not fail her; and while these prime supplies of good remained, she might have bid defiance even to greater accessions of worldly prosperity. she might have been absolutely rich and perfectly healthy, and yet be happy. her spring of felicity was in the glow of her spirits, as her friend anne's was in the warmth of her heart. anne was tenderness itself, and she had the full worth of it in captain wentworth's affection. his profession was all that could ever make her friends wish that tenderness less, the dread of a future war all that could dim her sunshine. she gloried in being a sailor's wife, but she must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its national importance. finis note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/ / / / / / -h.zip) how john became a man life story of a motherless boy by isabel c. byrum [illustration: learning to pray] author's preface in presenting this little volume, the author hopes that it may be useful in suggesting to the minds of young boys the great wrong there is in indulging in evil habits. we read, "my people are destroyed for lack of knowledge," and this is true concerning most boys who form habits that are harmful both to body and soul. the story of john's life is a true one; and his earnest prayer that it may be the means of helping some boys from satan's snares and prove a blessing to them, i trust, will be answered. isabel c. byrum year contents chapter i the prairie pasture ii in the sod cellar iii what the big chest contained iv early school days v the card parties vi visitors and pastimes vii leaving home viii with the circus ix caught unawares x a child again xi how john became a man illustrations learning to pray opening the chest a card party leaving the old homestead chapter i the prairie pasture out on the prairie in one of the western states where buffaloes and wild horses once had roamed at their pleasure and where cacti and yuccas still thrived and bloomed could be seen a small two-story frame building. there was nothing strange in this except that the house was different from the average house of the plains; for at this particular time the greater part of the dwellings were made of sod, mud, and brush. the people, generally speaking, were of that type who think principally of getting all the enjoyment from their every-day lives that it is possible to obtain. there was, therefore, little thought among them of the hereafter, when men must give an account of themselves before a just and living god. in fact, the younger generation scarcely knew that there was a god who took note of all their ways. the building, so different from the ordinary dwellings upon the prairie, was the home of a tiny lad named john. it was a happy home; for both his parents were living, and the love that bound their hearts together brought peace and happiness to each member of the little household. but could this happy group have known of the presence of a grim monster just outside the door, who at that very moment was seeking an entrance, their joy would have given place to sorrow. death was soon to destroy the light and comfort of that home. the devoted wife and mother was not strong; and after a severe illness lasting but a few short days, her spirit left the ones she loved and her lifeless body was carried to its last resting place in the cemetery a few miles away. little john was, of course, too young to realize the true meaning of the change; but that something dreadful had happened he very well knew, and his large pathetic eyes spoke the grief that he did understand and could not express. during the three years of his short life he had known the care of a tender, loving mother, whose ambitions were high and noble. although not a christian, she had often expressed her wish that her little brown-eyed boy might grow up to be an honor to his father and mother, and a blessing to his country. after her death his papa's eyes were often filled with tears, for he loved and pitied his little boy. one evening when the lights were dim and the hands of the clock were pointing to the bedtime hour, john felt his father's arms tenderly encircled about him and heard him softly saying: "my little john, we are left all alone now, and you must hurry up and become a man as soon as you can; for i need you to help me. mama has gone away and left us, and she cannot teach you the things that she had planned that you should know; so we will have to do the best that we can, but you must help me. first of all, i want you to learn how to pray; for there is a god in heaven, who made you, and of whom your mother expected to tell you. before him we should bow down and pray every night before we go to sleep." "does he hear all the words we say?" asked little john in an awed tone, quite unable to comprehend his father's meaning, "and does he look at us when we are asleep?" "yes," his father answered; "god sees and knows everything. now, i will tell you the short prayer that i used to say when i was a little boy like you--the prayer that my mother taught me." thus it was that john, kneeling beside his little bed repeated the prayer that has been lisped by thousands of other baby voices: "now i lay me down to sleep; i pray thee, lord, my soul to keep. if i should die before i wake, i pray thee, lord, my soul to take." as the days and weeks sped by, john thought often of his dear mama and wished that he might see her; but he as often would recall his father's words to be a little man, and with all his strength he endeavored to be what he considered a man ought to be. but although he tried, in his childish way, to be one, he was often very lonely; and had it not been for frequent visits to his uncle's home, several miles distant, he would have missed his precious mother even more than he did. while at his uncle's, he could play with his two cousins, will and charley. at last it was decided that it would be best for john and his father to go and make their home with the uncle until john was older. now charley was just about john's age; but as charley was a cripple, john had chosen will, who was several years the oldest, to be his closest friend and companion. regardless of these facts, however, the three boys generally played together. their playground was the vast dooryard extending far out over the prairie. in time they were given the responsibility of herding the cows. to herd the cows meant to see that the cattle did not wander about in the neighborhood corn, wheat, and barley fields that were scattered about here and there over the prairies and that were in but few instances fenced, and to see that they were driven to some water-place at certain intervals and were brought home at the milking hour. the watering places were known as "buffalo-wallows," for they had been made by the buffalos in wallowing. these basins were usually kept filled with water by the rains. some of the "wallows," or "ponds," were rather deep, and were treacherous because of sudden "drop-offs"; but they were usually shallow, and it was generally safe for the children to play along the edge. after the first sharp edge of his grief was dulled, john's father did not feel it so keenly his duty to instruct his child and to teach him to reverence his creator; and when john was about six years of age, the father was kept so busy with his work that he had but little time to spend with the child. john's aunt, too, although a good woman, was too much occupied with housekeeping to do her duty by her own two boys, much less by a third. so john and his cousins had spent nearly all of the three years that they had been together in doing as they pleased, and in finding as much enjoyment in living as it was possible for them to find. it was, therefore, not strange that they had learned and invented many new ways to get amusement, and that some of these were evil; for satan, as he always does in such cases, had lent them a helping hand. the work of attending to the cows did not, of course, occupy nearly all their time, and the boys found it great sport to play around the wallows and in them. on one occasion will said: "say, boys, did you ever hear the story about the man who walked upon the water? i don't remember just how the story went; but i heard somebody say that the man's name was jesus, and that another man got out of a boat to go and meet him. the first fellow did all right, but the second one came very near drowning because he looked down at the water. maybe he wanted to see how deep the water was, and i guess he would have got drowned if they hadn't been close to the shore. now, i am going to do like jesus did. want to see me?" naturally both the boys wanted to see him perform a feat like that, and will quickly scampered into the water. now, the wallow was very shallow all the way across, and will was soon on the opposite side. the smaller boys, not knowing the depth of the water, supposed that it was deep and that will had actually done some marvelous thing. will did not know that he was doing wrong by speaking lightly of one of the savior's miracles; for he had never been in sunday-school, and his parents had not taught him the sacredness of the words and acts of the savior. he simply wanted to play a joke on his companions. the smaller boys talked the matter over when they were alone, and john said: "say, charley, what do you suppose held will up the other day on that water? that wallow must have been deep out in the middle. let's try it some time for ourselves when will isn't around. i believe we could do it as well as he did." charley was agreed, and the two smaller lads watched their chance. one day when will was not with them, they chose a wallow that they thought would answer their purpose. "i'll go first," charley said, and he hurried forward as rapidly as his little crippled limb could carry him, to the water's edge and out into the pond. suddenly poor little charley disappeared. john saw his cousin as he went down into the deep water, and realized his danger. he knew that something must be done and done at once, and with a bound he sprang in after his companion. he did not, however, go beyond the shallow water, and when his cousin came to the surface, he reached out his hand and caught him by the hair; and as charley had not lost the power to help himself, he was soon able, by john's assistance, to scramble to a place of safety. the boys decided that they would say nothing about the accident; and as they remained away from the house long enough for charley's clothing to dry, no questions were asked. but was the scene unnoticed? no. he who notes the sparrow's fall was watching over these little boys; he had not forgotten john's little prayer that had been taught him by his father. god was caring for these little untaught children in that vast prairie pasture. chapter ii in the sod cellar almost without exception the homes on the prairies were provided with sod cellars. even the few modern dwellings in the community in which john's uncle lived were not without these old-fashioned cellars, which served as a protection in times of storms and tornadoes. the cellars served also as places in which to store the fruits and vegetables for winter use. and very often, too, a large quantity of tobacco leaves that had been dried and kept back when the summer's crop was sold could be discovered in one of these places. the home of john's uncle was provided with just such a cellar--a deep hole dug in the ground and covered over with a dense roofing of brush, mud, and sod. within this cellar a large supply of tobacco leaves had been stored. john had been in the cellar many times. he knew the tobacco was there, and he knew to what use his uncle put the tobacco. he knew also that his cousin will both chewed and smoked the leaves, but it had not occurred to him that he himself could do so. the reason why he had not thought of using it was perhaps that his father had once told him that the using of tobacco was a bad habit and urged him to let it alone. but the fact that he had not been tempted did not guarantee that he would not be; the fact that he had no appetite for tobacco did not conclusively prove that he would never acquire one; nor did the fact that he had been told to let tobacco alone warrant that he would need no further watching--for an unforeseen temptation was lurking near. one day when john went into the cellar with his cousin will, his cousin filled a pipe with the leaves and offered it to him, bidding him smoke. john shook his head, and said that he did not want to smoke, for his father had said that using tobacco was a bad habit and that it would ruin his health. "then, why does he use it himself?" will reasoned. "do you suppose that he would use it if he thought that it was going to hurt him? now, john, look here; you said that you wanted to become a man. here's your chance. if you get to where you can smoke a pipe, chew tobacco, and spit, in the way that your father and my dad do, you will be a man. just some folks' saying that it is a bad habit doesn't need to make any difference with you." as john thought over his cousin's words, they did seem reasonable, and he remembered that all the men he had ever seen used tobacco. so he decided that, if he expected to be a man himself, he must soon begin to use it, too. he therefore accepted the pipe and began to puff vigorously at the stem. but try as he would, he couldn't make the pretty little curls of smoke mount up into the air as he had watched his father and other men do. very soon, however, a deathly sickness began to steal over him. his head and stomach hurt, and he could scarcely help falling down on the floor of the cellar. "o will," he said, as he gave the pipe to his cousin, "i am so sick! let's get out of here. i feel as though i was going to die!" and john started in an attempt to find the opening through which he had entered the cellar, but to his surprise and terror he could not find it. "o will," he said, "this is all your fault! you know i didn't want to smoke. i wish now that i hadn't listened to you. father said tobacco would make me sick, but i didn't know it would be so bad as this. tell me, does it always make people sick? and do they ever die?" "yes, it usually makes them pretty sick," will answered. "but they always get over it; and each time they smoke, they get more used to it, or something, and after a while they don't get sick at all. look at me. it never makes me sick, but it did at first. surely you can stand a little sickness when you know that it is going to make a man of you!" john concluded that under those circumstances he could endure his suffering. but he did not try to smoke any more that morning. with will's assistance he found the doorway of the cellar and went out where the air was more pure. gradually, he began to feel better. when dinner time came, however, he did not care to eat; but he kept repeating to himself, "it won't be this way long, and i can afford to suffer if it will make a man of me." how sad to think that one so young should be so deceived! could someone have taught him then that the sick feeling that had so distressed him was caused by the strong poison contained in the tobacco, it might have encouraged him never to touch it again. had his father explained that every pound of tobacco contains three hundred and twenty grains of this poison, one grain of which will kill a large dog in about three minutes; or told him the story of how a man once ran a needle and thread that had been dipped in the poison through the skin of a frog and of how the frog in a few moments began to act like a drunken person, vomited, and hopped about as fast as possible, and then laid down, twitched for a moment in agony, and died; or informed him that many people become insane just through the use of tobacco, john might have yet been influenced to leave the poisonous stuff alone--but perhaps his father did not know. anyway, john was left without this much-needed information. boys who are not properly warned of the danger of tobacco-using are to be pitied more than blamed if they indulge; but their ignorance does not lessen the harm and the evils wrought. when the poison gets into the system, it affects the most vital organs; it undermines that strength and destroys that beauty which ornament true manhood and which assure an individual of success. besides, the continued using causes the indulger to form a habit that cannot be easily overcome. john, being not fully warned of the dreadful consequences of using tobacco, and yet determined to become a man, kept on smoking until he so accustomed his system to the shock that he felt satisfied he was becoming a conqueror and would soon be able to show his father that he was now a man. during the time that john was undergoing such severe temptation, his father was very busy. he realized that his child needed more instruction than he was receiving and that will's influence over john was not good; but just what advice to give, he hardly knew. once he thought that he could smell tobacco smoke on his boy's clothing so calling john to his side, he said: "john, i feel that i must tell you something more about certain bad habits that so many boys form while they are young. you remember i told you that smoking and chewing tobacco ruin many a life. now, i am not going to say that you cannot use tobacco; but i wish that for my sake, as well as for your own, you would let it alone, for it is indeed a very bad habit." to this advice john made no reply; for an appetite was being formed, and in his heart he decided to keep right on. it would have been better could his father have remembered the temptations of his own boyhood days. he might then have more fully realized how next to impossible it is for a parent to availingly teach his child to do something without first setting before the child an example that is worthy of imitation. could he have helped his little son to understand the true meaning of manhood and the necessity of building up within himself in youth a noble, honest, and always-to-be-depended-upon character, as well as the need of developing a strong body, he might have laid a foundation upon which john could have later safely builded. john dearly loved his father and wanted to please him. and to his mind he could best please his father by as quickly as possible becoming a man. so, with the thought of early manhood ever before him, he felt that, in using tobacco, he was doing right. and then, too, charley had learned to smoke and chew, and it would be very hard indeed to be near the boys and not to join in with them. by the time that john had passed his seventh birthday, the small amount of tobacco that was kept in the cellar was not sufficient to fill the demand of the three boys without too rapidly diminishing the uncle's supply, and the boys decided to look elsewhere. now, john's aunt had at one time explained to the boys that lying and stealing are wrong; but she had not made it clear that deceiving is lying and that taking little things that did not belong to them, even though they took the things from some member of the family, is stealing, and that just such thefts lead to the greater crimes that send men and women to prison. instead, she gave the advice in such a way that, though they were impressed with a horror of stealing, the boys could only in part comprehend her meaning. but because she had warned them, she felt that she had done her duty and that they ought to know right from wrong in regard to that matter without further explanation. she did not realize that it was her duty to watch, encourage, and advise, and also to find out when mischief was being planned. in fact, this aunt and mother, busy with her own cares, knew nothing of the possibilities for a child whose confidence and love had been won, and who, through loving counsel, had gained a knowledge of evils and their effects before he had formed ruinous habits or his mind had been polluted with false ideas. being thus left to themselves to discern as best they could the difference between right and wrong, the boys nearly always chose the wrong; and as a result, constantly went deeper and deeper into sinful things. chapter iii what the big chest contained great sins always have a beginning; the first attempts to do evil are not hard to check if taken in time, but if allowed to be carried out, it is impossible to tell what the results may be. how sad it was that john and his cousins did not have someone to check them! the boys now decided to keep close watch, and to avail themselves of every opportunity to procure tobacco, even if they were forced to steal it. the word "steal" had, of course, a certain horror to john because of the picture his aunt had described of a prison and a thief; but he soothed his conscience by saying, "there isn't anything else in the world except tobacco that i would think of stealing." but the stealing habit, like the tobacco habit, continues to grow stronger, unless it is in some way broken. as tobacco contains a poison that affects the physical being, so in a similar manner lying and stealing have a ruinous effect upon the moral nature. the three--lying, stealing, and tobacco using--too often go hand in hand. the first effort of the boys to secure the much-coveted tobacco was made one day when they, while roaming about over the prairie, discovered a man hard at work in a field. the man seemed to be lifting something that was very heavy, and will suggested to the boys that they go and lend their services provided the man would give them each a chew of his tobacco in return; and will did not forget to add that they must each take as generous a bite as their mouths could accommodate. the man was glad to accept their help; and together with his own efforts, the work was soon finished. then, in fulfillment of his agreement, he handed them his plug of tobacco that they might each take the "chew" he had promised them. according to will's suggestion the boys did not stop with an ordinary chew; but each took all that his mouth would contain. when they returned the plug, it was so small that the boys were all afraid the man would find fault with them; so they hurried away from the spot as rapidly as possible. as soon as they were far enough away, they removed the tobacco from their mouths; and they found that, by taking very small chews at a time, the amount was sufficient to last them for some time. several times they succeeded in securing tobacco in this way, and by economizing were able to get along pretty well for a while. but the plan did not always work; for the neighbors' becoming aware of the scheme, prepared themselves with a small piece of tobacco to offer the greedy boys. after that, in order to secure their tobacco, they were often forced to pick up partly-chewed quids, found where they had been thrown away by the owners. these the boys usually washed; sometimes, however, in their eagerness they could not wait to attend to even this amount of cleanliness, but crammed the tobacco into their mouths just as they had found it. even cigar stubs; in fact, everything in the form of tobacco, that had been thrown away, they eagerly gathered and used to satisfy their ravenous appetites. with a foundation now laid for both lying and stealing and with their consciences dulled, the boys were constantly laying plans to gratify their evil desires. many a pocket they robbed of its contents if it happened to contain tobacco in any form. but this was a slow process at best; even under the most favorable circumstances it yielded them but very little returns for their efforts. but one day will informed the boys that he had made a discovery--that he had found out that there was a lot of plug tobacco in the big chest in his father's room. "now, if we could think up some way to get into that chest when the old folks are gone away to town," he suggested, "we could get all the chewing tobacco we would want for a long while. i thought i would watch and see where dad put the key, but he took it with him. guess he carries it with him everywhere he goes. i wonder if we couldn't manage in some way to break the lock. my, but i tell you we could get a big haul! i wonder if we hadn't better try it some day when the old folks go to town?" "hooray, that's just it!" shouted the smaller boys in the same breath. and john asked quickly: "when will they go to town again? this is only wednesday." "it won't be long, i'm sure," will answered reassuringly. "they'll go either friday or saturday sure. but we'll have to get busy and think out a way to break that lock. my, but won't the old man be mad when he finds out about it! we'll have to act just as if we couldn't see how on earth such a thing could have happened." "yes; and we'll have to hide the tobacco good, or pa might find it," chimed in charley. "hey, will," john exclaimed in a hurried undertone--for all the boys had learned to speak low when mentioning their plans--"if we could take the hinges off from the back of the chest, we wouldn't have to break the lock at all." "why, john, that's just it! how in the world did you think of that scheme?" will exclaimed, as he slapped his little cousin on the back. "i say, my boy, you had better look out or you'll be a man before your big cousin! it doesn't matter, you know, about the height, if you have the sense." now, john (although so young) was quite ingenious; and he often suggested ideas that, for their shrewdness, were far beyond his years. for such he was always praised by will, and was encouraged to make other plans. being encouraged by his cousin's praise, the child's brain became even more active, and he said, "if we just cut a little piece from each plug, uncle won't be so apt to miss the tobacco." "that's just it again!" emphatically assented will. "i declare, john, you surprise me! and now, we must have everything all ready so that the minute they leave we can get busy. let's see, what'll we need? a screw-driver--and will we need a hammer?" "we'll need a real sharp knife to cut the tobacco," john suggested. "i'll get the things ready," charley volunteered; and so they planned and waited for the time to come when they could carry out their scheme. the time came on the following saturday. early in the morning the uncle and aunt drove away in the "buckboard," and were on their way to the city where they were to do their trading. all three of the boys had been unusually anxious to help their elders get started, forgetting in their eagerness that they might be thus revealing some of their plans. scarcely did they give the uncle and aunt time to disappear in the distance before they had commenced their evil work. "here's the tools," charley said, as he brought forth the screw-driver, hammer, and sharp knife. "where shall i put them?" "oh, anywhere so they'll be handy!" will told him; and then the three boys hastened to the room containing the chest and were soon kneeling on the floor, examining carefully the object of their interest. the chest, a long, narrow, flat box somewhat darkened with age, was closed and securely fastened; and the tiny padlock that hung from its side seemed to say, "if you please, i am here to protect my master's property from the hand of any thieves; and to the extent that it is within my power, i shall perform my duty." its bold front and defiant appearance did not, however, daunt the purpose of the boys. after giving it a brief examination, they slipped around to the opposite side of the chest, and by the aid of the screw-driver, removed the lower half of the rusty hinges. "thank goodness, this chest is old!" will exclaimed as he brushed from his forehead the large beads of perspiration. "if these screws turned any harder, i never could get them out. guess we'll earn our tobacco this time all right!" [illustration: opening the chest] scarcely had the last screw been removed when up came the lid; and almost instantly three pairs of eager eyes were greedily gazing down upon the contents of the wooden chest. there were in it a package of old letters, various articles of clothing, a few trinkets, etc.; but only that part of the contents that was carefully packed in one corner claimed the attention of the boys. this, a pile of long brown strips, or plugs, of tobacco, was what they wanted; and soon will was busily engaged in cutting a narrow slice from each plug and john and charley were dividing the slices into three equal parts. but in their haste and excitement, none of the boys forgot to fill their mouths with the filthy stuff, and to chew while they worked. as will cut a piece from the last plug, he glanced about over the piles and said with a look of satisfaction: "now that ain't so bad, is it, boys? that ought to last quite a spell; and when it's gone, we can come back here, or maybe something else will turn up." and then, when he saw the boys rearranging the tobacco in the chest, he said, "look out there! you'll have to get everything just like it was, or we'll be caught and have had our fun for nothing!" when the chest was repacked, the last screw in its place, and the tiny scraps of tobacco that had fallen upon the floor had been carefully preserved, the boys looked at one another with satisfaction, and will said, "that's a pretty slick job all right, if i do say so; and its a lot better than breaking the lock would have been. i'll tell you it takes some brains to do up a thing like that, and it makes me feel as if i'd like more of them." to this john smiled and said: "hey, will, do you know what's in that trunk?" john referred to a large trunk that was sitting near the bed on the opposite side of the room. "couldn't tell you all that's in it, but it's locked; and it's in that trunk that dad keeps his revolvers. there's two of them, because i saw inside the trunk the other day." and then as the new thought presented itself to his mind, he exclaimed, "i wonder why we couldn't get into that trunk the same as we did the chest?" in a twinkling, all the boys were examining the trunk, but to their dismay, they found that the hinges, instead of being on the outside of the trunk, were arranged differently, and they could not get at them. again it was john who suggested a plan whereby they could accomplish their desires. "just take a nail," he said, "and turn the head of it around in the lock. i've watched my father do that, and he gets his open every time." the trunk, which was an old one, yielded quickly to the efforts made by the boys; and upon raising the lid, they saw before them two shining weapons that were supposed to have been carefully hidden away from their inexperienced fingers. john and will each quickly caught one up in his hand; and will began handling his as though it were a toy, but not so did john. john's father had taught him something of the dangers connected with the handling of a gun or revolver. besides, john was at one time present when a duel was fought; and on that occasion one of the duelists was killed. the memory of that incident and of his father's warnings, made john very careful about pointing the revolver at either of his cousins. it was, therefore, with intense fear that john looked into the barrel of his cousin's revolver as will snapped it, aimlessly pointing in his direction; and john exclaimed, "turn that thing away, or you'll shoot me." will's answer was: "you needn't be afraid, john. this revolver isn't loaded." but john, seeing his cousin's careless attitude, was afraid; and he dodged down behind a barrel of carpet-rags near which he had been standing. it was well that john did not longer remain where he had been; for the revolver contained a solitary load, and the frequent pulling of the trigger discharged this. the bullet passed the very spot where john had a moment before been standing, and lodged itself deep in the side of the trunk. this experience marked an awakening-time in all of the boys' lives; at that moment their consciences, which had almost fallen asleep, were aroused, and in startling phrases gave them accounts of their evil deeds. with great haste the boys returned the weapons to their former hiding place, relocked the trunk, and in so far as it was possible, covered all the traces of the accident. then, with hearts full of guilty thoughts, the three boys hastened from the place where a scene of horror had very nearly been enacted. out in the open, where the air was fresh and pure, their spirits to a certain degree revived. but their usual laughter, fun, and merry-making had been dampened; and as they wended their way to the prairie pasture-land, few words were passed between them. poor little misguided boys! warned, and yet left so ignorant of what was the right and the wrong way. through the voice of conscience god endeavored to speak to john and to tell him that his ways were evil and that he and his cousins would some day get into serious trouble if they continued in the way they were going; but, although he was sad, he could not understand. he wanted to be a good boy for his father's sake (for his father was the best friend he knew); and most of all he desired to become the man that that parent had wished him to be. john's disregard for his father's warnings from time to time had been due to the fear that, if he obeyed, his early manhood would be hindered. could that father have given his little son an object-lesson such as an aged monk once, while walking through a forest, gave his scholar, john might have been spared much suffering. the monk, stepping before four plants that were close by, pointed to the first, a plant just beginning to peep above the ground; to the second, one well-rooted in the earth; to the third, a small shrub; and to the fourth, a full-sized tree. then turning to his young companion, he said, "pull up the first." this the boy easily did. "now, pull up the second." the youth obeyed, but not with so much ease. "and now the third." this time before the boy succeeded in uprooting the plant, he had to put forth all his strength and to use both his arms. "and now," said his master, "try your hand on the fourth." but although the lad grasped the trunk of the tree in his arms, he scarcely shook its leaves; and he found it impossible to tear its roots from the earth. then the wise old man explained the meaning of the four trials. "this, my son," he said, "is just what happens to our bad habits and passions. when they are young and weak, we can by a little watchfulness and by a little discipline, easily tear them up; but if we let them cast their roots deep down into our souls, no human power can uproot them. only the almighty hand of the creator can pluck them out. for this reason, my boy, watch your first impulses." or, could john have heard the story of the giant who fell in with a company of pigmies, he might have taken a different course. the giant roared with laughter at the insignificant stature and wonderful boastings of the pigmies. he ridiculed their threats when they told what they expected to do to him; but when he fell asleep that night, he was at their mercy. and he did not know until he awoke in the morning that while he was asleep these tiny people of whom he had made sport had bound him with innumerable threads and that he was their helpless captive. but john knew nothing of these stories or of other things that teach the lessons he so much needed; and perhaps his father did not know, so that he could tell his son what he should have been told. the use of tobacco is an evil. when god made tobacco and pronounced it good, he did not mean for it to go into the mouth of any man or woman, much less into the mouths of children. tobacco is a deadly poison; and the constant use of any poison must injure the body of the one who uses it. when it has sapped the strength from both the mind and the body, it leaves the individual weakened in every way and makes it harder for him to live a good, pure life. no person who uses tobacco may be said to be perfectly well. such a person may not realize how his health is impaired, because the stupor that the poison produces numbs his sensibilities; but the very appetite he has for tobacco is in itself a disease. in order for an habitual user to realize the harm that tobacco is doing to his health, he has simply to stop its use for a short time and watch the effect on his system. tobacco is not a food that god intended man to eat. in man's case it feeds only a craving that it has itself created. but the leaves of the tobacco plant do serve as food for the large, green worms that live and thrive in tobacco fields. yes; tobacco is "very good" for the "creeping things" for which it was created; but it was not intended as food for man. could john and his cousins have understood all this when the next tobacco famine came to them, it seems that each would surely have resisted the temptation to stoop down, pick up a partly chewed quid of tobacco, cram it greedily into his watering mouth, and chew it as though it was the sweetest morsel he had ever tasted. but the boys did not know. they thought such things were manly. chapter iv early school days by the time john was eight years old, the evil influences with which he had been surrounded in his uncle's home were rapidly telling on him. to be sure, there was still the same pathetic expression in his deep, brown eyes, and now and then there could be observed in them a mischievous glance or a merry twinkle; but his general appearance was that of a sadly neglected child. still the busy aunt took little notice either of him or of her own boys. in his heart john was longing for someone to take an interest in him and to love him--someone to whom he could go with his boyish heartaches and from whom he could gain the sympathy for which his heart was craving. to be sure, his father was still kind, and sometimes john would imagine that he could even feel his father's love. at such times the boy would press closer to his parent, hoping that he would at least with his arm caress him; but his father did not understand. he could see only the outward roughness; and he said in his heart: "it is all because he has never had a chance. he has grown up here on the prairie like a wild thing. he has never been to school, and i must send him at once." with this purpose in his heart john's father decided to return with his child to the place that had once been his happy home. in making the change there were, of course, many things to take into consideration. but under the circumstances, to go seemed the best and proper thing to do. the sad events, he reasoned, were all in a lifetime; and he must make the best of them. the home would for a time seem desolate, he knew, but he thought that perhaps they could become used to it; anyway, his boy must be in school. the school terms would not be long (for only three or four months of each year were set apart for school purposes); but even these short terms would be better than none. to john the change meant more. the five years that he had spent in the home of his uncle had made his cousins seem to him like brothers; but still, as he considered his father's plans, he thought, "perhaps it may be all right." his aunt was very kind while john and his father were preparing to move; and the day they bade her good-by she said such sweet things that he wanted to throw his arms about her neck. to his mind it was the very way in which his own dear mother would have spoken had she been alive. when all was ready for the departure, the aunt said: "john, here are the two little turkeys that you have liked so well all summer. you may take them with you. they will help you to forget that you are alone when your father is away at his work"; and she handed him a small covered basket. then the wagon containing their few belongings moved away from the place that for nearly five years they had called their home. as they wended their way along the thoroughfare, they saw men at work in the fields. some were shucking corn and tossing the bright golden ears into wagons that were placed between the rows for that purpose, while others were hauling the grain to their barns to store it away for the winter's use. the broad corn leaves rustling in the wind seemed to whisper, "winter is coming with his cold, bleak storms to rob the earth of her summer splendor; but he will bring his beautiful coverlet of snow to protect her fields and to prepare them for the coming year." the foliage on the small bushes that were scattered here and there was fading; but the air was still soft and mild. near the willows might still be seen the bending goldenrods, asters, and sunflowers. and occasionally blue smoke could be seen curling up from some sod-house chimney. it was evening when the father and his son drove up to the door of their long-desolate home; the sun was sinking lower and lower in the west. a few soft glimmers of its mellow light lingered timidly about the doorway as if to bid the home-comers welcome, and then they were gone. a rabbit, hopping boldly about in the neglected doorway, stopped suddenly as if to ask why these people had come to a place that she had chosen for her home; and some prairie dogs that had formed a colony close by anxiously watched from the entrance of their underground homes to see what was going on. john and his father, each absorbed with his own thoughts, sprang from the wagon, and soon began to air out the musty house and to rearrange the furniture that had long been idly awaiting their return. after a while john found that his aunt had not forgotten that he would be very hungry, and soon he was sampling some large bread-and-meat sandwiches; his father, too, came for his share. thus quickly passed the first evening in their old home. but before john retired to his own bed, he saw that his little turkeys received some attention; and in the morning he let them have their freedom. as the days sped by and lengthened into weeks and months, john would have indeed been lonely had it not been for his little pets, the turkeys. they received his earliest attention in the morning, and it was their little beaks that touched his cheek the last thing before he retired at night; and to himself alone was their roosting-place known. how different everything seemed to john in his new home! the change from knowing nothing but perfect freedom in god's great open out-of-doors to being left alone to hustle off to school in the early morning hours, where he must sit like a statue and prepare humdrum lessons, was to john a wonderful change. john, however, was determined to make the very best of his lot and to do all that he could to please his teacher. allowing this purpose to govern his life, john's conduct was such that he became in a very short time the favorite pupil in the school; and his kindly, generous, and ambitious nature won him many friends. he was soon noted for his witty remarks, made in a manner so droll and unpretentious that often merry bursts of laughter were heard from his teacher as well as his playmates. but regardless of these pleasant conditions, john was far from happy. he still wanted someone to show deep love for him and to take an interest in his welfare; and though he constantly tried to smother the deep suffering he felt it still smoldered in his heart. this, perhaps, caused him to crave all the more tobacco that in a way had dulled his senses and caused him to realize his troubles less. chapter v the card parties while john was forming new acquaintances at school, satan was not asleep. john's active mind was soon being schooled in many evils that he had not known before. and to make the matter still worse, john's father had a number of bachelor friends with whom he was in the habit of meeting for pleasant evenings, and their amusements were mostly drinking strong drinks and playing card games. among these men, as among his schoolmates, john became a favorite; and he was often praised and admired for his shrewd and manly ways. and when the report concerning his intense desire to become a man was circulated among them, they urged him to drink beer, saying that it would make him more manly and that all men must learn how to drink and smoke if they would be thought of as being manly. as a result john was soon able to drink his share of the beer, although he did not like the taste at first. besides this, john discovered that at these evening gatherings he could often replenish his supply of tobacco by slipping a little from someone's pocket when the owner was not on his guard. poor little john!--such a favorite! so gifted, and yet so neglected! in regard to high ideals and purposes in life, so ignorant! and so desirous of that motherly love and interest that were ever denied him! he endeavored to fill his life with other things; but in his day-dreams he often pictured his mother, and wondered: "was she like my aunt? would she take me and hold me in her arms while she smoothed my hair with her hand? would she bind my bruises? and would she sit by my bedside at night and hold my hand in hers while telling me stories that she had read?" "oh, how would it all seem?" he would ask himself; and then, remembering that such could never be, he would try to forget and be happy. his mother was gone, he reasoned, and he must be content. it was to his two little feathered friends alone that he confided his sorrows. had john's father remembered the determination that filled his soul on the dark day of his wife's funeral, and had he continued to teach his little son to pray and to serve god, how much better it might have been! how much better might john have understood the difference between right and wrong! in such a case, john's life's record might have been filled with good and noble deeds, and his habits might have been clean and wholesome. as it was, because of his ignorance of right, he was laying a crumbling foundation formed of evil motives and desires. and should he continue to build, using similar material, his life's structure would be unsafe; it would be momentarily in danger of falling. as satan is ever waiting with the needed supplies for a work of this kind, so he was ready to aid little john. the card parties at which john and his father were often present furnished john with much of his material. the younger men among those who attended these gatherings, recognizing in john material of the entertaining sort, began at once to educate him. they taught him, not only to drink beer, but also to play cards and to swear. to john beer did not at first have a pleasant taste; but as it was when he was trying to learn to use tobacco, so it was now--the promise that it would help him in becoming manly encouraged him to take more; and as he drank, the appetite grew. finally, he would sometimes drink so much that he could not keep awake. usually on these occasions beer was served only as a prize to the winners of the games. the lucky fellow alone was given a drink while those who had lost were given only a smell of the bottle. one time when john had won in a number of games and had been treated to as many drinks from the bottle of beer, he became very sleepy. going over to one corner of the room, he crept up on a table and soon was apparently asleep. it happened, however, that, although he was sleepy, he was not wholly unconscious to what was going on; and suddenly he heard a plot that seemed to him so cruel that he could scarcely believe his ears. [illustration: a card-party] at the close of such gatherings, a chicken-roast was generally in order, and the fowl used was usually taken from some hen-roost not far distant. on this particular occasion when the party was about to break up, john heard the roughest of the company ask: "i say, boys, who's goin' fer the roast tonight? some one ought to be off fer it's nigh onter the midnight hour, and i, fer one's got a big job ahead a me tomorrer." "i'll go, bill," someone answered; "but wha do ye say ter go?" "oh, it don't make no difference, so's it's not too fer away!" the other answered, and added: "whist, tom, why can't we git john's turkeys? they'd make fust-rate eatin' all right. he's too far gone to know anything about it." john was just about to call out that they must let his turkeys alone when he remembered how hard it would be in the darkness to discover their roosting-place, so he remained quiet. it was, however, with some uneasiness that he awaited the thieves' return. when they came, he was relieved; for they were carrying chickens instead of turkeys. although, because of the safety of his pets, a thrill of satisfaction swept over john, yet he had received in his heart a wound that was deep and wide. these cruel, heartless men were willing to take from him, in so unprincipled a manner, his only companions and playfellows. john somewhat realized that life had a hard and bitter side for him; but again he endeavored with all his strength to make the best of it. it was morning before john and his father returned to their home; and it was with unusual joy that john found his pets waiting for their breakfast. as he held them close to his breast, with their beaks close to his cheek, he again thought of his mother; also he wondered about a certain change that had come over his father. for a time after their removal to their own home, the father had been very devoted to john and had seemed to understand something of the boy's loneliness. perhaps it was a realization of this loneliness and a desire to bring into the life of the child the motherly interest of which he had been deprived that had turned the father's heart toward a certain young lady of his acquaintance. anyway, whatever was the cause, the father became more and more interested in this young woman; while, on the other hand, he paid less attention to john, whose loneliness daily increased. night after night john's pillow was dampened by the tears he shed while waiting and listening for the sound of his father's returning footsteps. in course of time the father married and brought home his new bride. at first john was very shy; but he was glad. oh, how he wished that she would be what he had day-dreamed that his own mother might have been! he could then have given her all his love and confidence. he could have told her all his boyish plans for the future, asking her for the advice he would need. but the new mother failed to fulfill his hopes. even she did not understand the longings of his boyish heart; nor did she realize that the poor little neglected boy was measuring her by what he had imagined a true mother to be. she was kind to john; but that was all. her time and attention were given to her husband; and john daily saw the gulf between his father and himself widening and deepening. a feeling of discord crept into john's heart; all attraction for home was severed; and he felt that his happiness would have to be sought from other sources. chapter vi visitors and pastimes during the winter that followed his father's marriage, john's stepmother's brother came to live with the family; and the influence of this stepuncle, whose name was ed, was as bad or worse than will's or charley's could ever have been; for ed was older and wiser, and knew much more of sin. in ed's home both the father and the mother used tobacco a long time before their child was born. when he was just a little infant, he worried and cried a great deal. he continued to do this, seemingly never to be satisfied, until finally the parents imagined that he wanted tobacco; and sure enough he did. the mother tied a small amount in a rag and gave it to her baby to suck, and immediately he became quiet and contented. so, from that time she gave him tobacco to stop his crying. as he grew, the quantity he used gradually increased until, when he was in his teens, he spent much of his money for tobacco. he went without many of the necessary things of life in order that he might have the money those things would cost to spend for tobacco. the bible tells us that god is abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands and forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin ... parents may be sorry for their sins, and be forgiven for their transgressions; but their children must suffer from inherited ill-dispositions, unnatural appetites, or diseases.... oh, what a responsibility is resting upon the parents of the future generations! now, tobacco acts directly on the mind. it clouds the understanding and dulls the memory; and sometimes it has much worse effects. the story is told of the experience of a brilliant young man--a graduate from andover college--who, for a time, seemed to have a wonderful future before him. after a few short successful years, however, all hopes were blighted; he was thrown into an insane asylum a physical wreck. the doctors said that tobacco had done it; but regardless of this, he was each day given, according to the rules of the asylum, a small quantity of tobacco. for twenty years he was in this seemingly hopeless condition; and then suddenly, one day as he was walking the floor, his reason returned, and he realized what was the matter. throwing the plug of tobacco through the iron grate of his cell, he said: "what brought me here? what keeps me here? why am i here? tobacco! tobacco! tobacco! god help, help! i will never use it again!" he was restored; and for ten years he preached the gospel. but not only does tobacco injure the mind; it also affects the blood and sensitive tissues and the different organs of the body, which in order to act normally and to do their work properly must be in healthful condition. when the blood becomes saturated with the deadly poison that comes from the pipe or cigar, and the soft membranes of the mouth become filled with the poisonous secretion from the quid, as a consequence, every member of the body becomes affected, and disease and suffering are the final results. lord bacon said, "to smoke is a secret delight, serving to steal away men's brains." many others have expressed themselves in even louder terms against the evil effects of tobacco; but we must now return to john and to ed, his stepuncle. soon after ed came to live in the family, he paid a visit to a neighboring town; and while there, he stole from a store a case of plug tobacco. this he stealthily brought to his sister's new home, confiding his secret to no one except john; and by generous promises he persuaded john to say nothing about the matter. at this time john was in his thirteenth year. he still keenly felt that something was dreadfully missing in his life; so he turned to ed, hoping to find that something in his companionship. but again he was disappointed. the standard of ed's ideals were so far below the standard that john had fixed for himself that john was conscious of a constant repulsion in his heart toward ed. as a consequence, john's loneliness increased. about the time ed arrived in the neighborhood, another dangerous pastime was introduced. dancing found a place in the social gatherings; and again john was an apt scholar. before very long he was considered to be one of the best among the young people in this art; and for the time being he seemed to find real enjoyment in the amusement. there was a fascination about it that helped him partly to forget his troubles and heartaches, also the discouragements with which he had been haunted so much of late. during the winter that followed, the social spirit increased and the months were full of changes and excitement. the uncle with whom john and his father had spent several years came with his family for a prolonged visit. a hearty welcome was given the visitors, especially by john; for regardless of the fact that in order to make room for the company he had to exchange his nice warm bed in the house for a less comfortable one in the sod cellar, he rejoiced in the thought that he could once more be with his old companion, will. in fact, any change was appreciated by john in his restless, discontented frame of mind. the first evening the boys retired early, partly because they had no light and partly because they wanted to visit about bygone days. they had so many things to say to each other; and besides, they wanted to lay their plans for a jolly time while they could be together. will laughed heartily about john's intense desire to become a man, and asked him how he felt about it now. it was in a discouraged tone of voice that john replied: "there ain't so much fun in it as i supposed. the older i get, the more unhappy i feel. why, will, there are times when i almost wish that i were dead. no one seems to care for me or to have any time to give me. it's just 'john here' and 'john there'; and if i dare to say anything, i'm laughed at or told to keep still. it was different before pa got married. then he used to talk to me and try to help me when i got lonesome; but now i just have to get along the best way i can. if i like anything it's all right, and if i don't it's the same. "i'll just tell you, if it wasn't for pa, i'd run away from home! as for being a man, i don't think that it is so wonderful after all. the men that i know are all so bad. just look at ed! i'm getting so that i can hardly endure ed!" in reply to john's great outburst of sorrow, will had no words of sympathy to offer. all that he could propose was that they could spend their evenings in playing cards (for will, too, had learned many things since john had left; and card-playing was one of them). john was pleased with the suggestion; but he said, "i haven't any cards." as usual, however, he was quick to invent a way out of that difficulty and added: "hey, will! why couldn't we make some? i know where there's a lot of cardboard boxes that we could cut up. one could cut while the other marked them. you would know how to make them, would you not?" "yes, i think so," will answered. "we could do that all right in the daytime; but how could we work in the dark? and does it get very cold in here?" "oh, it doesn't get so awfully cold; and as for a light, i can get a dish of lard and put a rag in it which we can light! that won't be a very good light; but i think we can get along." the boys found that it was no small task to make the cards. first they had to cut the cardboard. this john did with a very sharp knife. next, they drew hearts and diamonds and other necessary markings. to be sure, the set of cards was a very crude one when it was finished; and when the boys began to shuffle them in the pack, they were disappointed because of the bulky appearance and wished for a more perfect set. but john had done a good job in cutting them out, and the marking answered the purpose very well. so night after night, by the aid of the flickering and sputtering light, furnished by the rag burning in the saucer of lard, the two boys, with heads bent low, sat scheming and planning, each striving to get ahead of the other in the game. long before will's visit was ended, both boys had become so skillful in playing that the one could scarcely get the better of the other unless one in some way cheated. this caused them to try many underhanded tricks and encouraged them to bet and gamble; and in course of time they had exchanged as wagers the greater part of their simple belongings. taking advantage of one another became a part of the game and seemingly was the principal aim. and the evenings that they did not spend in dancing were spent in indulging in these dangerous amusements. (card-playing--as does also dancing--wields an influence that is very harmful, especially to the young. as the interest in the game increases, the players' desire for things that are good and wholesome is lessened. one player sees only the pleasure that he derives from getting the better of the one he is playing against. he fails to see that each time he stoops to unfair methods in order to gain his purpose he helps to pave the way for other things that are wrong and deceitful.) when the first warm days of spring arrived and the grass of the prairie began to unfold its tiny blades, john's uncle said it was time for him and his family to return home. "it's a long way, will," he said; "and we must get there in good time to plant a big crop of 'tobaker.' you remember we didn't have near enough to do us last year!" will agreed; but the boys were all sorry to be separated again, and when the day of departure came, it was very hard indeed for them to bid one another farewell. during the winter months john had not thought much about his aunt, for will and he had been too deeply interested in other things. but now at the last moment that old longing again clutched at his heart. when he saw them disappearing in the distance and finally lost them to view, like a flash the desire that had so long been smoldering within his heart was fanned, as it were, into a mighty flame, and in his mind he resolved what he would do. "i will stay in this home no longer!" he cried in his distress. "my father may miss me; but if i stay here, i shall die!" and going to his father, he stated his intentions. chapter vii leaving home as john's father looked into the deep pathetic eyes of his son, he in part understood the meaning of what he read. he could see that the soul of his child was crying out for something; but again he failed to understand the true longings of the young heart. he failed to see that the boy was being crushed by sinful habits, and that for parental care and interest he was starving. in ignorance the father supposed that the boy's unrest was due to a longing to know more of the world, to a feeling akin to that which an explorer experiences. poor man! could he have known just then what really was troubling his boy, he could have stayed the spirit of unrest by holding out to john the "olive branch of peace." he could have said: "john, we have drifted apart. we are not to one another what we used to be. stop, my boy; sit down here. let us carefully talk these things over before you take such a step. out in the world you will meet many temptations and evils, more than you have ever known." and many other tender words of advice he might have spoken to the child; but these things were left unspoken. instead, his father only said, "john, i would like to have you remain at home a while longer; but if you are determined to go, you may, only remember to try to do as nearly right as you can! i have wanted to bring you up well for your mother's sake; for she had made so many plans for your future. my wish, john, is that you become a good man." john was deeply touched by his father's farewell speech; and had there been any other drawing to keep him at home, he certainly would have remained. as it was, he soon gathered together his belongings, and while still in his thirteenth year, said good-by to his people, and went away to work for a thrifty farmer. during the two years preceding his departure from home, john had now and then worked for the farmers in different parts of the country. this and his attendance at the social gatherings had enabled him to become acquainted with numbers of boys, some of whom were very wild and rough. but because of the companionship of will during the winter months, the evil influences of his wide circle of friends had not been so strong. but when the cousins were parted, john's companions were again some of the roughest and toughest in the community. because of this his tobacco and beer bills increased, and to this alarming expenditure he added many accounts for whiskey. john had made a discovery. he had found that ed, in order to satisfy the awful craving and gnawing in his stomach (a sensation produced by the tobacco poison), was using a generous supply of whiskey; and for the same reason john began to use it. whiskey did perhaps satisfy for the time being; but john also discovered that the seemingly good effect was very soon gone and that the old trouble was again there, only with renewed force and strength. another thing he found, too, was that he had added to his list of evil habits one even more fierce and strong than the others. when john left home, his desire was principally to find relief for his loneliness; but he had another object. his expenses had been heavy and hard to defray. and now with the amount he had to pay for his whiskey added to what he was already spending for beer and tobacco, his bills were so high he felt that he must have more money in order to meet them. this seeming necessity was, therefore, one thing that urged him to take the step he took. [illustration: leaving the old homestead] the farmer for whom john began to work was known among his men as "the captain." all the hired help worked under one manager, or boss; so john's experience while in this service was new and varied. "we have orders today to work for farmer z," explained the boss one morning a few weeks after john's arrival. "and the captain says we must be sure and get around there early in the morning, for we are to get our breakfast over there." the home of farmer z was some distance from that of john's employer; but the prancing horses on which the men were to ride were soon carrying them across the prairie, and it was not long until they were in sight of farmer z's modest farmhouse. as they entered the gateway, farmer z stepped into the doorway; and when he greeted the men with a kindly "good morning," john particularly noticed his countenance and expression and wondered why he was so different from the comrades with whom he had always associated. he noticed, too, that, as the men gathered in the dining room and took their places around the table, they were quiet and reserved; and he was puzzled by still another thing--farmer z bowed his head and thanked god for all of his blessings and benefits and goodness to them all. such things were new and strange to john; and when at the close of the meal, the farmer invited them into another room, saying, "we always have reading and prayer immediately after breakfast and would be glad to have you all join with us," john suddenly felt extremely awkward and out of place, and he longed to make his escape to the barn. john could have given no reason for his feelings, unless it was that the farmer's suggestion of prayer made him think about his mother and of the time when his father had taught him the little prayer, "now i lay me down to sleep," and had told him that he very much desired him to be a little man. but it was not strange that john should feel as he did; for he had so often associated other scenes with that of learning the prayer, but had since that time heard very little about the bible. in fact, the only part of the bible that he had ever read was a few verses in the small new testament that had belonged to his mother; and he had read these because he had heard that the reading of certain passages would stop the toothache and relieve the nosebleed. he experimented one time when he had the nosebleed, and his nosebleed did stop; but he was not sure that it would not have stopped as soon had he not read the verses. now, for some reason unknown to himself, john did not want to remain for worship; so when he noticed one of the other men slipping out of the back door, he quickly followed. the two were just about to enter the barn when the farmer, calling to them in words that were gentle but firm, said, "we always have our help come in with us for worship." seeing then that there was no way around going in except to stoutly refuse, the two returned to the house; and with the others they seated themselves in the room where it was evident that the family worship was to be held. this experience was so entirely new to john that he actually suffered. he did not know what to do nor how to act. he observed that the children, the workmen, and the farmer's wife, were all seated, so he sat down, too. he also observed that the men had left their hats outside where they had washed; and this caused him to feel very strangely, because he had his own in his hand. he dropped it, however, beside his chair; then he began to watch the children and to try to do just as they were doing. but as no two of the youngsters were doing the same thing, he again felt troubled. the older members of the family, he noticed, sat very still; and suddenly john realized that they must be listening to the farmer, who had been reading. john knew that he had not heard one single word that had been read, and here, the farmer was now saying, "let us pray." when they knelt beside their chairs, john was again bewildered; but having decided to do just as nearly as he possibly could the way the rest did, he, too, slipped down upon his knees. for some reason that he could not understand, a burning shame that seemed to benumb his whole being swept over him, and he could hardly hear the farmer's words; but he realized suddenly that the farmer was saying, "dear lord, bless the help today, and keep them from accidents and danger." hurriedly glancing around, john saw the children peeking from between their fingers; and hastily covering his own face with his hands, he gave a quick glance toward mr. a, his boss. mr. a was kneeling beside his chair, but was picking his teeth and looking out of the window. just then the farmer said, "amen," and they all arose. then, as john compared his own attitude with that of mr. a.'s, another feeling of shame came over him; and for some time he kept asking himself, "why didn't i act unconcerned like the boss?" but john was not a bad boy naturally. he was ignorant of what was right. he had never understood that there is a savior and that that savior loved him and left an example for him to follow. to be sure, he had often heard both his savior's and his creator's names reviled and abused by his evil companions. but he did not know that these were beings to whom he could go when in trouble; nor did he understand that in god's sight he was a sinner. more than once that day while working, john thought of the farmer's words and wondered if the prayer would have any effect upon the day. some way he thought it would, and he decided to watch and see. the day was ideal, and the help orderly; and god kept them free from accident and trouble. it was all a mystery to john, and he pondered over it along the way home and even during the night. farmer z had opened up a new channel for his thoughts. chapter viii with the circus during the following year a circus that was passing through the country stopped at a town near by; and john, together with a number of his associates, attended some of the exhibitions. john's interest was at once captivated, and he felt that it would be great to join the company and to act the part of the clown; and he soon began to plan to secretly join them the following season. his visions of great wealth enlarged day by day, and in fancy he pictured a future of wonderful fame. in due time the show company returned. they gladly accepted john's proposal to join them; and so john, with his few earthly possessions, to the surprise of all who knew him, disappeared from his home locality. but john seemed doomed to disappointment; the showman's life was not at all as he had pictured it. instead of becoming fabulously rich in a fairy-like way, he was taken very ill and had soon lost all the money he did have. as soon, therefore, as he was able, he returned to his friends at home, thoroughly disgusted with his undertakings; he was a wiser lad than he was when he went away. but, although john was disgusted, he was not disheartened. when he was laughed at by his friends, he bravely bore their ridicule, and endeavored to look on the bright side of things. also, he explained to them that show life, on the outside and to the sightseer, was not at all what it was among the members of the company; but that behind the curtains oaths were uttered, and abuse and nearly every kind of evils could be witnessed. when he was back once more among his old associates, he endeavored to pass away the time in as pleasant a way as possible. card playing, gambling, and dancing were his amusements, but tobacco and whiskey were his enjoyments; and as before, he was considered among his friends as a jolly good fellow. but john was not truly happy; beneath his superficial joyousness was a longing for something that he was unable to name or describe. let us stop a moment and look at john. a glance tells us that a great change has taken place. the ruddy complexion and childish features were replaced by a sallow hue upon the sunken cheek; and the roguish expression of the large brown eyes was lost in the haggard look that well accorded with the telltale cough and the stooping shoulders. the poisons of the tobacco and whiskey were doing their fatal work. his entire system was heavily charged with nicotine and alcohol; and the effect of these poisons constantly operating upon his nervous system and digestive organs had made him but a wreck of his former self. it is true that in stature he was as large as the man his father had desired him to be; but he was far from being of the strong manly type that that parent would have had him to become. instead, he was weakly; and his body was never free from pain and suffering. the old adage that ignorance is bliss can never be aptly applied to nicotine and alcohol. for only those who let them both entirely alone can be truly happy or safe. when we examine what doctors have written about the use of these poisons, we find that alcohol as well as nicotine is a stimulant and a narcotic. as a stimulant, it excites the brain and nerves, quickens the circulation of the blood, and intoxicates (makes drunk); while as a narcotic it blunts the powers of the brain and nerves and produces stupor and death. tests in the army, navy, and arctic explorations have definitely proved that alcohol is not a food. alcohol will not allay thirst: "alcohol has a great attraction for water; and when swallowed, it draws the water to itself, thus depriving the tissues of the body of that merit necessary inorganic food. again, alcohol causes a rush of blood to the skin, which causes a sensation of warmth to be felt upon the surface of the body. however, the sensation of heat is, like beauty, 'only skin deep,' as the heat of the system has really been diminished rather than increased; because when the blood is upon the surface, it parts with its heat more readily." i "the effects of alcohol upon the heart may be summed up in the following statements: "(a) it causes a softening of the muscles of the heart, and a fatty degeneration, thus clogging the workings of this vital organ. "(b) it overworks the heart. "(c) oftentimes it renders the heart weak and flabby. "(d) it causes an enlargement or dilation of its parts. "(e) there is a consequent effect of drowsiness and lassitude. "(f) its general effect upon the heart is to destroy its strength and usefulness." ii "alcohol has the following effects upon the lungs: "(a) it makes the blood impure, thus increasing the work of the lungs. "(b) it paralyzes the blood vessels. "(c) it weakens the various lung tissues. "(d) it impairs breathing." iii "alcohol's effects upon the stomach: "(a) produces chronic inflammation of the stomach. "(b) injures the mucous lining by hardening the tissues. "(c) it destroys some of the small glands and impairs others. "(d) it precipitates the pepsin of the gastric juice, thus retarding digestion. "(e) it thickens the mucus of the stomach. "(f) the action of the stomach is at first quickened by the presence of alcohol, and then retarded." iv "the effects of alcohol upon the liver may be: "(a) it produces a hardened condition of its tissues. "(b) enlarges the organ. "(c) compresses and lessens the cells for producing bile. "(d) stimulates the liver to overaction, thus reducing the bile supply. "(e) it weakens and destroys the usefulness of this organ of digestion." v "effect of alcohol upon the blood and blood-vessels: "(a) it thins and coagulates the blood according to the amount of alcohol. "(b) it hastens the circulation, thus weakening it. "(c) it prevents combustion. "(d) it impairs and destroys the corpuscles, thus affecting their powers of transporting oxygen and carbonic acid gas. "(e) it weakens the arterial muscles by affecting the nerves governing them." vi "effects of alcohol upon the brain and nerves are: "(a) it causes apoplexy and epilepsy by confusing the brain. "(b) it weakens the will and deadens the feelings. "(c) it hardens the brain tissues, producing dullness, insensibility, and insanity. "(d) it destroys the nerve fiber of the brain. "(e) it temporarily stimulates and finally depresses this organ. "(f) it will at last destroy man, body and soul." "alcohol leads every other drug in its far-reaching influence for mischief and evil. were the thousands of ruined homes, the untold numbers of blasted lives, the sorrows, the sins, numberless crimes, murders, and deaths brought in panoramic review before us, what a hell-born picture it would be!" "the effect of alcohol upon the morals is awful. all delicacy, courtesy, and self-respect are gone; the sense of justice and right is faint or quite extinct. there is no vice into which the victim of drunkenness does not easily slide; and no crime from which he can be expected to refrain. between this condition and insanity there is but a single step." these are only a part of the many evils that come to the one who takes alcohol into his system. we have already heard something about the effects of nicotine, the poison that is in tobacco. the constant use of either poison will impair the health of the strongest person. it saps the mind of its reasoning qualities; and in nine cases out of ten, leaves the victim without sufficient strength to seek and obtain his own deliverance or to live a righteous life. but let us return now to john. chapter ix caught unawares at the age of eighteen john had come almost to the point of discouragement. his health was so poor that he did not know a well moment; and besides, his longing soul was still unsatisfied. he had always desired to be good and kind to all; but he did not know how to rise to a nobler plane of conduct than that on which he was living. he judged men by their moral conduct, and not by their spiritual life. in fact, he had very little, if any, comprehension of christianity. he knew of a few, like farmer z., who professed religion; but he was afraid of these and he avoided their company. he had now and then, with a number of other boys about his own age, visited some places where religious services were being held. but their object in going was to have a good time; and they seldom remained long enough to derive any good. on one of these occasions they went to a small school house that was located a few miles from the town of c. the meeting had been widely advertised, and a goodly number were in attendance; and when john and his companions had taken their seats well to the rear, there was only standing-room left. curiosity was pictured on every face; for the ministers (one elderly, the other young) were two modestly dressed women, and lady preachers had never been heard of in that part of the country. the singing was beautiful! john thought that the songs were sweeter than any he had ever heard. when prayer was being offered, he listened carefully to every word; and when he heard the ministers address god as their father, asking him to direct them in all that they did and said, and to prepare the hearts of the people to receive the truths that they were about to speak, he was instantly filled with wonder and awe. after they rose from prayer, another song was sung; and then the elderly lady began to address the people. as she read in a clear, sweet voice a chapter from the scriptures, john listened carefully. the account of the woes pronounced upon the people who would not do right and the promises made to those who would live right and were prepared to die, were truly wonderful. especially was he impressed with one verse she read, though he realized very little of what it meant: "therefore be ye also ready: for in such an hour as ye think not, the son of man cometh." when this speaker took her seat, the other lady, a young, sweet-faced girl, arose, and said a few words. after telling of how she had been converted, and of how the savior had ever since supplied all the longings of her heart and had enabled her by his grace to live a life that was pure and spotless, she spoke of her home in heaven; and then she told the people that god would do the same for others as he had for her--for everyone who would give up evil habits and forsake sin, and who would love his son, whom he had sent to the earth to suffer and die that all people might be saved. john listened to every word; and as the girl sat down, he thought, "why, i would give everything that i have in the world to be able to say such things about myself!" when making the announcements, the elderly lady said: "this meeting will be continued for three weeks or more, and we want as many of you as can to attend regularly; for there will be many portions of the bible explained, and we want everyone to learn what is the road to success and to find out how to be truly happy." john at once decided that he would attend every service; but since at the same time he felt an interest similar to that which had inspired him to become a showman, he remembered that bitter experience and ground his teeth. he was about to change his decision to attend the meetings regularly, when he remembered the words, "therefore be ye also ready; for in such an hour as ye think not, the son of man cometh!" instantly he beheld a great panoramic view of his past life, and many of the evils that had never before appeared to him as sin were painted with the blackest dyes. he had not meant to be wicked, but he suddenly realized that his life had been wasted; and he concluded that he was not ready to meet christ. but john believed that christ would come to the earth, and he felt that he would give anything to be ready to meet him. as john, whenever he was perplexed or troubled, had been in the habit of doing, he reached down into his pocket and drew out a large plug of tobacco and began biting off a piece to chew. but what was the matter? the tobacco did not taste as it had in the past and it appealed to him so differently. it was now actually disgusting and repulsive to him; and he thought: "what a filthy habit! and to think of the time and money that it has cost me! why have i been so foolish?" the next instant he resolved that he would never again taste the horrid stuff. and very soon a few scenes of things that happened when he was under the influence of whisky came to his mind, and he shuddered. never again would he touch that stuff, he determined. in fact, the greater part of the night john spent in reviewing his life; and he found that the larger portion of the things he had been doing were things he would not want to be found doing at the savior's coming. the following day john could hardly wait until the time came when he could again return to the little brown school house to hear more of the beautiful story that had so charmed him. and night after night found john in one of the seats in the rear of the building. it was not long until he discovered the pathway to heaven; he saw it bathed with heaven's sunshine and could see that it was for him to walk upon. but the next thing was for him to make the start. it is one thing to decide that a certain thing is right and quite another thing to take a stand (regardless of what anyone may think or say) for the right. he had heard the preachers telling about the life of a christian, the savior's love and death, and god's great mercy, night after night for two weeks; but no invitation to come forward had been given to those desiring to make a change in their manner of living. the ministers desired that each one be given a full understanding of god's plan of salvation so that none would take a step in the dark. john was fully decided to change his manner of living; but he did not want to make any more mistakes. for this reason he restrained himself from going to the motherly lady to inquire of her what he had better do. his old desire to become a man had revived, but this time he desired to be a man after god's own heart--pure and holy--like the one that god created in the beginning. the time for an invitation to be given to the penitent finally came. upon entering the meeting house that evening john noticed a slight change in the arrangement of the seats. the long row of chairs supplied by kind-hearted neighbors to help in seating the people had been removed, and a long, narrow bench had been put in their place. john wondered at the change, but did not have to wonder long. an announcement was soon made, stating that the bench was to serve as an altar, where those who desired to be converted and who wanted to consecrate their lives and services to god could gather for prayer. an explanation was also made to the effect that, though god is pleased to see people humble themselves before him, there was no virtue in the wooden altar; it was simply a more convenient place to bow for prayer than their seats would be. the services were shorter than usual; and when the invitation to come forward was given to those who desired to yield their hearts to god, john was ready. he longed to go; but although he had learned a great many things, he was still uncertain just what was meant by bowing at the altar; and as he wanted to do the right thing, he decided to wait until he saw how the others would do. he did not have long to wait; for a girl in front of him arose, went forward, and knelt down beside the altar. this was enough for john, because it taught him just what he desired to know; and he was soon kneeling beside her. that night was indeed a wonderful time. one by one the people flocked to the front part of the room; and john afterwards learned that many of his friends and even those whom he thought would ridicule and make fun of him, were among the number that, as himself, had sought and found pardon for their sins. the invitation lasted a long time; and when it was ended, the ministers knelt down among the penitent seekers, thanked god for the tender mercies he had extended to the lost world, and prayed that those who were at the altar might understand what true salvation is. after praying, they explained carefully what it meant to be redeemed from all sin, and told the seekers how god looked upon the sin-cursed world and its awful wickedness, but also how he was so moved with tender love and compassion that he sacrificed the brightest gem of glory--even his only begotten son--to be a redeemer for all who would believe on him and turn from their evil ways. the redemption price, they said, was great; but nothing less could have proved so well god's great love for mankind. and they quoted from the bible, "for god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. for god sent not his son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved" (john : , ); also, "the son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost" (luke : ). these words were as a soothing balm to john's aching heart. having been fully awakened to his awful condition and made to long for the way of deliverance, he rejoiced as these rays of hope came streaming down into his soul. one by one he recalled his sins--smoking and chewing tobacco, drinking whisky and beer, stealing, lying, card-playing, betting, gambling, and many other things; but these he had already given up. one thing only came to his mind that caused him a struggle, and for a few moments it seemed that he could not give that up. john loved to dance, and it had seemed to him that there was nothing wrong with that pastime. since he knew none of the pleasures that the christian enjoys, this was not strange. always he had danced just for the pleasure he derived from dancing, and he considered dancing an innocent amusement. when, however, he was made aware of the evils of dancing and the temptations it causes boys and girls whose characters are weak, he could see how that to some it might mean the loss of virtue; and, too, he found that much of his suffering had been caused by the late hours that dancing and other things had caused him to keep. then he gladly bade adieu to the dance-hall and all its trivial gaiety. after he had asked the lord to pardon him for his transgressions, his simple faith took hold of the promises and he received a clear witness of his acceptance as a child of god. at last, after so many weeks and months--yes, years--of dissatisfaction, he was indeed truly happy; and the deep aching in his hungry heart was replaced by the savior's love. his companions, too, went away from that service rejoicing. their language, once so rough and vile, was now becoming to any christian; and the things that they had loved, no longer attracted their attention. in fact, the entire neighborhood was changed; for many haunts of sin and vice were entirely vacated. john soon found that it was his duty to make all of his wrongs right as far as it lay in his power to do so; and this he gladly did. in many instances he was surprised to see the effect that this act of obedience had upon the ones concerned. many, with tears in their eyes, exclaimed, "john, i only wish that i possessed the joy in my own heart that i can see written in your face!" chapter x a child again no one could doubt the change in john's life; and many wondered how such a thing could have been accomplished. but they did not realize that with god all things are possible. how well it was for john that he discovered before it was too late that he was a sinner, lost in god's sight, and that it was necessary for him to forsake all of his evil ways and habits if he would be freed from the binding chain of satan! each sinful habit formed a link in the chain, and its strength could be measured only by what it took to release him from its binding power. john was sorry to see the meetings close; and as he bade the sweet-faced women farewell, he was loath to see them go, because of their christian influence. but life to him was no longer what it had been in the past. with the poet, he had found that "life is real! life is earnest. and the grave is not its goal; dust thou art, to dust returnest was not spoken of the soul." he procured a bible and studied it diligently. he soon found that it was a wonderful book, for what troubled him in one part was explained in another. one day while reading in the tenth chapter of mark, he found to his surprise that, instead of his being a man, he was only a child, a mere babe, in god's sight. john had expected to be changed and to be different in every way, but he did not know that, in order to realize his desire to be a "man after god's own heart," he must commence at the beginning and be as a little child again. but he was willing; for he saw how his past life had been completely wasted, and he was glad to begin anew. in the second chapter of i peter, john found much encouragement, also in i cor. : , where he read: "when i was a child, i thought as a child: but when i became a man, i put away childish things." again he was determined to become a man, and to develop as quickly as possible. from that time on he availed himself of every opportunity to do good to all mankind, and this was no hardship. his great whole-hearted nature made him love to do good and to be a help to all who were in need. at other times john read the conversation between christ and nicodemus, and the account of how jesus thanked his heavenly father for hiding his truths from the wise and prudent and for revealing them to babes. john was not long in perceiving the mystery concerning the new birth, for he had gained the experience; and he thanked god that it had been revealed to him. once while studying the word of god, john discovered that the twelfth chapter of i corinthians teaches that christian people on the earth represent christ's spiritual body. as the natural body possesses many members--hands, feet, eyes, ears, nose, etc.--each having its own special work, just so the spiritual body of which he (christ) is the head has many members to carry on the lord's work on the earth. and, as in the human body, each member has its own work to do; similarly, in the spiritual body, each member has his own work to perform. some preach, some teach, some perform miracles, some (perhaps all) pray for the sick, and some do various other things, each as he is directed; but all work in harmony. the members are all assigned their work and places in the body by the directions of the heavenly father. from reading the second chapter of acts, john found that soon after christ ascended to heaven god sent his holy spirit to the earth to superintend the work of the members of his son's spiritual body, or saved people, and that this same holy spirit is still guiding and helping them. he also read in i john : --"love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. if any man love the world, the love of the father is not in him." by reading further in the apostle john's epistle, john discovered that there are many false spirits in the world that are trying to deceive god's people and that it is often necessary to try the spirits to know which is right. he saw that the test is love. if anyone loves god and his son, jesus, more than anything else in the world, and feels as much interest in his neighbor's welfare as in his own, that one can be sure that he is god's own child. and paul's letter to the ephesians tells of an armor that god has prepared for his people to wear that will enable them to overcome all false spirits. a sunday-school was soon started in the neighborhood and john was chosen to be the teacher of the infant class. at first he tried to plead his inability, but no one would listen to his excuses. he was glad afterward; for he learned to love the little ones very dearly. while he was meeting with the children sunday after sunday, he often thought of many of the hard places through which he had passed when he was a child and remembered that it was because he had not been warned that he had, one step at a time, gone down until he was in misery and on the verge of despair. so john sought to throw light on each one of these dangerous places and to point out the dangers so clearly that the children could plainly see and understand the wrong for themselves before they were beguiled and then bound by satan's chain of evil habits. in this way he helped the children to escape many a snare by which they might otherwise have been caught unawares. as the weeks sped by into months and john continued to unfold to the tender questioning minds the hidden mysteries of the bible, the adult class became interested; and it was not long until they decided that they needed him for their class more than the children did for theirs. while he was teaching the advanced bible class, his own understanding of spiritual things was greatly broadened and strengthened, and he became one on whom the entire congregation could lean and in whom they could confide. on one occasion when the lesson was in the epistle of james, john found by reading the fifth chapter of that book that jesus is just as able and ready to heal those who are sick as he was to relieve sufferers in days gone by and that any who are afflicted may pray expecting to be healed. he quickly applied the scripture to himself, and began to pray thus: "lord, thou seest how i am afflicted because of the sinful habits that i formed in my childhood. thou hast now taken from me the desire for these things, but the suffering in my back and lungs is so intense. lord jesus, heal me! make me well, and i will work for thee all the days of my life!" god answered that prayer and made him strong and well; then he could say with the psalmist, "bless the lord, o my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases." oh, the goodness of the lord to john! he felt that he never could cease praising him. the sad and lonely past, the days of his vain struggles to become the man that his earthly father had desired him to be, could never be compared to these days of happiness, the days when his desires to attain to true manhood were being realized. his heart was lonely no longer. he had a friend who was dearer than a mother could have been. and he felt that it is a wonderful privilege to be a member in christ's body, the church. chapter xi how john became a man as the news of john's wonderful conversion and of his work among the people spread throughout the country, it reached the ears of farmer z, in whose home john for the first time had attended family worship. the kind-hearted man had never forgotten the boy who had endeavored to make his escape to the barn rather than to come into the sitting-room at the worship hour, and he felt a desire to have a good heart-to-heart visit with john and to know just how he came to find the lord. john was, therefore, very much surprised one day to hear that this good gentleman, of whom he had in the past been so fearful, was desiring to see him. but he was glad; for he, too, had felt a great desire to talk with farmer z, the one who was first to open his heart to a ray of heavenly sunshine. "i have been hearing wonderful stories about you of late, my boy," the farmer said as john approached him; and as he took the young man's hand, his hearty handshake sent the blood tingling through john's veins. "come," the farmer continued, "sit down and tell me what it was that brought about the change. my boy, i understand that you are already getting to be quite a preacher. is it true?" "well, mr. z," john modestly replied, "i hardly know what answer to make, except that it was the work of my savior. i am like the poor beggar who was blind--'one thing i know, that, whereas i was blind, now i see.' the same jesus that healed the blind man has opened my spiritual eyes, making me to see and understand what never before seemed possible." then as john related some of his christian experiences, the farmer was made to wonder at the loving-kindness and the great mercy of his god. "john," he said, as he looked into the beaming eyes of the young man and noted the boyish face but manly form (for there was scarcely a trace of the early dissipation left), "i see that you have found the genuine article. god has worked a miracle in your life, and i guess he wants you to go and tell the world about it. how is it, my boy? do you feel like preaching the gospel?" and then it was that john, in his simple, earnest manner, for which he was so loved and admired, said: "mr. z, i feel as though some power within me is leading me about; and i long to tell everyone i meet of the jesus, who so loved the lost world that he laid down his life upon the cross. it seems i can think of little else." "that's it! that's it!" farmer z exclaimed; "god has put his holy spirit in your heart and has called you into his harvest-field to go forth and help spread the gospel. go, my boy; and may god speed your footsteps in ways crowned with blessings of success. i rejoice with you in your calling and shall pray for you. when trials come your way--and they will--remember that there is always a light in god's window for the faithful, a light that will guide them safely home at last. remember also that he has said, 'be thou faithful unto death.'" when the farmer bade john adieu, the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon and the crimson shades were gathering in the western sky. the landscape that stretched before him was beautiful. and while john was not unconscious of these beautiful surroundings, by his inner vision, which could not be limited by the vast prairie country with its varied possibilities, he looked upon another scene far beyond--he saw the heavenly city, the new jerusalem, once beheld by the sainted john; and he wondered what could be more grand and majestic. john had at last developed into a noble-hearted christian, whose greatest desire in life was to please his god, and to spend his time wholly in god's service; and one day a few years later he stood on the deck of a large atlantic steamer and waved farewell to his friends on the shore. he was bound for a far-distant land; god was sending him as a missionary to carry the gospel to the people of another country. his large brown eyes, sorrowful no longer, were dimmed by tears of farewell; but the tears only made them shine the brighter. they witnessed to the gladness of his heart; and to the eagerness within his bosom pushing him forward. john had at last become a man after god's own heart. a little mother to the others by mrs. l.t. meade author of "polly: a new-fashioned girl," "a sweet girl graduate," etc. new york grosset & dunlap publishers contents. chapter i. the poor innocent, ii. a little mother to the others, iii. the arrival of the aunt, iv. rub-a-dub, v. aunt is her name, vi. the poor dead un's, vii. but ann could not help letting out now and then, viii. the straw too much, ix. the punishment chamber, x. bow and arrow, xi. jog'aphy, xii. a baby's honor, xiii. birch rod, xiv. diana's revenge, xv. mother rodesia, xvi. uncle ben, xvii. greased lightning, xviii. the heart of the little mother, xix. "a pigmy i call him", xx. "let's pertend," said diana, xxi. pole star, xxii. the milkman, xxiii. fortune, xxiv. on the trail, xxv. found, xxvi. the little mother to the rescue, a little mother to the others chapter i. the poor innocent. the four children had rather peculiar names. the eldest girl was called iris, which, as everybody ought to know, means rainbow--indeed, there was an iris spoken of in the old greek legends, who was supposed to be hera's chief messenger, and whenever a rainbow appeared in the sky it was said that iris was bringing down a message from hera. the iris of this story was a very pretty, thoughtful little girl, aged ten years. her mother often talked to her about her name, and told her the story which was associated with it. the eldest boy was called apollo, which also is a greek name, and was supposed at one time to belong to the most beautiful boy in the world. the next girl was called diana, and the youngest boy's name was orion. when this story opens, iris was ten years old, apollo nine, diana six, and little orion five. they were like ordinary children in appearance, being neither particularly handsome nor particularly the reverse; but in their minds and ways, in their habits and tastes, they seemed to have inherited a savor of those far-off beings after whom their mother had called them. they were, in short, very unworldly children--that does not mean that they were specially religious--but they did not care for fine clothes, nor the ordinary amusements which ordinary children delight in. they loved flowers with a love which was almost a passion, and they also knew a great deal about the stars, and often coaxed their mother to allow them to sit up late at night to watch the different constellations; but above all these things they adored, with a great adoration, the entire animal kingdom. it so happened that the little delaneys spent the greater part of their time in a beautiful garden. i don't think, in all the course of my wanderings, i ever saw a garden quite to compare to that in which their early days were spent. even in the winter they lived the greater part of their time here, being hardy children and never catching cold. the house was a fine and beautiful building, having belonged to their family for several generations, but the children thought nothing at all of that in comparison with the garden. here, when possible, they even had their lessons; here they played all their wonderful and remarkable games; here they went through their brief sorrows, and tasted their sweetest joys. but i must hasten to describe the garden itself. in the first place, it was old-fashioned, having very high brick walls covered all over with fruit trees. these fruit trees had grown slowly, and were now in the perfection of their prime. never were such peaches to be seen, nor such apricots, nor such cherries, as ripened slowly on the red brick walls of the old garden. inside the walls almost all well-known english flowers flourished in lavish profusion. there was also fruit to be found here in quantities. never were such strawberries to be seen as could be gathered from those great strawberry beds. then the gooseberries with which the old bushes were laden; the currants, red, black, and white; the raspberries, had surely their match nowhere else on this earth. the walled-in garden contained quite five acres of ground, and was divided itself into three portions. in the middle was the flower garden proper. here there was a long, straight walk which led to an arbor at the bottom. the children were particularly fond of this arbor, for their father had made it for them with his own hands, and their mother had watched its growth. mrs. delaney was very delicate at the time, and as she looked on and saw the pretty arbor growing into shape, she used to lean on iris' arm and talk to her now and then in her soft, low voice about the flowers and the animals, and the happy life which the little people were leading. at these moments a look would often come into her mother's gentle eyes which caused iris' heart to beat fast, and made her tighten her clasp on the slender arm. then, when the arbor was quite finished, mr. delaney put little seats into it, a rustic chair for each child, which he or she could take in or out at pleasure. the chairs were carved in commemoration of each child's name. iris had the deep purple flowers which go by that name twined round and round the back of hers. apollo's chair was made memorable with his well-known lyre and bow, and these words were carved round it: "the golden lyre shall be my friend, the bent bow my delight, and in oracles will i foretell the dark future." diana's chair had a bow and quiver engraved on the back, while little orion's represented a giant with a girdle and a sword. the children were very proud of their chairs, and often talked of them to one another, and iris, who was the story-teller of the party, was never tired of telling the stories of the great originals after whom she and her brothers and sister were named. down the straight path which led to the pretty arbor were scotch roses, red and white. the smell of these roses in the summer was quite enough to ravish you. iris in particular used to sniff at them and sniff at them until she felt nearly intoxicated with delight. the central garden, which was mostly devoted to flowers, led through little, old-fashioned, somewhat narrow postern doors into the fruit gardens on either side. in these were the gooseberries. here were to be found the great beds of strawberries; here, by-and-by, ripened the plums and the many sorts of apples and pears; here, too, were the great glass houses where the grapes assumed their deep claret color and their wonderful bloom; and here also were some peculiar and marvelous foreign flowers, such as orchids, and many others. whenever the children were not in the house they were to be found in the garden, for, in addition to the abundance of fruit and vegetables, it also possessed some stately trees, which gave plenty of shade even when the sun was at its hottest. here iris would lie full length on her face and hands, and dream dreams to any extent. now and then also she would wake up with a start and tell marvelous stories to her brothers and sister. she told stories very well, and the others always listened solemnly and begged her to tell more, and questioned and argued, and tried to make the adventures she described come really into their own lives. iris was undoubtedly the most imaginative of all the little party. she was also the most gentle and the most thoughtful. she took most after her beautiful mother, and thought more than any of the others of the peculiar names after which they were all called. on a certain day in the first week of a particularly hot and lovely june, iris, who had been in the house for some time, came slowly out, swinging her large muslin hat on her arm. her face looked paler than usual, and somewhat thoughtful. "here you are at last, iris," called out diana, in her brisk voice, "and not a moment too soon. i have just found a poor innocent dead on the walk; you must come and look at it at once." on hearing these words, the gloom left iris' face as if by magic. "where is it?" she asked. "i hope you did not tread on it, diana." "no; but puff-ball did," answered diana. "don't blame him, please, iris; he is only a puppy and always up to mischief. he took the poor innocent in his mouth and shook it; but i think it was quite deaded before that." "then, if it is dead, it must be buried," said iris solemnly. "bring it into the arbor, and let us think what kind of funeral we will give it." "why not into the dead-house at once?" queried diana. "no; the arbor will do for the present." iris quickened her footsteps and walked down the straight path through the midst of the scotch roses. having reached the pretty little summer-house, she seated herself on her rustic chair and waited until diana arrived with the poor innocent. this was a somewhat unsightly object, being nothing more nor less than a dead earthworm which had been found on the walk, and which diana respected, as she did all live creatures, great or small. "put it down there," said iris; "we can have a funeral when the sun is not quite so hot." "i suppose it will have a private funeral," said apollo, who came into the summer-house at that moment. "it is nothing but a poor innocent, and not worth a great deal of trouble; and i do hope, iris," he added eagerly, "that you will not expect me to be present, for i have got some most important chemical experiments which i am anxious to go on with. i quite hope to succeed with my thermometer to-day, and, after all, as it is only a worm----" iris looked up at him with very solemn eyes. "_only_ a worm," she repeated. "is _that_ its fault, poor thing?" apollo seemed to feel the indignant glance of iris' brown eyes. he sat down submissively on his own chair. orion and diana dropped on their knees by iris' side. "i think," said iris slowly, "that we will give this poor innocent a simple funeral. the coffin must be made of dock leaves, and----" here she was suddenly interrupted--a shadow fell across the entrance door of the pretty summer-house. an elderly woman, with a thin face and lank, figure, looked in. "miss iris," she said, "mrs. delaney is awake and would be glad to see you." "mother!" cried iris eagerly. she turned at once to her sister and brothers. "the innocent must wait," she said. "put it in the dead-house with the other creatures. i will attend to the funeral in the evening or to-morrow. don't keep me now, children." "but i thought you had just come from mother," said apollo. "no. when i went to her she was asleep. don't keep me, please." the woman who had brought the message had already disappeared down the long straight walk. iris took to her heels and ran after her. "fortune," she said, looking into her face, "is mother any better?" "as to that, miss iris, it is more than i can tell you. please don't hold on to my hand, miss. in hot weather i hate children to cling to me." iris said nothing more, but she withdrew a little from fortune's side. fortune hurried her steps, and iris kept time with her. when they reached the house, the woman stopped and looked intently at the child. "you can go straight upstairs at once, miss, and into the room," she said. "you need not knock; my mistress is waiting for you." "don't you think, fortune, that mother is just a little _wee_ bit better?" asked iris again. there was an imploring note in her question this time. "she will tell you herself, my dear. now, be quick; don't keep her waiting. it is bad for people, when they are ill, to be kept waiting." "i won't keep her; i'll go to her this very instant," said iris. the old house was as beautiful as the garden to which it belonged. it had been built, a great part of it, centuries ago, and had, like many other houses of its date, been added to from time to time. queerly shaped rooms jutted out in many quarters; odd stairs climbed up in several directions; towers and turrets were added to the roof; passages, some narrow, some broad, connected the new buildings with the old. the whole made an incongruous and yet beautiful effect, the new rooms possessing the advantages and comforts which modern builders put into their houses, and the older part of the house the quaint devices and thick, wainscoted walls and deep, mullioned windows of the times which are gone by. iris ran quickly through the wide entrance hall and up the broad, white, stone stairs. these stairs were a special feature of delaney manor. they had been brought all the way from italy by a delaney nearly a hundred years ago, and were made of pure marble, and were very lovely to look at. when iris reached the first landing, she turned aside from the spacious modern apartments and, opening a green baize door, ran down a narrow passage. at the end of the passage she turned to the left and went down another passage, and then wended her way up some narrow stairs, which curled round and round as if they were going up a tower. this, as a matter of fact, was the case. presently iris pushed aside a curtain, and found herself in an octagon room nearly at the top of a somewhat high, but squarely built, tower. this room, which was large and airy, was wainscoted with oak; there was a thick turkey carpet on the floor, and the many windows were flung wide open, so that the summer breeze, coming in fresh and sweet from this great height, made the whole lovely room as fresh and cheery and full of sweet perfume as if its solitary inmate were really in the open air. iris, however, had often been in the room before, and had no time or thought now to give to its appearance. her eyes darted to the sofa on which her young mother lay. mrs. delaney was half-sitting up, and looked almost too young to be the mother of a child as big as iris. she had one of the most beautiful faces god ever gave to anybody. it was not so much that her features were perfect, but they were full of light, full of soul, and such a very loving expression beamed in her eyes that no man, woman, or child ever looked at her without feeling the best in their natures coming immediately to the surface. as to little iris, her feelings for her mother were quite beyond any words to express. she ran up to her now and knelt by her side. "kiss me, iris," said mrs. delaney. iris put up her soft, rosebud lips; they met the equally soft lips of the mother. "you are much better, mummy; are you not?" said the child, in an eager, half-passionate whisper. "i have had a long sleep, darling, and i am rested," said mrs. delaney. "i told fortune to call you. father is away for the day. i thought we could have half an hour uninterrupted." "how beautiful, mother! it is the most delightful thing in all the world to be alone with you, mummy." "well, bring your little chair and sit near me, iris. fortune will bring in tea in a moment, and you can pour it out. you shall have tea with me, if you wish it, darling." iris gave a sigh of rapture; she was too happy almost for words. this was almost invariably the case when she found herself in her mother's presence. when with her mother she was quiet and seldom spoke a great deal. in the garden with the other children iris was the one who chattered most, but with her mother her words were always few. she felt herself then to be more or less in a listening attitude. she listened for the words which dropped from those gentle lips; she was always on the lookout for the love-light which filled the soft brown eyes. at that moment the old servant, fortune, brought in the tea on a pretty tray and laid it on a small table near mrs. delaney. then iris got up, and with an important air poured it out and brought a cup, nicely prepared, to her mother. mrs. delaney sipped her tea and looked from time to time at her little daughter. when she did so, iris devoured her with her anxious eyes. "no," she said to herself, "mother does not look ill--not even _very_ tired. she is not like anybody else, and that is why--why she wears that wonderful, almost holy expression. sometimes i wish she did not, but i would not change her, not for all the world." iris' heart grew quiet. her cup of bliss was quite full. she scarcely touched her tea; she was too happy even to eat. "have you had enough tea, mother?" she asked presently. "yes, darling. please push the tea-table a little aside, and then come up very near to me. i want to hold your dear little hand in mine; i can't talk much." "but you are better--you are surely better, mother?" "in one sense, yes, iris." iris moved the tea-table very deftly aside, and then, drawing up her small chair, slipped her hand inside her mother's. "i have made up my mind to tell you, iris," said the mother. she looked at the little girl for a full minute, and then began to talk in a low, clear voice. "i am the mother of four children. i don't think there are any other children like you four in the wide world. i have thought a great deal about you, and while i have been ill have prayed to god to keep you and to help me, and now, iris, now that i have got to go away--" "to go away, mother?" interrupted iris, turning very pale. "yes, dearest. don't be troubled, darling; i can make it all seem quite happy to you. but now, when i see it must be done, that i must undertake this very long journey, i want to put things perfectly straight between you and me, my little daughter." "things have been always straight between us, mother," said iris. "i don't quite understand." "do you remember the time when i went to australia?" "are you going to australia again?" asked iris. "you were a whole year away then. it was a very long time, and sometimes, mother, sometimes fortune was a little cross, and miss stevenson never seemed to suit apollo. i thought i would tell you about that." "but fortune means well, dearest. she has your true interest at heart, and i think matters will be differently arranged, as far as miss stevenson is concerned, in the future. it is not about her or fortune i want to speak now." "and you are going back to australia again?" "i am going quite as far as australia; but we need not talk of the distance just now. i have not time for many words, nor very much strength to speak. you know, iris, the meaning of your names, don't you?" "of course," answered iris; "and, mother, i have often talked to the others about our names. i have told apollo how beautiful he must try to be, not only in his face, but in his mind, mother, and how brave and how clever. i have told him that he must try to have a beautiful soul; and orion must be very brave and strong, and diana must be bright and sparkling and noble. yes, mother; we all know about our names." "i am glad of that," said mrs. delaney. "i gave you the names for a purpose. i wanted you to have names with meaning to them. i wanted you to try to live up to them. now, iris, that i am really going away, i am afraid you children will find a great many things altered. you have hitherto lived a very sheltered life; you have just had the dear old garden and the run of the house, and you have seen your father or me every day. but afterwards, when i have gone, you will doubtless have to go into the world; and, my darling, my darling, the cold world does not always understand the meaning of names like yours, the meaning of strength and beauty and nobleness, and of bright, sparkling, and high ideas. in short, my little girl, if you four children are to be worthy of your names and to fulfill the dreams, the longings, the _hopes_ i have centered round you, there is nothing whatever for you to do but to begin to fight your battles." iris was silent. she had very earnest eyes, something like her mother's in expression. they were fixed now on mrs. delaney's face. "i will not explain exactly what i mean," said the mother, giving the little hand a loving squeeze, "only to assure you, iris, that, as the trial comes, strength will be given to you to meet it. please understand, my darling, that from first to last, to the end of life, it is all a fight. 'the road winds uphill all the way.' if you will remember that you will not think things half as hard, and you will be brave and strong, and, like the rainbow, you will cheer people even in the darkest hours. but, iris, i want you to promise me one thing--i want you, my little girl, to be a mother to the others." "a mother to the others?" said iris, half aloud. she paused and did not speak at all for a moment, her imagination was very busy. she thought of all the creatures to whom she was already a mother, not only her own dear pets--the mice in their cages, the silk-worms, the three dogs, the stray cat, the pet persian cat, the green frogs, the poor innocents, as the children called worms--but in addition to these, all creatures that suffered in the animal kingdom, all flowers that were about to fade, all sad things that seemed to need care and comfort. but up to the present she had never thought of the other children except as her equals. apollo was only a year younger than herself, and in some ways braver and stouter and more fearless; and orion and diana were something like their names--very bright and even fierce at times. she, after all, was the gentlest of the party, and she was very young--not more than ten years of age. how could she possibly be a mother to the others? she looked at mrs. delaney, and her mother gazed solemnly at her, waiting for her to speak. "after all," thought iris, "to satisfy the longing in mother's eyes is the first thing of all. i will promise, cost what it may." "yes," she said; then softly, "i will, mother; i will be a mother to the others." "kiss me, iris." the little girl threw her arms round her mother's neck; their lips met in a long embrace. "darling, you understand? i am satisfied with your promise, and i am tired." "must i go away, mother? may not i stay very quietly with you? can you not sleep if i am in the room?" "i would rather you left me now. i can sleep better when no one is by. ring the bell for fortune as you go. she will come and make me comfortable. yes; i am very tired." "one moment first, mummy--you have not told me yet when you are going on the journey." "the day is not quite fixed, iris, although it is--yes, it is nearly so." "and you have not said _where_ you are going, mother. i should like to tell the others." but mrs. delaney had closed her eyes, and did not make any reply. chapter ii. a little mother to the others. that night the children's young mother went on her journey. the summons for her to go came unexpectedly, as it often does in the end. she had not even time to say good-by to the children, nor to her husband, only just a brief moment to look, with startled eyes, at the wonderful face of the angel who had come to fetch her, and then with a smile of bliss to let him clasp her in his arms and feel his strong wings round her, and then she was away, beyond the lovely house and the beautiful garden, and the children sleeping quietly in their beds, and the husband who was slumbering by her side--beyond the tall trees and the peaks of the highest mountains, beyond the stars themselves, until finally she entered the portals of a home that is everlasting, and found herself in a land where the flowers do not fade. in the morning the children were told that their mother was dead. they all cried, and everyone thought it dreadfully sad, except iris, who knew better. it was fortune who brought in the news to the children--they had just gone into the day-nursery at the time. fortune was a stern woman, somewhat over fifty years of age. she was american by birth, and had lived with mrs. delaney since iris was born. mrs. delaney was also american, which may have accounted for some of her bright fancies, and quiet, yet sweet and quick ways. fortune was very fond of the children after her fashion, which was, however, as a rule, somewhat severe and exacting. but to-day, in her bitter grief, she sank down on the nearest chair, and allowed them all to crowd round her, and cried bitterly, and took little orion in her arms and kissed him and petted him, and begged of each child to forgive her for ever having been cross or disagreeable, and promised, as well and as heartily as she could, never to transgress again in that manner as long as she lived. while the others were sobbing and crying round fortune, iris stood silent. "where is father?" she said at last, in a very quiet but determined voice. fortune glanced round at the grave little girl in some wonder. "miss iris," she said, "you are not even crying." "what do tears matter?" answered iris. "please, fortune, where is father? i should like to go to him." "he is locked up in his study, darling, and could not possibly see you nor anyone else. he is quite stunned, master is, and no wonder. you cannot go to him at present, miss iris." iris did not say another word, but she looked more grave and more thoughtful than ever. after a long pause she sat down in her own little chair near the open window. it was a very lovely day, just as beautiful as the one which had preceded it. as the child sat by the window, and the soft, sweet breeze fanned her pale cheeks, an indescribable longing came over her. no one was particularly noticing her. she crept softly out of the room, ran down some passages, and at last found herself once more mounting the turret stairs to the tower. a moment later she had entered the octagon room where she and her mother had talked together on the previous day. the windows were wide open, the pretty room looked just as usual, but mother's sofa was vacant. iris went straight over to one of the open windows, knelt down, and put her little elbows on the ledge. "yes, mother," she said, speaking aloud and looking full up at the bright blue sky, "i promise you. i promised you yesterday, but i make a fresh, very, _very_ solemn promise to-day. yes, i will be a mother to the others; i will try never to think of myself; i will remember, mother darling, exactly what you want me to do. i will try to be beautiful, to be a little messenger of the gods, as you sometimes said i might be, and to be like the rainbow, full of hope. and i will try to help apollo to be the most beautiful and the bravest boy in the world; and, mother, i will do my best to help diana to be strong and bright and full of courage; and i will do what i can for orion--he must be grand like a giant, so that he may live up to the wonderful name you have given him. mother, it will be very hard, but i promise, i promise with all my might, to do everything you want me to do. i will act just as if you were there and could see, mother, and i will _always_ remember that it is beautiful for you to have gone away, for while you were here you had so much pain and so much illness. i won't fret, mother; no, i won't fret--i promise to be a mother to the others, and there won't be any time to fret." no tears came to iris' bright eyes, but her little thin face grew paler and paler. presently she left the window and went slowly downstairs again. fortune had now left the other children to themselves. they were scattered about the bright day nursery, looking miserable, though they could scarcely tell why. "i don't believe a bit that mother is never coming back," said orion, in a stout, determined voice. he was a very handsome little fellow, strongly made--he had great big black eyes like his father's. he was standing now with his noah's ark in his hand. "it is unfeeling of you to want to play with your noah's ark to-day, orion," said apollo. "now, do you think i would go into my laboratory and try to make a thermometer?" "well, at least," said diana, speaking with a sort of jerk, and her small face turning crimson, "whatever happens, the animals must be fed." "of course they must, diana," said iris, coming forward, "and, apollo, there is not the least harm in our going into the garden, and i don't think there is any harm in orion playing with his noah's ark. come, children; come with me. we will feed all the pets and then go into the arbor, and, if you like, i will tell you stories." "what sort of stories?" asked diana, in quite a cheerful voice. she trotted up to her sister, and gave her her hand as she spoke. she also was a finely made child, not unlike her name. "i 'gree with orion," she said. "i'm quite certain sure that mother is coming back 'fore long. fortune did talk nonsense. she said, iris--do you know what she said?--she said that in the middle of the night, just when it was black dark, you know, a white angel came into the room and took mother in his arms and flew up to the sky with her. you don't believe that; do you, iris?" "yes, i do, diana," answered iris. "but i will tell you more about it in the arbor. come, apollo; mother would not like us to stay in the house just because she has gone away to the angels. mother never was the least little bit selfish. come into the garden." the three forlorn-looking little children were much comforted by iris' brave words. they dried their eyes, and diana ran into the night nursery to fetch their hats. they then ran downstairs without anyone specially noticing them, passed through the great entrance hall, and out on to the wide gravel sweep, which led by a side walk into the lovely garden. iris held diana by one hand and orion by the other, and apollo ran on in front. "now, then," said iris, when they had reached the garden, "we must begin by feeding all the pets." "there _are_ an awful lot of them," said diana, in quite a cheerful voice; "and don't you remember, iris, the poor innocent was not buried yesterday?" iris could not help giving a little shiver. "no more it was," she said, in a low tone. "it must have quite a private funeral. please get some dock leaves, apollo." "yes," answered apollo. he ran off, returning with a bunch in a moment or two. "take them into the dead-house," said iris, "and sew them up and put the poor innocent inside, and then take your spade and dig a hole in the cemetery. we can't have a public funeral. i--i don't feel up to it," she added, her lips trembling for the first time. diana nestled close up to iris. "you need not look sad, iris," she said; "there's no cause, is there? i don't believe that story 'bout mother, and if it is not true there'll be nothing wrong in my laughing, will there?" "you may laugh if you like, darling," answered iris. they all entered the arbor now, and iris seated herself in the little chair which mother had seen father make, and round which the beautiful flowers of the iris had been carved. "laugh, di," she said again; "i know mother won't mind." for a full moment diana stood silent, staring at her sister; then her big black eyes, which had been full of the deepest gloom, brightened. a butterfly passed the entrance to the summer-house, and diana flew after it, chasing it with a loud shout and a gay, hearty fit of laughter. apollo came back with the stray cat, whose name was "trust," in his arms. "she looks miserable, poor thing," he said. "i don't believe she has had anything to eat to-day. she must have her breakfast, as usual; must she not, iris?" "yes; we must feed all the pets," said iris, making a great effort to brighten up. "let us go regularly to work, all of us. apollo, will you take the birds? you may as well clean out their cages--they are sure to want it. i will collect flies for the green frogs, and orion, you may pick mulberry leaves for the silk-worms." for the next hour the children were busily employed. no one missed them in the house. the house was full of shade, but the garden, although mother had left it forever, was quite bright; the sun shone as brilliantly as it did every other day; a great many fresh flowers had come out; there was a very sweet smell from the opening roses, and in especial the scotch roses, white and red, made a waft of delicious perfume as the children ran up and down. "i'm awfully hungry," said diana suddenly. "but we won't go into the house for lunch to-day," said iris. "let us have a fruit lunch--i think mother would like us to have a fruit lunch just for to-day. please, apollo, go into the other garden and pick some of the ripest strawberries. there were a great many ripe yesterday, and there are sure to be more to-day. bring a big leaf full, and we can eat them in the summer-house." apollo ran off at once. he brought back a good large leaf of strawberries, and iris divided them into four portions. diana and orion, seated on their little chairs, ate theirs with much gusto, and just as happily as if mother had not gone away; but as to iris, notwithstanding her brave words and her determination not to think of herself, the strawberries tasted like wood in her mouth. there was also a great lump in her throat, and a feeling of depression was making itself felt more and more, moment by moment. apollo sat down beside his sister, and glanced from time to time into her face. "i cannot think why i don't _really_ care for the strawberries to-day," he said suddenly. "i--" his lips trembled. "iris," he said, gazing harder than ever at his sister, "you have got such a queer look on your face. "don't notice it, please, apollo," answered iris. "i wish you would cry," said the boy. "when fortune came in and told us the--the dreadful news, we all cried and we kissed her, and she cried and she said she was sorry she had ever been unkind to us; but i remember, iris, you did not shed one tear, and you--you always seemed to love mother the best of us all." "and i love her still the best," said iris, in a soft voice; "but, apollo, i have something else to do." and then she added, lowering her tones, "you know, i can't be sorry about mother herself. i can only be glad about her." "glad about mother! glad that she is dead!" said the boy. "oh, i don't think about that part," said iris. "she is not dead--not really. she is only away up above the stars and the blue sky, and she will never have any more suffering, and she will always be as happy as happy can be, and sometime or other, apollo, i think she will be able to come back; and, if she can, i am sure she will. yes, i am quite sure she will." "if she comes back we shall see her," said apollo; "but she can't come back, iris. dead people can't come back." "oh, please, don't call her that," said iris, with a note of great pain in her voice. "but fortune says that mother is dead, just like anybody else, and in a few days she will be put into the ground. oh, iris! i am frightened when i think of it. mother was so lovely, and to think of their putting her into the ground in a box just like--like we put the poor innocent and the other creatures, and if that is the case she can never come back--never, never, never!" the little boy buried his black head of curling hair on his sister's knee, and gave vent to a great burst of tears. "but it is not true, apollo," said iris. "i mean in one way it is not true--i can't explain it, but i know. let us forget all the dark, dreadful part--let us think of her, the real mother, the mother that looked at us out of her beautiful eyes; she is not dead, she has only gone away, and she wants us all to be good, so that we may join her some day. she called me after the rainbow, and after the messenger of the gods; and you, apollo, after the bravest and the most beautiful boy that was supposed ever to live; and diana, too, was called after a great greek goddess; and orion after the most lovely star in all the world. oh, surely we four little children ought to try to be great, and good, and brave, if we are ever to meet our mother again!" "well, it is all very puzzling," said apollo, "and i can't understand things the way you can, iris, and i have an awful ache in my throat. i am hungry, and yet i am not hungry. i love strawberries as a rule, but i hate them to-day. if only father would come and talk to us it would not be quite so bad; but fortune said we were not to go to him, that he was shut up in his study, and that he was very unhappy. she said that he felt it all dreadfully about mother." "iris," said diana's voice at that moment, "we are not surely to have any lessons to-day?" she had come to the door of the summer-house, and was looking in. "lessons?" said iris. she put up her hand to her forehead in a dazed manner. "yes; do be quick and say. miss stevenson is coming down the garden path. i do think that on the very day when mother has gone away it would be hard if we were to have lessons; and if what you say is true, iris, and mother is happy, why, it does not seem fair; does it? we ought to have a whole holiday to-day, ought we not? just as if it was a birthday, you know." "i think so too," said orion, with a shout. "i don't think we need be bothered with old stevie to-day." he raised his voice, and ran to meet her. "you are not to give us any lessons to-day, stevie," he said. "it is a holiday, a great, _big_ holiday--it is a sort of birthday. we were all eating strawberries, for iris said we were not to go back to the house." "oh, my poor, dear, little boy!" said miss stevenson. she was a kind-hearted, although old-fashioned, governess. she bent down now and kissed orion, and tried to take one of his very dirty little hands in hers. "my dear little children--" she began again. "please, miss stevenson, don't pity us," said iris. miss stevenson started. "my dear iris," she said, "you don't realize what it means." "i do," answered iris stoutly. "and i know what iris means," said apollo; "i know quite well. i feel miserable; i have got a pain in my throat, and i cannot eat my strawberries; but iris says we ought not fret, for mother is much better off." "then, if mother is much better off, we ought to have a holiday, same as if it was a birthday; ought we not, miss stevenson?" said diana, puckering up her face and looking, with her keen black eyes, full at her governess. "you poor little innocents, what is to become of you all?" said miss stevenson. she entered the summer-house as she spoke, sank down on the nearest chair, and burst into tears. the four children surrounded her. they none of them felt inclined to cry at that moment. orion, after staring at her for some little time, gave her a sharp little tap on her arm. "what are you crying about?" he said. "don't you think you are rather stupid?" "you poor innocents!" said miss stevenson. "please don't call us that," said diana; "that is our name for the worms. worms can't see, you know, and they are not to blame for being only worms, and sometimes they get trodden on; and iris thought we might call them innocents, and we have always done so since she gave us leave; but we would rather not be called by _quite_ the same name." miss stevenson hastily dried her eyes. "you certainly are the most extraordinary little creatures," she said. "don't you feel anything?" "it would be horrid selfish to be sorry," said diana "iris says that mother is awfully happy now." miss stevenson stared at the children as if they were bewitched. "and we are _not_ to have lessons, stevie," said orion; "that's settled, isn't it?" "oh, my dear little child! i was not thinking of your lessons. it is your terrible--your terrible loss that fills my mind; that and your want of understanding. iris, you are ten years old; i am surprised at you." iris stood, looking very grave and silent, a step or two away. "please, miss stevenson," she said, after a long pause, "don't try to understand us, for i am afraid it would be of no use. mother talked to me yesterday, and i know quite what to do. mother asked me to be a mother to the others, so i have no time to cry, nor to think of myself at all. if you will give us a holiday to-day, will you please go away and let us stay together, for i think i can manage the others if i am all alone with them?" miss stevenson rose hastily. "i thought you would all have been overwhelmed," she said. "i thought if ever children loved their mother you four did. oh! how stunned i feel! yes, i will certainly go--i don't profess to understand any of you." chapter iii. the arrival of the aunt. about a week after the events related in the last chapter, on a certain lovely day in june, a hired fly might have been seen ascending the steep avenue to delaney manor. the fly had only one occupant--a round, roly-poly sort of little woman. she was dressed in deep mourning, and the windows of the fly being wide open, she constantly poked her head out, now to the right and now to the left, to look anxiously and excitedly around her. after gazing at the magnificent view, had anyone been there to look, they might have observed her shaking her head with great solemnity. she had round black eyes, and a rather dark-complexioned face, with a good deal of color in her cheeks. she was stoutly built, but the expression on her countenance was undoubtedly cheerful. nothing signified gloom about her except her heavy mourning. her eyes, although shrewd and full of common sense, were also kindly; her lips were very firm; there was a matter-of-fact expression about her whole appearance. "now, why does david waste all those acres of splendid land?" she muttered angrily to herself. "the whole place, as far as i can see, seems to be laid out in grass. i know perfectly well that this is an agricultural country, and yet, when produce is so precious, what do i see but a lawn here and another lawn there, and not even cows feeding on them. oh, yes! of course there is the park! the park is right enough, and no one wants to interfere with that. but why should all the land in that direction, and in that direction, and in that direction"--here she put out her head again and looked frantically about her--"why should all that land be devoted to mere ornament? it seems nothing more nor less than a tempting of providence." here she suddenly raised her voice. "driver," she said, "have the goodness to poke up your horse, and to go a little faster. i happen to be in a hurry." "'orse won't do it, ma'am," was the response. "steep 'ill this. can't go no faster." the little lady gave an indignant snort, and retired once more into the depths of the gloomy fly. presently a bend in the avenue brought the old manor house into view. once more she thrust out her head and examined it critically. "there it stands," she said to herself. "i was very happy at the manor as a girl. i wonder if the old garden still exists. twenty to one it has been done away with; there's no saying. evangeline had such dreadfully queer ideas. yes, there stands the house, and i do hope some remnants of the garden are in existence; but the thing above all others to consider now is, what kind these children are. poor david, he was quite mad about evangeline--not that i ever pretended to understand her. she was an american, and i hate the americans; yes, i cordially hate them. poor david, however, was devoted--oh, it was melancholy, melancholy! i suppose it was on account of evangeline that all this splendid land has been allowed to lie fallow--not even cows, not even a stray sheep to eat all that magnificent grass. wherever i turn i see flower-beds--flower-beds sloping away to east and west, as far almost as the eye can travel. and so there are four children. i have no doubt they are as queer, and old-fashioned, and untrained as possible. it would be like their mother to bring them up in that sort of style. well, at least i am not the one to shirk my duty, and i certainly see it now staring me in the face. i am the wife of a hard-working vicar; i work hard myself, and i have five children of my own; but never mind, i am prepared to do my best for those poor deserted orphans. ah, and here we are at last! that is a comfort." the rickety old fly drew up with a jerk opposite the big front entrance, and mrs. dolman got out. she was short in stature, but her business-like manner and attitude were unmistakable. as soon as ever she set foot on the ground she turned to the man. "put the portmanteau down on the steps," she said. "you need not wait. what is your fare?" the fly-driver named a price, which she immediately disputed. "nonsense!" she said. "eight shillings for driving me from the station here? why, it is only five miles." "it is nearly seven, ma'am, and all uphill. i really cannot do it for a penny less." "then you are an impostor. i shall complain of you." at this moment one of the stately footmen threw open the hall door and stared at mrs. dolman. "take my portmanteau in immediately, if you please," she said, "and pray tell me if your master is at home." "yes, madam," was the grave reply. "but mr. delaney is not seeing company at present." "he will see me," said mrs. dolman. "have the goodness to tell him that his sister has arrived, and please also see that my luggage is taken to my room--and oh, i say, wait one moment. what is the fare from beaminster to delaney manor?" the grave-looking footman and the somewhat surly driver of the cab exchanged a quick glance. immediately afterwards the footman named eight shillings in a voice of authority. "preposterous!" said mrs. dolman, "but i suppose i must pay it, or, rather, you can pay it for me; i'll settle with you afterwards." "am i to acquaint my master that you have come, madam?" "no; on second thoughts i should prefer to announce myself. where did you say mr. delaney was?" "in his private study." "i know that room well. see that my luggage is taken to a bedroom, and pay the driver." mrs. dolman entered the old house briskly. it felt quiet, remarkably quiet, seeing that there was a large staff of servants and four vigorous, healthy children to occupy it. "poor little orphans, i suppose they are dreadfully overcome," thought the good lady to herself. "well, i am glad i have appeared on the scene. poor david is just the sort of man who would forget everybody else when he is in a state of grief. of course i know he was passionately attached to evangeline, and she certainly was a charming, although _quite_ incapable, creature. i suppose she was what would be termed 'a man's woman.' now, i have never any patience with them, and when i think of those acres of land and--but, dear me! sometimes a matter-of-fact, plain body like myself is useful in an emergency. the emergency has arrived with a vengeance, and i am determined to take the fortress by storm." the little lady trotted down one or two passages, then turned abruptly to her left, and knocked at a closed door. a voice said, "come in." she opened the door and entered. a man was standing with his back to her in the deep embrasure of a mullioned window. his hands were clasped behind his back; he was looking fixedly out. the window was wide open. "there, david, there! i knew you would take it hard; but have the goodness to turn round and speak to me," said mrs. dolman. when he heard these unexpected words, the master of delaney manor turned with a visible start. "my dear jane, what have you come for?" he exclaimed. he advanced to meet his sister, dismay evident on every line of his face. "i knew you would not welcome me, david. oh, no prevarications! if you please. it is awful to think how many lies people tell in the cause of politeness. when i undertook this wearisome journey from the north of england, i knew i should not be welcome, but all the same i came; and, david, when i have had a little talk with you, and when you have unburdened your heart to me, you will feel your sorrow less." "i would rather not touch on that subject," said mr. delaney. he offered his sister a chair very quietly, and took another himself. father, as iris used to say, was not the least like mother. mother had the gentlest, the sweetest, the most angelic face in the world; she never spoke loudly, and she seldom laughed; her voice was low and never was heard to rise to an angry tone. her smile was like the sweetest sunshine, and wherever she appeared she brought an atmosphere of peace with her. but father, on the other hand, although an excellent and loving parent, was, when in good spirits, given to hearty laughter--given to loud, eager words, to strong exercise, both physical and mental. he was, as a rule, a very active man, seldom staying still in one place, but bustling here, there, and everywhere. he was fond of his children, and petted them a good deal; but the one whom he really worshiped was his gentle and loving wife. she led him, although he did not know it, by silken cords. she always knew exactly how to manage him, how to bring out his fine points. she never rubbed him the wrong way. he had a temper, and he knew it; but in his wife's presence it had never been exasperated. his sister, however, managed to set it on edge with the very first words she uttered. "of course, i know you mean well, jane," he said, "and i ought to be obliged to you for taking all this trouble. now that you have come, you are welcome; but i must ask you to understand immediately that i will not have the subject of my"--he hesitated, and his under lip shook for a moment--"the subject of my trouble alluded to. and i will also add that i should have preferred your writing to me beforehand. this taking a man by storm is, you know of old, my dear jane--not agreeable to me." "precisely, david. i did not write, for the simple reason that i thought it likely you would have asked me not to come; and as it was necessary for me to appear on the scene, i determined, on this occasion, to take, as you express it, delaney manor by storm." "very well, jane; as you have done it you have done it, and there is no more to be said." mr. delaney rose from his seat as he spoke. "would you not like to go to your room, and wash and change your dress?" he asked. "i cannot change my dress, for i have only brought one. i will go to my room presently. what hour do you dine?" "at half-past eight." "i have a few minutes still to talk to you, and i will not lose the opportunity. it will be necessary for me to return home the day after to-morrow." an expression of relief swept over mr. delaney's countenance. "i shall, therefore," continued mrs. dolman, taking no notice of this look, which she plainly saw, "have but little time at my disposal, and there is a great deal to be done. but before i proceed to anything else, may i ask you a question? how could you allow all that splendid land to lie waste?" "what land, jane? what do you mean?" "those acres of grass outside the house." "are you alluding to the lawns?" "i don't know what name you choose to call all that grass, but i think it is a positive tempting of providence to allow so much land to lie fallow. why, you might grow potatoes or barley or oats, and make pounds and pounds a year. i know of old what the land round delaney manor can produce." "as the land happens to belong to me, perhaps i may be allowed to arrange it as pleases myself," said mr. delaney, in a haughty tone. his sister favored him with a long, reflective gaze. "he is just as obstinate as ever," she muttered to herself. "with that cleft in his chin, what else can be expected? there is no use bothering him on that point at present, and, as he won't allow me to talk of poor evangeline,--who had, poor soul, as many faults as i ever saw packed into a human being,--there is nothing whatever for me to do but to look up those children." mrs. dolman rose from her seat as this thought came to her. "i am tired," she said. "from yorkshire to delaney manor is a long journey, as perhaps you do _not_ remember, david; so i will seek my room after first having informed you what the object of my visit is." "i should be interested to know that, jane," he answered, in a somewhat softened tone. "well, seeing i am the only sister you have--" "but we never did pull well together," interrupted he. "we used to play in the same garden," she answered, and for the first time a really soft and affectionate look came into her face. "i hope to goodness, david, that the garden is not altered." "it is much the same as always, jane. the children occupy it a good deal." "i am coming to the subject of the children. of course, now that things are so much changed--" "i would rather not go into that," said mr. delaney. "dear me, david, how touchy you are! why will you not accept a patent fact? i have no wish to hurt your feelings, but i really must speak out plain common sense. i always was noted for my common sense, was i not? i don't believe, in the length and breadth of england, you will find better behaved children than my five. i have brought them up on a plan of my own, and now that i come here at great trouble, and i may also add expense, to try and help you in your--oh, of course, i must not say it--to try and help you when you want help, you fight shy of my slightest word. well, the fact is this: i want you to take my advice, and to shut up delaney manor, or, better still, to let it well for the next two or three years, and go abroad yourself, letting me have the children!" "my dear jane!" "oh, i am your dear jane now--now that you think i can help you. well, david, i mean it, and what is more, the matter must be arranged. i must take the children back with me the day after to-morrow. now i will go to my bedroom, as i am dead tired. perhaps you will ring the bell and ask a servant to take me there." mr. delaney moved slowly across the room. he rang the electric bell, and a moment later the footman appeared in answer to his summons. he gave certain directions, and mrs. dolman left the room. the moment he found himself alone, the father of the children sank down on the nearest chair, put his hands on the table, pressed his face down on them, and uttered a bitter groan. chapter iv. rub-a-dub. "what am i to do, evangeline?" said mr. delaney, a few moments later. he stood up as he spoke, shook himself, and gazed straight before him. it was exactly as if he were really speaking to the children's mother. then again he buried his face in his big hands, and his strong frame shook. after a moment's pause he took up a photograph which stood near, and looked earnestly at the beautiful pictured face. the eyes, so full of truth and tenderness, seemed to answer him back. he started abruptly to his feet. "you always directed me, evangeline," he said. "god only knows what i am to do now that you have left me. i am in some matters as weak as a reed, great, blustering fellow though i appear. and now that jane has come--she always did bully me--now that she has come and wants to take matters into her own hands, oh, evangeline! what is to be done? the fact is, i am not fit to manage this great house, nor the children, without you. the children are not like others; they will not stand the treatment which ordinary children receive. oh, why has jane, of all people, come? what am i to do?" he paced rapidly up and down his big study; clenching his hands at times, at times making use of a strong exclamation. the butler knocked at the door. "dinner will be served in half an hour, sir," he said. "am i to lay for two?" "yes, johnson. mrs. dolman, my sister, has arrived, and will dine with me. have places laid for two." the man withdrew, and mr. delaney, stepping out through the open window, looked across the lawns which his sister had so strongly disapproved of. "jane was always the one to poke her finger into every pie," he said half aloud. "certainly this place is distasteful to me now, and there is--upon my word, there is something in her suggestion. but to deliver over those four children to her, and to take them away from the garden, and the house, and the memory of their mother--oh! it cannot be thought of for a moment; and yet, to shift the responsibility while my heart is so sore would be an untold relief." a little voice in the distance was heard shouting eagerly, and a small child, very dirty about the hands and face, came trotting up to mr. delaney. it was diana. she was sobbing as well as shouting, and was holding something tenderly wrapped up in her pocket handkerchief. "what is the matter with you, di?" said her father. he lifted her into his arms. "why, little woman, what can be the matter? and what have you got in your handkerchief?" "it's rub-a-dub, and he is deaded," answered diana. she unfolded the handkerchief carefully and slowly, and showed her father a small piebald mouse, quite dead, and with a shriveled appearance. "he is as dead as he can be," repeated diana. "look at him. his little claws are blue, and oh! his little nose, and he cannot see; he is stone dead, father." "well, you shall go into beaminster to-morrow and buy another mouse," said mr. delaney. diana gazed at him with grave, wondering black eyes. "that would not be rub-a-dub," she said; then she buried her little, fat face on his shoulder and sobs shook her frame. "evangeline would have known exactly what to say to the child," muttered the father, in a fit of despair. "come along, little one," he said. "what can't be cured must be endured, you know. now, take my hand and i'll race you into the house." the child gave a wan little smile; but the thought of the mouse lay heavy against her heart. "may i go back to the garden first?" she said. "i want to put rub-a-dub into the dead-house." "the dead-house, diana? what do you mean?" "it is the house where we keep the poor innocents, and all the other creatures what get deaded," said diana. "we keep them there until iris has settled whether they are to have a pwivate or a public funeral. iris does not know yet about rub-a-dub. he was quite well this morning. i don't know what he could have died of. perhaps, father, if you look at him you will be able to tell me." "well, let me have a peep," said the man, his mustache twitching as he spoke. diana once again unfolded her small handkerchief, in the center of which lay the much shriveled-up mouse. "the _darling_!" said the little girl tenderly. "i loved rub-a-dub so much; i love him still. i do hope iris will think him 'portant enough for a public funeral." "look here," said mr. delaney, interested in spite of himself, and forgetting all about the dinner which would be ready in a few minutes; "i'll come right along with you to the dead-house; but i did not know, di, that you kept an awful place of that sort in the garden." "tisn't awful," said diana. "we has to keep a dead-house when we find dead things. we keep all the dead 'uns we find there. there aren't as many as usual to-day--only a couple of butterflies and two or three beetles, and a poor crushed spider. and oh! i forgot the toad that we found this morning. it was awful hurt and apollo had to kill it; he had to stamp on it and kill it; and he did not like it a bit. iris can't kill things, nor can i, nor can orion, so we always get apollo to kill the things that are half dead--to put them out of their misery, you know, father." "you seem to be a very wise little girl; but i am sure this cannot be at all wholesome work," said the father, looking more bewildered and puzzled than ever. diana gazed gravely up at him. she did not know anything about the work being wholesome or the reverse. the dead creatures had to be properly treated, and had to be buried either privately or publicly--that was essential--nothing else mattered at all to her. "as rub-a-dub is such a dear darlin', i should not be s'prised if iris did have a public funeral," she commented. "but what is the difference, di? tell me," said her father. "oh, father! you are ig'rant. at a pwivate funeral the poor dead 'un is just sewn up in dock leaves and stuck into a hole in the cemetery." "the cemetery! good heavens, child! do you keep a cemetery in the garden?" "indeed we does, father. we have a very large one now, and heaps and heaps of gravestones. apollo writes the insipcron. he is quite bothered sometimes. he says the horrid work is give to him,--carving the names on the stones and killing the half-dead 'uns,--but course he has to do it 'cos iris says so. course we all obey iris. when it is a pwivate funeral, the dead 'un is put into the ground and covered up, and it don't have a gravestone; then of course, by and by, it is forgot. you underland; don't you, father?" "bless me if i do," said mr. delaney, in a puzzled tone. "but if it is a public funeral," continued diana, strutting boldly forward now, and throwing back her head in quite a martial attitude, "why, then it's grand. there is a box just like a coffin, and cotton wool--we steal the cotton wool most times. we know where fortune has got a lot of it put away. iris does not think it quite right to steal, but the rest of us don't mind. and we have banners, and orion plays the jew's harp, and i beat the drum, and iris sings, and apollo digs the grave, and the dead 'un is put into the ground, and we all cry, or pretend to cry. sometimes i do squeeze out a tiny tear, but i'm so incited i can't always manage it, although i'm sure i'll cry when rub-a-dub is put into the ground. then afterwards there is a tombstone, and iris thinks of the insipcron. i spects we'll have a beautiful insipcron for poor rub-a-dub, 'cos we all loved him so much." "well, all this is very interesting, of course," said mr. delaney. "but now we must be quick, because your aunt jane has come." "who's her?" asked diana. "a very good lady indeed--your aunt." "what's an aunt?" "a lady whom you ought to love very much." "ought i? i never love people i ought to love," said diana firmly. "please, father, this is the dead-house. you can come right in if you like, father, and see the dead 'uns; they are all lying on this shelf. most of them is to be buried pwivate, 'cos they are not our own pets, you know; but rub-a-dub is sure to have a public funeral, and an insipcron, and all the rest." mr. delaney followed diana into the small shed which the children called the dead-house. he gazed solemnly at the shelf which she indicated, and on which lay the several dead 'uns. "put your mouse down now," he said, "and come along back with me to the house at once. you ought to have been in bed long ago." diana laid the mouse sorrowfully down in the midst of its dead brethren, shut the door of the dead-house, and followed her father up the garden path. "it's a most beautiful night," she said, after a pause. "it's going to be a starful night; isn't it, father?" "starful?" said mr. delaney. "yes; and when it is a starful night orion can't sleep well, 'cos he is a star hisself; isn't he, father?" "good gracious, child, no! he is a little boy!" "no, no, father! you are awfu' mistook. mother called him a star. i'll show you him up in the sky if it really comes to be a starful night. may i, father?" "some time, my darling; but now you must hurry in, for i have to get ready for dinner. kiss me, di. good-night. god bless you, little one!" "b'ess you too, father," said diana. "i love 'oo awfu' well." she raised her rosebud lips, fixed her black eyes on her parent's face, kissed him solemnly, and trotted away into the house. when she got close to it, a great sob came up from her little chest. she thought again of the dead rub-a-dub, but then the chance of his having a public funeral consoled her. she longed to find iris. full of this thought, her little heart beating more quickly than usual, she rushed up the front stairs, and was turning down the passage which led to the nursery, when she was confronted by a short, stout woman dressed in black. "now, who is this little girl, i wonder?" said a high-pitched, cheery voice. "it is not your little girl; and i am in a hurry, please," said diana, who could be very rude when she liked. she did not wish to be interrupted now; she wanted to find iris to tell her of the sad fate of rub-a-dub. "highty-tighty!" exclaimed the little lady, "that is no way to speak to grown-up people. i expect, too, you are one of my little nieces. come here at once and say, 'how do you do?'" "are you the aunt?" asked diana solemnly. "the aunt!" replied mrs. dolman. "i am your aunt, my dear. what is your name?" "diana. please, aunt, don't clutch hold of my hand; i want to find iris." "of all the ridiculous names," muttered mrs. dolman under her breath. "well, child, i am inclined to keep you for a moment, as i want to talk to you. do you know, you rude little girl, that i have come a long way to see you. of course, my little girl, i know you are sad at present; but you must try to get over your great sorrow." "do you know, then, about rub-a-dub?" said diana, her whole face changing, and a look of keen interest coming into it. if aunt--whatever her other name was--should turn out to be interested in rub-a-dub, and sorry for his untimely end, why, then, diana felt there was a possibility of her squeezing a little corner for her in her hearts of hearts. but mrs. dolman's next words disturbed the pleasant illusion. "you are a poor little orphan, my child," she said. "your poor, dear mother's death must be a terrible sorrow to you; but, believe me, you will get over it after a time." "i has quite got over it awready," answered diana, in a cheerful voice. "it would be awfu' selfish to be sorry 'bout mother, 'cos mother is not suffering any more pain, you know. i am very _glad_ 'bout mother. i am going to her some day. please don't squeeze my hand like that. good-by, aunt; i weally can't stay another moment." she trotted off, and mrs. dolman gazed after her with a petrified expression of horror on her round face. "well," she said to herself, "if ever! and the poor mother was devoted to them all, and she is scarcely a week in her grave, and yet that mite dares to say she has got over it. what nonsense she talked, and what a queer name she has. now, our family names are sensible and suited for the rising generation. we have had our elizabeths and our anns, and our lucys and our marys, and, of course, there is jane, my name. all these are what i call good old respectable delaney names; but diana and iris make me sick. and i believe, if report tells true, that there are some still more extraordinary names in the family. what a rude, dirty little child! i did not like her manners at all, and how neglected she looked. i shall follow her; it is my manifest duty to see to these children at once. oh! i shall have difficulty in breaking them in, but broken in they must be!" accordingly mrs. dolman turned down the passage where diana's fat legs disappeared. the eager but gentle flow of voices directed her steps, and presently she opened the door of a large room and looked in. she found herself unexpectedly on the threshold of the day-nursery. it was a beautiful room, facing due west; the last rays of the evening sun were shining in at the open windows; some children were collected in a corner of the room. diana had gone on her knees beside a girl a little older and slighter than herself. her plump elbows were resting on the girl's knee, her round hands were pressed to her rounder cheeks, and her black eyes were fixed upon the girl's face. the elder girl, very quiet and calm, had one hand on diana's shoulder, her other arm was thrown round a handsome little boy, not unlike diana in appearance, while an older boy sat on a hassock at her feet. "i will listen to you presently, diana," said iris. "now, i must finish my story." "yes, please go on, iris," said orion; "it's all about me, and i'm 'mensely inte'sted." "very well, orion. the king of chios did not want his daughter to marry you." "good gracious!" muttered mrs. dolman in the doorway. "so he let you fall sound asleep," continued iris, in her calm voice. none of the children had yet seen the stout personage on the threshold of the room. "he let you fall very sound asleep, having given you some strong wine." "what next?" thought mrs. dolman. "and when you were very sound asleep indeed, he put out both your eyes. when you awoke you found yourself quite blind, and did not know what to do or where to go. suddenly, in the midst of your misery, you heard the sound of a blacksmith's forge. guided by the noise, you reached the place and begged the blacksmith to climb on your shoulders, and so lend you his eyes to guide you. the blacksmith was willing to do it, and seated himself on your shoulders. then you said, 'guide me to the place where i can see the first sunbeam that rises in the east over the sea,' and--" "yes," said orion, whose breath was coming quickly, "yes; and what happened to me then?" "nonsense, little boy! don't you listen to another word of that folly," said a very strong, determined voice. all the children turned abruptly. "oh, _she_ has come bothering!" said diana. but the other three had started to their feet, and a flush rose into iris' pale face. chapter v. aunt is her name. "aunt is her name," said diana, "and i don't think much of her." mrs. dolman strode rapidly into the nursery. "yes, children," she said, "i am your aunt--your aunt jane dolman, your father's only sister. circumstances prevented my coming to see your father and mother for several years; but now that god has seen fit to give you this terrible affliction, and has taken your dear mother to himself, i have arrived, determined to act a mother's part to you. i do not take the least notice of what that rude little girl says. when i have had her for a short time under my own control, she will know better. now, one of you children, please have the politeness to offer me a chair, and then you can come up one by one and kiss me." iris was so much petrified that she could not stir. diana and orion came close together, and diana flung her stout little arm round orion's fat neck. apollo, however, sprang forward and placed a chair for his aunt. "will you sit here, please, aunt jane dolman?" he said. "you need not say aunt jane dolman," replied the lady; "that is a very stiff way of speaking. say aunt jane. you can kiss me, little boy." apollo raised his lips and bestowed a very chaste salute upon aunt jane's fat cheek. "what is your name?" said aunt jane, taking one of his small, hard hands in hers. "apollo," he replied, flinging his head back. "apollo! heaven preserve us! why, that is the name of one of the heathen deities--positively impious. what could my poor sister-in-law and your father have been thinking of? at one time i considered your father a man of sense." apollo flushed a beautiful rosy red. "please, aunt jane," he said, "i like my name very much indeed, and i would rather you did not say a word against it, because mother gave it to me." "it is a name with a beautiful meaning," said iris, coming forward at last. "how are you aunt jane? my name is iris, and this is diana, and this is orion--both diana and orion are very good children indeed, and"--here her lips quivered, her earnest, brown eyes were fixed with great solicitude on her aunt's face--"i ought to know," she said, "for i am a mother to the others, and, i think, please, aunt jane, orion and diana should be going to bed now." "i have not the slightest objection, my dear. i simply wished to see you children. i will say good-night now; we can have a further talk to-morrow. but first, before i go, let me repeat over your names, or rather you--apollo, i think you call yourself--had better say them for me." "that is iris," said apollo, pointing to his elder sister, "and i am apollo, and that is diana, and that is orion." "all four names taken from the heathen mythology," replied aunt jane, "and i, the wife of a good honest clergyman of the church of england, have to listen to this nonsense. i declare it may be inconvenient--it may frighten the parishioners. i must think it well over. i have, of course, heard before of girls being called diana, and also of girls being called iris--but apollo and orion! my poor children, i am sorry for you; you are burdened for life. good-night, good-night! you will see me again to-morrow." the great dinner-gong sounded through the house, and aunt jane sailed away from the day-nursery. "fortune, who is she?" asked iris, raising a pair of almost frightened eyes to the old nurse's face. "she is your father's sister, my darling," said fortune. "she has come on a visit, and uninvited, peter tells me. i doubt if my master is pleased to see her. she will most likely go away in a day or two, so don't you fret, miss iris, love. now, come along, master orion, and let me undress you. it is very late, and you ought to be in your little bed." "i'm orion," said the little boy, "and i'm stone blind." he began to strut up and down the nursery with his eyes tightly shut. "apollo, please, may i get on your shoulder for a bit, and will you lead me to that place where the first sunbeam rises in the east over the sea?" "come," said fortune, in what diana would call a "temperish" tone, "we can have no more of that ridiculous story-telling to-night. miss iris, you'll ask them to be good, won't you?" "yes. children, do be good," said iris, in her earnest voice. diana trotted up to her sister and took her hand. "i has something most 'portant to tell you," she said, in a low whisper. "it's an awfu' sorrow, but you ought to know." "what is it, di?" "rub-a-dub has got deaded." "rub-a-dub?" "yes; it is quite true. i found him stark dead and stiff. i has put him in the dead-house." iris said nothing. "and he is to have a public funeral, isn't he?" said diana, "and a beautiful insipcron. do say he is, and let us have the funeral to-morrow." "i am awfully sorry," said iris, then; "i did love rub-a-dub. yes, di; i'll think it over. we can meet after breakfast in the dead-house and settle what to do." "there are to be a lot of funerals to-morrow--i'm so glad," said diana, with a chuckle. she followed orion into the night-nursery. he was still walking with his eyes tightly shut and went bang up against his bath, a good portion of which he spilt on the floor. this put both fortune and the under-nurse, susan, into a temper, and they shook him and made him cry, whereupon diana cried in concert, and poor iris felt a great weight resting on her heart. "it is awfully difficult to be a mother to them all," she thought. "the usual kind of things don't seem to please them. apollo, what is the matter? what are you thinking of?" "i'm only wishing that i might be the real apollo," said the boy, "and that i might get quite far away from here. things are different here now that mother has gone, iris. i don't like aunt jane dolman a bit." "oh, well, she is our aunt, so i suppose it is wrong not to like her," answered iris. "i can't help it," replied apollo. "i have a feeling that she means to make mischief. why did she come here without being asked? iris, shall we go down to dessert to-night, or not?" "i would much rather not," answered iris. "but father likes us to go. it is the only time in the day when he really sees us. i think, perhaps, we ought to get dressed and be ready to go down." "i will if you think so, apollo; but i am very tired and sleepy." "well, i really do. we must not shirk things if we are to be a bit what mother wants us to be; and now that aunt jane has come, poor father may want us worse than ever." "i never thought of that," replied iris. "i'll run and get dressed at once, apollo." she flew away into a tiny little room of her own, which opened into the night-nursery. "susan," she called out, "will you please help me to put on my after-dinner frock?" "you have only a white dress to wear this evening, miss; your new black one has not come home yet." "a white one will be all right," replied iris. "oh, dear me, miss! and your poor mother only a week dead." "i wish, susan, you would not talk of mother as dead," answered iris. "i don't think of her like that a bit. she is in heaven; she has gone up the golden stairs, and she is quite well and ever so happy, and she won't mind my wearing a white dress, more particular if i want to comfort father. please help me on with it and then brush out my hair." iris had lovely hair--it was of a deep, rich chestnut, and it curled and curled, and waved and waved in rich profusion down her back. when susan had brushed it, and taken the tangles out, it shone like burnished gold. her pretty white frock was speedily put on, and she ran out of her little room to join apollo, who, in his black velvet suit, looked very picturesque and handsome. not long afterwards the little pair, taking each other's hands, ran down the broad, white marble stairs and entered the big dining room. they looked almost lost in the distance when they first appeared, for the table at which mr. delaney and mrs. dolman sat was far away in a bay window at the other end of the stately apartment. "hullo, children! so there you are!" called their father's voice to them. he had never been better pleased to see them in all his life, and the note of welcome in his tones found an answering echo in iris' loving little heart. they both tripped eagerly up the room and placed themselves one on each side of him, while iris slipped her hand into his. "well, my chicks, i am right glad to see you," he said. "perhaps, david, you will remember how disgracefully late it is," said mrs. dolman. "children, i must frankly say that i am _not_ pleased to see you. what are you doing up at this hour?" "we have come to keep father company," said apollo, fixing his flashing black eyes, with a distinctly adverse expression in them, on his aunt's face. "in my day," continued aunt jane complacently, helping herself to strawberries, "the motto was: 'little boys should be seen and not heard.' to-night, of course, i make allowances; but things will be different presently. david, you surely are not giving those children wine?" "oh, they generally have a little sip each from my port," said mr. delaney; "it does not do them any harm." "you may inculcate a taste," said mrs. dolman, in a very solemn voice. "in consequence of that little sip, which appears so innocent, those children may grow up drunkards. early impressions! well, all i can say is this--when they come to live at the rectory they will have to be teetotalers. in my house we are all teetotalers. my husband and i both think that we cannot have proper influence on the parishioners unless we do ourselves what we urge them to do." iris and apollo both listened to these strange words with fast-beating hearts. what did they mean? mrs. dolman spoke of when they were to live at the rectory. what rectory? she spoke of a time when they were to live with her. oh, no; she must be mistaken. nothing so perfectly awful could be going to happen. nevertheless, iris could scarcely touch her wine, and she pushed aside the tempting macaroon which mr. delaney had slipped on to her plate. she found it impossible to eat. apollo, after a moment's hesitation, attacked his wine and swallowed his biscuit manfully; but even he had not his usual appetite. after a short pause, iris gave a gentle sigh and put both her arms round her father's neck. "i am tired, father; i should like to go to bed." "and i want to go too," said apollo. "those are the first sensible remarks i have heard from either of the children," said mrs. dolman. "i should think they are dead tired for want of sleep, poor little mites. good-night, both of you. when you come to live with me--ah! i see you are astonished; but we will talk of that pleasant little scheme to-morrow. good-night to you both." "good-night, aunt jane," said iris. "good-night, aunt jane," said apollo. "good-night to you both, my pets," said mr. delaney. iris gave her father a silent hug, apollo kissed him on the forehead--a moment later the little pair left the room. as soon as ever they had done so, mrs. dolman turned to her brother. "now then, david," she said, "you have got to listen to me; we may just as well settle this matter out of hand. i must return home on thursday--and this is tuesday evening. it will be impossible for you to stay on here with those four children and no one responsible to look after them. you appear half dead with grief and depression, and you want a thorough change. the place is going to rack and ruin. your rent-roll, how much is it?" "about fifteen thousand pounds a year--quite enough to keep me out of anxiety," said mr. delaney, with a grim smile. "it ought to be twenty thousand a year--in our father's time it was quite that. no doubt you let your farms too cheap; and so much grass round the house is disgraceful. now, if i had the management--" "but you see you have not, jane," said mr. delaney. "the property happens to belong to me." "that is true, and i have a great deal too much on my mind to worry myself about delaney manor; but, of course, it is the old place, and you are my only brother, and i am anxious to help you in your great affliction. when you married you broke off almost all connection with me, but now--now i am willing to overlook the past. do you, or do you not, intend those children to run wild any longer? even though they are called after heathen idols they are flesh and blood, and it is to be hoped that some religious influence may be brought to bear on them. at the present moment, i conclude that they have none whatever." "i never saw better children," said mr. delaney; "their mother brought them up as no one else could. in my opinion, they are nearly perfect." "you talk nonsense of that kind because you are blinded by your fatherly affection. now, let me assure you, in full confidence, that i never came across more neglected and more utterly absurd little creatures. good-looking they are--you are a fine-looking man yourself, and your wife was certainly pretty--the children take after you both. i have nothing to say against their appearance; but they talk utter gibberish; and as to that eldest little girl, if she is not given something sensible to occupy her i cannot answer for the consequence. my dear david, i don't want to interfere with your estate." "you could not, jane; i would not permit it." "but with regard to the children, i really have experience. i have five children of my own, and i think, if you were to see them, you would be well assured that iris and diana, apollo and orion would do well to take example by them. we might change the names of the boys and give them titles not quite so terrible." "i wish them to be called by the names their mother chose," said mr. delaney, with great firmness. "well, i suppose the poor children will live it down, but they will have a terrible time at school. however, they are too young for anything of that kind at present. give me the children, david, and i will act as a mother to them; then pack up your belongings, put your estate into the hands of a good agent, and go abroad for some years." "it would be an untold relief," said mr. delaney. at that moment the door was opened, and the butler appeared with the evening post on a salver. mr. delaney laid the letters languidly by his plate. "shall we go into the drawing room, jane?" he said. mrs. dolman rose briskly. "i shall retire early to bed," she said. "read your letters, please, david; you need not stand on ceremony with me." mr. delaney looked over his post; then his eyes lighted up as he saw the handwriting on one of the envelopes. he opened the letter in question, which immediately interested him vastly. it happened to be from an old friend, and certainly seemed to come at an opportune moment. this friend was about to start on an expedition to the himalayas, and he begged his old fellow-traveler to go with him. his long letter, the enthusiastic way he wrote, the suggestions he threw out of possible and exciting adventures came just at the nick of time to the much-depressed and weary man. "why, i declare, jane," he said, "this does seem to come opportunely." he walked over to where his sister was standing, and read a portion of the letter aloud. "if i might venture to trust my darlings to you," he said, "there is nothing in all the world i should like better than to accompany seymour to the himalayas. he starts in a fortnight's time, so there really is not a day to lose." "then, david," said mrs. dolman, "you will not allow this valuable opportunity to slip--you will trust your children to me. i assure you i will do my duty by them." she spoke with real sincerity, and tears absolutely dimmed her bright eyes. "david," she continued, "that letter seems a providence; you will act upon it." "it certainly does," said the man; "but, jane, you will be good to the children--tender, i mean. their mother has always been very gentle to them." "you need not question me as to how i will treat them. i will bring them up as i would my own. i will do my utmost to rear them in the fear of god. david, this clinches the matter. write to mr. seymour by this night's post." mr. delaney promised to do so, and soon afterwards mrs. dolman, feeling that she had done a very good and excellent work, retired, in a thoroughly happy frame of mind, to her bedroom. chapter vi. the poor dead 'uns. mr. delaney's bedroom faced east, and the following morning, at a very early hour, he began to have most unpleasant dreams. he thought a hobgoblin was seated on his chest, and several brownies were pulling him where he did not wish to go, and finally that a gnome of enormous dimensions was dragging him into a dark cavern, where he could never again behold the daylight. at last, in great perturbation, he opened his dazed eyes. the sight he saw seemed at first to be a continuation of his dream, but after a moment or two he discovered that the person who had become possessed of his chest was a small boy of the name of orion, that a little black-eyed girl called diana had comfortably ensconced herself on his knees, and that iris and apollo were seated one at each side of his pillow. the four children had all climbed up on to the big bedstead, and were gazing attentively at him. "he is opening his eyes," said orion, "he'll be all right after a minute or two. don't hurry up, father; we can wait." "we can wait quite well, father," said diana; "and it's very comf'able on your knees; they is so flat." "we are awfully sorry to disturb you, father," said iris. "but we can't help it, because it's most solemnly important," said apollo. "so it seems," remarked mr. delaney, when he could at last find a voice. "you have all subjected me to a terrible dream. i am really glad that i have awakened and find that the hobgoblins, and gnomes, and brownies are no less little people than my own four children. but why am i to be disturbed at such a very early hour?" "if you like, father," said diana, "we'll pull up all the blinds; then the hot, blazin' sun will come in, and you'll see that it's not early at all; it's late." mr. delaney happened to glance at a clock which stood on the mantelpiece exactly facing the big bed. "i read on the face of that clock," he said, "that the hour is half-past five. now, what have you four little children to do, sitting on my bed at half-past five in the morning?" when mr. delaney said this he shook himself slightly and upset diana's balance, and made orion choke with silent laughter. iris and apollo gazed at him gravely. "we all made up our minds to do it," said iris. "we have come to ask you to make a promise, father." "a promise, my dear children! but you might have waited until the usual hour for getting up. what are you going to wring from me at this inclement moment?" "i don't exactly know what inclement moment means," said iris, "but i do know, and so does apollo--" "and so do i know all about it," shouted diana. "you see, father," continued the little girl, who spoke rather more than any of the other children, "we has to think of the poor innocents, and the birds and the mice, and the green frogs, and our puppy, and our pug dog, and our--and our--" here she fairly stammered in her excitement. "has a sudden illness attacked that large family?" said mr. delaney. "please, children, explain yourselves, for if you are not sleepy, i am." "yes, father," said iris, "we can explain ourselves quite easily. the thing is this--we don't want to go away." "to go away? my dear children, what do you mean?" but as mr. delaney spoke he had a very uncomfortable memory of a letter which he had posted with his own hands on the previous evening. "yes," said apollo; "we don't want to go away with her." "and we don't wish for no aunts about the place," said diana, clenching her little fist, and letting her big, black eyes flash. "now i begin to see daylight," said mr. delaney. "so you don't like poor aunt jane?" "guess we don't," said orion. "she comed in last night and she made an awful fuss, and she didn't like me 'cos i'm orion, and 'cos i'm a giant, and 'cos sometimes i has got no eyes. guess she's afraid of me. i thought her a silly sort of a body." "she's an aunt, and that's enough," said diana. "i don't like no aunts; they are silly people. i want her to go." "apollo and i brought the two younger children," continued iris, "because we thought it best for us all to come. it is not aunt jane being here that is so dreadful to me, and so very, very terrible to apollo," she continued. "it's what she said, father, that we--we were to go away, away from the house and the garden--the garden where mother used to be, and the house where the angel came to fetch mother away--and we are to live with her. she spoke, father, as if it was settled; but it is not true, is it? tell us, father, that it is not true." "my poor little children!" said the father. his own ruddy and sunburnt face turned absolutely pale; there was a look in his eyes which diana could not in the least understand, nor could orion, and which even apollo only slightly fathomed; but one glance told iris the truth. "when i am away you are to be a mother to the others," seemed at that moment to echo her mother's own voice in her ear. she gulped down a great sob in her throat, and stretching herself by her father's side she put one soft arm round his neck. "never mind if it is _really_ settled," she said. "i will try hard to bear it." "you are about the bravest little darling in the world," said mr. delaney. "what are you talking about, iris?" cried apollo, clutching his sister by her long hair as she spoke. "you say that you will try and bear it, and that father is not to mind? but father must mind. if i go to aunt jane dolman's, why--why, it will kill me." and the most beautiful of all the heathen gods cast such a glance of scorn at his parent at that moment that mr. delaney absolutely quailed. "for goodness' sake, apollo, don't eat me up," he said. "the fact is this, children; i may as well have the whole thing out. aunt jane came last night and took me by surprise. i have been very lonely lately, and you know, you poor little mites, you cannot be left to the care of fortune. she is a very good soul, but you want more than her to look after you, and then miss stevenson--i never did think her up to much." "father," said apollo, "you have no right to abuse our spiritual pastors and masters." notwithstanding his heathenish name, it will be seen by this remark that some of his time was occupied learning the church catechism. "i stand corrected, my son," said mr. delaney, "or, rather, at the present moment, i lie corrected. well, children, the truth must out--aunt jane took me by surprise. she promises she will look after you and be a mother to you." "we don't want no other mother, now that our own mother is gone, except iris," said apollo. "we won't have aunt jane for a mother." "she is a howid old thing, and i hate aunts," said diana. "well, children, i am very sorry for you, but it is too late to do anything now. the whole thing is arranged. i hope you will try to be good, and also to be happy with aunt jane. you won't find her half bad when you get to know her better, and of course i won't be very long away, and when i come back again--" "please don't say any more, father," interrupted iris. she slipped off the bed and stood very pale and still, looking at her father with eyes which, notwithstanding all her efforts, were full of reproach. "come, children," she said to the others, "let poor father have his sleep out. it is quite early, father, and--and we understand now." "do say you are not angry with me, you dear little kids. i would not hurt you for the whole world." "of course we are not angry, father," said iris. she bent slowly forward and kissed her father on his forehead. "go to sleep, father; we are sorry we woke you so early." "yes, father, go to s'eep," echoed diana. "i underland all 'bout it. you won't have no hobgoblins now to dweam about, for i has got off your knees. they was lovely and flat, and i didn't mind sitting on them one bit." "all the same, diana, i am obliged to you for getting off," said mr. delaney, "for i was beginning to get quite a terrible cramp, to say nothing of my sensations at having this giant orion planting himself on my chest. i will have a long talk with you all, darlings, in the course of the day, and i do hope you won't be very unhappy with your aunt jane dolman." "we'll be mis'ble, but it can't be helped," said diana. "i never did like aunts, and i'm never going to, what's more. come 'long now, sildrens. it's a gweat nuisance getting up so early, particular when father can't help hisself. can you, father? go to s'eep now, father. come 'long this minute, back to bed, sildrens." diana looked really worthy of her distinguished name as she strode down the passage and returned to the night-nursery. she and orion slipped into their respective little cots and lay down without waking either fortune or susan, who slept in beds at the opposite side of the room. iris and apollo also returned to their beds, and presently apollo dropped asleep, for, though he had an alarming temper, his fits of passion never lasted long. but iris did not close her bright brown eyes again that morning. she lay awake, full of troubled thoughts--thoughts far too old for her tender years. it was one of fortune's fads never on any occasion to awaken a sleeping child, and as the other children slept rather longer than usual after their early waking, breakfast was in consequence full half an hour late in the day-nursery that morning. at last, however, it was finished. no special lessons had been attended to since mother had gone away to the angels, and the children, snatching up their hats, rushed off as fast as possible to the garden. when they got there they all four breathed freely. this at least was their own domain--their fairyland, their country of adventure. from here they could travel to goodness only knew where--sometimes to the stars with bright apollo and brave orion--sometimes to happy hunting fields with diana, the goddess of the chase, and sometimes they might even visit the rainbow, with sweet iris as their companion. there never were happier children than these four in that lovely, lovely beyond words, garden. when the children went into it, it seemed as if an additional ray of sunshine had come out to fill all the happy world with light and love and beauty. the bees hummed more industriously than ever, the flowers opened their sweet eyes and gazed at the children, the animals came round them in a group. on this special morning, however, diana's dear little face looked very grave and full of business. "it's most 'citing," she said. "'fore we does anything else we must 'tend to the funerals--there is such a lot of dead 'uns to bury this morning. come 'long to the dead-house at once, iris." "i must smell the scotch roses first," answered iris. "you can do that afterwards, can't you? there's poor rub-a-dub. we has to 'cide whether he is to have a public or a pwivate funeral, or whether he is just to be sewn up in dock leaves, and put into the gwound p'omisc's." diana had a great facility for taking up long words, which she always used in the most matter-of-fact style, not in the least caring how she pronounced them. the other children could not help laughing at her now, and the four hurried off as fast as they possibly could to the dead-house. this unpleasantly named abode was in reality a pretty little shed in one corner of the old garden. it contained a door with lock and key, a nice little window, and everything fitted up for the keeping of tools and carpenters' implements. long ago, however, the children decided that here the dead animals of all sorts and species were to be kept until the solemn moment of interment. iris looked just as grave as the others when she unlocked the door of the dead-house now, and they all entered. the dead 'uns were decently laid out on a shelf, just in front of the public view. there was a dead bee, and two butterflies; there were two dead worms and a dead toad; also three or four beetles in different stages of decomposition, and a terribly crushed spider--and solemnly lying in the midst of his dead brethren lay rub-a-dub, the precious and dearly loved piebald mouse. "they look beautiful, poor darlin's," said diana; "they will most fill up the cemetery. now please, iris, which is to have a public funeral?" "of course rub-a-dub must," answered iris. "as to the others--" "don't you think that poor toad, iris?" said diana, wrinkling up her brows, and gazing anxiously at her sister. "the toad seems to me to be rather big to have only a pwivate funeral. we could scarcely get dock leaves enough." "we must try," answered iris; "the toad must be buried privately with the others. we always make it a rule--don't you remember, di--only to give public funerals to our own special pets." "all wight," answered diana. she was very easily brought round to accept iris' view. in her heart of hearts she considered iris' verdict like the laws of the medes and persians--something which could not possibly be disputed. "run, orion!" she said; "be quick, and fetch as many dock leaves as possible. i will thread a needle so as to sew up the poor dead 'uns in their coffins. we must get through the pwivate funerals as quick as possible this morning, and then we'll be weady for poor rub-a-dub." "rub-a-dub is to be buried exactly at eleven o'clock," said iris. "we'll all wear mourning, course?" asked diana. "yes; black bows." "and are the dogs and the other animals to wear mourning?" "black bows," repeated iris. "that is most lovely and 'citing," said diana. orion left the dead-house, and presently returned with a great pile of dock leaves. then the children sat down on the floor and began to sew coffins for the different dead 'uns. they were accustomed to the work and did it expeditiously and well. when all the poor dead 'uns were supplied with coffins they were carried in a tray across the garden to the far-famed cemetery. here they were laid in that part of the ground apportioned to private funerals. apollo made small holes with his spade, and each dead 'un in his small coffin was returned to mother earth. the ground was immediately covered over, and apollo trampled on it with his feet. he did this on the present occasion with right good will. "i'll be rather glad when the funerals are over," he said, looking at iris as he spoke, "for i want to get on with my ship. i have got hold of some canvas the gardener brought me from town, and i really believe i may be able to make a funnel and a place for boiling water. you would like to see my ship when it is afloat; would you not, iris?" "yes; very much indeed," answered iris. "i call ships stupid," said diana. "i don't see no use in 'em. now, do let us hurry back. poor rub-a-dub will be so lonely." "it's you who is silly now," said orion. "you know rub-a-dub can't feel; don't you, di?" "i know nothing 'bout it," said diana. "i want to hurry back to get his beautiful public funeral weady. now, look here, 'rion; will you go into the house to steal the cotton wool, or shall i?" "what is that i hear?" said a voice which seemed to come from right over the children's heads. they all looked up in alarm, to see aunt jane dolman and their father standing close by. mr. delaney wore an amused, and aunt jane a scared expression. "what were you saying, little girl?" she continued, taking diana by her arm and giving her a slight shake; "that you wished to _steal_ something?" "yes; some cotton wool," said diana; "it's most 'portant; it's for a public funeral." mrs. dolman turned her round black eyes on her brother. horror was expressed in each movement of her face. "my dear jane," he said, _sotto voce_, "there are several things which these children do which will astonish you very much. don't you think you had better give up the scheme?" "not i, david," she replied. "the more i see of the poor neglected mites the more i long to rescue them from evident destruction." he shook his head and looked with some pity at iris. "shall orion go to steal the cotton wool?" repeated diana, who looked as if it was impossible for anyone in this world to terrify her in the very least. "if it must be stolen, and if you ask me," said mr. delaney, "perhaps orion may as well be the thief as anyone else. in the old times of the heathen deities i believe they did now and then stoop to that small crime." "david, it is appalling to hear you speak," said mrs. dolman. "orion, i hate to pronounce your name, but listen to me, little boy. i forbid you to go if you are bent on theft." "but i must go," said orion. "poor rub-a-dub must be buried, and i must have a box for his coffin and cotton wool to lay him in." "see here, orion," said the father; "where do you get the cotton wool?" "we gen'ly get it from fortune's box in the night-nursery," replied orion. "and you steal it?" "oh, yes; she would make _such_ a fuss if we asked her for some. we always steal it for public funerals." "well, on this occasion, and to spare your aunt's feelings, tell fortune that i desire her to give you some. "now, jane," continued mr. delaney, "as you are here, and as i am here, we may both of us as well witness this ceremony. the children are fond of doing all honor to their pets, even after the supreme moment of dissolution. shall we witness this public funeral?" mrs. dolman looked wonderfully inclined to say "no," but as her object now was to humor her brother as far as possible, she agreed very unwillingly to wait. accordingly he and she began to pace up and down the lovely garden, and soon, in the interest which the sight of the unforgotten playground of her youth excited within her, her brow cleared, and she became pleasant and even talkative. the two were in the midst of a very interesting conversation, and were pacing up and down not far from the summer-house, when orion's clear voice was heard. "the public funeral is going to begin," he shouted, "so you had best come along if you want to see it. if you don't, diana and me, and apollo and iris--why, we don't care." "oh, we'll come, you rude little body," said his father, laughing and chuckling as he spoke. "you mark my words, jane," he continued, "you will have a handful with those children." "oh, i'll manage them," said mrs. dolman. "i have not lived my thirty-five years for nothing; they certainly need managing, poor little spoilt creatures." they both hurried to the cemetery, where apollo was standing, having dug a grave nearly a foot deep, and large enough to hold a square cardboard box. he stood leaning on his spade now, his hat pushed off, his handsome little face slightly flushed with the exercise, his eyes full of a sort of gloomy defiance. but now the funeral procession was coming on apace. orion's mouth was much puffed out because he was blowing vigorously on his jew's harp, diana followed him beating a little drum, and iris, with long black ribbons fastened to her flowing chestnut locks, was walking behind, carrying the tiny coffin. iris, as she walked, rang an old dinner bell in a very impressive manner, and also sang a little dirge to the accompaniment of the bell and the two other children's music. these were the words iris sang: "ding-a-dong, rub-a-dub's dead; good-by, rub-a-dub. sleep well in your little bed; good-by, rub-a-dub. "we'll put a stone at your head and your feet; good-by, rub-a-dub. and you shall sleep very sound and sweet; good-by, rub-a-dub. and you'll never know fear any more; little dear; good-by, rub-a-dub." iris was a poet on occasions, and she had made up these impressive lines in great haste while the other children were arranging minor details of the funeral. as the mourning party approached the open grave, apollo came forward and dropped on his knees. the coffin was supplied with strings of white satin ribbon, and was lowered with great solemnity into the grave. then the four mourners stood over it and each of them sang the last words of iris' poem: "and you'll never know fear any more, little dear; good-by, rub-a-dub." the moment this was over flowers were strewn upon the box, and apollo with great vigor began to shovel in the earth. "make a nice high mound," said diana; "let it look as like a weal gwave as possible." then she turned eagerly to her sister. "when are we to see about making the tombstone for the head and the feet?" she asked. "we'll talk it over this evening," answered iris. it may here be noted that none of the four mourners took the slightest notice of mr. delaney or of mrs. dolman. to them it was as if these two grown-up spectators did not exist--they were all lost in their own intensely important world. "well," said mrs. dolman, as she turned away with her brother, "of all the heathenish and wicked nonsense that i was ever permitted to witness, this beats everything. it is a right good thing--yes, i will say it frankly, david--that you are going abroad, and that your benighted children are handed over to me. when you come back in a year or two--i assure you, my dear brother, i do not wish to hurry you--but when you come back in a few years you will see, please providence, very different children waiting to welcome you." "well, jane," said david delaney, "i have arranged to give the children to you, and i hope to heaven i am doing right; but do not spoil them whatever you do, for to me and to their sainted mother they were ever the sweetest little quartette that breathed the breath of life." mr. delaney's eyes filled with sudden tears as he said these words. "good-by, rub-a-dub," he whispered as he left the garden. "yes, there are many good-bys in the air just now." chapter vii. but ann could not help letting out now and then. the rectory at super-ashton was a large, sunny, cheerful house. it was filled with every modern convenience, and possessed plenty of rooms papered with light, bright-looking papers, and painted also in cheerful colors. the windows were large and let in every scrap of sunshine; the passages and hall and stairs were broad and roomy; the nurseries and the children's rooms were models of comfort; the servants were all well behaved and thoroughly accustomed to their duties; the meals were punctual to a moment; in fact, nothing was left to chance at super-ashton rectory. mrs. dolman was the life and soul of this extremely orderly english home. she was one of the most active little women in the world. she invariably got up, summer and winter, soon after six o'clock, and might be seen bustling about the house, and bustling about the garden, and bustling about the parish from that moment until she retired to rest again, somewhere between ten and eleven at night. she was never exactly cross, but she was very determined. she had strict ideas, and made everyone in the parish not only respect her and look up to her, but live up to her rule of life. she was, as a matter of fact, thought a great deal more of by the parishioners than her husband, the reverend william dolman, and the real rector of super-ashton. mr. dolman was a very large man, tall in stature and broad. he was also fat and loosely built. he had a kindly face and a good-humored way of talking. he preached very fair sermons on sundays, and attended to his duties, but without any of the enthusiasm which his wife displayed. when mrs. dolman wrote to her husband to say that she was returning home with the four little delaneys, it caused considerable excitement at the breakfast table. five little hearts beat considerably faster than usual; but so great were the order and regularity of the household that the five little faces to which the hearts belonged remained apparently impassive. miss ramsay, the governess, was presiding at the head of the table. the dolman girls were neatly dressed in print frocks with white pinafores; the boys wore holland blouses and knickerbockers. the boys happened to be the two youngest of the family, and none of the children had yet gone to school. the name and ages of the five were as follows: first came lucy, aged twelve; then mary, aged ten; then ann, aged nine; then philip and conrad, aged respectively seven and a half and six. the faces of the whole five bore a curious resemblance to both father and mother, the eldest girl having the round, black eyes of her mother, and the large, somewhat irregular features of the father. mary resembled lucy in being fat and largely built, but her eyes were blue instead of black; while little ann had a small face, with gray eyes and rather sensitive lips. the complexions of the three were fair, and their good looks were rather above the average. they were proper, neat-looking little girls, and, notwithstanding their inward excitement, they ate their breakfast tidily, and took good care not to express any emotion before miss ramsay or their good-natured father. "yes," said mr. dolman, looking at them, and pushing his spectacles up on his forehead, "yes, that is the news. your mother returns to-night, and the four delaneys with her. let me see what else she says." he replaced his spectacles on his nose and looked over his wife's letter again. "these are the very words," he said; "observe, miss ramsay, that i read from the letter. 'i return by the train which reaches super-ashton at six o'clock, and will bring the four delaneys with me.' four, you see, lucy; that is the number. but mamma does not mention the sex of the children. how many boys or how many girls? i really am quite out of date with regard to your cousins, my love." "but i know all about them, papa," burst from ann's eager lips. "you forget your french, ann," said miss ramsay, laying her hand on the little girl's arm. "you will be punished if you speak english again at meals." ann colored and dropped her eyes. she began to eat her bread and butter hastily; she longed beyond words to tell the others the knowledge she had secretly acquired about her cousins the delaneys. "'please send the wagonette to the station,'" continued mr. dolman, reading his wife's letter, and holding it close to his eyes, "'and--yes, the cart for the luggage, as the children'--um, um, um, that part is private, my dears." mr. dolman dropped his spectacles and nodded at the eager little group round the table. "well," he continued, "i am glad mamma is coming home. i have really been quite bothered by the parishioners since she went away. there is always a vast deal of work left undone when mamma is absent, eh, children? eh, miss ramsay?" "i agree with you, mr. dolman," said miss ramsay. "mrs. dolman does not spare herself; she will have her reward some day." "god grant it!" said mr. dolman, with a heavy sigh. "she certainly will need rest whenever she does leave this world, for i never did come across such an active woman." he left the room, hitching up his huge shoulders as he did so, and slammed the door noisily behind him. "papa would not do that if mamma were here," whispered philip to ann. ann said "hush!" in a frightened tone, and then miss ramsay folded her hands as an intimation to the children that the meal was at an end, and that one of them was to say grace. immediately after breakfast they went upstairs to the schoolroom, and lessons began, just as if no four little delaneys were to arrive to turn everything topsy-turvy that evening. lessons proceeded without any interruption until twelve o'clock. then the three little girls retired to the neat bedroom which they shared together, and put on their sun-bonnets, their white capes, and their washing-gloves, and came back again to miss ramsay, equipped for their walk. the boys, with straw hats sticking very far back on their heads, were also waiting miss ramsay's pleasure in the hall downstairs. the children and the governess went out walking solemnly two and two, miss ramsay and conrad in front, lucy and mary following, with ann and philip behind. it was a hot day; but miss ramsay never excused the morning walk on the dusty highroads. the children came in very much flushed and tired at one o'clock for dinner. they assembled again in the big, cool dining room and ate their roast mutton and peas and new potatoes, and rice pudding and stewed fruit with the propriety of children who have been thoroughly well brought up. at dinner french was again the only language allowed to be spoken. in consequence there was a sad dearth of any conversation at that dinner table. after dinner mr. dolman told miss ramsay that he had given orders about the wagonette, and he supposed simpson knew about the sleeping arrangements, as he was given to understand that she had received a letter from mrs. dolman. "i have spoken to simpson," replied miss ramsay, dropping her eyes as she made the remark, "and she fully understands what is expected of her. the two girls are to have small rooms to themselves, and so is the eldest boy, but the youngest will sleep in the nursery with philip and conrad. those are mrs. dolman's directions." "quite right, quite right," said mr. dolman. "anything mrs. dolman wishes, of course. miss ramsay, i shall not be home to tea this evening. i have to go to visit a sick parishioner at the other end of the parish. good-by, lucy; good-by, the rest of you children. i hope to see you all before bedtime; if not--" "but, father," burst from ann, "the new children will be here about six." "they cannot arrive before half-past six, my dear," replied mr. dolman. "ann, you have again spoken english," said miss ramsay; "i shall be forced to punish you. you will have to stay in after the others this afternoon, and learn ten lines of your french poetry." poor little ann colored and her lips trembled. she really felt dreadfully excited, and it was terrible to have to bottle up all her thoughts during the long, hot day. immediately after dinner the children went up to the schoolroom, where they lay down on the floor for half an hour to learn their lessons. at three o'clock the ordinary lessons began again, and went on without interruption until five, when there was tea. after tea the children were supposed to have the rest of the day to do what they liked in. but on this occasion, ann was kept in the schoolroom to learn her french poetry as best she could. the ten lines were difficult, and the little girl felt sleepy, cross, and dissatisfied. soon her small, curly head fell upon her plump arms, and sleep took possession of her little soul. miss ramsay came in and found her in a state of heavy slumber. "ann!" she cried; "ann!" little ann raised herself with a start. "oh, please, miss ramsay, won't you excuse the french poetry to-day," she cried; "i am so--" "so what, ann? i am surprised at you. what can be the matter?" "i am _so_ excited about the little delaneys," answered ann. "they are coming so soon, and they are my own first cousins--i seem to see them all the day--they come between me and--and my poetry. please, miss ramsay, if you'll only allow me i'll get up early to-morrow morning and learn it perfectly. do say i need not finish it this afternoon--do, please." miss ramsay was astonished and annoyed at this rebellion on the part of ann. "you surprise me," she said. "you know that lessons have to be done during lesson hours, and that rules are not to be broken. you know what your mother would say if she heard you talking english at meals. twice to-day you broke through that rule. the first time i pardoned you--the second time it was unpardonable. now, my dear, apply yourself to your task--get it well over, and you will doubtless be ready to welcome your cousins when they arrive." miss ramsay left the room. ann shed a few tears, and then, seeing there was no help for it, applied herself with all her might and main to learning her appointed task. she got her poetry by heart after a fashion, and, hastily replacing the book in the bookcase, ran out of the schoolroom. she saw lucy and mary pacing up and down the terrace in front of the house. they were in clean white frocks, with sashes round their waists, and their hair was very trimly brushed and curled over their heads. their faces shone from soap and water, and even at that distance ann could perceive that their hands were painfully, terribly clean. in her heart of hearts ann hated clean hands; they meant so much that was unpleasant--they meant that there must be no grubbing in the garden, no searching for dear little weeds and small flowers, and all kinds of delicious, unexpected things in mother earth. in her heart of hearts ann had a spark of originality of her own, but it had little chance of flourishing under the treatment so carefully pursued at super-ashton. philip and conrad might also be seen on the terrace in their clean linen blouses and fresh knickerbockers; their hands were also carefully washed, their hair brushed back from their faces, the faces themselves shining from soap and water. "oh, dear! there's no help for it," thought little ann, "i must go into the nursery and let simpson pull me about. how she will scrub me and tug at my hair, and put on such a horrid starched dress, and it's so hot to-night! well, if i hurry i may be in time to tell philip what i know about their names. oh, how delicious it will be! he'll be so excited. yes, i'll be as quick as possible." ann ran down the long passage which led from the schoolroom to the nursery, opened the door, and approached a prim old servant with a somewhat cross face, who was busily engaged mending stockings. "please, simpson, here i am. will you dress me?" said ann, panting as she spoke. simpson laid down her work with deliberation. "now, i wonder, miss ann," she said, "why i am to be put about for you. i have just finished dressing all the other children. why didn't you come with the others? there, miss, you must just dress yourself, for i can't and won't be worried; these stockings must be finished before the mistress comes home." "all right," answered ann, in a cheerful tone. "i can wash myself beautifully. may i go into the night-nursery, please, simpson, and do my best?" "yes, my dear. you'll find a white frock hanging in the wardrobe. i'll fasten it for you after you have washed yourself and combed out your hair. now, do be quick. i would help you willingly, miss ann, only i really have not a minute to spare; master philip and master conrad are dreadful with their socks, and when the mistress comes with that fresh family, goodness knows when i shall have a moment to see to your clothes again." ann dressed herself, and ran back to simpson. "simpson," she said, as that good woman was fastening the hooks and eyes at the back of her frock, "i know it is wrong to be so much excited, but i am. my heart beats awfully fast at the thought of their coming." "well, miss ann, it's more than my heart does. and now, miss, if you'll take a word of advice from me, you'll keep your feelin's to yourself, as far as your ma is concerned. your ma don't wish any of you to give way to excitement. she wants you to grow up steady, well-conducted young ladies." "i hate being a well-conducted young lady," burst from little ann. "oh, dear me, miss! it's dreadful to hear you talk so unproper. now stand still and don't fidget." the frock was fastened, and ann ran off to join her brothers and sisters on the terrace. lucy and mary were little girls after their mother's own heart. they never questioned her wishes, they never rebelled against her rules, they were as good and well-behaved as any two little english maids of the respective ages of twelve and ten could be. now, as little ann approached, they looked at her as if they thought her quite beneath their notice. "oh, do go away, ann!" said lucy. "mary and i are talking secrets, and we don't want you." "you are always talking secrets," said ann. "it's horrid unfair to me." "we have got to talk things over. we can't confide in you; you're the youngest. please don't be disagreeable now. we are having a most important talk. please run away at once." ann looked beseeching, but then, all of a sudden, her eyes fell upon philip. she turned, ran up to him, clutched him by the arm, and pulled him away from conrad. "phil," she said, "i want to have you all to myself. i have something terribly exciting to say." philip looked from conrad to ann. "but you are always getting into hot water, ann," he replied, "and con and i were talking about our fishes. we think if we are very careful with our pocket-money we may have enough to buy some gold and silver fish in the holidays." "yes, yes," answered ann impetuously; "buy any kind of fish you like. only, con, like a dear, good boy, please go and walk at the other end of the terrace for five minutes. i must speak to someone or i'll burst." "how awfully vulgar you are, ann!" said lucy, who happened to pass by, with mary leaning on her arm, at that moment. but philip felt flattered at ann's evident anxiety to be alone with him. "go and do as you are told, conrad," he said, in lofty tones; "go to the other end of the terrace at once." "it's rather hard on me," said conrad. "i like having secrets as well as anybody else; the air is full of secrets to-day--why shouldn't i have some?" "i'll have a secret with you by and by," said ann, "if you'll only go away now." the little boy looked at her, saw she was in earnest, and obeyed somewhat unwillingly. "now then, ann," said philip, "speak out; be as quick as ever you can." "philip," said ann, in a solemn voice, "don't you want to know all about the children who are coming to-night?" "is that what the secret is about?" said philip in disgust. "do you know, ann, what i heard miss ramsay say to simpson to-day. she said that the new children would be awful bothers, and that _she_ for one does not know if she is going to stay, and simpson said she was sure that she would give notice too. miss ramsay said it was an awful shame bringing four children to the house, and simpson threw up her hands. you know how she looks when she throws up her hands. and she said, 'them's my sentiments, miss ramsay.' do you know what she meant by 'them's my sentiments,' ann, 'cos i don't? i never heard such funny words before. did you, ann?" "no," said ann; "but you ought not to have listened, phil." "oh, i often listen!" replied philip calmly. "i get to know all kinds of funny things that way, and they turn out no end useful. i know lots of things about miss ramsay, and since i just let her know that i did, she is not half so hard on me. that's how i find listening useful." "well, it is not right," said ann, "but i have no time to argue with you now, phil; i want to talk about the children. whatever simpson says, and whatever miss ramsay says, i am delighted that they are coming. i think it will be fun. in my heart, you know, phil, i love fun, and i want to be able to talk english sometimes, and phil, would, _would_ you like to know their names?" "their names?" said philip. "i suppose they have names, although i never thought about them." "well, of course they have, and i'll tell you what they are. they have got lovely names; once i heard mother say that the whole four of them were called after heathen idols. isn't it awful and exciting to be called after a heathen idol? oh, phil! they have such lovely names!" philip was not much interested in heathen idols, but ann's excited face and her bright blue eyes did strike him as out of the common. "well, you are in a state," he said. "what creatures girls are! you'll catch it when mother comes home. you know she never can stand anybody all jumpy, and jerky, and quivery, like you are now. well, what are the names? out with them and get them over." "iris is the name of the eldest girl," said ann. "then comes apollo--he is a boy." "i'll never be able to get hold of that name," said philip. "apollo! how queer." "but it is not queer, really," said ann, delighted at having roused his real interest at last. "of course, apollo is very well known indeed. he was a sort of beautiful god long ago." "but this boy is not a god--horrid little beggar," said philip. "well, what are the names of the others?" "there is a girl called diana." "diana," repeated philip. "there's nothing in that name. that name is in the bible. miss ramsay read the whole story aloud to us last sunday when the beastly rain kept dropping and dropping all day long. 'great is diana of the ephesians.' i rather like the sound, but there's nothing at all in a name of that sort, ann." "well, i didn't say there was," answered ann. "i only think it awfully pretty." "i don't think much of it for an ordinary girl. well, now, what is the other name? i'll call conrad back, if you are not quick." "i'll tell it to you. look here, phil, i bet you never heard a name like it." "you bet?" said philip. "oh, if mamma only heard you!" "for goodness' sake, don't tell her," said ann. "i can't help letting out sometimes, and it does relieve me so. the name of the other boy is orion, and he is called after a cluster of stars. i do know that much. and oh, phil! phil! phil! they are coming! they are coming!" chapter viii. the straw too much. the crunching of wheels was heard distinctly on the gravel, and the next moment the wagonette swept into view. the horses drew up with a nourish at the front door of the pretty rectory, and the five little dolmans rushed forward. "stand back, children, and allow your cousins to get comfortably out of the carriage," called out mrs. dolman. "no excitement, i beg, from any of you--i have had quite enough of that already. stand quietly just where you are. lucy, where is miss ramsay?" "up in her room, i think, mamma. shall i call her?" "not at present, although she ought to have been here. now, iris, get out quietly--quietly, my dear. apollo, give me your hand, you come next; now, diana--easy, little girl, easy--you will fall, if you jump like that." "i think nothing of a little easy hop like that, aunt," replied diana. she sprang from the carriage, disdaining the use of the steps. when she found herself on the gravel sweep she stood very firmly on her two fat legs and looked her five cousins all over. "you aren't none of you much to boast," she said; "i'd wather have the animals." then she turned her back and gazed around her at the view. meanwhile, orion was being helped out of the carriage. he was also very sturdy and independent, and felt half inclined to follow diana's spirited example; but mrs. dolman would not permit this. she took the youngest of the little heathen gods firmly into her arms and deposited him on the gravel. "there you are, little boy," she said, giving him a slight shake as she did so, "and i do trust you will behave yourself." orion ran up to diana and took hold of her hand. diana took no notice of him, but continued to admire the view. mrs. dolman's face was quite red. she was very tired after her long journey, and she had found the little delaneys not the easiest traveling companions in the world. it is true that iris had been as good as possible, but between whiles she had cried a good deal, and her sad face, and somewhat reproachful expression, seemed to hurt mrs. dolman even more than the really obstreperous, and at times violent, behavior of her brothers and sister; for the fact is, the other three little delaneys had not yet got the slightest idea into their heads that they were bound to obey mrs. dolman. far from this; a sudden and extreme naughtiness had taken possession of their unruly little hearts. even iris' gentle words had no effect on them. they hated aunt jane; considering her, in their heart of hearts, extremely cruel and unworthy of affection. had she not parted them at one blow from their father, their home, their lovely garden, even from poor fortune, who was better than nobody, and, above all, from their darling, precious pets? they had none of them been broken-hearted children when their mother died, but they all, even iris, felt broken-hearted now. but this fact did not prevent their being extremely naughty and rebellious, and when diana felt orion's hand clutching hers, she whispered to him in an indignant voice: "come 'long, 'rion, let's have a wun--my legs is so stiff; and, orion, i has got the box, and we can open it when we is away by our own two selves." "what are you talking about, little children?" questioned mary dolman. "you mean to run away all by yourselves. but you must do nothing of the sort. this is not the hour for running about in the open air. there is supper ready for us all in the dining room, but i think mamma would like you first to go upstairs and have your faces and hands washed. if you will follow me, i'll show you where to go." "thank you, mary," said mrs. dolman, who had overheard her daughter. "ann, my dear, what are you staring at me for? go and help your cousins. now, you four children, follow lucy and ann to your rooms, where my servant, simpson, will attend upon you. go, children, at once. if there is any naughtiness, remember i shall have to punish you severely." "what do she mean by that?" said diana, fixing her eyes on mary's face. "i never did like aunts. is she your aunt?" "no; she is my mother," said mary, "and you must not speak in that tone of mamma." "i'll speak in any tone i p'ease," replied diana. "ise not going to be fwightened. but what do she mean by punish? who will she punish?" "she will punish you," replied mary. "were you never punished?" "never. i don't know what it means. is it nasty?" "oh, isn't it!" said philip, who came up at that moment. "what a lark it will be to see you punished, diana. i wonder when your first time will come? i expect rather soon. you had best obey mamma, i can tell you, and papa too; if you don't, you'll just catch it hot." "boo!" replied diana, "you is a silly boy." then she turned to mary. "i is awfu' tired and s'eepy," she said. "i'd like to go stwaight to bed." "you must have supper first. did you not hear mamma say so? now, come along with me." mary held out her hand, which diana, after a momentary hesitation, condescended to take. meanwhile, ann had gone up to iris. "would you not like me to show you your room, cousin?" she said; "and please, i want to say how very glad i am that you have come." a faint tinge of delicate color came into iris' sweet little face at these words--they were the first attempt at a real welcome she had received. she held out her hand to ann without a word, and the delaneys and dolmans entered the cheerful rectory in a body. the four little strangers, accompanied by mary and ann, went upstairs, where simpson was waiting for them. simpson was feeling very cross at the arrival of four additional children, but when she saw diana's tired face, and the tears on iris' pale cheeks, and the defiant, and yet baby look in orion's bright eyes, something came over her which she could not quite account for, and she suddenly became kind and agreeable. "come, my dears," she said; "why, you must all be dead tired, you poor little mites. come now--come in here. and what are your names?" "i am iris," replied the eldest little girl in a sweet voice. "iris!" repeated simpson; "and what's your name, young master?" "apollo," answered the little boy, flinging back his dark head and fixing his handsome eyes upon the woman. "my word! that's a queer sort of name--outlandish, i call it!" ejaculated simpson. "and now, missy, i expect you are called baby?" "no, i aren't," replied diana. "i is the gweat diana; i has got a bow and arrow, and i'll shoot you if you is not kind." "oh, lor'! now, missy, you would not be so cruel as that?" "yes, i would," replied diana. "see this box in my hand? it's an awfu' pwecious box--it has got spiders in it and two beetles. may i put the poor darlin's loose in my room?" now, if simpson had a horror, it was of spiders and beetles. "you keep that box shut, miss," she said, "for if you dare to open it in your bedroom i'll just go straight down and tell my mistress." "and then you'll get punished, diana," said mary, in her most annoying voice. "is you a cousin?" asked diana, by way of reply. "certainly i am." mary opened her round eyes in some astonishment. "is you my cousin?" "yes; i am your first cousin." "first cousin," repeated diana. she flung off her hat and threw it on the floor. "orion," she said, turning to her little brother, "you take good care of our pwecious box. and what is you?" she continued, raising her eyes to simpson's face. "well, my dear, at the present moment i am the nurse, and ready to wash you and look after you, and make you comfortable." "then i wishes to say something," remarked diana. "i wishes to say it bold, and i wishes to say it soon. i hate cousins, more 'specially first, and i hate nurses. there, now, you can go downstairs, first cousin, and tell aunt, and she can punish me. i don't care. you can tell your mamma just what you p'ease." diana strutted across the room, deposited her box on the washhand-stand, and then, turning round once again, began to view the company. what might have happened at that moment there is no saying, if iris had not come to the rescue. "please don't mind her," she said; "she is only a very little child and she has gone through great trouble, for our mother--our own mother--she has left us, you know. diana does not really mean to be rude. please let me talk to her. di, darling, come to me, come to iris." it was impossible to resist iris when she spoke in that tone, and when she looked at diana with her speaking dark eyes, and that gentle, beautiful expression on her little face, it seemed to diana then as if the hard journey, and the pain of all the partings had never taken place at all. she rushed up to her sister, clasped her fat arms round her neck, and began to sob. "poor little thing, she is dreadfully tired!" said iris. "if i might have a little bread and milk to give her, and then if she might be put to bed, i know she would fall asleep immediately and be quite herself in the morning." "indeed, miss, i think you are right," said simpson, who could not help gazing at iris with admiration. "i see you are a very kind little sister, and of course no one ought to mind the words of a mere baby. i'll take it upon me, miss, to do what you suggest, even though my missus may be angry. oh, my word! there's the supper gong. you must go down at once, miss iris, you really must. i cannot answer for two of you being absent, but i will speak to mrs. dolman afterwards, and tell her that i just put miss diana straight to bed, for she was much too sleepy to go downstairs again." "but i won't let you leave me, iris," almost screamed diana, tightening her arms round her sister's neck. "please let me stay here," said iris. "i do not really want any supper, and i know how to manage her. she has gone through a great deal." "well, miss, do you dare?" "oh, i dare anything! i am quite positive certain aunt jane won't mind when i tell her my own self what i have done." "i will tell mamma; she shan't mind," said little ann suddenly. iris looked up at her and smiled--ann smiled back at her. the hearts of the two little cousins were knit together in real love from that moment. the gong sounded again downstairs, and this time in a distinctly angry manner. the three dolman girls and the two delaney boys had to hurry off as fast as they could, and then iris undressed diana and put her into her snug little white bed. "i is drefful unhappy, iris," said diana, as she laid her head on her pillow. "but you won't be in the morning, diana. you'll feel brave and strong and bright in the morning, just like the dear name mother gave you." "oh, p'ease, p'ease, will you see that the spiders and beetles has somethin' to eat? they is so far from home, poor darlin's, and they has come a drefful long journey, and they may be deaded in the morning if nothing's not done for 'em. p'ease see to 'em; won't you, iris?" "yes," replied iris. "very well. now, i'll say my pwayers and go stwaight off to s'eep. p'ease, god, b'ess di, make her good girl. amen. good-night, iris." the next moment the little girl had gone away into the world of happy slumber and innocent dreams. she knew nothing whatever about what poor iris, to her dismay, soon discovered, namely, that simpson had marched off with the box which contained the spiders and beetles. that box, with its contents, was never found again. it was the straw too much, as simpson expressed it afterwards. chapter ix. the punishment chamber. the next morning matters began by being a little better, and might have gone on being so but for diana. the four little delaneys had slept well, and were refreshed; and as the sun was shining brightly, and there was a pleasant breeze blowing, mrs. dolman decided that all the nine children might have a holiday in order to get acquainted with one another. it did not seem so very dreadful to iris and apollo to have cousins to walk about with and talk to. philip and conrad, too, were fairly kind to little orion; they took him round to see their gardens and their several pets. life was certainly prim at the rectory compared to what it had been at the manor; but children will be children all the world over, and when there is a bright sun in the heavens, and flowers grow at their feet, and a gentle breeze is blowing, it is almost impossible to be all sulks and tears and misery. even diana was interested in what was going on. she had never been away from home before, and she found it pleasant to watch the dolman children. as she expressed it, in her sturdy fashion, she did not think much of any of them, but still it amused her to hear them speak, and to take ann's hand and allow her to lead her round the garden. ann was extremely kind to her, but she only received a very qualified measure of approval from the saucy little miss. lucy and mary she could not bear, but as ann showed her all her treasures, and as ann happened also to be very fond of animals, diana began to chatter, and presently became almost confidential. suddenly, however, in the midst of quite a merry game of play, the little girl was heard to utter a shout. "where is my darlin's that i brought from home?" she cried; "my three spiders and my four beetles? i have not given none of 'em their bwekfus. i must wun and fetch 'em. iris promised to see to 'em last night, so i know they isn't deaded; but i must go this very instant minute to feed 'em, 'cos, of course, they wants their bwekfus, poor dears. if you like i'll show 'em to you, ann; you can see 'em while they is eating." "please, diana, don't go!" called out ann; but diana did not hear her. putting wings to her sturdy little feet, she sped across the lawn, ran helter-skelter into the house, and up to the room where she had slept. the room was empty, the windows were wide open, the little bed was neatly made; there was not a sign of the precious box to be discovered anywhere. "where is that howid old nurse?" called diana aloud. "she must know where my pets is. oh, they must be desp'te hungry, poor darlin's. i say, nurse, where is 'oo? nurse, come 'long, you howid old thing!" simpson, who happened to be in the day-nursery not far away, heard diana's imperious little cry. the under-nurse was also standing in the room. "mrs. simpson," she said, "i hear one of the strange little ladies calling out for you." "well, and so do i hear her," answered mrs. simpson, with a toss of her head; "but she must learn to speak respectful before i take any notice. i fully expect it's that pert little miss diana. they say she is called after one of the heathen gods; no wonder she is so fiery and--" but at that moment the fierce little face, the jet-black head and sparkling eyes were seen peeping round the nursery door. "there you is, old simpson; that's wight," said diana, dancing up to her. "now, p'ease, tell me where you put my box." "what box, miss? i'll thank you, miss diana, not to call me old simpson. my name is mrs. simpson." "i only call you what you is," said diana. "you is old, your hair is gway; you is awfu' old, i 'spect. now, where is my box? where did you put it, old--i mean, mrs. simpson?" "what box, miss?" said simpson, beginning to temporize, for she really was afraid of the burst of wrath which diana might give way to when she learned the truth. "you _is_ a stupid," said diana. "it's the box what holds my pwecious beetles and spiders. i want to feed 'em. i'm just going to catch flies for my spiders. i know how to catch 'em quite well; and my dear little bettles, too, must be fed on bits of sugar. where did you put the box? the woom i s'ept in is kite tidy. where is the box? speak, can't you?" "well, then, miss diana, i must just tell you the simple truth. we can't have no messing with horrid vermin in this house. i would not stay here for an hour if i thought those odious beetles and spiders were anywhere about." "well, then, you can go," said diana; "nobody wants you to stay; you is of no cons'kence. i want my darlin' pets, my little home things that comed from the lovely garden; my spiders and my dear beetles. where did you put 'em?" "the fact is, miss diana, you want a right good talking to," said simpson. "well, then, this is the truth. i have put 'em away." "away! where?" "they are gone, miss; you'll never find 'em again." "gone!" cried diana, her face turning pale. "gone! did iris let you take 'em away?" "your sister knew nothing about it, miss. i took the box last night and threw it into the dust-hole. i hope the vermin inside are dead by now--horrid, odious, disgusting things!" "vermin!" cried diana. her great eyes leaped, a ray of pure fire seemed to dart from them. she looked for a moment as if she meant to strike simpson, but then, thinking better of it, she turned and rushed like a little fury from the room. downstairs, with her heart choking, her breath coming fast, her whole little body palpitating with the most frantic passion, she ran. the first person she happened to meet was her uncle, mr. dolman. he was coming sleepily in from the garden, for the day was getting intensely hot. he meant to go to his study to begin to write his sermon for next sunday. he did not feel at all inclined to write his sermon, but as it had to be got through somehow, he thought he would devote an hour, or perhaps an hour and a half, to its composition this morning. when he saw diana, however, rushing madly through the hall, with her eyes shining, her face white, and her whole little body quivering with excitement, he could not help exclaiming under his breath at her remarkable beauty. "what a handsome little spitfire!" he said aloud. "spitfire, indeed!" said diana; "it's you all who is spitfires; it's not me. i want to say something to you, big man." "very well, small girl," answered mr. dolman. "i am willing to listen to you. what is the matter?" this was really much more diverting than sitting down to his sermon. "i want you to have that howid old woman upstairs put in pwison. i want you to get the perlice, and have her hands tied, and have her took away to pwison. she has done a murder--she has killed my--" but here little diana's voice suddenly failed; high as her spirit was, it could not carry her any further. a sense of absolute loneliness came over her, and her passion ended in a burst of frantic weeping. and now all might have been well, for mr. dolman was a kind-hearted man, and the little child, in her black dress, would have appealed to him, and he would have taken her in his arms and comforted her after a fashion, and matters might never have been so sore and hard again for little diana, if at that moment mrs. dolman had not appeared. she was walking hastily across the hall with her district-visiting hat on. mrs. dolman's district-visiting hat was made in the shape of a very large mushroom. it was simply adorned with a band of brown ribbon, and was not either a becoming or fashionable headgear. diana, who had a strong sense of the ludicrous, stopped her tears where her aunt appeared. "what a poky old thing you is!" she said. these words enraged mrs. dolman. "william," she remarked, "what are you doing with that child? why, you have taken her in your arms; put her down this minute. diana, you are a very naughty little girl." "so is you a very naughty old woman," retorted diana. "i's not going away from this nice old man. i don't like you. i'm going to stay with you, old man, so don't put me down out of your arms. you will send for the perlice, won't you, and you'll have that howid puson upstairs put in pwison. go 'way, aunt. i never did like you, and i never will, and you is awfu' poky in that bonnet. but i'll go with you, old man." here she flung her fat arms round her uncle's neck and gave him a hug. "you are not pwetty like faver," she said, "you are kite an ugly old man, but all the same i like you;" and she kissed him, a slobbering, wet kiss on his cheek. "jane," said mr. dolman, "this poor little girl is in great trouble. i cannot in the least make out why, but perhaps you had better let her come with me into the library for a few minutes." "i'll allow nothing of the kind," answered mrs. dolman. "diana delaney is an extremely naughty little child, and i am quite determined that her spirit shall be broken. it was all very well for you to go on with your tantrums at the manor, miss, but now you are under my control, and you shall do exactly what i wish. come, diana, none of this. what, you'll kick me, will you? then i shall have you whipped." "what's whipped?" questioned diana. mrs. dolman stooped down and lifted her into her arms. she was a stout and largely-made child, and the little woman found her somewhat difficult to carry. she would not let her down, however, but conducted her across the cool hall and into a room at the further end of the passage. this room was nearly empty, matting covered the floor and a round table stood in the center, while two or three high-backed chairs, with hard seats, were placed at intervals round the walls. it was a decidedly dreary room, and rendered all the more so because the morning sun was pouring in through the dusty panes. this room was well known to all the little dolmans, for it was called the punishment chamber. in this room they had all of them shed bitter tears in their time, and some of the spirit which had been given to them at their birth was subdued and broken here, and here they learned to fear mamma, although not to respect her. they were all accustomed to this chamber, but little diana delaney had never in the whole course of her spirited six years heard of anything in the least resembling this odious and ugly apartment. "here you stay until you beg my pardon," said mrs. dolman, "and if i hear you daring to call me names again, or your uncle names, or doing anything but just behaving like a proper little christian child, i shall have you whipped. i believe in not sparing the rod, and so the child is not spoiled. what, you'll defy me, miss!" "i hate you," screamed diana, "and i want you to go to pwison too, as well as that awfu' old simpson upstairs. she has gone and murdered all my animals--she said they was vermin. oh, i hate you, aunt!" "hate me or not, you'll stay where you are until dinner-time," said mrs. dolman, and she left the room, locking the door after her. diana flew to it and kicked it furiously, but although she kicked and screamed and shouted herself hoarse, no one heard her, and no one came to the rescue. at last, worn out with her frantic grief, she threw herself down in the middle of the floor and, babylike, forgot her sorrows in profound slumber. the rest of the children were having a fairly happy morning, and iris, who was trying to make the best of things, did not miss her little sister until the preparation gong for dinner sounded. the moment its sonorous notes were heard pealing over the rectory garden, little ann got up soberly, and lucy and mary also rose to their feet. "that is the first gong, iris," said ann; "we must go in to clean our hands and have our hair brushed. mamma would be very angry if we were not all in the dining room when the second gong sounds. there is only five minutes between the two gongs, so we had better go and get ready at once." iris was quite ready to accompany her cousins into the house. now, for the first time, however, she missed diana. "where is di?" she said. "apollo, have you seen her?" apollo was coming up the lawn; iris ran down to meet him. "oh, there's orion with philip and conrad," said iris, "but where can di be? i thought she was with you, apollo." "i have not seen her for the greater part of the morning," replied apollo. "have you, orion?" "not i," answered orion, giving himself a little shake. "i say, phil," he continued, "is it true that you can take me fishing with you this afternoon?" "yes; but pray don't talk so loud. i'll take you, if you won't split about it." "what's 'split'?" questioned orion. "hush, you little beggar!" philip drew orion to one side and began to whisper in his ear. orion's face got very red. "oh!" he said. "well, i won't tell. what are you talking about, iris?" "i want to find diana," said iris. "i have not seen her," said orion. "i wish you would not bother me, iris. i am talking to philip. phil and i has got some secrets. very well, phil; we'll walk on in front, if you like." "yes, come along," said philip; "you can come too, conrad. now, orion, if you are not going to be a silly goose and a tell-tale, i'll--" here he dropped his voice to a whisper, and orion bent an attentive ear. iris, in some bewilderment, turned to her girl cousins. "i must find diana," she said. "she may be in the house," said ann. "perhaps she has gone to the nurseries--perhaps she is with simpson." the whole party entered the house, which was very cool and pleasant in contrast to the hot outside world. they met mr. dolman striding across the hall. "you had better be quick, children," he called out. "mamma won't be pleased unless you are all waiting and ready to sit down to table when the second gong sounds." "oh, please, uncle william!" said iris, "do you happen to know where diana is?" "little diana with the spirited black eyes?" questioned mr. dolman. "yes; do you know anything about her?" he pushed his spectacles halfway up on his broad, bald forehead. "i am afraid little diana has been very naughty," he said; "but, pray don't say that i mentioned it. you had better question your aunt, my dear. no, there is no use asking me. i vow, once for all, that i am not going to interfere with you children--particularly with you little delaneys. i only know that diana has been naughty. ask your aunt--ask your aunt, my dear." "iris, do pray come upstairs," called out mary; "we'll get into the most dreadful scrape if we are late. mamma is so terribly particular." "oh, there is aunt jane!" said iris, with a sigh of relief. "aunt jane, please," she continued, running up to her aunt as she spoke, "i can't find diana anywhere. do you happen to know where she is?" "i am afraid you won't find diana, iris," answered mrs. dolman, "for the simple reason that she has been a very impertinent, naughty little girl, and i have been obliged to lock her up." "you were obliged to lock her up?" said iris, her face turning pale. she gave mrs. dolman a look which reminded that lady of her brother. now, the little delaneys' father could give very piercing glances out of his dark eyes when he chose, and mrs. dolman had been known, in her early days, to quail before them. for the same inexplicable reason she quailed now before the look in iris' brown eyes. "please take me at once to my sister," said the little girl, with dignity. mrs. dolman hesitated for a moment. "very well, iris, on this occasion i will take you," she said. "but please first understand that you four children have got to bend your wills to mine; and when you are naughty,--although i don't expect you will ever be naughty, iris,--i trust you, at least, will be an example to the others,--but when any of you are naughty you will be most certainly punished. i have brought you here with the intention of disciplining you and making you good children." "then," said iris, very slowly, "do you really think, aunt jane, that when mother was alive we were bad children?" "i have nothing to say on that point," answered mrs. dolman. she led iris across the cool hall, and, taking a key out of her pocket, opened the door of the punishment chamber. she threw it wide open, and there, in the center of the matting, lay diana, curled up like a little dog, very sound asleep. "much she cares," said mrs. dolman. "oh, aunt jane!" said iris, tears springing to her eyes, "how could you be cruel to her, and she is not long without mother, you know--how could you be cruel to her, aunt jane?" "you are not to dare to speak to me in that tone, iris," said aunt jane. but at that moment the noise, or perhaps it was the draught of fresh air, caused diana to stir in her sleep. she raised her head and looked around her. the first person her eyes met was iris. "so you has come at last," she said. "i don't think much of you for a mother. you made a lot of pwomises, and that's all you care. has that ugly old woman been sent to pwison? there's my darlin' pets gone and got deaded, and she deaded 'em. has she been put in pwison for murder? oh, there you is, too, old aunt jane! well, i is not going to obey you, so there! now you know the twuf. i is diana, the gweat diana. i isn't going to obey nobody!" "iris," said mrs. dolman, "will you speak to this extremely naughty little girl? if she will not repent and beg my pardon she shall have no dinner. i will send her in some bread and water; and here she shall stay until her naughty little spirit is broken." mrs. dolman left the room as she spoke, and iris found herself alone with her sister. "you isn't much of a mother," repeated diana. she went over to the window, and stood with her back to iris. her little bosom was heaving up and down; she felt very forlorn, but still she hugged her misery to her as a cloak. iris gazed at her in perplexity. "di," she said, "i never saw you like this before. what are you turning away from me for? come to me, di; do come to me." diana's little breast heaved more than ever, tears came into her eyes, but she blinked them furiously away. "you can come to me, if you want; i shan't come to you. you isn't much of a mother," she repeated. "but i did not know you were in trouble, darling. do, do come to your own iris. do tell me what is the matter." "oh, iris!" sobbed diana. the first kind note utterly melted her little heart; she rushed to her sister, flung herself upon her, and sobbed as if she would never stop crying. "we can't stay in this howid place, iris," she said; "all my darlin's has gone and got deaded. that howid old woman upstairs said they was wermin. she has killed 'em all. i can't stay here; i won't stay here. take me back to the beautiful garden. do, iris; do. i'se just so mis'ble." iris sat down on one of the hard-backed chairs. "look here, di," she said, "i have no time now to talk things over with you. of course, everything is altered, and our lives are completely changed. when mother was dying, when i last saw her, she told me that i must expect this. she said she knew that, when she went away to the angels, we four children would have to go out into the world and fight our battles. she said that everybody in the world has got a battle to fight, and even little children have to fight theirs. she said, too, that if we were brave and the kind of children she wants us to be, we would follow the names she gave us and conquer our enemies. now, di, you are called after diana, the great diana, who was supposed to be a sort of goddess. do you think she would have given in? don't you think she would have been brave?" "yes, course," said the little nineteenth-century diana. "she would have shotted people down dead with her bow and arrows--i know kite well she was a bwave sort of a lady. all wight, iris, i'll copy her if you wishes." "indeed i do wish, darling. i think it would be splendid of you." "she was a very bwave lady," repeated diana. "she had her bow and her arrows; she was a gweat huntwess, and she shotted people. i don't mind copying her one little bit." diana dried away her tears and looked fixedly at her sister. "then you really mean to be good and brave, di?" "certain sure, iris." "and you won't call aunt jane any more names?" "i won't call her names--names don't si'nify, names don't kill people." "and you'll go and beg her pardon now?" "what's that?" "you'll say you are sorry that you called her names." "would she let me out of this woom, then? and could i do just what i liked my own self?" "i expect so; i expect she is really sorry that she had to be hard on you to-day; but you see she has got a different way of bringing up children from our own mother." "please, iris, we won't talk much of our own mother--it makes me lumpy in the trof," said diana, with a little gulp. "i'll beg her pardon, if it pleases her. i don't care--what's words? i'll go at once, and, iris, mind me that i'm like diana. she was a bwave lady and she shotted lots of people." "well, then, come along, di; you'll be allowed to come to dinner if you beg aunt jane's pardon." di gave her hand to iris, who took her upstairs. here iris washed her little sister's face and hands and brushed out her thick black hair, and kissed her on her rosebud lips, and then said: "there is nothing i would not do, di, to be a real little mother to you." "all wight," answered diana; "you just mind me now and then that i is called after the bwave lady what lived long, long ago. is that the second gong? i'se desp'ate hungy. let's wun downstairs, p'ease, iris." diana entered the dining room with her face all aglow with smiles, the rich color back again in her cheeks, and her black eyes dancing. even mr. dolman gave a gasp of relief when he saw her. even mrs. dolman felt a slight degree of satisfaction. she did not intend to be hard on the children--in her heart of hearts she was quite resolved to make them not only good, but also happy. "well, my dear little girl," she said, drawing diana to her side, "and so you are sorry for what you said?" "awfu' sossy," answered diana, in a cheerful voice. "then you beg my pardon, and you won't be naughty again?" "i begs yous pardon, aunt jane," said diana. she looked very attentively up and down her relation's figure as she spoke. "poor aunt jane, she's awfu' stout," murmured diana, under her breath. "i must get a good sharp arrow--oh, yes! words is nothing." mrs. dolman drew out a chair near herself. "you shall sit near me, diana, and i will help you to your dinner," she said. "i hope in future you will really try to be a very good little girl." diana made no reply to this, but when her aunt piled her plate with nourishing and wholesome food, she began to eat with appetite. towards the end of the meal she bent over towards mrs. dolman, and said in a confiding voice: "has you got woods wound here?" "yes, my dear; there are some nice woods about a mile away." "i'd like to go there this afternoon, please, aunt jane. i has 'portant business to do in those woods." diana looked round the table very solemnly as she said these last words. philip could not help laughing. "hush, philip! i won't have diana laughed at," said mrs. dolman, who for some reason was now inclined to be specially kind to the little girl. "if you would really like to spend the afternoon in the woods, diana, i see nothing against it," she remarked. "you are all having a holiday, and as to-morrow lessons will of course be resumed, i do not see why your wish should not be gratified. miss ramsay, you will of course accompany the children, and, lucy, my dear, you can have the pony chaise, if you promise to be very careful. you can take turns to sit in it, children. and what do you say to asking cook to put up a few bottles of milk and some cake and bread and butter--then you need not return home to tea?" "that would be delightful, mamma," said lucy, in her prim voice. "thank you, mamma," said mary. "french, my dears; french!" said miss ramsay. "as it is a holiday, miss ramsay, the children are allowed to tender their thanks to me in the english tongue," said mrs. dolman. miss ramsay bowed and slightly colored. "is you going with us?" asked diana, fixing her dark eyes full upon the governess' face. "yes, diana; your aunt wishes it." "we don't want no g'own-ups." "hush, diana! you must not begin to be rude again," said mrs. dolman. "miss ramsay certainly goes with you, please understand." "i underland--thank you, aunt jane," said diana. she looked solemnly down at her empty plate. her whole little mind was full of her namesake--the great diana of long ago. she wondered if in the deep shade of the woods she might find a bow strong enough to injure her enemies. chapter x. bow and arrow. nothing interfered with the excursion to the pleasant woods near super-ashton rectory. the children all found themselves there soon after four o'clock on this lovely summer afternoon. they could sit under the shade of the beautiful trees, or run about and play to their hearts' content. miss ramsay was a very severe governess during school hours, but when there was a holiday she was as lax as she was particular on other occasions. this afternoon she took a novel out of her pocket, seated herself with her back to a great overspreading elm tree, and prepared to enjoy herself. lucy, mary, and ann surrounded iris; apollo marched away by himself, and philip and conrad mysteriously disappeared with little orion. diana thus found herself alone. for a time she was contented to lie stretched out flat on the grass playing soldiers, and watching the tricks of a snow-white rabbit who ran in and out of his hole close by. presently, however, she grew tired of this solitary entertainment, and sprang to her feet, looking eagerly around her. "punishment is a very good thing," she said to herself. "i's punished, and i's lot better. it's now aunt jane's turn to be punished, and it's simpson's turn to be punished--it'll do them heaps of good. first time i's only going to punish 'em, i isn't going to kill 'em down dead, but i's going to pwick 'em. i is diana, and mother said i was to live just like the gweat diana what lived long, long, _long_ ago." diana began to trot eagerly up and down under the shade of the tall forest trees. she looked about her to right and left, and presently was fortunate enough to secure a pliant bough of a tree which was lying on the ground. having discovered this treasure, she sat down contentedly and began to pull off the leaves and to strip the bark. when she had got the long, supple bough quite bare, she whipped some string out of her pocket, and converted it into the semblance of a bow. it was certainly by no means a perfect bow, but it was a bow after a fashion. the bow being made, the arrow must now be secured. diana could not possibly manage an arrow without a knife, and she was not allowed to keep a knife of her own. both bow and arrow must be a secret, for if anyone saw her with them it might enter into the head of that person not to consider it quite proper for her to punish aunt jane. "and aunt jane must be punished," muttered diana. "i must make an arrow, and i must pwick her with it. my bow is weally beautiful--it is a little crooked, but what do that matter? i could shoot my arrow now and pwick the twees, if only i could get one made. oh, here's a darlin' little stick--it would make a lovely arrow, if i had a knife to sharpen the point with. now, i do wonder what sort of a woman that miss wamsay is." diana fixed her coal-black eyes on the lady. "she looks sort of gentle now she's weading," whispered the little girl to herself. "she looked howid this morning in the schoolroom, but she looks sort of gentle now. i even seed her smile a minute back, and i should not be a bit s'prised if she didn't hate aunt jane too. i know what i'll do; i'll just go and ask her--there is nothing in all the world like being plain-spoke. if miss wamsay hates aunt jane, why, course, she'll help me to sharpen my arrow, when i tell her it is to give aunt jane a little pwick." accordingly diana approached miss ramsay's side, and, as the governess did not look up, she flung herself on the grass near by, uttering a deep sigh as she did so. but miss ramsay was intent on her book, and did not take the least notice of diana's deep-drawn breath. the little girl fidgeted, and tried further measures. she came close up to the governess, and, stretching out one of her fat hands, laid it on one of miss ramsay's. "don't touch me, my dear," said the lady. "you are much too hot, and your hand is very dirty." "i's sossy for that," said diana. "i had to touch you 'cos you wouldn't look up. i has something most 'portant to talk over." "have you indeed?" replied miss ramsay. she closed her book. the part she was reading was not specially interesting, and she could not help being amused with such a very curious specimen of the genus child as diana delaney. "well, little girl, and what is it?" she asked. "i 'spects," said diana, looking very solemnly into her face, "that you and me, we has both got the same enemies." "the same enemies! my dear child, what do you mean?" asked miss ramsay. "i 'spects i's wight," said diana, tossing her black head. "i's not often wrong. i wead your thoughts--i think that you has a desp'ate hate, down deep in your heart, to aunt jane." "good gracious!" cried the governess, "what does the child mean? why should i hate mrs. dolman?" "but why should not you?--that's the point," said diana. "well, i don't," said miss ramsay. diana looked intently at her. slowly, but surely, her big black eyes filled with tears; the tears rolled down her cheeks; she did not attempt to wipe them away. "what is the matter with you, you queer little creature?" said miss ramsay. "what in the world are you crying about?" "i is so bitter dis'pointed," repeated diana. "what, because i don't hate your aunt jane?" "i is bitter dis-pointed," repeated diana. "i thought, course, you hated her, 'cos i saw her look at you so smart like, and order you to be k'ick this morning, and i thought, 'miss wamsay don't like that, and course miss wamsay hates her, and if miss wamsay hates her, well, she'll help me, 'cos i hates her awful.'" "but do you know that all this is very wrong?" said miss ramsay. "w'ong don't matter," answered diana, sweeping her hand in a certain direction, as if she were pushing wrong quite out of sight. "i hate her, and i want to punish her. you ought to hate her, 'cos she told you to be k'ick, and she looked at you with a kind of a fwown. won't you twy and begin? do, p'ease." "i really never heard anything like this before in the whole course of my life," said miss ramsay. "mrs. dolman did warn me to be prepared for much, but i never heard a christian child speak in the way you are doing." "i isn't a chwistian child," said diana. "i is a heathen. did you never hear of diana what lived long, long ago?--the beautiful, bwave lady that shotted peoples whenever she p'eased with her bow and arrows?" "do you mean the heathen goddess?" said miss ramsay. "i don't know what you call her, but i is named after her, and i mean to be like her. my beautiful mother said i was to be like her, and i'm going to twy. see, now, here is the bow"--she held up the crooked bow as she spoke--"and i only want the arrow. will you help me to make the arrow? i thought--oh, i did think--that if you hated aunt jane you would help me to make the arrow. here's the stick, and if you have a knife in your pocket you can just sharpen it, and it will make the most perfect arrow in all the world. i'll love you then. i'll help you always. i'll do my lessons if you ask me, and i'll twy to be good to you; 'cos you and me we'll both have our enemies, and p'w'aps, if i'm not stwong enough to use the bow, p'w'aps you could use it, and we might go about together and sting our enemies, and be weal fwiends. will you twy? will you make me the little arrow, p'ease, p'ease?" "and what are you going to do with the arrow when it is made?" asked miss ramsay. "i happen," she continued, without waiting for diana's reply, "to have a knife in my pocket, and i don't mind sharpening that piece of wood for you. but bows and arrows are dangerous weapons for little girls like you." "course they is dangerous," said diana. "what would be the use of 'em, if they wasn't? they is to pwick our enemies and p'w'aps kill 'em." "but look here, diana, what do you want this special bow and arrow for?" "i want to have aunt jane dolman and simpson shotted. i'll tell you why i want 'em both to be shotted--'cos simpson killed my spiders and beetles, and aunt jane dolman is a poky old thing and she shut me up in a punishment woom. now wouldn't you like to help me--and then we'll both have deaded our enemies, and we'll be as happy as the day is long." miss ramsay was so astounded at diana's remarks that she slowly rose from her seat and stared for nearly half a minute at the little girl. "well," she said at last, "i have seen in my lifetime all sorts of children. i have taught little girls and boys since i was eighteen years of age. i have seen good children and naughty children, and clever children, and stupid children, but i have never met anyone like you, little diana delaney. do you really know what you are saying? do you know that you are a very, very wicked little girl?" "are i?" said diana. "well, then, i like being a wicked little girl. i thought p'w'aps you would help me; but it don't matter, not one bit." before miss ramsay could say another word diana had turned abruptly and flown, as if on the wings of the wind, right down through the wood. the governess watched the little figure disappearing between the oaks and elms until at last it quite vanished from view. she felt a momentary inclination to go after the child, but her book was interesting, and her seat under the overhanging elm extremely comfortable. and this was a holiday, and she worked hard enough, poor thing, on working days. and, after all, diana was nothing but a silly little child, and didn't mean half she said. "it would be folly to take the least notice of her remarks," thought the governess. "i'll just go on treating her like the others. i expect i shall have a good deal of work breaking in that interesting little quartette, for, after all, if my salary is to be raised, i may as well stay at the rectory as anywhere else. the house is comfortable, and i have got used to mrs. dolman's queer ways by this time." accordingly miss ramsay reseated herself, and again took up her novel. she turned the leaves, and soon got into a most interesting part of the volume. lost in the sorrows of her hero and heroine, she forgot all about diana delaney and her bow and arrow. meanwhile, diana, walking rapidly away by herself, was reflecting hard. "miss wamsay's a poor sort," she thought. "i aren't going to twouble 'bout anyone like her, but i must get that arrow made. the bow is beautiful, but i can't do nothing 'cos i hasn't got an arrow." at this moment, to her great delight, she saw apollo coming to meet her. "there you is!" she shouted. "what do you want with me?" asked apollo. "look at my bow, 'pollo! aren't it beautiful? aren't i just like the weal diana now?" "did you make this bow all by yourself?" asked apollo. "yes; why shouldn't i?" "well, it's awfully crooked." "is it?" said diana; "i thought it was beautiful. can you stwaighten it for me a little bit, 'pollo?" "i think i can make you a better bow than this," answered apollo. "oh, can you? what a darlin' you is! and will you cut an arrow for me, and will you make it very sharp? will you make it awfu' sharp? the kind that would pwick deep, you know, that would cut into things and be like the arrow that the gweat diana used." apollo was finding his afternoon somewhat dull. he had made no friends as yet with the little dolman children. orion had disappeared with both the boys; iris was with ann, lucy, and mary; he had been thrown for the last hour completely on his own resources. the sight, therefore, of diana, with her flushed face and bright eyes and spirited manner, quite cheered the little fellow. he and diana had often been chums, and he thought it would be rather nice to be chummy with his little sister to-day. "i may as well help you," he said, "but, of course, di, you can't expect me to do this sort of thing often. i shall most likely be very soon going to school, and then i'll be with fellows, you know." "what's fellows?" asked diana. "oh, boys! of course, when i get with boys, you can't expect me to be much with you." "all wight," answered diana. "i hope you won't get with no fellows this afternoon, 'cos you is useful to me. just sit down where you is, and help me to make a bow and arrow." apollo instantly seated himself on the grass, and diana threw herself on her face and hands by his side. she raised herself on her elbows and fixed her bright black eyes on her brother's face. she stared very hard at him, and he stared back at her. "well," she said, "isn't you going to begin?" "yes," he replied; "but what do you want the bow and arrow for?" "to get my enemies shotted." "your enemies? what folly this is, di. you have not got any enemies." "haven't i? i know better. i won't talk to you about it, 'pollo." "all right," replied apollo; "you must tell me, or i won't help you." "there, now!" said diana, "you's got a howid fwown between your bwows. i don't like it; you's going to be obs'nate. i don't like obs'nate boys." "i mean what i say," replied apollo. "i know you of old, you monkey. you are up to mischief, and i insist upon hearing all about it." diana gazed at him solemnly. "does you like aunt jane?" she said, after a pause. "i can't say that i do," replied apollo. "does you like that old thing in the nursery--simpson, they calls her?" "i can't say that i do," replied the boy again. "they is sort of enemies of yours, isn't they?" asked diana. "oh! i don't know that i go as far as that," replied apollo. "but if aunt jane makes you do howid lessons all day, and if simpson is always fussing you and getting you to wash your face and hands, and if you can't never go with _fellows_, and if you is kept in--and if--and if--" "oh! don't begin all that, di," said apollo. "where is the use of making the worst of things?" "well, i want to make the best of things," said diana. "i want to have our enemies shotted wight off." "do you mean to tell me," said apollo, laughing, "that you wish to shoot aunt jane and that old woman in the nursery?" "i wish to pwick 'em first time, and then, if they is naughty again, to have 'em shotted down dead. why not? mother, who is up in the heavens, called me after gweat diana, and diana always shotted her enemies." "oh, dear me, di! i think you are the queerest little thing in the world," said apollo. "but now, look here," he added, "i am older than you, and i know that what you are thinking about is very wrong. i can't make you a bow and arrow to do that sort of thing." diana looked bitterly disappointed. she could master, or she fancied she could master, aunt jane, simpson, and miss ramsay, but she knew well, from past experience, that she could not master apollo. "what is to be done?" she said. she thought for a long time. "would not you like a bow and arrow just all your own, to shoot at the twees with?" she asked at last artfully. "oh, i have no objection to that!" answered apollo. "it seems right that i should have one; does it not, di? but of course i would never do any mischief with it. why, little thing, you have been talking the most awful rot." "well, you can make a bow and arrow for your very own self," said diana. "i don't see why i shouldn't, but you'll have to promise--" "oh, i won't make pwomises!" said diana. "why should i make pwomises about your bow and arrows? i'll help you to make 'em. do let me, apollo!" apollo seemed suddenly smitten with the idea. after all, it would be fine to make a bow and arrow, and to try to shoot things in the wood. how lovely it would be if he succeeded in shooting a rabbit; he would certainly have a try. accordingly, he rose and climbed into the lower branches of an elm tree, and cut down a long, smooth young bough, and, descending again to the ground, began to peel the bark off. when this was done, diana produced some more string out of her pocket, and a very creditable bow was the result. "now, the arrow," said the little girl. "we must get some strong wood for that," said apollo, "something that won't split. i'll just walk about and look around me." he did so, and soon found a stick suitable for his purpose. he sat down again and began whittling away. very soon a fairly sharp arrow was the result. "of course it ought to be tipped," said apollo, "but we have nothing to tip it with. it is lucky that the wood is hard, and so it is really sharp. now, shall i have a few shots with it?" "please do, apollo. oh, how 'licious it all is! don't you feel just as if you was a heathen god?" "i wish i were," said apollo, throwing back his head. "oh, di, how hot it is in the wood! what wouldn't i give to be back in the dear old garden again?" "maybe we'll go soon," said diana; "maybe they won't want to keep us if--" but here she shut up her little mouth firmly. apollo was too much excited about the bow and arrows to think of diana's remarks. he stood up and began to practice shooting. "you is doing it beautiful," said diana, applauding his extremely poor efforts. "now, twy again. think that you has lived long, long ago, and that you is shotting things for our dinner." the arrow went wide of the mark, the arrow went everywhere but where it ought to. diana clapped and laughed and shouted, and apollo thought himself the finest archer in the world. "now, let me have a teeny turn," she said. "to be sure i will," he replied good-naturedly. he showed her how to place the arrow, and she made one or two valiant attempts to send it flying through the wood. "it is hard," she panted; "the arrow don't seem even to make the least little pwick. now, i want to shoot stwaight at that oak twee, or would you mind awfu', apollo, if i was to shoot at you?" "all right," replied apollo; "you may aim at my hand, if you like." he walked about a dozen yards away and held up his hand. diana made valiant efforts, and grew crimson in the face, but the arrow still went wide of the mark. chapter xi. jog'aphy. the next day lessons began with a vengeance. it was one thing for the four delaney children to work with miss stevenson at the old manor house. lessons in mother's time were rather pleasant than otherwise; as often as not they were conducted in the garden, and when the day happened to be very hot, and the little people somewhat impatient of restraint, miss stevenson gave them a certain amount of liberty; but lessons at the rectory were an altogether different matter. miss ramsay, when she awoke the next day, had seemed emphatically to have put on all her armor. during the holiday, neither orion nor diana, neither apollo nor iris, thought miss ramsay of any special account. they stared a good deal at uncle dolman, and they watched aunt jane with anxious eyes, but miss ramsay did not matter, one way or the other. the next day, however, they came to have a totally different opinion with regard to her. at breakfast, on the following morning, whenever diana opened her rosebud lips, she was told that she must not speak unless she could do so in the french tongue. now, all that diana could manage to say in french was 'oui' and 'non,' nor was she very certain when to say either of these very simple words. she hated being silent, for she was a very talkative, cheery little body, except when she was angry. accordingly, the meal was a depressing one, and diana began to yawn and to look wearily out on the sunshiny garden before it was half-finished. but, of course, there was no play in the garden for any of the children that morning. immediately after breakfast they all went up to the schoolroom. now, the schoolroom was a very pleasant room, nicely and suitably furnished, but in summer it was hot, and on very sunshiny days it was painfully hot; its single large bay window faced due south, and the sun poured in relentlessly all during the hours of morning school. miss ramsay, seated at the head of the baize-covered table with her spectacles on, looked decidedly formidable, and each of the children gazed at their governess with anxious eyes. mary and lucy were always good little girls, but philip and conrad were as idle as boys could possibly be, and did their utmost to evade miss ramsay's endeavors to instill learning into their small heads. orion sat between his two little boy cousins, but for some reason or other orion did not look well that morning. his little face, not unlike diana's in appearance, was bloated, his eyes were heavy, he had scarcely touched his breakfast, and he earnestly, most earnestly longed to get out of the hot schoolroom. miss ramsay, when all the little people were seated round her, knocked sharply on the table with her ruler, and proceeded to make a speech. "my dear old pupils," she said, looking at the five little dolmans as she spoke, "on account of your cousins, who, i fear, are ignorant little children, i mean on this occasion to speak to you in the english tongue. i have now got nine pupils to instruct, and nine pupils are a great many for one person to teach. your mother, however, has promised that the master from the village shall come up to instruct you all in arithmetic, and your french master and your music master will, of course, attend here as usual. i trust, therefore, that by more attention on the part of my pupils i may be able to continue the heavy task which i have undertaken. what i want to impress upon you children"--here she turned abruptly to the little delaneys--"is that lessons are lessons, and play is play. during lesson-time i allow _no_ wandering thoughts, i allow no attempts at shirking your duties. the tasks i set you will be carefully chosen according to your different abilities, and i can assure you beforehand that learned they must be. if i find that they are not carefully prepared i shall punish you. by being attentive, by making the best of your time, you can easily get through the lessons appointed you, and then when they are over i hope you will thoroughly enjoy your time of play. now, all of you sit quiet. we will begin with a lesson from english history." miss ramsay then began to lecture in her usual style. she was really an excellent teacher, and iris found what she said very interesting. she began to tell about the reign of queen elizabeth, and she made that time quite live to the intelligent little girl. but apollo had not nearly come to the reign of elizabeth in his english history. he, consequently, could not follow the story, and soon began to look out of the window, and to count the flies which were buzzing in the hot sunshine on the window-panes. when miss ramsay addressed a sudden question to him he was unable to reply. she passed it on to ann, who instantly gave the correct answer. but apollo felt himself to be in his governess' black books. as this was the first morning of lessons, she was not going to be severe, and, telling the little boy to take his history away to another table, desired him to read it all carefully through. "i will question you to-morrow about what i told you to-day," she said. "now, remember, you must tell me the whole story of the spanish armada to-morrow." "but i have not gone farther than the reign of john," said apollo. "don't answer me, apollo," said miss ramsay; "you are to read this part of your history book. now, sit with your back to the others and begin." apollo shrugged his shoulders. for a short time he made an effort to read his dull history, but then once again his eyes sought the sunshine and the flies on the window panes. meanwhile diana, orion, and the two little dolman boys were in a class by themselves, busily engaged over a geography lesson. diana had not the smallest wish to become acquainted with any portion of the globe where she was not herself residing. her thoughts were all full of the bow and arrow which apollo had carefully hidden in a little dell at the entrance of the wood, on the previous night. she was wondering when she could run off to secure the prize, and when she would have an opportunity of punishing her enemies. she began to think that it would be really necessary to give miss ramsay a prick with the fatal arrow. miss ramsay was turning out to be most disagreeable. meanwhile, the heat of the room, and a curious giddy sensation in her head, caused it to sink lower and lower, until finally it rested on her book, and little diana was off in the land of dreams. a sharp tap on her shoulders roused her with a start. miss ramsay was standing over her, looking very angry. "come, diana! this will never do," she cried. "how dare you go to sleep! do you know your geography?" "p'ease, i doesn't know what jog-aphy is," said diana. "what a very naughty little girl you are! have not i been taking pains to explain it all to you? you will have to stay in the schoolroom when lessons are over for quite five minutes. now, stand up on your chair, hold your book in your hands, don't look out of the window, keep your eyes fixed on your book, and then you will soon learn what is required of you." diana obeyed this mandate with a very grave face. in about ten minutes miss ramsay called her to her side. "well, do you know your lesson?" she asked. "kite perfect," replied diana. "well, let me hear you. what is the capital of england?" "dublin bay," replied diana, with avidity. "you are a very naughty child. how can you tell me you know your lesson? see, i will ask you one more question. what is the capital of scotland?" "ireland," answered diana, in an earnest voice. miss ramsay shut the book with a bang. diana looked calmly at her. "i thought i knew it," she said. "i's sossy. i don't think i care to go on learning jog-aphy; it don't suit me." she stretched herself, gave utterance to a big yawn, and half turned her back on her teacher. "you is getting in temper," she continued, "and that isn't wight; i don't care to learn jog-aphy." what serious consequences might not have arisen at that moment it is hard to tell, had not orion caused a sudden diversion. he fell off his chair in a heap on the floor. iris sprang from her seat and ran to the rescue. "i'm drefful sick," said orion; "i think it was the lollipops and ginger-beer. please let me go to bed." "lollipops and ginger-beer!" cried miss ramsay in alarm. "what does the child mean?" chapter xii. a baby's honor. when miss ramsay repeated orion's words there was a dead silence for a full half minute in the schoolroom. had anyone noticed them, they might have observed philip and conrad turn very pale; but all eyes were directed to little orion, who was lying on the floor, pressing his hand to his stomach and moaning bitterly. "i'm drefful sick," he said; "i wish i had not taken that horrid ginger-beer." "but where did you get ginger-beer?" said miss ramsay, finding her voice at last. "get up this minute, orion, and come to me. "really," continued the good lady to herself, "there must be something uncanny in those outlandish names; i don't think i can manage these children. orion is as bad as diana, and she is the greatest handful i ever came across. "come here, orion," continued the governess, "and tell me what is the matter with your stomach." "pain," answered the little boy, "crampy pain. it's the ginger-beer. i'm drefful sick; i can't do no more lessons." "let me put him to bed," said diana; "let me go nurse him. i'll sit on his bed and talk to him. he is a very naughty boy, but i know how to manage him. come 'long, orion; come 'long wid sister di." she grasped the little boy firmly with one of her own stout little hands, and pulled him up on to his feet. "diana, you are not to interfere," said miss ramsay. "come, orion; come and explain what is the matter." "lollipops," moaned orion, "and ginger-beer. oh, i did like the lollipops, and i was so thirsty i thought i'd never leave off drinking ginger-beer." "but where did you get lollipops and ginger-beer? mrs. dolman never allows the children to take such unwholesome things. what can you mean? where did you get them?" to this question orion refused to make any reply. baby as he was, he had a confused sort of idea of honor. philip and conrad had told him that he was on no account whatever to mention the fact that they had gone away fishing on the previous afternoon, that they had visited a little shop and spent some of orion's own money. philip and conrad had no money of their own, but before he parted with the children, mr. delaney had given the two elder ones five shillings apiece, and the two younger ones half a crown, and orion's half-crown had seemed great wealth to philip and conrad, and had accordingly induced them to treat the little fellow with marked consideration. the whole of the money was now gone. how, orion had not the slightest idea. he only knew that his pockets were empty and that he felt very sick and very miserable. he shut up his little lips now and raised his eyes, with a sort of scowl in their expression, to miss ramsay's face. "where did you get the lollipops and ginger-beer?" repeated the governess. "that's my own business," said orion. "i'm drefful sick; i want to go to bed." "you are a very naughty little boy," said miss ramsay. "i think him a brick," whispered philip to conrad. "hush, for goodness' sake!" whispered back conrad. "i want to go to bed," repeated orion. "i'm drefful sick; i'm quite tired of telling you. i have got a headache and a pain in my tumtum." again he pressed his hand to his stomach and looked imploringly around him. "what's all this fuss?" here burst from diana. "why can't orion go to bed? new teacher, you has a very queer way of managing sildrens. when we was at home we went to bed when we had pains. i can't underland you, not one little bit." "come with me this moment, orion," said miss ramsay. "diana, if you speak a word except in the french tongue, you shall be kept in during all the afternoon." orion and miss ramsay left the room, and the other children stared at one another. the three dolman girls sat down to their books. philip and conrad thought it best to follow their example. iris and apollo looked wistfully from one to the other, but did not dare to speak; but diana, walking boldly over to the nearest window, amused herself by touching each fly in turn with the tip of her small fat finger. "they don't like it, poor darlin's," she said to herself, "but i don't mean to hurt 'em. i wonder now if i could get away to the wood and get hold of my bow and arrow. miss wamsay must be shotted as well as the others. it's awful what i has got to do." apollo sank dejectedly down before the account of the spanish armada, and iris, with tears slowly rising to her eyes, turned over her lesson books. at last the impulse to do something was more than she could stand, and, rising from her seat, she edged her way to the door. mary called after her in french to know what she was going to do, but iris would make no reply. she reached the door, opened it, and then ran as fast as she could to the nursery. there she found simpson putting orion to bed. the little boy was crying bitterly. "as soon as ever you lie down, master, you have got to drink off this medicine," said simpson. "i won't touch it--horrid stuff!" said orion. "but you must, sir. i'll allow no 'won'ts' in my nursery. little boys have got to do what they are told. if you make any fuss i'll just hold your nose and then you'll be obliged to open your mouth, and down the medicine will go. come, come, sir, none of those tears. you have been a very naughty little boy, and the pain is sent you as a punishment." "oh, there you are, iris!" said orion. "oh, iris! i am so glad. please be a mother to me--please put your arms round me--please kiss me, iris." iris flew to the little fellow, clasped him in her arms, and held his hot little forehead against her cheek. "simpson," she said, turning to the nurse, "i know quite well how to manage him. won't you let me do it?" "i am sure, miss iris, i'd be only too thankful," said the perplexed woman. "there's miss ramsay and my mistress in no end of a state, and master orion as obstinate as a boy can be. there's something gone wrong in this house since you four children arrived, and i really don't know how i am to stand it much longer. not that i have any special fault to find with you, miss iris, nor, indeed, for that matter, with master apollo; but it's the two younger ones. they are handfuls, and no mistake." "i like being a handfu' 'cept when i'm sick," said orion. "i don't want to be a handfu' to-day. please, iris, don't mek me take that horrid medicine." "he must take it, miss iris; he won't be better till he do," said the nurse, lifting up the glass as she spoke and stirring the contents with a spoon. "come, now, sir, be a brave boy. just open your mouth and get it down. then you'll drop asleep, and when you wake you will probably be quite well." orion pressed his lips very tightly together. "you'll take the medicine for me, orion?" said iris. "no, i can't," he moaned. "oh, but, darling! just try and think. remember you are a giant--a grand, great giant, with your girdle and your sword, and this medicine is just an enemy that you have got to conquer. here now; open your mouth and get it down. think of mother, orion. she would like you to take it." orion still kept his mouth very firmly shut, but he opened his sweet, dark eyes and looked full at his sister. "would mother really like it?" he said at last, in a whisper. "of course; it would make her ever so happy." "and will she know about it, iris?" "i think she will. maybe she is in the room with us just now." "oh, lor'! what awful talk to say to the child," murmured simpson to herself. "if i really thought mother could see, and if i really thought--" began the little boy. "yes, yes, she can see!" said iris, going on her knees and clasping both the little fellow's hands in one of hers. "she can see, she does know, and she wants her own brave giant to be a giant to the end. now, here is the enemy; open your mouth, conquer it at one gulp." "well, to be sure," whispered simpson. orion, however, did not glance at simpson. he gazed solemnly round the room as if he really saw someone; then he fixed his brown eyes on his sister's face, then he opened his mouth very wide. she instantly took the cup and held it to the little lips. orion drained off the nauseous draught and lay back, panting, on his pillow. "it was a big thing to conquer. i am a fine giant," he said, when he returned the empty cup to iris. "yes, you are a splendid old chap," she replied. at that moment mrs. dolman and miss ramsay entered the room. "has orion taken his medicine?" said mrs. dolman. "iris, my dear, what are you doing here?" "i am very sorry, aunt jane," replied iris, "but i had to come. he would never have taken his medicine but for me. i had to remind him--" "to remind him of his duty. he certainly wanted to be reminded. so he has taken the medicine. i am glad of that; but all the same, iris, you did very wrong to leave the schoolroom." "please forgive me this one time, aunt jane." "i really think iris does try to be a good child," interrupted miss ramsay. "and she certainly can manage her little brother, ma'am," said simpson, speaking for the first time. "he would not touch his medicine for me--no, not for anything i could do; but he drank it off when miss iris talked some gibberish, all about giants and belts and swords." "'tisn't gibberish," said orion, starting up from his pillow; "it's the truest thing in all the world. i am a giant, and i has got a belt and a sword. you can look up in the sky on starful nights and you can see me. 'tisn't gibberish." "well, lie down now, child, and go to sleep. i am afraid he is a bit feverish, ma'am." "no, that i aren't," said orion. "only i'm drefful sick," he added. "listen to me, orion," said mrs. dolman, seating herself on the edge of the bed and gazing very sternly at the little fellow. "i intend to wring a confession out of you." "what's to wring?" asked orion. "i am going to get you to tell me where you got the lollipops and ginger-beer." "i promised not to tell, and i aren't going to," answered orion. "but you must. i insist." "perhaps, aunt jane," said iris, "i could get him to tell. you see he is not accustomed to--not accustomed to----" her little face turned crimson. "what do you mean, iris? do you object to the way i speak to this child?" "mother never spoke to him like that," said iris. "and oh! it is so hot, and he is not well, and i think i can manage him. i may get him to tell me." "yes, i'll tell you," said orion, "'cos you'll be faithful." "well, really," said mrs. dolman, "i am absolutely perplexed. i suppose i must give in on this occasion, or that child will be really ill, and i by no means wish to have the expense of a doctor. miss ramsay, you and i had better leave that little pair together. you can remain with orion until dinner-time, iris." "thank you very much indeed, aunt jane," replied iris. that day at dinner iris looked very grave. orion was better, but was not present. mrs. dolman waited until the meal had come to an end, then she called the little girl to her side. "now, my dear iris, what is all this mystery?" she asked. "orion has told me all about it, aunt jane, but i don't think i'll tell. please don't ask me." "my dear. i insist upon knowing." "it was not his fault, aunt jane, and i am almost sure he will never do it again; he is very sorry indeed. i think he will try to be good in future." mrs. dolman was about to reply angrily, when a sudden memory came over her. she recalled words her brother had used. "i will give you the children," he had said, "but you must try to be gentle with them." she looked at iris now, and did not speak for nearly a minute. "very well," she said then; "you are a queer child, but i am inclined to trust you. only please understand that if ever there is any misconduct in the future, i shall insist on knowing everything." "i am greatly obliged to you, aunt jane. i could love you for being so kind. i will promise that orion never does anything of that sort again." the children all filed out of the dining room. they had now, according to the rule of the day, to return to the schoolroom and lie down for an hour. this part of the daily programme was intensely distasteful to the little dolmans, and certainly the delaneys did not appreciate it a bit better, but at long last the wearisome lessons were over, and the little people were free. the moment they got into the garden philip and conrad might have been seen scudding away as fast as their little feet could carry them. iris, however, had watched them disappearing. "i want to speak to the boys," she said to ann. "why?" asked ann. "please ask them to come to me, ann; i have something most particular to say to them." "i know what you mean," answered ann, turning crimson; "it was philip and conrad who got poor little orion into mischief. oh, iris! it was brave of you, and it was brave of orion not to tell. i wondered how you had the courage to defy mamma." "i did not defy her," answered iris. "but please, ann, i must speak to the boys. send them to me at once." "they are frightened, and are going to hide," said ann; "but i'll soon get them," she answered. "i know their ways." after a minute or two she returned, leading philip and conrad by the hands. "iris wants to talk to you," she said to them. "yes," said iris, "i want to say something to you by yourselves." ann disappeared. "i love iris," whispered little ann dolman to herself. "i think she is beautiful; and how brave she is! i wish i were like her." "what do you want with us, iris?" asked philip, when he found himself alone with his cousin. he raised defiant eyes, and put on an ugly little scowl. "i want to tell you, phil," said iris, "that i know everything. poor little orion would not confess, because you got him to promise not to tell; but, of course, he told me the truth. don't you think you behaved very badly indeed?" "we don't want _you_ to lecture us," said conrad. "all right," replied iris with spirit. "but please remember that i promised orion i would not tell, only so long as you make me a promise that you will not tempt him again. if ever i hear that you have led orion into mischief, i will tell everything." "i thought you looked like a tell-tale," said conrad. "no, i am not, nor is orion; you know better, both of you. now, please understand that i will not have orion made miserable nor tempted to do naughty things. aunt jane thinks you are good boys, and she thinks diana and orion very bad little children; but neither orion nor diana would do the sort of thing you both did yesterday. neither of them would think of _that_ sort of naughtiness. i call it mean." iris walked away with her head in the air. the boys gazed after her with a queer sinking of heart. chapter xiii. birch rod. orion speedily recovered from his bad fit of indigestion, and matters began to shake down a little in the schoolroom and nursery. no one meant to be unkind to the little delaneys; and although all things were changed for them, in some ways both iris and apollo were all the better for the strict and vigorous discipline they were now undergoing. iris really enjoyed her lessons, and when apollo found that he had no chance of going to school, and of being with "fellows," as he expressed it, until he had conquered certain difficult tasks which miss ramsay set him, he began, for his own sake, to apply himself to his lessons. he was a bright, clever little chap, and when he tried to understand his governess' method of teaching, he did his work fairly well. but diana and orion were much too young for the somewhat severe transplantation which had taken place in their little lives. had iris been allowed to be with them matters might not have grown quite so bad, but she was much occupied with her lessons, and the younger children spent the greater part of their time alone. philip and conrad were afraid to make any further advances to orion. in consequence, he had no companion near his own age, except diana, and diana's little heart, day by day, was growing fuller of insubordinate and angry feelings. she was not at all by nature an unforgiving little child, but the want of petting and the severe life which she was obliged to lead began to tell on her high spirits. she became defiant, and was always looking out for an opportunity to vent her wrath upon the people whom she termed her enemies. had iris only had a chance of talking to the little girl, she would soon have got to the bottom of the matter, and things might not have turned out as they did; but iris did not even sleep in the room with diana, and in her sister's presence the little girl made a valiant effort to appear as happy as usual. as a matter of fact, however, she and orion spent most of their playtime in perfecting their little scheme of revenge, and on a certain hot day matters came to a crisis. it had been much more trying than usual in the schoolroom; the sun seemed to beat in with fiercer rays; there were more flies on the window-panes, and the air seemed more charged with that terrible sleepiness which poor little diana could not quite conquer. at last she dropped so sound asleep that miss ramsay took pity on her, and told her she might go and have a run in the garden. "go into the filbert walk," said the governess; "don't on any account play where the sun is shining. you may stay out for half an hour. there is a clock just by the stables, which you can see when you come to the end of the walk; you will know then when the half-hour is out. run off now and enjoy yourself." diana scarcely wasted any time in thanking miss ramsay. she flew from the schoolroom as though she were herself a little arrow shot from a bow, she tumbled rather than walked downstairs, and with no hat over her thick, black curls, careered out wildly, shouting as she did so. the prospect of the walk and the look of the sunshine were making the little girl very happy, and she might not have thought of any special revenge had not mrs. dolman at that moment caught sight of her. mrs. dolman was coming out of the kitchen garden. she had on her invariable mushroom hat, her face was much flushed with exercise, and she was by no means in the best of humors. "diana," she said, "what are you doing? come here this minute." "no, i won't," answered diana. she backed before the good lady, dancing and skipping and flinging her fat arms over her head. "oh, it's 'licious out!" she said: "i won't come. i has only got half an hour; i hasn't any time; i won't come." mrs. dolman began to run after her, which fact excited the little girl very much. she instantly raced away, and the stout lady had to follow her, panting and puffing. "diana, you are a dreadfully naughty little girl; if i catch you up, won't i punish you!" panted mrs. dolman. "i don't care," called back diana. "you can't catch me up; you is fat; you can't wun. see, let's have a wace--let's find out who'll be at the end of the walk first. now then, one, two, three, and away! go it, aunt jane! now, then, k'ick, aunt jane; k'ick!" mrs. dolman's rage at this great impertinence made her almost speechless. she flew after diana, but would have had little or no chance of catching her, if the child had not suddenly tripped up against a stone and measured her full length on the ground. before she could rise again mrs. dolman had caught her by the shoulder, and, as a preliminary measure, began to shake her violently. "you are a bad little thing," she said. "why didn't you come to me when i called you?" "'cos i didn't want to, aunt jane." "but do you know that you have got to obey me, miss? what would your mother say?" "you isn't to dare to talk of mother to me," answered diana. "highty-tighty! i'm not to dare. do you suppose, diana, that i will allow a little child like you to defy me in my own house?" "what's defy?" asked diana. "you are defying me now; you are a very naughty little girl, and i shall punish you." "i don't care," said diana, tossing her head. "i was sent out by miss wamsay 'cos i found the schoolroom too hot and i was sleepy. i can't obey you and miss wamsay both at the same time, can i? i did not come to you 'cos i don't like you." "that's a pretty thing to say to your own aunt. come, miss, i shall punish you immediately." "oh, you's going to lock me up in the punishment woom. i don't care one bit for that," said diana. "i'll just lie on the floor and curl up like a puppy and go to s'eep. i dweam beautiful when i s'eep. i dweam that you is shotted, and that i is back again in the dear old garden at home with all the pets; and that rub-a-dub is alive again. i dweam that you is shotted down dead, and you can do no more harm, and----" but diana could not proceed any further. mrs. dolman, in her wild indignation, had lifted her in her arms, clapped her hand over her mouth, and carried her bodily into the study, where mr. dolman was preparing his sermon. "william," said his wife, "i am really very sorry to disturb you, but i must ask you to come to my assistance." "in what way, jane?" he said. he pushed his spectacles, as his invariable habit was, high up on the middle of his forehead, and looked from his wife to diana, and from diana back again to his wife. "hi, diana! is that you? why, what is the matter, little one?" he said. "you are not to speak to this very naughty little girl," said mrs. dolman. "i am sorry to trouble you, william, but matters have come to a crisis, and if you don't support your wife on this occasion, i really do not know what will happen." "but, my dear jane, do you mean to say that little diana----" "little diana!" repeated mrs. dolman. "she is quite a monster, i can tell you--a monster of ingratitude, wickedness, and rudeness, and i don't see how we can keep her any longer with our own children." "but i am afraid, my dear wife, we cannot get david delaney back now; he must have reached the himalayas by this time." "poor fellow!" said mrs. dolman, "i pity him for being the father of such a very bad little girl." "i aren't bad," cried diana. "if you say any more, naughty woman, i'll slap 'oo." mrs. dolman thought it best to let diana slide down on the floor. the moment the little girl found her feet she rushed up to her uncle dolman. "i like you, old man," she said; "you isn't half a bad sort. i'll stay with you. p'ease, aunt jane, punish me by letting me stay with uncle william. i'll just sit on the floor curled up, and maybe i'll dwop as'eep, and have my nice dweams about the time when you is shotted, and i'm back again in the old garden with all my darlin', dear, sweet pets. i'll dweam, p'waps, that we is having funerals in the garden and we is awfu' happy, and you is shotted down dead. let me stay with uncle william, aunt jane." "now, you see what kind of child she is, william," said mrs. dolman. "you have heard her with your own ears--she absolutely threatens _me_. oh, i cannot name what she says; it is so shocking. i never came across such a terribly bad little girl. william, i must insist here and now on your chastising her." "in what way?" said mr. dolman. "i am very busy, my dear jane, over my sermon. could it not be postponed, or could not you, my dear?" "no, william, i could not, for the dark room is not bad enough for this naughty little girl. she must be whipped, and you must do it. fetch the birch rod." "but really," said mr. dolman, looking terribly distressed, "you know i don't approve of corporal punishment, my dear." "no more do i, except in extreme cases, but this is one. william, i insist on your whipping this very bad little girl." "i don't care if you whip me," said diana. she stood bolt upright now, but her round, flushed little face began perceptibly to pale. mr. dolman looked at her attentively, then he glanced at his wife, and then at the manuscript which lay on his desk. he always hated writing his sermons, and, truth to tell, did not write at all good ones; but on this special morning his ideas seemed to come a little more rapidly than usual--now, of course, he had lost every thought, and the sermon was ruined. besides, he was a kind-hearted man. he thought diana a very handsome little fury, and was rather amused with her than otherwise. had she been left alone with him, he would not have taken the least notice of her defiant words. he would have said to himself, "she is but a baby, and if i take no notice she will soon cease to talk in this very silly manner." but alas! there was little doubt that uncle william was very much afraid of aunt jane, and when aunt jane dared him to produce the birch rod, there was nothing whatever for it but to comply. he rose and walked slowly and very unwillingly across the room. he unlocked the door of a big cupboard in the wall, and, poking in his large, soft, flabby hand, presently produced what looked in diana's eyes a very terrible instrument. it was a rod, clean, slender, and with, as she afterwards expressed it, _temper_ all over it. it flashed through her little mind by and by that, if she could really secure this rod, it might make a better bow even than the one which she and apollo had hidden in the wood, but she had little time to think of any future use for the birch rod at this awful moment. the terrible instrument in uncle william's flabby hand was carried across the room. when she saw it approaching her vicinity she uttered a piercing shriek and hid herself under the table. "come, come; none of this nonsense!" said mrs. dolman. "punished you shall be. you must be made to understand that you are to respect your elders. now, then, william, fetch that child out." "diana, my dear, you are a very naughty little girl; come here," said mr. dolman. diana would not have minded in the least defying aunt jane, but there was something in uncle william's slow tones, particularly in a sort of regret which seemed to tremble in his voice, and which diana felt without understanding, which forced her to obey. she scrambled slowly out, her hair tumbled over her forehead, her lower lip drooping. "suppose i have a little talk with her, jane; suppose she says she is sorry and never does it again," said mr. dolman. "oh, yes, yes, uncle william!" said diana, really terrified for the first time in her life. "yes, i's sossy--i's awfu' sossy, aunt jane. it's all wight now, aunt jane; diana's sossy." "you shall be a great deal more sorry before i have done with you," said mrs. dolman, who had no idea of letting the culprit off. "now, then, william, do your duty." "but it's all wight," said diana, gazing with puzzled eyes up into her aunt's face. "i's been a bad girl, but i's sossy; it's all wight, i say. naughty wod, go 'way, naughty wod." she tried to push the rod out of mr. dolman's hand. "really, jane, she is only five years old, and--and a poor little orphan, you know." "yes," said diana eagerly, "i's a poor orphan, only a baby, five years old, awfu' young, and i's sossy, and it's all wight now. go 'way, aunt jane; go 'way, naughty aunt jane; i's sossy." "william," said mrs. dolman, "if you refuse to give that child the necessary punishment which is to make her a christian character, i shall simply wash my hands of her. now, then, miss, get on my lap. william, do your duty." poor mr. dolman, pale to the very lips, was forced to comply. down went the rod on the fat little form--shriek after shriek uttered diana. at last, more from terror than pain, she lay quiet on mrs. dolman's knee. the moment she did so, mr. dolman threw the rod on the floor. "it's a horrid business," he said. "i hate corporal punishment. we have hurt the child. here, give her to me." "nonsense, william! she is only pretending." but this was not the case. the fright, joined to the state of excitement and heat which she had been previously in, proved too much for the defiant little spirit, and diana had really fainted. mrs. dolman was frightened now, and rushed for cold water. she bathed the child's forehead, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing her coming to again. there was not a word of defiance from diana now, and not a single utterance of reproach, but when she looked at mrs. dolman there was an expression in her black eyes from which this lady absolutely recoiled. "uncle william, i's hurted awfu'," whispered diana. "let me lie in your arms, p'ease, uncle william." and so she did for the rest of the morning, and the sermon never got written. chapter xiv. diana's revenge. diana had quite a nice time for the rest of the morning. uncle william had not the least idea of sending her back to the schoolroom. "it's very hot," he said, "and i feel sleepy. i dare say you do also." "i do awfu'," answered diana. "you isn't a bad old man, not at all," she continued. here she raised her fat hand and stroked his flabby cheek. "you hates writing sermons, don't you?" "diana," he answered, "i would rather you did not speak about it." "oh, i can keep secrets," replied diana. "well, in that case, to be quite frank with you, i do not care for writing sermons." "and i don't care for learning lessons. you didn't mean to sting me so bad with that howid wod, did you, uncle william?" mr. dolman made no reply with his lips, for he did not like to defy his wife's authority, but diana read his thoughts in his rather dull blue eyes. "you is a kind old man," she said; "that is, when you isn't tempted by that naughty, howid woman. you is a kind old man by yourself, and you shan't be shotted." "what do you mean by being shotted, diana?" but here diana pursed up her rosy lips and looked rather solemn. "that's a secret," she answered. "uncle william, may i have a whole holiday to-day?" "i think so, my dear little girl. i really think that can be managed. it is too hot to work--at least, i find it so." "then course i does also," answered diana, clapping her hands. "shall we go out into the garding--what you say?" "would you like to?" he asked. "yes, more particular in fruit garding. we can eat cherries and strawberries, and pelt each other. what you say?" mr. dolman looked out of the open window. he was pretty certain that his wife by this time was absent in the village. the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to half-past eleven; the early dinner would not be ready until one o'clock. it would be cool and pleasant in the fruit garden, and it would please poor little diana, who, in his opinion, had been very harshly treated. "all right," he answered, "but, you know, your aunt is not to be told." he rose from his chair as he spoke, and, stretching out his long hand, allowed diana to curl her fingers round one of his. "i should wather think aunt jane isn't to know," replied diana, beginning to skip in her rapture. "i don't like aunts; i always said so. i like uncles; they isn't half bad. you isn't bad, for an old man. you is awfu' old, isn't you?" "not so very old, diana. i'm not forty yet." "forty! what a ter'ble age!" said diana. "you must 'member all the kings and queens of england; don't you, uncle william?" "not quite all, diana. now, i'll just take you through the garden, for i think a little fresh air will do you good." "and if i pop cherries into your mouf it 'll do you good," answered diana. "oh, we'll have a lovely time!" so they did, and mr. dolman devoutly hoped that there was no one there to see. for diana rapidly recovered her spirits, and picked cherries in quantities and pelted her uncle; and then she ran races and incited him to follow her, and she picked strawberries, heaps and heaps, and got him to sit down on a little bench near the strawberry beds, and popped the delicious ripe berries into his mouth; and although he had never played before in such a fashion with any little girl, he quite enjoyed it, and presently entered the house with his lips suspiciously red, and a confession deep down in his heart that he had spent quite a pleasant morning. at dinner-time diana and her uncle walked into the room, side by side. "well, william," said mrs. dolman, "i hope you have finished your sermon." "not quite, my dear," he answered. "not kite, my dear," echoed diana. mr. dolman gave her a half-terrified glance, but she was stanch enough, and had not the least idea of betraying the happy morning they had spent together. towards the end of the meal, her clear little voice might have been heard calling to her uncle. "uncle william, you wishes me to have a whole holiday; doesn't you? you pwomised i is to have a whole holiday to-day." now, mrs. dolman had felt very uncomfortable about diana during her hot walk to the village that morning. she had not at all minded punishing her, but when she saw her lying white and unconscious in her arms, she had certainly gone through a terrible moment, and had, perhaps, in the whole course of her life, never felt so thankful as when the black eyes opened wide, and the little voice sounded once again. the look, too, that diana had given her on this occasion she could not quite efface from her recollection. on the whole, therefore, she felt inclined to be gentle to the little girl, and when she pleaded for a holiday mrs. dolman did not say a word to interfere. "it is a very hot day, and diana was not quite well this morning," said mr. dolman, glancing first at his wife and then at miss ramsay, "so, all things considered, perhaps--" "thank you, uncle," interrupted diana, "it's kite settled, and you isn't half a bad sort of old man. and now, p'ease, i want orion to have a holiday too." "oh, that's another matter!" interrupted miss ramsay. "orion is in perfect health to-day, and as he is extremely backward for his age--" "but the heat of the day, and the child being so young," put in mr. dolman. "i'd be much happier if i had orion with me," continued diana, "and it's 'portant my being happy; isn't it, uncle william? p'ease, uncle william, say that orion may have a holiday." "i will give leave if your aunt and miss ramsay will," he replied. "oh, don't ask me!" said mrs. dolman, rising hastily as she spoke. "i wash my hands of the pair." "she washes her hands of the pair, so she don't count," said diana. "is we to have a holiday, uncle william? i is, but is orion, too? that's the 'portant part," she added. "i have no objection," said miss ramsay, who thought it best to close this scene as quickly as possible. orion uttered a shout of rapture, diana rushed up to him, clutched him round the neck, and pulled him from the room. nearly wild with glee, they both ran helter-skelter out of the house, into the cool shrubbery beyond. "now, orion," said diana, the moment they found themselves alone, "you must cool down and not 'cite yourself too much. we has a ter'ble lot of work to do. i has got my holiday through awfu' suff'in'. i was beated and killed, and i has come fresh to life again. course i's in a wage, and i's got a holiday for you and for me 'cos we must do our work. wun upstairs, orion, and bwing down your big straw hat and mine, and we'll go and find _them_." orion knew perfectly well what "them" meant. he looked hard at diana, saw something in her eyes which she could not suppress, and, with a sigh of mingled pleasure and alarm ran off to do her bidding. he returned in less than a minute with his large sailor hat stuck on the back of his head, and a white sun-bonnet for diana. diana's sun-bonnet had a black bow at the back and black strings. "howid, hot old thing," she said, "i won't wear it. here, let's hide it; i don't mind going with nothing." "but you must not do that," said orion, "'cos, if they see you, they'll catch you and bring you home. you had best sling it on your arm, di; and then, if they are seen coming, why, you can pop it on your head." "well, p'w'aps so," answered diana. "we has an awfu' lot to do this afternoon, orion, 'cos aunt jane has got to be shotted, and i's thinking of having miss wamsay shotted too." "but do you mean," said orion, "that you'll really shoot 'em both?" "yes," replied diana. "it has to be done; it's ter'ble, but it must be done. what would be the good if they wasn't shotted dead? yes, they'll be shotted, and they'll have a public funeral, and after that we'll have a lovely time. uncle william isn't half bad, and 'stead of doing howid lessons every morning we'll just go into the garding and eat stwawberries and cherries, and he'll play with us. he'll love to, for he don't like writing sermins a bit, and we'll blindfold him and he'll wun after us. he's k'ite a nice old man, and if aunt jane and miss wamsay is shotted--why, we'll have a jolly time. now, let's wun and fetch the big bow and arrows." orion had always a great respect for his younger sister diana. "well," he said, "if you're a grand lady, don't forget that i'm a big giant, and that i've got a belt and a sword. there's simpson, you know; she's rather a bother, and i can run my sword into her, if you really wish it, diana." "i'll think about it," answered diana. "i don't want to have three persons deaded wight off; it might be sort of troublesome. i'll think what's best to be done with simpson. now, let's start at once." mrs. dolman was under the supposition that the children had gone to play in the back garden. the greater part of that somewhat neglected domain was laid out in shrubbery, and there were shady trees and swings and see-saws, and other sources of amusement for the little dolmans during their brief hours of play. miss ramsay also thought that diana and orion would go to the shrubbery. she went up, therefore, to the schoolroom quite contented. mr. dolman retired to his study, where he went to sleep, and mrs. dolman ordered the pony chaise, and went off to see a distant parishioner, who was very ill. the house was wonderfully quiet, and nothing occurred to disturb mr. dolman in his deep slumber. the manuscript pages which were to be covered by his neatly written sermon lay in virgin purity before him. in his sleep he dreamt of little diana, and awoke presently with a queer sense of uneasiness with regard to her. but he was by nature a very lazy man, and it did not occur to him to inquire as to her present whereabouts. "she's a fine little soul," he said to himself. "i do wish jane had not taken such a dislike to her. it is useless to drive that sort of child; she must be led, and led gently. 'pon my word, i did have an entertaining morning with the little mite, and what a lot of strawberries she made me eat! i wonder jane did not remark at dinner how poor my appetite was--i was dreadfully afraid she would do so. certainly jane is an active woman, an excellent woman, but just a little bit stern." meanwhile diana, holding orion by the hand, had started running up the long avenue. the little pair soon reached the lodge gates. diana and her brother went out through the postern door which was at the side, and the next moment found themselves on the highroad. this road led in the direction of the shady woods where apollo had hidden the bow and arrows a few weeks ago. it was a pretty road, a couple of miles in length, and well shaded by trees, a kind of outgrowth of the forest itself. as she was not likely to meet any of the dolman family on the road, diana did not wear her sun-bonnet, but kept it hanging on her arm. "it is nice to be out," she said, as she tripped along. "i love hot sun; i love twees; i love blue sky; i love dust." "i don't," replied orion; "this road is horrid dusty, and it gets into my shoes. i have only my house shoes on, you know, diana." "oh, never mind!" answered diana. "if you is a giant, you isn't going to g'umble. what is the use of g'umbling? you be all wight soon. we'll be in the wood soon, and we'll have got the bow and arrows, and then we'll have to pwactice shooting. oh, i say, there's a turnstile and a path, and i believe the path leads stwaight to the wood. let's leave the woad and go to the wood that way." "all right," replied orion. he always did say "all right" to every single thing diana asked him to do. the children now found themselves in a shady lane, between high hedgerows. it was a pretty lane, only very sultry at this time of day; but diana, seeing butterflies flying about, began to give chase to them. she also stopped many times to pick flowers. orion shouted as he ran, and neither of the little pair minded, for a time at least, the fact that the sun was pouring on their heads, and that their small faces were getting redder and redder. "i's stweaming down with hotness," said diana, at last. "i must stop a bit or i'll melt away. i don't want to melt till i has shotted my enemies. is you stweaming with hotness, orion?" "yes," said orion. they stood still, took out their handkerchiefs, mopped their faces vigorously, and then continued their walk. the time seemed to drag all of a sudden; they were both very tired. how glad they were when they finally reached the friendly shelter of the super-ashton woods. here it was deliciously cool, and here diana, thoroughly exhausted, threw herself on her face and hands, and, before orion could say a word, had dropped off into sound sleep. he thought she looked very comfortable, and it occurred to him that he could not do better than follow her example. accordingly, he also stretched himself on the ground, and, with his head resting on one of diana's fat little legs, also visited the land of dreams. for two hours the children slept. when they awoke at last they found that the sun was no longer high in the heavens; it was veering rapidly towards the west, and was sending slanting and very beautiful rays of light through the wood. diana rubbed her eyes and looked around her. "i's awfu' hung'y," she said. "how does you feel, orion?" "my tumtum's empty," answered orion. "we'll pick berries in the wood," said diana; "that'll sat'sfy us. berries is wight for wunaway sildrens. do you 'member what we has come here for, orion?" "to amuse ourselves, i suppose," replied orion. diana gave him an angry flash from her black eyes. "what a silly little boy you is!" she said. "we has come for most solemn, 'portant business. i is diana--the gweat diana what lived years and years ago--and you is orion. i is the gweatest huntwess in all the world, and i's going to shoot aunt jane and miss wamsay. now, come 'long, orion, and let's look for the bow and arrow." the children searched and searched, and after a long time did actually discover the crooked and badly made bow and the blunt arrow. "here they is, the darlin's!" cried diana. "my own bow, my own arrow--how i loves 'em! now, orion, i is going to shoot you--for pwactice, you know, and then you shall shoot me for pwactice too. you stand up there against the twee, and i'll make good shots. you don't mind if i does hurt you a bit, does you?" "but i don't want to be shotted down dead," replied orion. "no, i won't go as far as that. it's only aunt jane and miss wamsay who is to be shotted dead; but you'll have to be shotted, 'cos i must pwactice how to do it." "but couldn't you practice against the tree without me standing there?" said orion, who had no fancy to have even this very blunt arrow directed at his face. chapter xv. mother rodesia. after some very slight persuasion diana induced orion to put his back up against an oak tree and to allow her to shoot at him. he quickly discovered that he had little or no cause for fear. diana's arrows, wielded with all the cunning she possessed, from the crooked bow, never went anywhere near him. they fell on the grass and startled the birds, and one little baby rabbit ran quite away, and some squirrels looked down at the children through the thick trees; but orion had very little chance of getting hurt. "it's awfu' difficult," said diana, whose face grew redder and redder with her efforts. "if it don't shoot pwoper, aunt jane won't get shotted to-night. what is to be done? suppose you was to twy for a bit, orion?" orion was only too anxious to accede to this proposition. he took the bow and arrow and made valiant efforts, but in the course of his endeavors to shoot properly, the badly made bow suddenly snapped in two, and diana, in her discomfiture, and the dashing to the ground of her hopes, burst into tears. "you is bad boy," she cried. "see what you's done. back we goes to slav'ry--to aunt jane and miss wamsay. you is a bad, howid boy." "i aren't," said orion, who had a very easily aroused temper. "it's you that's a horrid little girl." "come, children; what's all this noise about?" said a voice in their ears. they turned abruptly, forgetting on the instant their own cause of quarrel, and saw a tall, swarthy-looking woman coming towards them. by this time it was beginning to get dark in the wood, but they could see the figure of the woman quite distinctly. she came close to them, and then, putting her arms akimbo, surveyed them both with a certain queer expression on her face. "well, my little dears," she said, "and what may you two be doing in this part of the wood?" "we is pweparing to have our enemies shotted," answered diana, in a calm, but sturdy, voice. "what's your name, gweat big woman?" "mother rodesia lee," replied the woman, "and i'm fond of little children. i like to meet them in the wood. i often come into the wood, and when i see little strange children i love 'em at once. i'm a sort of mother to all little strangers who get into the woods without leave." here she flashed a pair of black eyes full into diana's face. but diana met their gaze without a vestige of shrinking, with eyes as black. "we has not come without leave," she said; "you is naughty to talk that way. we has got a whole holiday to-day from our uncle william. he didn't say nothing 'bout not going into the woods, and we has been here for lots of hours. we is going home now 'cos we is hung'y, and 'cos my bow has got bwoke. we is awfu' unhappy--we is mis'ble, but we is going home. good-night, woman; don't keep us talkin' any longer." "i aint going to keep you," said the woman; "only, p'r'aps, if you two are so hungry, p'r'aps i could give you a bit of supper." "oh, yes, diana! do let her," said orion. "what sort of supper?" asked diana, who never allowed herself to be taken unawares. "would it be stwawberries and k'eam, or would it be cake and milk?" "strawberries and cream, and milk and cake, plenty and plenty," said the woman. "and what do you say to delicious soup and honey, p'r'aps? oh, come along, my little loves; i'll give you something fine to eat." "do let's go," said orion; "my tumtum's so empty it feels like a big hole." "i know," said the woman, in a very sympathetic voice. "i have had it myself like that at times. it's sort of painful when it's like that; aint it?" "yes," answered orion. he went up to his sister, and took her hand. "come along, di," he said. "do let this nice woman give us our supper." "you may be sure i won't give it," said the woman, "unless both you little children ask me in a very perlite voice. you must say, 'please, mother rodesia.'" "i can't say that keer sort of name," said diana. "well, then, call me mother without anything else. they often does that at home--often and often. all the little kids is desp'ate fond of me. i dote so on little children. my heart runs over with love to 'em." "you would not let a little girl be beated?" said diana. "be beaten?" replied the woman. "no, that i wouldn't; it would be downright cruel." "i was beated to-day," said diana; "it was an enemy did it, and i'm going to have her shotted." "oh, i wouldn't do that!" said the woman. "you might be hanged up for that." "what's being hanged up?" asked diana. "it's something very bad--i need not tell you now; but there are laws in this country, and if you shoot your enemies you are hanged up for it. you are not allowed to do those sort of things in this country." "yes, i are," answered diana, "'cos i are the gweat diana. you underland, don't you?" "i don't know that i do; but, anyhow, i have no time to stand talking now. come along, and you can tell me afterwards. i have got such a nice supper--plenty of strawberries and cream, plenty of milk and cake." "oh, my tumtum," said orion, pressing his hand to that part of his little body with great solemnity. "how soon will the supper be over? and how soon can we get back home?" asked diana. "that depends on where your home is, my pretty little dear," said mother rodesia. "it's at wectory, stoopid woman." "i don't know that place, miss." "don't you know my uncle william dolman?" "what! the rector?" said the woman. "and so you come from the _rectory_?" she looked frightened for a moment, and her manner became hesitating. "are you one of the rector's children, my little love?" she asked. "no; he's only an uncle; he belongs to an aunt. i hate aunts. he's not a bad sort his own self; but i hate aunts!" "then you wouldn't mind if you was to leave her?" "no. but i can't leave uncle william, and i can't leave iris, and i can't leave apollo. we would like some supper 'cos we is hung'y, and it's past our tea hour; but then we must go stwaight home." "all right, my little love; everything can be managed to your satisfaction. my son has got a pony and cart, and he'll drive you over to the rectory in a twinkling, after your appetites are satisfied. i can't abear to see little children real hungry. you come along with me this minute or the supper will be eat up." diana hesitated no longer. she carried her broken bow on one arm, and she slung her arrow, by a string, round her neck; then, taking one of mother rodesia's large brown hands, and orion taking the other, the two children trotted deeper into the dark wood. they all three walked for over a mile, and the wood seemed to get darker and denser, and the children's little feet more and more tired. orion also began to complain that the hole inside him was getting bigger and bigger; but mother rodesia, now that she had got them to go with her, said very few words, and did not take the least notice of their complaints. at last, when they suddenly felt that they could not go another step, so great was their fatigue, they came out on an open clearing in the wood, in the center of which a great big tent was pitched. several smaller tents were also to be seen in the neighborhood of the big one, and a lot of children, very brown and ugly, and only half-dressed, were lying about on the grass, squabbling and rolling over one another. some dogs also were with the children, and an old woman, a good deal browner than mother rodesia, was sitting at the door of the big tent. as soon as ever the children saw the little strangers, they scrambled to their feet with a cry, and instantly surrounded mother rodesia and orion and diana. "back, all of you, you little rascallions," said mother rodesia; "back, or i'll cuff you. where's mother bridget? i want to speak to her?" when mother rodesia said this the old woman at the door of the principal tent rose slowly and came to meet them. "well, rodesia," she said, "and so you has found these little strangers in the wood? what purty little dears!" "yes, i have found them," said mother rodesia, "and i have brought them home to supper. after supper we are to send them home. they hail from the rectory. is jack anywhere about?" "i saw him not half an hour back," said the old woman; "he had just brought in a fat hare, and i popped it into the pot for supper. you can smell it from here, little master," she said, stooping suddenly down and letting her brown, wrinkled, aged face come within an inch or two of orion's. he started back, frightened. he had never seen anyone so old nor so ugly before. even the thought of the strawberries and cream, and the milk and cake, could not compensate for the look on mother bridget's face. diana, however, was not easily alarmed. "the stuff in the pot smells vedy good," she said, sniffing. "i could shoot lots of hares, 'cos i is the gweatest huntwess in all the world. i is diana. did you ever hear of diana, ugly old woman?" "you had best not call mother bridget names," said mother rodesia, giving diana a violent shake as she spoke. but the little girl leaped lightly away from her. "i always call peoples just what i think them," she said; "i wouldn't be the gweat diana if i didn't. i has not got one scwap of fear in me, so you needn't think to come wound me that way. i do think she is awfu' ugly. she's uglier than aunt jane, what i _used_ to think was the ugliest person in the world. you had best not twy to fwighten me, for it can't be done." "what a spirited little missy it is!" said mother bridget, gazing with admiration at diana. "why, now, she is a fine little child. i'm sure, dearie, i don't mind whether you call me ugly or not; it don't matter the least bit in the world to me. and how old may you be, my little love?" "i is five," answered diana. "i's a well-grown girl, isn't i?" "that you are, missy, and hungry, too, i guess. you shall have some beautiful hare soup." "i don't want hare soup," answered diana; "i want what that woman pwomised--stwawberries and k'eam, and milk and cake--and then, perhaps, a _little_ soup. i don't want soup to begin." "well," said the old woman, "we hasn't got no strawberries, nor no milk, nor no cake--we are very poor folks here, missy. a little lady must be content with what she can get, unless, my dear, you would like to pay 'andsome for it." "i has nothing to pay with," answered diana. "i would, if i had the money, but i hasn't got none. i's sossy," she continued, looking full at mother rodesia as she spoke, "that you big, big woman told such awfu' lies. but, now that we has come, we'll take a little hare soup. orion, you stand near me, and don't any of you dirty peoples come up too close, 'cos i can't abear dirty peoples. i is the gweatest shot in all the world, and orion, he's a giant." two or three men had approached at that moment, and they all began to laugh heartily when poor little pale orion was called a giant. "you can see him in the sky sometimes on starful nights," continued diana, "and he has got a belt and a sword." "well, to be sure, poor little thing," said mother rodesia, "she must be a bit off her head, but she's a fine little spirited thing for all that. i think she would just about do. you come along here for a minute, jack, and let me talk to you." the man called jack moved a few steps away, and mother rodesia followed him. they began to talk together in low and earnest voices. at first the man shook his head as he listened to mother rodesia, but by degrees he began to agree with some suggestion she was making, and finally he nodded emphatically, and at last was heard to say: "it shall be done." meanwhile diana, with one arm clasped protectingly round orion's waist, was partaking of the soup which old mother bridget had ladled into a little bowl. orion was provided with a similar bowl of the very excellent liquid. the soup contained meat and vegetables, pieces of bread and quantities of good gravy, and, as diana and orion were very hungry indeed, they ate up their portions, while the gypsy children clustered round them, coming closer and closer each minute. diana's eyes, however, were as black as theirs, and her manner twice as spirited. she would not allow them to approach too close. "you had best not take lib'ties," she said. "i is a gweat lady; i is diana, the biggest shot in all the world." "oh, lawk! hark to her," cried one of the boys. "i wonder if you could shoot me, little miss?" "shoot you, boy?" cried diana. "that i could. you would be shotted down dead if i was to take up my bow and use my arrow." at last the children had finished the contents of their bowls, and rose solemnly to their feet. "now," said diana, going up to mother bridget, "i are vedy obliged to you; you has been kind; you has gived us good supper. we'll 'scuse 'bout the stwawberries and k'eam and the milk and cake, 'cos you didn't know that the other big woman told lots of lies. and now, p'ease, we are going home. we isn't glad to go home, but we is going. p'ease tell the man to put pony to cart, and dwive us home as fast as he can." "yes, indeed, my little dear," said mother bridget; "there aint one moment to be lost. you just come inside the tent, though, first for a minute." "i don't want to go inside that dirty tent," said diana; "i don't like dirt. you had best not twy to take lib'ties. i is diana, and this is orion, and we is both very big peoples indeed." at that moment mother rodesia came forward. "they need not go into the tent," she said to the old woman; "i can manage better than that. just you help lift 'em into the cart; it's a dark night, and there'll be no stars, and we can get off as far as----" here she dropped her voice, and diana could not hear the next words. "i'm going with them," she continued, "and jack will drive. they are exactly the kind of children ben wants. now then, little missy, jump in. ah, here you are! you'll be glad of the drive, won't you?" "when will we get back to wectory?" asked diana. "in about an hour, missy." "come 'long, orion," said diana, "you sit next me. hold my hand, poor little boy, case you is fwightened. diana never was fwightened; that isn't her." orion scrambled also into the cart, and the two children huddled up close together. mother rodesia got in with them, and sat down at the opposite side, with her knees huddled up close to her chin. the man called jack mounted the driver's seat, whacked the pony with two or three hard touches of his whip and away they bounded. the night was very dark, and the cart rattled roughly, and jolted and banged the children about, but orion felt comforted and contented after his good supper, and diana's fat little arm felt warm round his neck, and soon his head rested on her shoulder and he was sound asleep. not so little diana. she sat wide awake and gazed hard at the woman, whose dark eyes were seen to flash now and then as the party jolted over the roads. "tell him to go k'icker," said diana. "i must get home afore uncle william goes to bed. aunt jane might beat me again, and i don't want to be beated. tell him to go k'icker, mother 'odesia." chapter xvi. uncle ben. mother rodesia was most kind and obliging. the pony was whipped up, and now it seemed to diana's excited fancy that they quite flew over the road. she felt for her broken bow, which she had laid by her side, then she cuddled up closer to orion, and whispered to herself: "mother 'odesia's a good woman when all's said, done. she has gived us supper and soon we'll be home; and uncle william won't be in bed, and he won't let c'uel aunt jane beat me. it's all wight; i may just as well go to s'eep, 'cos i is drefful s'eepy, and it's late. i wonder if the night will be starful, and if i'll see orion up in the sky. anyhow, there's no stars at pwesent, and i had best go to s'eep." so the little girl cuddled herself up close to her brother, and soon the big dark eyes were shut, and she was happy in the land of dreams. when this happened, mother rodesia softly and stealthily changed her position. she stretched out her hand and touched jack on his arm. this seemed to have been an arranged signal, for he drew up the pony at once. they were still under the shelter of the great woods which extended for miles over that part of the country. "we had best begin to change their clothes now," said mother rodesia. "they are both as sound as nails, and i don't want the clothes to be seen by ben, for he's safe to pawn 'em, and if he pawns 'em the police may get 'em, and then the children may be traced, and we may get into hot water." "but, mother," said jack, "do you dare to disturb them now when they are asleep? that young 'un with the black eyes is such a fury; seemed to me as if she was never goin' off." "she's all right now," said mother rodesia. "she's just dead tired. of course, if i had had my way, i'd have put a little of that syrup into their soup--mother winslow's syrup--but mother bridget wouldn't have it. she took quite a fancy to the little gal, and all on account of her firing up and calling her names." jack laughed. "i never seed sech a little 'un," he said, "sech a sparky little piece. ben's in rare luck. i'd like to keep her for a sort of little sister of my own--she'd amuse me fine." "well, well, you aint a-goin' to have her," said mother rodesia. "i'm goin' to ask thirty shillin's for her and thirty shillin's for the boy. that'll be three pund--not a bad night's work; eh, jack?" "no," replied jack; but then he continued after a pause, "you'll tell him, won't you, mother, to be good to the children. i wouldn't like to think that little 'un was treated cruel, and her sperit broke--she has got a fine sperit, bless her; i wouldn't like it to be broke. i don't care for the little boy. there's nothing in 'im." "well, stop talking now," said mother rodesia. "they must be missed at the rectory by this time, and they'll be sendin' people out to look for 'em. it's a rare stroke of luck that nobody knows that we are camping in the fairy dell, for if they did they would be sure to come straight to us, knowin' that poor gypsies is always _supposed_ to kidnap children. now, jack, you just hold the pony as still as you can, and i'll slip the clothes off the pair of 'em." little diana, in her deep sleep, was not at all disturbed when stout hands lifted her away from orion, and when she lay stretched out flat on a large lap. one by one her clothes were untied and slipped off her pretty little body, and some very ugly, sack-like garments substituted in their place. diana had only a dim feeling in her dreams that mother was back again, and was undressing her, and that she was very glad to get into bed. and when the same process of undressing took place on little orion, he was still sounder asleep and still more indifferent to the fact that he was turned sometimes over on his face, and sometimes on his back, and that his pretty, dainty clothes, which his own mother had bought for him, were removed, never to be worn by him again. "now, then," said mother rodesia, when she had laid the two children back again upon the straw, "when they awake, and if ben is not there, we must dye their faces with walnut juice; but we can't begin that now, for they are sure to howl a good bit, and if folks are near, they will hear them and come to the rescue. jack, have you got that spade 'andy?" the man, without a word, lifted a portion of the straw in the cart, and took out a spade. "that's right," said the woman. "you make a deep hole under that tree, and put all the clothes in. bury 'em well. i'll rescue 'em and pawn 'em myself when we go to the west of england in the winter, but for the present they must stay under ground. see, i'll wrap 'em up in this good piece of stout brown paper, and then perhaps they won't get much spoiled." jack took the little bundle (there were the soft, pretty socks, the neat little shoes, even the ribbon with which diana's hair was tied), and twisted them all up into a bundle. then his mother wrapped the bundle in the piece of brown paper, and gave it to him to bury. this being done the pony was once more whipped up, and the cart proceeded at a rapid rate. they were now on the highroad, and going in the direction of a large town. the town was called maplehurst. it was fifteen miles away from the rectory of super-ashton. little diana slept on and on, and the sun was beginning to send faint rays of light into the eastern sky, when at last she opened her eyes. "where is i?" she said with a gasp. "with me, my little dear; you are as safe as child can be," said mother rodesia. "don't you stir, my love; you are just as good as you was in your little bed. see, let me lay this rug over you." she threw a piece of heavy tarpaulin, lined with cloth, over the child as she spoke. diana yawned in a comfortable manner. "isn't we at wectory yet?" she asked. "no, dear; the pony went lame, and we had to stop for a good bit on the road; but if you like to go to sleep again, you'll be there when next you wake." "i isn't s'eepy any longer," said diana, sitting bolt upright in the cart. "oh, what a funny dwess i has on. where is my nice b'ack dwess, and my pinafore, and my shoes and socks?" "well, dear," said mother rodesia, "you were so dead asleep, and the pony got that lame we couldn't stir hand nor foot, so i thought it best to put a little nightdress on you." "but what a funny one," said diana, gazing with curious admiration at the stout, sack-like garment. "it's the best poor mother rodesia has, my dear. i'm awful poor, you know." "is you?" asked diana. "yes, dear." "and does you mind?" asked diana. "yes, dear; 'cos when people are poor they can't get bread to eat, and then they can't get nice clothes like you, little missy. you are a very rich little gal; aint you, little dear?" "my faver's awfu' rich," said diana. "we used to live in a most beaut'ful house, and we had a beaut'ful garding to play in. we had animals there--lots and lots. woman, is you fond of animals--mices and that sort?" "love--i just adores 'em." "then you _is_ a nice sort," answered diana. she left her place by orion and crept up close to the woman. "may i sit on your lap?" she said. mother rodesia made a place for her at once. "put your arm wound me, p'ease; i is still a teeny bit s'eepy." "you lay your head against my breast, little love, and you'll go off into a beautiful sleep, and i'll keep you nice and warm, for hot as the days are, it's chilly in the mornin's." "when my faver comes home i'll ask him to give you lots of money, mother 'odesia," said diana. she closed her eyes as she spoke, and in another moment was once again slumbering peacefully. when little diana next opened her eyes all was completely changed. she was no longer in the funny cart with the straw. her nightdress was still on her, it is true, and there were neither shoes nor stockings on her bare feet; but she and orion found themselves in a dirty room with a nasty smell. both children looked at one another, and both felt cold and frightened. the broad daylight was lighting up the room, and diana could perceive that there was scarcely any furniture in it. her bow was also gone, and her arrow no longer hung round her neck. she clutched a firm hold of orion's hand. "don't you be afeared, orion," she said. "don't you forget you is a big giant. don't you forget you has got your belt and your sword." "but i haven't, that's just it," replied orion. "diana, i aren't a giant, and i'm awfu' frightened." "where can us be?" said diana. "what a keer room! but there's one good comfort; there isn't no aunts anywheres 'bout." "i can't remember nothing," said orion. "why aren't we in bed? it's too early to get up. how have we got into this horrid little room?" "i don't know more nor you," said diana, "only i do know that we has got to be bwave. don't you forget, orion, that mother gived you your name, and that you is a giant, whether you likes it or not. don't you forget that, and i won't forget that i is diana, and that mother gived me my name too, and that i is the bwavest huntwess in all the world." "but you haven't got a bow and arrow," said orion. diana was silent for a moment. "anyhow," she said, with a little shake, "i isn't going to be fwightened. let's sit close together, and let's think." "why can't we open that door and go out?" said orion. "why should we stay in this horrid room?" "'cos our foots is bare," said diana. "but don't let's mind that," said orion; "let's go to the door and open it, and let's run back to rectory. i'd rather have aunt jane and miss ramsay than this horrid room--and oh, diana! my tumtum has got a big hole in it again." "and mine has too," answered diana. "i could eat a whole loaf, that i could." "hush!" whispered orion; "somebody's coming. oh, come close to me, diana!" "now, you isn't to be fwightened, little boy," said diana. "i is near you, and i isn't fwightened of nobody." at that moment the door was flung open, and mother rodesia, accompanied by a tall, dark man, with a scowling face, came in. "mornin', little dears," said mother rodesia. "now i have got something to say to you." "p'ease, where's wectory?" asked diana. "you are not going there just for the present, my dear. this man, ben is his name--you told me last night that you were fond of uncles--you can call 'im uncle ben; he's very kind and very, very fond of children." "oh, yes! i'm very fond of children," said the man. he spoke in a gruff voice which seemed to come right from the bottom of his chest. "and as you don't like aunts," continued mother rodesia, "i have brought an uncle. you can call 'im uncle ben; and if you do just what he says, why, you'll be as happy as the day is long." "look here," said the man; "you stop your talk, rodesia. before i makes myself an uncle to these kids i must see what sort they are. you stand up along here, little gal, and let me examine you." diana scrambled instantly to her feet and went straight up to the man. she gave him a keen glance from her piercing black eyes. "what wight has you to speak to me in that sort of style?" she said. "you isn't my uncle, and i isn't going to have nothing to do with you." "there," said mother rodesia; "did i say one word too much for her?" the man burst into a loud laugh. "no, that you didn't," he said; "and aint you frightened of me, missy?" "fwightened?" replied diana; "that aren't me." she turned her back and strode back to orion. "'member you is a giant," she said, in a whisper; "and giants never is fwightened." the man laughed again. "well, they are a queer little pair," he said. "i tell you what it is, rodesia lee; i'll give you a pund apiece for 'em. come, now; not a penny more." diana stared very hard indeed when these words were uttered. she had not the faintest idea what a "pund apiece" meant. mother rodesia seemed to consider. "and you may think yourself in rare luck," continued the man; "for, remember, if it is known--" here he walked to the farthest end of the room, and mother rodesia followed him. "you had best close up the bargain and be quick about it," he said; "for not one penny more will you drag out of me. i'll give you a gold sov. for each of 'em, and that's as much as i can manage. they will take a sight of training, and then there's the risk." "very well," said mother rodesia, "i suppose i had best do it; only they are worth more. there's a fortune in that little gal, and whenever you are tired of her, why, there's a rich father to fall back on. i spect he would give a sight of money to have her back again. very well, we'll agree; only, if ever you do get a fortune out of that child, ben holt, you might remember poor rodesia lee." the man laughed and patted mother rodesia on her shoulder. then the pair left the room, locking the door behind them. "what does it all mean?" said orion. "i don't know," said diana; "but i aren't fwightened; that aren't me." her little voice shook as she spoke, and she had great difficulty in keeping the tears back from her big, black eyes. chapter xvii. greased lightning. at the end of half an hour the door of the small room was again unlocked, and a woman with a thin, pale face, and somewhat frightened manner, appeared. she carried a tray in her hand, which contained two little bowls of porridge, and a small jug of milk. "so you are the two young 'uns," she said. "well, you had best be quick and eat up your breakfast. uncle ben is going to have a rehearsal, and he wants you to see what they are all doing." "we hasn't got no uncle ben," said diana; "don't be silly, woman. what's your name?" she added. "i'm generally called aunt sarah," was the reply; "and now, look here, you two little mites; i'll be good to you if you'll let me. i'm real sorry you has come, and it's against my wish, you remember that. now, eat up your breakfasts, both of you. uncle ben, he don't know that i have brought you porridge and milk; but children as young as you are can't eat coarse food. sup up your porridge, my dears." "thank you very much indeed, aunt sawah," said diana, slipping down from her seat close to orion on the bench, and preparing to attack her breakfast. "p'w'aps," she continued, as she put great mouthfuls of porridge into her mouth, "when we has finished this nice bekfus you'll take us back to wectory? you see, you isn't our aunt weally, not by no manner of wights, and uncle ben isn't our uncle, and so we ought not to stay here; and if we go back to wectory, why, uncle william, what's our weal uncle, p'w'aps he would pay you money, if it's money you wants." "yes; it's true enough, it is money we want," replied the woman; "but, my dear," she added, the tears springing to her eyes, "i can't take you back to no rectory. you have just got to stay here and to watch uncle ben when he's going through his rehearsal, and then this afternoon we are going on a very long journey, and you are coming with us--and oh, i forgot to say that, when you have finished your breakfast, i must put something on your faces." "something on our faces?" said diana. "yes, my little love; it has to be done. but when we get to another part of the country i'll wash the ugly stuff off again, and you'll look as fair and pretty as you do now. it won't make much difference after all to you, little missy," she added, gazing fixedly at diana, "'cos you are very dark by nature. yes, i had a little kid of my own, a little gal, and she wasn't unlike you--no, not by no means. i'll be kind to you for her pretty sake, my little dear. now, eat your breakfast, and be quick, the pair of you." "has your little girl what was like me got deaded?" asked diana, in a very thoughtful and earnest voice. "she is dead, my dear. yes, yes, she is dead," replied the woman. "eat up your breakfast now; i have no time to answer questions." orion did not need a second bidding; he had already plunged his spoon into the porridge, and soon his little bowl was empty, and also the jug of milk. diana also finished her breakfast, but more thoughtfully. she was a wonderfully wise little girl for her tender years, and at the present moment she was dreadfully puzzled to know what to do. she was quite shrewd enough to guess that mother rodesia was a bad sort of woman, and that she, diana, had done wrong ever to trust herself to her. uncle ben, too, in spite of her brave words, terrified her more or less. all things considered, therefore, she would not have been at all sorry to find herself back again at the rectory, with miss ramsay to teach her, and aunt jane hovering in the background. "isn't it funny, we has got our nightdwesses on?" she said suddenly. "woman, it's not pwoper to have our bekfus in our nightdwesses; and these are such keer nightdwesses, not at all what they ought to be. our mother would not like us to be dwessed in this sort of style. can you get our day dwesses, p'ease, for us to put on, aunt sawah?" "no; i can't get the dresses you wore yesterday," replied aunt sarah; "but for all that you shall wear a very pretty little frock. i have got a blue one for you with white wings. what do you say to that?" "b'ue, with white wings?" echoed diana. "it sounds pwetty; but i must have a b'ack bow, p'ease, woman, 'cos our mother has gone away to the angels, you underland; and when mothers go to the angels little girls wear b'ack bows--at least, that's what iris says. oh, i say, orion," suddenly concluded diana; "what is we to do without iris? she is our little mother now. you underland what i mean; doesn't you, orion?" the only answer orion made was to fling himself flat down on the floor and begin to howl with all his might. "you had best not do that, young sir," said aunt sarah, "for if uncle ben hears he'll be awful angry. he is a terrible man when he's angered. it's only right i should tell you the solemn truth, you poor little kids." "we isn't kids; we is sildrens," said diana. "well, you poor little children, then. now, young master, if you'll take my advice, you'll do exactly what i tell you. i'm going to be a friend to you and to your little sister. i'll give you, by hook or by crook, the very best food i can get, and the prettiest dresses to wear, and i'll see that my husband, ben holt, aint rough to you, and i'll see, also, that molly and kitty and susan, the circus girls, are kind to you, and that tom, the clown, behaves as he ought; but i can do nothing if you won't obey me. and if you begin by angering uncle ben, why, it'll be all up with you, my little dears." "i don't know what you mean by all up," answered diana, her eyes sparkling brightly; "and what's more, i don't care. but i'd like to know if you has a weal live clown about, 'cos i like clowns and i love pant'mimes. i went to a pant'mime 'fore mother was took to the angels." "our show is something like a pantomime, and yet it's different," replied aunt sarah. "now then, missy, stop talking, for we has no time to waste. come over here and let me put this nice stuff on your face. it won't hurt you one little bit--it's just to make you look a little browner than you do now, you and little master. now, come along here, and let me do it at once. afterwards, i'll dress you in real pretty things. you, little missy, shall wear some of my own child's clothes--the little rachel what died. my heart broke when she died, missy, and if i didn't mean to be real kind to you i wouldn't put her pretty little dress on you, that i wouldn't." orion stepped back in some alarm when he saw the woman stirring something very brown and ugly in a tin can. "i don't want that horrid stuff on my face," he said. "but you must have it, master; if you don't, uncle ben will use you dreadful," said the woman. "now, missy, tell your little brother to be guided by me. if he don't do what i tell 'im he'll suffer, and i won't be able to help either of you." "don't be silly, orion," said diana. "what do a little bwown stuff matter? and aunt sawah's wather a nice sort of woman. i'll do what you wish, aunt sawah." she came up as she spoke, pushed her black, tangled hair away from her charming little face, and allowed aunt sarah to cover it with the walnut juice. "it's sort of sticky, and it don't smell nice," said the little girl; "but i spects you can't help it. i spects you is kind about your heart; isn't you?" "yes, my little dear; i try to be," said the woman. "now, call your brother over, and let me dye his face and neck and little hands." "come 'long, orion," said diana; "don't be silly." "you do look so ugly, diana," answered orion. "well, what do it matter?" said diana. "i has to p'ease aunt sawah; she's a nice sort of a woman. i wather like her." orion, who had always submitted to diana, submitted again now as a matter of course. the walnut dye was not pleasant; he felt quite sticky and uncomfortable, but he allowed it to cover his little face and his white neck and hands. the dye dried very quickly, and the children looked as like two gypsies as possible when they surveyed one another. "now, i'm going to fetch the clothes," said aunt sarah. she left the room, returning in a very few moments with a pretty spangled suit of knickerbockers, which she put on orion, and which quite enchanted him. "if you are a good boy," she continued, "you won't dislike the life with us. i wonder if you are fond of horses?" "horses!" said orion, his eyes sparkling. "rather!" "well, uncle ben will teach you to ride, and to jump, and to do all kinds of things. now, just stand back, and let me dress little missy, for ben is waiting to begin the rehearsal. missy, you let me put on your dress." diana was only too willing to be attired in a flimsy skirt of white tarlatan, which stuck out from her little figure; she also wore wings on her shoulders, and her black hair was rendered gay with bows of crimson ribbon. she felt quite excited and pleased with herself. "i spects i look awfu' pwetty," she said. "i'd like to see my own self in a looking-glass. has you got a looking-glass in your pocket, aunt sawah?" "yes, dear; a small one." aunt sarah whipped her hand into a deep pocket and took out a glass. diana surveyed herself critically in its depths. "i like my dwess," she said, "but i don't like this howid bwown stuff on my face." "never mind, dear; bear it for the present. when we get down to the southwest of england it shall all be taken off; but up here uncle ben thinks it best for you both to have it on." "why?" asked diana. aunt sarah was puzzled for a moment. "'cos it's wholesome," she said at last. "and isn't it wholesome in the southwest of england?" asked diana. aunt sarah was puzzled how to reply. diana, who was gazing at her very intently, burst into a clear, childish laugh. "do you know you _is_ a humbug?" she said. "you know perfect well why you is using that. you want to hide us, that's why. what a silly old aunt sawah you is!" before aunt sarah could make a suitable reply, the loud voice of uncle ben was heard in the distance. "come, sarah," he called, "bring those kids along. i can't be kept waiting another minute." "now then, dears," said aunt sarah, "i'll take you to the circus." "the circus!" cried diana. "is we going to a circus? i love 'em!" "well, my dear, you are not only going to _see_ a circus, but you are going soon to be part of a circus. uncle ben owns one; it's a sort of traveling circus. he takes it about with him from one part of the country to another. you'll be part of the circus in the future, little miss." "and may i wide horses?" asked diana. "surely, my dear, and perhaps other animals as well. oh, never fear! you'll be taught all kinds of queer things. you'll have quite a nice time if you keep on the buttered side of uncle ben." "the buttered side! that must be g'easy," said diana. "well, you keep on it, miss. if he's kind to you, why, all will be right, and, for my part, i'll see you want for nothing." "i do believe," said diana, her eyes sparkling; she turned as she spoke and clasped one of orion's hands--"i do weally b'lieve this is better nor aunt's. do come 'long, orion; i always did love circuses." aunt sarah led the children down a long, narrow passage, and then across an open court, until presently they found themselves inside the entrance of a huge circular tent. here seats were arranged for a crowd of people, all of which were, of course, empty at present; but the whole of the center of the tent was occupied by a wide arena covered with sand. in the middle of this space stood uncle ben. he had a big whip in his hand, and looked very fierce and terrible. "there you are at last, sarah!" he called out. "oh, and there are the kids!" he stepped forward as he spoke. "now, little missy," he said, looking full at diana, "what would you say if i was to put you on top of a horse's back? you wouldn't be frightened, would you?" "no," replied diana. "i don't believe you would. i believe you are a plucky little girl. well, i'd just as lief give you a lesson straight away, for you'll have to take your part in the show in a week from now. we'll let her ride round the arena on greased lightning; eh, sarah?" "oh, i wouldn't! not on that 'orse," said the woman. she clasped her hands imploringly together. "remember, ben," she continued, speaking in a timorous voice, and her color coming and going, "remember that greased lightning is a very wicious sort of 'orse, and this is only a little child. has you ever been on a 'orse's back afore, little love?" "sometimes," replied diana. "and my faver said when i got older he would give me a horse of my own to wide. he said i was too young yet, you know; but i aren't fwightened," she added. "i don't mind a bit sitting on the back of g'eased lightning. but what a funny name!" "right you are!" said the man. "you shall have your ride. i can see that you have plenty of pluck, young 'un. come along, then, little missy. tom, you go and bring out greased lightning this minute." a tall lad, with red hair and a cast in one eye, now made his appearance in the arena of the circus. at uncle ben's words he turned abruptly, disappeared through a curtain, and a moment later re-entered, leading a very graceful chestnut horse by a bridle. the creature pawed the ground as it walked, and arched its stately neck. "you had best have a saddle, guv'nor," said the boy. "none of your sauce, tom. the young 'un must learn to ride bare-back, and at once. i'll walk round with her the first time. now then, missy." diana was clapping her hands; her eyes were blazing with excitement. "it's kite 'licious," she said, jumping up and down. "i aren't fwightened," she continued; "that aren't me." the next moment she was lifted on to the back of greased lightning. in all probability the horse which bore that title had never carried such a feather-weight as little diana before. uncle ben began to lead him round and round the circus. diana sat perfectly upright; she did not attempt even to clutch a hair of his mane. uncle ben praised her. "you are a plucky little missy," he said. "why, you'll do fine. now, do you think you can stand on the horse?" "course," replied diana. "what's foots for, you silly man, if not to stand? you is silly, uncle ben." "i never!" said uncle ben, bursting out laughing. "well, missy, if i am silly, you has got a lot of sauce. 'what's good for the goose is good for the gander.'" "that sounds howid vulgar, and i don't underland," answered diana, in a dignified tone. "i'll stand on my two foots if you'll hold g'eased lightning k'ite still." "woe! stay quiet this minute," said the man to the horse. the pretty creature instantly obeyed, and little diana, nothing loath, scrambled on to her small feet. the horse moved gently forward, and the little child managed to keep her balance. she went the entire round of the circus two or three times in this position, and then uncle ben, saying that she was a very fine little creature, and would answer his purposes to a nicety, lifted her down in the height of good humor. "take care of her," he said, bringing her back to aunt sarah; "there's a fortune in her, little mite that she is. she need not do any more to-day. why, i'll have her trained in no time when we get down to the west of england. she'll do her work beautiful, and will take the house by storm. now then, master, it's your turn. we must have a pair of you, you know--a boy and a girl. it's the very thing to draw crowds in the west." but alas! orion, notwithstanding his brave name, was made of very different stuff from his sister. he felt fear, where diana, in all truth, did not know the meaning of the word. he shivered visibly when he was lifted on to greased lightning's back. diana called out to him in an encouraging and cheery voice. "don't forget you is a giant," she said. "think, of yous sword and yous belt. now then, gee up! pretty horse; i only wishes i was widing you." "come, young master, don't clutch the mane so hard," said holt. "hands off, i say! greased lightning won't stand that kind of treatment." but the more the manager spoke the tighter did orion grasp the black mane of the chestnut horse. greased lightning began to paw the ground and to show many signs of discomfort; whereupon orion uttered a piercing cry and began slipping backwards, towards the tail of the beast. "come," said the man; "get back to your seat this minute. i have a whip in my hand, and it can sting; come, young sir!" "don't you dare to stwike my bwother!" said diana, running across the arena. some girls, who had just come in, and several men, all burst out laughing. "you had best come back, miss; you had best not anger him," said a fair-haired girl, stretching out her hand to the little child as she spoke. "anger him?" said diana. "i doesn't know what you mean. does you think i are going to let orion be hurted? listen to me, man. you had best let orion jump off this morning, 'cos he's tired. i'll talk to him all about widing to-morrow. let him get down now, p'ease, big man." "not until he has been twice round the circus," said uncle ben. "you stand aside, missy, or greased lightning may tread on you." but diana was not to be so easily restrained. she now flew up to uncle ben and tried to pull his big whip from his hand. "you don't dare to stwike my bwother!" she repeated, her eyes flashing. her determined attitude, the fearlessness of her whole little nature induced uncle ben to yield to her for the nonce. this he did more, particularly as he saw that the little boy was really incapable of keeping his seat another moment. "well, then, look here, little miss," he said; "you has behaved very well indeed yourself, and so i'll let the little chap off this morning. now you know, sir, it is 'cos of your sister, for she's a plucky 'un; so you may go back to my wife. here, sarah; take the pair of 'em. you can go and sit on one of them chairs over there, children, and see us as we go through our rehearsal." the rest of the morning was a truly exciting, not to say breathless, time to diana. she had not an instant to regret her absence from iris and apollo. the exploits, the feats performed by the three circus girls, and by tom the clown, to say nothing of the advent of the elephant and of the donkey who could perform numberless tricks, and finally, the performances of the troop of dogs, who seemed more human than most human beings, all fascinated the little girl. even orion forgot his terrors as he looked on; his cheeks flamed through their walnut dye, and his dark eyes grew brighter than ever. when the rehearsal was at last over, the whole party rushed back to their rooms, where a hasty meal was served; and little diana sat between two of the circus girls and was petted, and laughed at, and made much of, and orion kept close to aunt sarah, who took care that he should have as many tit-bits as she could manage to secure for him. at three o'clock there was a public performance, but now neither diana nor orion was allowed to be present. they found themselves shut up once more in the ugly little room, where mother rodesia had first taken them. from this place they could hear as a sort of distant echo the shouts of the men and women who were performing, and the cheers of the people who were looking on. at six o'clock the performance came to an end, and then, indeed, began a fearful bustle and excitement. people were running here, there, and everywhere, and, two hours later, the great vans were all packed, the animals properly secured, and the party, with the exception of aunt sarah, diana, and orion, had started _en route_ for the west of england. "why isn't we going with the others?" asked diana. "'cos the train is faster, little miss," answered aunt sarah. "and now the cab is at the door, and, if you will jump in at once we will be at the station in no time." "i calls it lovely," said diana, turning to secure orion's approval. "i like it miles better nor lessons with miss wamsay nor being beated by aunt jane. only, course," she added, in a meditative voice, "i's twuly, twuly sossy for uncle william and iris and apollo." chapter xviii. the heart of the little mother. it may seem almost impossible to believe that two little children could be kidnaped in the england of to-day. nevertheless, such was the case. mother rodesia had managed her theft with great skill. the gypsies had appeared unexpectedly in the fairy dell--no one knew they were there, therefore no one looked for them. having kidnaped the children, mother rodesia took care immediately to bury their clothes, and then she sold them to ben holt, the great circus manager, who took them within a few hours right away to the southwest of england. the little children had not accompanied the _troupe_, but had gone with aunt sarah by train. there had been little fuss and no apparent attempt at hiding the pair, therefore no one thought of looking for them in the large southwestern town where holt established his great circus. it was the most popular time of the year for performing shows of all sorts, and ben holt expected to make a considerable sum of money out of the pretty and vivacious little pair. meanwhile, the police were on their track; advertisements about them were scattered all over the country--considerable rewards were offered, and there was more than one nearly broken heart in the pretty rectory of super-ashton. even aunt jane felt by no means herself. she would not own to having done anything wrong, but she became wonderfully gentle to iris and apollo. she was unremitting, too, in her efforts to recover the lost children, and began to look quite peaky about the face and lined round the mouth. as to uncle william, he preached nothing but old sermons, finding it beyond his powers to devote his attention to anything fresh or new. he hated the study window where little diana had lain in his arms--he hated the memory of the whip which he had used over her. on one occasion he even went the length of saying to his wife: "jane, it was your doing--she was too spirited a child for the treatment you subjected her to. she ought never to have been whipped. but for you she would not have run away." this was a very terrible moment for aunt jane, and she was too much cowed and stricken to reply a single word to her husband. he could not help, notwithstanding his great anxiety, having a momentary sense of pleasure when he found that he had got the upper hand of his clever wife; but aunt jane had it out with the servants and the parishioners afterwards, and so revenged herself after a fashion. as to iris, a very sad change came over her. she grew thin and very pale; she scarcely ate anything, and scarcely ever spoke. even apollo, even little ann quite failed to comfort her. she did not complain, but she went about with a drooping look, somewhat like a little flower which wants water. "iris is not well," miss ramsay said one morning to mrs. dolman. "she does not eat her food, and when i went into her bedroom last night i found that she was wide awake, and had evidently been silently crying. i think she ought to see a doctor!" "dear, dear!" replied mrs. dolman. "do you know, miss ramsay, i am almost sorry i undertook the charge of the little delaneys. they certainly have turned out, as their poor father expressed it, a handful. if iris is really ill, i had better see her. send her to me. you don't suppose she is--fretting?" "yes; of course she is fretting dreadfully," replied miss ramsay. "and no wonder, poor little girl! for my part, i consider it perfectly awful to contemplate the fate of those poor lost children." "oh, they will be found--they are likely to return here any day," replied mrs. dolman. "it is just like you, miss ramsay, to go to the fair with things, and to imagine the very worst. why, for instance, should not some very kind people have found the children? why must they, as a matter of course, have fallen into the hands of cruel and unprincipled folk? some of the very sharpest detectives in scotland yard are on their track. for my part, i have not the slightest doubt that they will soon be brought back." miss ramsay uttered a sigh. "i will send iris down to speak to you," she said. this conversation occurred between three and four weeks after little orion and diana had disappeared. mrs. dolman was in her study. it was a very ugly room, sparsely furnished. there was a large, old-fashioned desk in the center of the room, and she was seated in an armchair in front of it, busily engaged making up her different tradesmen's books, when the door was softly opened and iris came in. mrs. dolman had not had any special conversation with iris since the mysterious disappearance of the two younger children, and now, as she raised her eyes and looked at her attentively, she was startled at the great change in her appearance. the child was reduced almost to a shadow. she was dressed in her heavy black, without a touch of relieving white. her lovely hair hung over her shoulders, and was pushed back from her low brow, bringing into greater contrast the small, pinched, white face, and the great brown eyes, which looked now too big for the little countenance to which they belonged. "come here, iris," said mrs. dolman. she had always liked iris the best of the children. "come and tell me what is the matter." iris came slowly forward. "miss ramsay says that you do not eat and do not sleep. if that is the case, i must send for the doctor to see you," continued aunt jane. "yes, aunt jane," answered iris. she hung her head listlessly. mrs. dolman put her arm round the slender waist and drew the child close to her side. iris submitted to this embrace without in any way returning it. "and when you see the doctor he will, of course, order you a tonic, and perhaps tell us to take you to the seaside. if that is the case, we must do so, iris--we must do our duty by you, whatever happens. it would never do for you to be ill, you understand." "yes, aunt jane," answered iris; "that's what i think myself--it would never do." "then you will try to get well, dear? you will do exactly what the doctor says?" "yes, aunt jane." mrs. dolman looked earnestly into her little niece's face. "you know," she said, in a brisk voice, "i am, for my part, quite certain that we shall get tidings of the lost children either to-day or to-morrow. we are not leaving a stone unturned to get them back." iris raised her delicate brows, and for a moment there came a flashing light of hope into her eyes; but then it died out. she lowered her lashes and did not speak. "you are pale, and your hands are hot," said mrs. dolman. "i feel hot," answered iris, "and i am thirsty," she added. "oh, come! this will never do," said aunt jane. "i shall just take you away this minute to see the doctor." she rose impatiently as she spoke. the apathy which was over iris irritated her more than she could express. if the child had only burst into tears, or even defied her as little diana used to do, she felt that she could comprehend matters a great deal better. "if we are quick, we may see dr. kent before he goes on his rounds," she said. "run upstairs at once, iris, and fetch your hat." iris immediately left the room. "the child looks as if something had stunned her," thought mrs. dolman to herself. "i never saw such a queer expression on any little girl's face. now, i am quite certain if philip or conrad had been kidnaped, that lucy and mary would be a great deal too sensible to act in this silly way. the worst of it is, too, that there is nothing really to lay hold of, for the child does not even complain--she simply suffers. what am i to do? how am i to tell the children's father that two of them have disappeared, and the eldest, his favorite, too, is very ill?" iris re-entered the room, with her sun-bonnet hanging on her arm. "put it on, my dear, put it on; and brisk up a little," said mrs. dolman. "there is no good in giving way to your feelings." "i never give way to them, aunt jane. i try to be patient," answered iris. mrs. dolman tied on her own bonnet with her usual vigor. she then took one of the hot little hands in hers, and, a few moments later, the aunt and niece were standing outside dr. kent's door in the pretty little village street. dr. kent was at home. he was a young man, and a clever doctor, and he gave iris a good overhauling. he listened to her lungs and heart, put several questions to her, was kind in his manner, and did not express the least surprise when he heard that the little girl could neither eat nor sleep. "i perfectly understand," he said. "and now, my dear, i hope soon to have you as right as a trivet; but, in the meantime, i should like to have a little talk with your aunt. can you find your way into my dining room? you have only to turn to the left when you leave this room." "thank you," answered iris. she went to the door, opened it, and shut it behind her. "now, what do you think about her?" said aunt jane. "out with the truth, please, dr. kent. you know i never can stand any beating about the bush." "there is nothing of the ordinary nature the matter with your little niece," began the doctor. mrs. dolman raised her brows in surprise and indignation. "how can you say that?" she remarked. "the child looks seriously ill." "please allow me to finish my speech. there is nothing the matter with the child in the form of organic or any other disease; but just at present there is such a severe strain on her mind that, if it is not completely relieved, she is very likely to die." "doctor! what a terrible thing to say!" "it is true. the child needs rousing--she is losing all interest in life. she has been subjected to a terrible shock." "of course she has," replied mrs. dolman; "but the extraordinary thing is that a child of ten years of age should feel it so much." "it is not extraordinary in that sort of child," replied the doctor. "can you not see for yourself that she has a very delicate and a very nervous organism. she has lately, too, lost her mother, has she not?" "yes; and i believe the child was very fond of her; but, indeed, i may as well say that i never saw anyone more sensible than little iris about that. she scarcely seemed to grieve at all. of course, i dare say she was very sorry, but she did not show it." "all the worse for her," answered dr. kent. "if she had given way about her mother, and allowed her grief to get the upper hand, she would not be so ill as she is now. then came the second blow--the extraordinary loss of the children." "then you really think her very ill?" said mrs. dolman. "i would do anything to save her, doctor. these four children were put into my care by their father." "where is the father now?" asked dr. kent. "he must have nearly reached the himalayas by this time." "is it possible for you to communicate with him?" "to say the truth, i have hesitated to do so. he suffered terribly at the death of his wife. it would be fearful for him to learn that two of the children are missing, and one very ill. i have waited, hoping for better news." "you did wrong. he ought to know of this calamity. each day that does not give you tidings of the missing children lessens the chance of your ever recovering them. i must say their disappearance is most mysterious." "so it is," answered aunt jane suddenly. "and in my heart of hearts," she added, "i am greatly alarmed." "well, if i were you, i would send a cablegram to the address most likely to find mr. delaney." "if you think it right." "i do. it is the only thing to do. he ought to come home immediately. that little girl ought to have her father with her." "then your opinion is that iris is very ill?" "she is on her way to be very ill. at the same time, if her mind is relieved, she will be well in a week. under existing circumstances, however, there seems but small chance of that. you ought to communicate with the father, and if i were you i would let the child do something herself--even if that something is useless--to try to recover her lost brother and sister." "what do you mean? it really is impossible for the child to go over the country looking for orion and diana. oh, what trouble i brought upon myself when i undertook the care of my brother's family!" "i am very sorry for you, mrs. dolman, but i must give you my true opinion. please act on my suggestion; i am sure you will not regret it. communicate with the father in the quickest way possible, urge him to return to london without fail, and give little iris something to do which will occupy and satisfy her mind. in the meantime i will order her a tonic, but medicines are not what she needs. she requires mind rest, and nothing else will make her well." mrs. dolman left dr. kent's house, feeling very uncomfortable. she took iris home, was wonderfully gentle to her during the walk, and sent her up to the schoolroom with a message to miss ramsay to say that she was not to do any more lessons that morning. having got rid of iris, she went immediately to have an interview with her husband in his study. "well, william," she said, "i own myself beaten." "my dear jane--beaten? in what way?" "here's a pretty mess," continued mrs. dolman; "orion and diana cannot be found, and dr. kent says that iris is going to be very ill." "iris going to be ill?" repeated mr. dolman. "has she caught anything taking. if so, jane, it would be our duty to separate the children immediately." "oh, nonsense, william! where would she take a catching complaint in a wholesome, well-sanitated rectory like this? have you never heard of nerve troubles?" mr. dolman opened his sleepy eyes and stared full at his wife. "my dear," he said, "i often thought that _you_ had never heard of them. so you really believe in them at last?" "i am forced to when that pretty child is dying from the effects of them." mrs. dolman then repeated to her husband all that dr. kent had said. "i cannot stand the responsibility any longer," she said. "i will send a cablegram to david this very day. what will he think of me? of course he will never forgive me. in the meantime, william, have you anything to propose about little iris?" "yes," answered mr. dolman. "there may not be much in my suggestion; but the fact is, i feel dreadfully restless, sitting here day after day, doing nothing." "william, what do you mean?" answered his wife. "sitting here day after day, doing nothing! have you not your parish to attend to?" "oh, i don't mean that--you attend to the parish, my love." "thank you, william, for acknowledging that fact at last." "i frankly acknowledge it. then, too, we have no sick poor in the parish, and everything is really in a prosperous condition; but the fact is, i hate sitting down to my comfortable meals, and lying down at night on my comfortable bed, not knowing in what part of the world dear, spirited little diana may be. i don't think half so much about the boy as little diana." "you are like all the rest of your sex, william; you are taken by a child because it happens to be a girl and has a pair of black eyes. for my part, i never could bear little diana." "please don't say that now." "oh, it is not that i am not sorry for her; of course, i am dreadfully sorry, and i acknowledge--i do acknowledge--that i have been more or less to blame. but now, please, come to the point--you always were such a man for going round and round a subject." "well, then," said mr. dolman, "this is it. the doctor wishes iris to be roused. let me take both her and apollo, and let us begin to look for the lost children." "and do you suppose," answered mrs. dolman, with a laugh, "that you will be more likely to find the children than the clever detectives who are on their track?" "we can go to london and take a detective with us. iris will at once feel happier if she is doing something. the fact is this: i am certain the inaction is killing her." "it is an extraordinary plan," said mrs. dolman; "but after all, if it is the only way to keep iris alive, i suppose we must consider it. but, william, i am the suitable one to take iris and apollo about. indeed, why should apollo go at all? he at least is in perfect health." "the person to consider is iris," said mr. dolman. "she will confide in apollo when she will not confide in anyone else; and i think, jane," he added, looking very strong and determined, "that she would rather go with me than with you." mrs. dolman flushed. "you know, jane," continued her husband, "you have been a little hard on these children." "perhaps so," answered mrs. dolman, "and when i have tried to do my duty, too. but, of course, evangeline's children were likely to be unmanageable; they had such extraordinary training when they were babies. however, as matters stand, i have not a word to say." "then, my dear, we will consider the thing arranged. we can easily get john burroughs to lend us one of his curates for sunday, and you will do all the rest. now, shall i see iris and submit the plan to her?" "an extraordinary plan it is," answered mrs. dolman; "but perhaps you are right, william. at any rate, i have proved myself so completely in the wrong that i am willing on this occasion to be guided by you." she rose from her seat, left the room, and went up to the schoolroom. "iris," she said to the little girl, "i want you and apollo to come downstairs immediately." iris sprang to her feet; she grew white to her lips. "have you heard anything?" she asked. "no, my dear, nothing--nothing whatever; only your uncle wishes to speak to you. now, come at once, for he is not the sort of man to be kept waiting." mrs. dolman left the room and the children followed her. when they reached the study, iris went straight up to her uncle. "what do you want with me, uncle william?" she asked. "the fact is this," he answered, scarcely looking at her, and speaking with great eagerness and emphasis for him; "you and i, iris, have got to do something, and there is not a moment to delay." a great flood of color filled iris' cheeks, a new light darted into her eyes. "oh, yes, uncle william," she said, panting as she spoke, "we have been doing nothing too long. it has nearly killed me, uncle william," she added. "then, my dear, we will just be our own detectives--you and i and apollo. we will start this very afternoon; we will look for the children ourselves. why, what is the matter, my dear; what is the matter? what are you doing?" for little iris had fallen on her knees, had caught her uncle's hand in both of hers, and was pressing it frantically to her lips. "oh, uncle william," she said, "how can i thank you? i promised mother the day she died that i would be a little mother to the others, and i have failed, i have failed dreadfully, and it is killing me, uncle william. but oh, if i can find them again, and if you will really help me, and if we do start to-day--oh, if this is true, then i am happy again." "you observe, my dear jane," said mr. dolman, "that my proposal seems to be correct. now, run off, iris, and get simpson to pack some clothes for you and apollo. we will leave super-ashton by the three o'clock train." chapter xix. "a pigmy i call him." the seaside town of madersley was crowded to excess. it was the height of the summer season, and holt's circus was doing a roaring trade. there were two exhibitions daily, and every available corner in the great tent was crammed to excess. the spectators said that they came principally to see the little dark-eyed girl ride. for diana had taken to the life almost as kindly as a young duck takes to the water. she had learned her part quickly, and in a very short time she could ride even the most spirited horse. she was really almost destitute of fear, and was even seen to laugh when she was put upon the back of a buck-jumper, who did his utmost to toss her off. there were always men or women close by to catch her if she did fail to go through any of the rings, the large paper balloons, or the other obstructions put in her way. her piquant little face, the bold expression of her eyes, her fearless manner, and the unmistakable look of babyhood about her, roused the spectators to a frenzy of admiration. but though diana did well and delighted ben holt, orion by no means followed her example. put to the test, poor little orion had little of the real giant about him. he was an ordinary little boy, with pretty black eyes and a good-humored, somewhat touching expression of face, but diana was anything but an ordinary girl. orion, having slipped once or twice from the back of greased lightning, became terribly afraid of the beast, and always turned white to his little lips when he was going through his exercises. as a rule, ben holt always trained the novices himself, and although he was kind to diana, he soon began to have a thorough contempt for little orion. "he's a peaky little chap," he said to his wife. "why, he aint even worth the twenty shillin's i paid for 'im. now the little 'un--the gal--there's a fortune in her; but the boy--i have no patience with the boy." meanwhile, he began to use rough language and threats to the child, and once or twice he even touched the little fellow with his great whip. on this occasion orion lost every scrap of nerve he possessed, and fell flat down upon the sanded floor of the arena, shivering and crying painfully. diana did not happen to be present. when she was by, small child that she was, uncle ben never showed at his worst, and orion, looking round now in vain for his sister, gave himself up for lost. "now listen to me, you young villain," said the tyrant; "i'll force you to do what i want. you get on greased lightning's back this very minute." little orion struggled painfully to his feet. a good-natured girl, who stood near, tried to say a word in his favor. "don't you forget that he's very young, ben holt," she said. "it will be all the worse for you if you are too hard on the little kid." "i'll thank you not to give me any of your sauce, susan jenkins," was the angry reply. susan jenkins, a pretty, slight, fair-haired girl, who went by the graceful name of ariel in the circus programme, did not venture to say anything further, but in her heart she resolved to give diana a hint of the true state of the case. orion was once more lifted on greased lightning's back, and the manager cracking his whip, the beautiful horse began to trot round and round the arena. at first the creature went fairly quietly, and orion managed to keep his seat. his piteous white face, the black shadows under his eyes, his little trembling hands were noticed, however, by susan. she kept near on purpose and tried to encourage him by smiles and nods. when he passed close to her he heard her hearty voice saying, "well done, little chap! you jest stick on and you'll be as right as a trivet." a strangled sob by way of answer rose in orion's throat. alas! he knew only too well that he could not stick on. louder and faster grew the crack of the manager's whip, and faster and fleeter trotted greased lightning. it was impossible for orion to keep his seat; he had nothing to cling to, nothing to hold on to. "you will have to do all this before the company to-morrow," called out the manager; "and now, no more of that easy sitting still. you jest scramble to your feet and _stand_ on the 'orse's back." "i can't! i'll be killed!" cried the child, whose face was white to his very lips. crack went the great whip. "stand up this minute, or you'll have a taste of this about your legs," said the man, in a brutal tone. in deadly fear the little fellow struggled to his feet; he looked wildly round him, the horse trotted forward, the child fell on his face and hands and clutched hold of the black mane. this enraged the spirited beast, who began to dance and curvet about, and the next moment, but for the speedy interference of susan jenkins, little orion would have measured his length upon the floor. even as it was he was hurt and shaken, and lay weeping and trembling in her arms. "now, susan, you jest listen to me," said holt, in an enraged voice. "i aint a-goin' to stand this sort of thing. that little chap has got to learn his lesson or he don't stay here; he is not a patch on his sister, but he shall learn his part. i has it all arranged that them two children is to appear in public to-morrow, and the boy must help the gal. the gal will do her work right well, but the boy must help her. it's the look of the two, and they so young, that i reckon on to fill the house. i'm determined that a mite of that sort shan't beat me. he could have stood on the horse's back if he had had a mind. he has disobeyed me and he shall be punished. you take 'im and lock 'im up in the black cage." the black cage was a terrible place, in which some of the fiercer animals were put from time to time to train them. it really consisted of a huge box without windows, but with one or two small ventilating shafts in the door. on rare occasions, when thoroughly enraged, the manager had been known to lock a refractory member of the troupe up there; but such a punishment had never been given to a child before. "oh, no, ben holt! you can't mean that," said susan. "why, it'll frighten him awful, and it do smell so bad of the last leopard." but for this answer the poor girl only got a crack of the whip round her ankles. what might have really happened at the end is not known; but suddenly at this juncture the swing door was flung open and little diana marched in. she held her head well back, and trotted boldly into the center of the arena. "dear, dear, what's all this fuss?" she cried out in her frank, hearty voice. "uncle ben, is anybody a-vexing of you?" "yes, my dear; that little brother of yours. you jest tell him to do his duty." "oh, diana, diana! he's killing me!" sobbed little orion. he struggled out of susan's arms, flew to his sister, flung the whole weight of his little body against her, and gave way to a fresh agony of howling and weeping. diana's black eyes flashed. "you stay k'iet. orion; 'member you is a giant," she said, speaking in a whisper to the boy. "i's here, and i'll look after you. you stay k'iet. now, uncle ben, what's all this?" "only that silly boy won't ride greased lightning. he won't even stand on the 'orse, let alone leap through the rings and the balloons." "is that all?" said diana, her eyes gleaming. "but i can do all that; i can do all that beautiful. _dear_ g'eased lightning!" she unclasped orion's arms from her neck and trotted across the stage. she ran up to the great chestnut and began to stroke its nose. the creature licked her little hand and looked affectionately down at her small figure. "uncle ben," she said suddenly, "i isn't going to have orion punished; you isn't to do it; give him to me. you can't do anything with a little sild like that if you fwighten him. give him to me, uncle ben; i'll manage him." "but what are you but a little child yourself?" said uncle ben. "yes, but i is made different. nothing fwightens me. i aren't afeared of nothing, and i aren't afeared of you, uncle ben, so don't you begin to think i is." "never seed sech a child," said uncle ben, once more restored to good humor. "jest notice that perfect demon of a 'orse, how 'e takes to 'er. never seed anything like it afore. well, missy, and if you can manage your brother i'm sure i'll be only too pleased, but jest you remember this--you are both to go before the footlights to-morrow for the public to see. i has never had that young 'un on the stage yet, but he's to ride with you to-morrow." "so he shall, uncle ben; course you will, won't you, orion?" "with you, di," sobbed orion; "if you are close to me, di." "course i'll be close to you, orion. i is the gweat diana. well, uncle ben, you isn't going to punish him. if you punish him he can't wide, 'cos he'll be ill. he's a giant." "a pigmy i call him," said uncle ben. "you talk silly," replied diana; "he's a giant, 'cos mother said he was, and on starful nights you can see him shining in the sky." "bless you, child, don't take up any more of my time talking that gibberish." "well, he's not to be punished, 'cos i say he isn't. he's coming with me now to his dinner. come 'long, orion, this minute; i has come to fetch you. good-by, uncle ben." uncle ben did not utter a word. orion and diana left the arena, hand in hand. "what about the black cage now, mister?" said the circus girl, with a sneer. "hang me, if i know what the world's coming to!" said uncle ben, scratching his head. "i can do nothing agen that little gal--she's the 'cutest, sharpest, bravest little cuss i ever come across." "she's got the upper hand of you, leastways," said susan, with a laugh; "and, for my part," she added, "i am right glad. i don't want that pore little kid to be used hard." chapter xx. "let's pertend," said diana. the circus was crowded that evening, but neither diana nor orion put in an appearance. they were to make their grand _début_ together on the following day, for hitherto only diana had ridden in public. they were left now in the little room, all alone, but as they were together that did not matter at all to them. orion's weary head rested against his sister's shoulder. her stout little arm was flung round his waist; he was fast asleep, but there were traces of tears on his pale cheeks. it seemed a very long time now to little orion since all the world had altered for him. from being a beautiful place, full of lovely gardens, and lovely homes, and kind people--from being full of snug little beds to sleep in, and nice food to eat, and loving services of all sorts--it had suddenly turned and shown its black face to the tenderly nurtured little boy. rough words were now his portion; he had a hard bed to lie on, very insufficient and very poor food to eat, and in addition to these things, blows and kicks were measured out to him with a very liberal hand. besides these fearful things, he was expected to do what terrified him into the very core of his somewhat timorous heart. until he had been kidnaped by mother rodesia he had never known that he was really timid, but now this side of his nature had come to the fore. day by day he grew more and more frightened, and for the last fortnight he really lost his appetite, and his health began to fail. he refused to eat the coarse and insufficient food, and when he slept his sleep was broken by bad dreams. little diana knew that there was something very wrong the matter, but she could not quite tell what. she had a very energetic little brain, however, and it was working now hard in orion's behalf. the noise and shouts made by the circus people were distinctly audible to the two little children. orion raised his head, looked around him with a terrified glance, and began to cry feebly. "is uncle ben coming? have i got to ride greased lightning? di, are you there? are you close to me?" "course i is," answered diana. "orion, don't you be such a silly; i is with you. there's nothing going to happen." "nothing? are you certain sure?" asked the child. "k'ite. i is with you, orion; don't you be fwightened; there's nothing going to happen." orion leaned comfortably back against the fat little shoulder. "p'w'aps you is a bit hung'y," said diana. "there's bwead and milk on the table; aunt sawah left it. shall we eat our supper afore we talks?" "i can't eat," replied orion. "i'm not a scrap hungry; i am never hungry now. i wonder you can eat, diana." "course i can eat," replied diana; "i aren't a silly. i has got to wide g'eased lightning. i love g'eased lightning. don't know why you is fwightened of him." "but i am to ride pole star, and he's worse than greased lightning," replied orion. "well, you listen to me," said diana, speaking in a very firm and authoritative voice. "see, i am eating up my supper, and you had best have some with me. i'll sit by you on the floor, if you like, and feed you same as if you was a baby." "but you are younger nor me," said orion, with a little laugh; "seems, though, as if you were much older." "can't help that," answered diana; "can't help feelin' old, whether we is nor not. you is almost a baby--i is k'ite a big girl. now, open your mouth; i am going to pop in some food. here's a vedy nice piece of bwead." orion did what diana wished, but he could scarcely eat. tears came suddenly into his eyes. "i wish i was dead, like poor rub-a-dub," he said, after a pause; "i wish i was lying in the beautiful garden, in the cemetery part with rub-a-dub." "oh, don't be such a silly!" said diana. "you has a lot to do afore you is deaded. don't forget that you is a star and a giant." "no, that i aren't," said the child. "oh, di! if mother was here she would be disappointed, for i am not a star, nor yet a giant. i'm just the frightenest little boy in the world." "i has thought of a plan," said diana very calmly. "you shan't wide pole star to-morrow; you shall wide g'eased lightning." "but i am nearly as frightened of one horse as the other." "i know g'eased lightning k'ite well by this time," continued diana, "and if i are there he'll be gentle. you shall wide him, and i'll wide pole star." "but i heard uncle ben say that i was to have the other horse." "never you mind that. what does that si'nify? i'll manage. i'm not fwightened of any horse that ever walked. if i are there, and if i look at g'eased lightning, he'll be as good as good can be, and you must just keep looking at me, orion, and do the things that i do. when you see me standing on pole star you must stand on your two foots on g'eased lightning, and when we fly faster and faster you must still keep looking at me, and when i jump through the wings you must do the same, and then, orion, then, why, it will be over. now, bend down; i'm going to whisper something to you." orion bent his ear with deep interest. "you don't mean it?" he said, when diana had said some very energetic words in a low voice. "yes, i does. does i say things i doesn't mean? i means it twuly, twuly. you wide g'eased lightning, and then--then it'll all be over." "oh, i really think i can, if you are _quite_ sure," said orion. his little face brightened up, two fever spots came into his cheeks; his eyes shone. "are you quite sure, di?" he said. "pos'tive certain. now, lie down if you like, and go to s'eep." "i could eat a bit more supper," said orion. "i'm kind of hungry now that you has told me you is positive, di." "all wight," answered diana. "there's a teeny dwop of milk left. course i was hungry and thirsty, and my trof was dry, but you shall drink up the last dwop of milk. here now, isn't you better?" "i am really, truly," said orion; "but are you quite certain it's true, di?" "k'ite. do you think i would tell a lie? i is the _gweat_ diana. you is sort of forgetting, orion." "no, i aren't," said orion. "oh, i am happy now!" "well, lie down. i'll make up your bed, and you shall go to s'eep. we has a lot to do to-morrow, hasn't we?" "yes, a lot," answered orion, with a little laugh. "oh, di! will they let us?" "course they'll let us," said diana. "i has it all settled beautiful. now, go to s'eep, p'ease, orion." orion did very soon enter the land of dreams, but little diana lay broad awake. she was thinking hard, and her thoughts were wonderfully sensible for such a baby. the performance at the circus had turned out a great success. diana had already appeared once or twice on greased lightning's back, but ben holt now kept her out of sight on purpose. he had caused rumors to be spread about her wonderful riding; his aim was to make people very anxious to see her again. he wanted the public to have a sort of craving for her. he hoped that when she finally appeared, dressed as the great diana, with the bow and arrows, and when little orion accompanied her with his girdle round his waist, and a sword in his hand, and when the two children rode round and round the circus on the fleetest horses in the company, that they would in very truth bring down the house--in short, that crowds would come to see them. uncle ben was full of hope with regard to diana, but he was by no means so sure as far as orion was concerned. if orion would not play his part well, and look what he was--one of the prettiest boys in england, and one of the very youngest who had ever appeared in a circus--why, half the effect would be lost. he began to perceive, however, that cruelty had little or no effect on the child, and he was inclined to allow that little genius, diana, to manage him in her own way. that night when the entertainment had come to an end, and uncle ben was seated at his cozy supper, he was much surprised when the door of the room was pushed suddenly open and a small girl, clad in a little white nightdress, made her appearance. "is my dear uncle ben anywhere about?" called out the clear little voice. "my word! if that aint little diana," said the man. "come here this minute, you little romp, and get on my knee." diana flew up to him, climbed on his knee, put her arms round his neck, and kissed him. "you's sort o' fond of me, i'm thinking," she said. "yes, that i be, missy," he answered; "you are the 'cutest little gal i ever seed, and you are fond of poor uncle ben, eh?" "it all apends," replied diana. "now what do you mean by that, missy?" "it all apends," she repeated. "wife, can you understand her?" questioned the man. "i think she means that it all depends, ben." "oh, depends--on what now, my dear?" "on whether you is good to my bwother or not." "oh, is that all? well, i'll be good to 'im." "he's awfu' fwightened of you." "well, he needn't be. if you'll manage him i won't say a word." "won't you twuly? then i love you," said diana. "now, listen to me--i has been a-talking to him." "that's right, missy. have a sip of my stout, won't you?" "no; i don't like it; it's black, nasty stuff. put it away; i won't touch it. well, now, listen to me, uncle ben. it apends altogether on whether you is good to orion to-morrow or not whether he wides well, or whether he wides badly, and what i think is this--" "well, missy, you are a very wise little miss for your age." "what i think is this," repeated diana. "let orion wide g'eased lightning and let me wide pole star." "but you can do anything with greased lightning," said the man. "why, the 'orse fairly loves you, and pole star's a rare and wicious sort of beast." "i aren't fwightened; that aren't me," said diana, in her usual proud, confident tone. "orion isn't to wide a wicious sort of beast." she slipped down from the man's knees and stood before him. "it aren't me to be fwightened of any horse," she said. "i never was and i never will be." "i believe yer, miss," said uncle ben, gazing at her with great admiration. "but orion he is--he is awfu' fwightened of pole star, and he sha'n't wide him. now, g'eased lightning, he'll do anything for me, and so what i say is this--let orion wide him, and if he begins to dance about and get sort of fidgety, why, i'll stwoke him down. you know i could pwactice widing a little on pole star in the morning." "to be sure you could, missy." "oh, my dear ben," said aunt sarah at that moment, "you are never a-going to let either of them little kids ride a 'orse like pole star?" "you let me manage my own affairs," said the man, scowling angrily. "well, i call it a shame," answered the woman. "poor aunt sawah! you needn't be fwightened," said diana. "i is never fwightened; that aren't me. i'll wide pole star, and orion, he'll wide g'eased lightning, _only_--now, uncle ben, is you listening?" "yes, to be sure i am, missy," said uncle ben, taking another deep draught from his big glass of stout. "what's the 'only,' little miss?" "let's pertend," said diana. "pretend what, missy?" "that after orion has done it, after he has wode g'eased lightning, he may go 'way." "go away, missy?" "yes, let's pertend it. if he thinks he's going away after he has done it, why, there's nothing he won't twy to do, 'cos, you see, he's longing to go. let's say this to him: 'orion, you's good boy, you's darlin' boy, and when you has done what i want you to do, you shall go way'--then he'll do it beaut'ful." "but he aint a-going," said the man, "he's my property. i has bought him; i has bought you both. you are sort of slaves to me." "no, i aren't a slave to nobody," said diana, whose fierce little blood could not brook this word. "well, you are a very good little gal, and so i am to pretend to orion that he's going away; but now, when i don't mean him to go, that seems sort of cruel." "oh, you leave it to me!" said diana; "let him think he's going away and i'll manage. tell susan to tell him, and tell aunt sawah to tell him, and you tell him, and i'll tell him, and then he'll be as good as good, and as bwave--as bwave as a big giant." "well, my dear, manage it your own way," said uncle ben; "but, all the same, it seems a shame. i aint what's called a very soft sort of man, but it seems a shame to deceive a little kid; only you manage it your own way, little missy." "i'll manage it my own way," echoed diana. "i'm awfu' 'bliged." she tripped gayly out of the room. chapter xxi. pole star. the next day, at an early hour, the different performers had a grand rehearsal of their parts. it was a dress rehearsal. holt was in high spirits, and aunt sarah, who stood just in front of the circus, petted and encouraged both diana and orion as much as possible. orion felt shaky and looked very white, but the delicious thought that, after he had gone through those few minutes of agony, he might really be free to run away, to leave the dreadful, terrible circus forever, sustained him wonderfully. diana had assured him that this could be managed. she had told him that uncle ben had promised that if he was a brave boy and sat well on greased lightning, and stood up when necessary, and, in short, went through the ordeal set him to do, without a murmur, he should be allowed to leave the circus that evening. it mattered nothing at all to little orion that he did not know where he was to go, that he was a penniless and very small, very ignorant boy. the one object on which all his hopes were centered was the desire to get away from uncle ben and the terrible horses which he was forced to ride. "now, 'member, you is to be bwave," said diana; "you isn't to be fwightened. if you's fwightened, uncle ben won't let you go. you just be as bwave as possible, and never mind nobody. now, then, it's your turn. come 'long." orion looked charming in his pretty dress. he wore a little sky-blue tunic, with small, tight knickers of white; his little legs and feet were bare, round his waist was a crimson girdle, and at his side was attached a toy sword. diana wore a silk skirt and tights, her curling black hair fell partly over her forehead; her bold, black eyes were full of a strange mixture of frolic, affection, and defiance. she looked the personification of healthy life and courageous fire. in her hand she held the bow of diana, and round her neck was slung a couple of arrows. she was a wonderfully graceful child in all her movements, and looked charming in her picturesque dress. the call for the children came, and the two bounded on the stage. the moment they did so, diana ran up to uncle ben and took hold of the great whip which he carried. "you must let me do it my own way," she said; "you have pwomised. orion won't be bwave boy if i don't manage him. give me that whip." "oh, but i say, little missy----" "give me that whip," repeated diana, flashing her eyes up at the man. "i is the gweat diana and i order you. give me the whip; i'll slash it; i know how. ah, here comes g'eased lightning. come 'long, you beauty; come 'long, you darlin'." diana ran fearlessly up to the horse, fondled its nose, and looked into its eyes; the creature stood perfectly still, bent its graceful head, and licked her little hand. "and it's a perfect brute to everyone else," thought uncle ben to himself, but this time he did not utter a word. the horse stood perfectly motionless until little orion was mounted on its back. "now, g'eased lightning, you has got to be a good horse," said diana, speaking to him in a confiding voice. "you isn't to fwighten orion; 'member he's a giant, and it's a gweat honor for you to carry him, 'cos most times he lives up in the stars." "come, missy, we have no time for that sort of nonsense," said uncle ben, who began to get impatient. "give me back my whip." "no; i is going to slash the whip. come, g'eased lightning; twot, twot, p'ease." the horse began to amble gently forward. little diana went and stood by uncle ben's side. "i's managing," she said; "you shall have whip to-night; but i's managing now." the other performers stood round in breathless silence. orion kept his seat manfully. greased lightning was as gentle as a lamb. "good boy!" called out diana; "vedy good little boy. good horse, g'eased lightning! you is a vedy good horse. now then, go faster." diana gave the whip a crack. the horse looked at her out of his big, intelligent eyes, and began to trot, but still very gently, round and round the circus. "good boy," repeated diana; "good horse! now then, orion, get up on to yous two foots; don't be fwightened. 'member what will happen when it's over. get up on to yous foots this minute." poor little orion scrambled in deadly terror on to his small feet; but the horse still went swift and smooth, neither budging nor turning to the right or the left. diana once again cracked her whip. he went faster and faster. orion began to lose his fear; he even laughed with excitement; the rose bloom came out on his delicate little face. the terrible hoops were brought, and the child made a manful effort to get through them. diana cracked her whip and called out and encouraged him, and finally brought him successfully through the ordeal. he was taken off the stage wet with perspiration, and trembling all over, but at the same time he had a wild sort of triumph in his little heart. "i did it well; didn't i, aunt sarah?" he said. "you did it splendidly, my little love," said aunt sarah; "but i never did see a little gal like your sister. oh, merciful heavens! that man aint never a-going to let her ride pole star!" a black horse of immense strength and size was now brought upon the stage. this horse seemed to paw the air as he walked; his eyes were bloodshot and full of a dangerous light. "remember it's your own fault, missy," said uncle ben; "this aint the 'orse i'd give you. i don't want any harm to come to you; but if you insist on that little chap, that aint a patch on you, riding greased lightning, why, there aint nothing for it but for you to ride pole star." "you don't 'uppose i's fwightened of pole star? why, he's a weal beauty," said diana. "he's the----" the man arrested the words on his lips. diana had thrown down her whip and rushed across the stage. with just the same fearless confidence as, half an hour before, she had gone up to greased lightning--she now approached pole star. "you's pwetty, you's a darlin'," she said. she held out her tiny brown hand. "give me a bit of sugar, somebody," she demanded. a girl who stood near ran away to fetch a lump. the child offered it to the horse. he looked at her, pawed the ground restlessly, and then, stooping, licked the sugar off her hand as tenderly as if he were a kitten. "well, i never!" said uncle ben, breathing a great sigh of relief. "it's a beauty horse," repeated diana; "i like it better nor g'eased lightning. pole star, i's going to wide you; you's a dear, good horse." she stroked the creature's nose--the fierce eyes grew gentle--a moment later the child was mounted on its back. "now, gee up, gee up!" called diana. "p'ease, uncle ben, don't cwack your whip; i can manage pole star." she pulled at the reins, and the creature began, at first gently and then more rapidly, to run round and round the stage. after all, notwithstanding her bravery, it was an ordeal, for pole star could run double as fast as greased lightning. soon, from running he seemed to take to flying, and little diana gasped and lost her breath; but she sat firm as a statue, and never touched a hair of the creature's mane. "now, pole star," she called out, when the horse had stopped for want of breath; "i's going to stand on you, and you must be vedy good." she patted the animal on its head; then she scrambled to her feet, and, holding the reins taut, stood firm as an arrow, while the creature once more flew round the stage. when her ride was over she had won the applause of the whole house. after this diana and orion were taken away to rest until the evening. they were given the best food and a great deal of petting from aunt sarah. as to diana, she was in excellent spirits. "oh, please, di; nothing will make you stop, nothing will make you break your word?" said little orion once to her. "what i pwomise i do," replied diana, with dignity. and so the hours flew by, and at last the time arrived when the children were to appear before the footlights. the huge circus tent was packed to the highest gallery. there was, in short, not standing room in the audience part of the house. uncle ben, in the highest spirits, was darting here and there behind the wings, giving directions, gesticulating, ordering, rearranging. little diana flew up to him and took his hand. "what is you 'cited about?" she asked. "is you fwightened 'bout anything?" "no, little gal, no--that is, provided you and your brother do your parts well." "we has pwomised," said diana, with great firmness; "you needn't be fwightened; we has pwomised." the children were to appear as the last item of the first part of the performance. uncle ben felt that on them really turned the success of the evening. at last the crucial moment arrived. two beautiful horses were led into the circus, and immediately afterwards little diana, holding orion by the hand, skipped on to the stage. she came lightly forward, almost up to the footlights, dropped a somewhat pert little courtesy, turned round, and, taking orion's hand, danced up to where the two horses were impatiently pawing the ground. uncle ben, with his big whip in his hand, dressed in evening clothes, was standing at one side. a man came forward to help diana to mount pole star--another gave his hand to orion. "'member, orion, you has pwomised, and it all apends," said diana, in a low, but very clear, voice. the little fellow looked at her. her spirited action, the splendid color in her cheeks, the glow of excitement in her great big eyes, inspired him. he would not ride for those horrid people who were crowding all the seats in front, those horrid, terrible people who seemed to rise from the floor to the ceiling. he did not care anything about those faces, those cruel, staring eyes, those smiling lips; but he did care for diana. he would ride his best for her. "steady, g'eased lightning," said the little girl; "you's to be good horse, 'member. now, pole star, beauty, darlin', do just what diana wants." the horses began to canter forward, going briskly and swiftly side by side. greased lightning's coal-black eye was fixed upon diana as she sat on pole star's back. pole star felt the feather-weight of the hot hand on his mane, the touch of the little feet somewhere near his neck. there was a magnetic current of sympathy between the horse and the child. "think you's a giant," she said once to orion, as she shot past him in the race. the crowd, speechless with astonishment and delight for the first moment or two, now began to clap and cheer loudly. crack went uncle ben's whip. the circus girls in the wings, the men, the clown, all watched the little pair with beating hearts. diana they felt sure of, but what of little orion? and yet a change had come over the child. his face was no longer pale; some of diana's spirit seemed to have entered into his soul. the signal came for the pair to stand upon the bare, backs of their horses. little orion scrambled as quickly and nimbly to his feet as diana herself. he caught the reins; crack again went the whip; the horses flew round and round. now and then diana said a soft word to greased lightning; now and then she stamped her small foot on pole star's neck. each movement, each glance of the child, seemed to thrill through the willing beast. incomprehensible as it may seem, both these wild, half-tamed creatures loved her. they kept straight, veering neither to left nor right, for her sake. the first part of the performance went safely through, but now came the more difficult and dangerous time. the children were now not only to ride the horses standing, but they were obliged to ride holding one foot in the air, then to keep on their steeds standing on tiptoe, and finally they had to spring through great rings made of tissue paper, and leap again upon the horses as they galloped through. diana performed her task with unfailing exactness, always reaching the horse's back at the right moment, springing up, sitting down, standing first on one foot, then on the other, being apparently on wires, afraid of nothing, triumphant through all. orion made a gallant effort to follow her example. in two minutes now the whole thing would be over. "don't be fwightened, orion; time's nearly up," whispered the gay, brave little voice in his ear. the horses flew, the children moved as if they were puppets, and all might now have been well if at that moment diana herself--diana the fearless, the brave, the unconquerable--had not slipped, slipped at the very moment when she was springing through one of the rings. the horse galloped on without her, and she lay prone upon the floor of the circus. uncle ben rushed madly to the rescue, and before orion's horse had reached the spot he had caught the child in his arms. she was stunned by the fall, and lay white as death in his embrace. the house thought the fall had killed her, and there was a horrified murmur; but diana was only stunned. in a moment she raised her cheery little voice. "i's awfu' sossy; i's all wight now," she said. "where's pole star?" "nay, little gal," said uncle ben, knowing well the temper of the house, "you must do no more to-night. the company, i know, will excuse you." seating the child on his shoulder, and patting her hand affectionately, as if he were her father, he brought little diana to the front. "i hope, ladies and gentlemen," he called out, "that you will excuse this great lady huntress to-night. but if you wish her to take another turn round on the back of the great pole star, she is willing to comply." "no!" shouted voice after voice in the gallery; "let little missy off. we'll come to see little missy another night. three cheers for little missy!" the next moment diana and orion found themselves at the back of the stage. "is it true, di?" gasped orion. "is it all over?" "yes; it's all over," answered little diana. she leaned against the wall. "i's a bit giddy," she said; "but i'll be all wight by and by." aunt sarah, with tears in her eyes, brought the child a restorative. "drink this, little love," she said; "you'll soon be much better, i'm sure." the curtain had fallen on the first half of the performance, and uncle ben came up in a huge good humor. "missy, i hope you aint hurt," he said. "hurt?" answered diana. "what do a fall matter? i's as wight as wain. didn't orion do well, uncle ben?" "yes, all things considerin'," said uncle ben. "we has a full house, missy, and i'm very much obliged to you. now you had best go straight to bed. sarah, take the kids off and give them a good supper, for they has earned it." aunt sarah took diana's hand and led her to their bedroom. "but aren't we going away now?" said orion. aunt sarah sat down at the foot of one of the beds with a white face. "come to me, little missy," she said to diana. the child went to her. "i's k'ite well," she said, "only a little giddy. why, aunt sawah, you's kying." "i thought you were dead for a minute, my little miss; you that is the image of my rachel, what the good god took from me. i thought you were dead, and it 'most broke my 'eart--oh, little missy, little darlin'!" "but, diana, aren't we going away?" said orion. "you promised, and you never broke your word." "i pwomised, and i never break my word," said diana. "yes, orion, yes; we is going away." "i declare," said aunt sarah, "i believe it would be the right thing to do. it would kill me if you was killed, missy--and them 'orses!" "they is darlin's," interrupted diana. "well, go to sleep now, and i'll fetch some supper," said aunt sarah. she shut the door behind the children, returning in a few minutes with bowls of bread and milk. diana sat listlessly down on the nearest bench. "i's awfu' s'eepy," she said. she did not quite know what was the matter with her; it seemed as if something had suddenly knocked all her spirit away. she did not know herself without the brave spirit which god had put into her little breast. orion gazed at her anxiously. "you do look queer," he said; "your eyes are bigger than ever, and they stare so. what's the matter, di?" "nothing," said diana. "aren't you going to eat your supper?" "i's wather sick," said diana; "i don't want to eat. you had best eat all you can, orion." "yes, i had best," answered orion, "'cos i won't have strength to run away if i hasn't plenty of food." he began to eat up his own basin of bread and milk, and, as it was not too large, he thought he might attack diana's also; then he gave her an anxious glance. she was sitting strangely still, her hands lying idly in her lap, her eyes staring straight at the opposite wall. "'member we is going away, and that you promised," he said. "isn't it time for us to be off?" "yes, orion," she answered. "well, drink off this teeny drop of milk; it will strengthen you." he brought the bowl to diana, who sipped of a few spoonfuls; but then she shook her head. "i's sick," she said; "it aren't good to eat when you is sick." "well, do come now," said orion. "if you don't go at once they will find us; and you promised, and you never broke your word yet." "i underland," said diana; "i would not bweak my word; that would be mean." "well, let us go now." diana slipped off the little bench on which she had seated herself. she was still in her circus dress; her little bow was hung at her side, her arrow slung round her neck. orion was also in his pretty dress, with his tiny sword and belt, his blue jacket and little white knickers. "let's put on our shoes," he said; "we can't go far in bare feet." "we can't go far in bare foots," echoed diana, in a dreary sort of voice. "i's s'eepy. shall we wun away in the morning, orion?" "no; to-night! to-night!" he said, in terror. "you'll break your promise if we don't go to-night." "all wight," she answered. he brought her shoes, slipped them on her feet, buttoned them, and put on his own; then he took her hand in his. they opened the door of their bedroom and ran down a long passage, at the end of which was another door; it was on the latch. orion opened it, and the little children found themselves at the back of the stage. there were no people about to see them, even aunt sarah was far away in one of the wings. "there! we is safe," said orion. "we has runned away, and we are safe." "we has wunned away and we is safe," echoed diana, in that dreary little voice. "but, orion, i's drefful s'eepy." "never mind," said orion; "we'll sleep in the fields." "we'll s'eep in the fields," echoed diana, in a vague manner. orion took her hand; they ran as fast as they could down a shady lane, for the great circus tent had been put outside the town. chapter xxii. the milkman. it was a lovely summer's night, and as the children ran, orion looked up at the stars. "why, it's a starful night!" he cried, in a joyful voice, "and there's me. do look at me, di! there i am up in the sky, ever so big and 'portant." "so you is," said diana, laughing and then checking herself. "is it far to----" "to where, di?" "to the garding," said diana; "to the dead-house where rub-a-dub is. let's go and sit on the little bench and see the dead 'uns--let's count 'em; i wonder how many there is!" she stopped suddenly and gazed around her. "what do you mean?" said orion, in some alarm. "we are nowhere near the garden. don't you know where we are, diana?" "yes, i do now, course," she answered, with a laugh. "i think i was dweaming; it's my head; it's keer. i want to s'eep awfu'." "well, here are the fields," said orion; "here's a beautiful green field, and the moon is shining on it. oh, and there's a hole in the hedge; let's creep in." "let's k'eep in," said diana. they pushed their way through the hole and found themselves in a clover field. the clover, slightly wet with dew, felt very refreshing to their hot little feet. "isn't this 'licious?" said diana. "let's lie down on the g'een g'ass; let's s'eep here; i's awfu' s'eepy." "it's very near the circus," said orion. "i'm rather frightened for fear uncle ben will find us." "no, he won't; it's all wight," said diana. she allowed her little brother to lead her as far as the hedge, and then nothing would persuade her to go any further. down on the damp grass she flung herself, and then next moment was fast asleep. orion, aged six, did not think it wrong for diana to sleep on the wet grass. the moon shone all over her bare little legs. she folded her arms when she lay down, and now there was not a stir, nor a movement from her. far away, or at least it seemed far away to little orion, he could see the blinking lights of the town, and when he stood on tiptoe he could also see the lights of the merry-go-rounds and the other accompaniments of the great circus. he knew that he was dreadfully near his tyrants, and he longed beyond words to awaken diana and make her go farther away; but she was asleep--dead tired. he never could master her. there was nothing, therefore, but for him to lie down also, close to her. accordingly, he flung himself on the grass, laid his head on her shoulder, nestling up close to her for warmth and protection, and in a few moments he had also forgotten his fears, and was calmly living in the blessed land of dreams. the great orion overhead looked down on his tiny namesake, and the little boy dreamt that he was a giant in very truth, and that he and diana were fighting their way through the world. the children slept, and presently the creatures of the night came out--the owls, and the bats, and the night moths--and looked with wonder at the queer little pair lying prone amongst the green clover. thousands of wonderful night noises also began to awaken in all directions--the merry chirp of the cricket, the whir of the bat on its circling flight, the hum of the moths--but the children heard nothing, although the creatures of the night were curious about these strange little beings who, by good rights, ought not to be sharing their kingdom. at last, just when the first peep of dawn began to tinge the east, little orion opened his eyes and rubbed them hard. with a great rush memory returned to him. he had run away; he had ridden greased lightning and had not fallen from his back; his terrible life in the circus was at an end. uncle ben was nowhere near to chide him. he and diana had got off; but it was true that they had not put a great distance between themselves and uncle ben. perhaps uncle ben, who had promised that he might go away if he did his part well, might change his mind in the morning. it was most important that he and his sister should go farther away as quickly as possible. accordingly, he proceeded to wake diana. diana was very sound asleep indeed. he could see her face distinctly, for the first faint return of day was spreading a tender glow over it. she did not look pale; there was a hot spot on either cheek--a spot of vivid rose. "i am cold enough," thought the little fellow, "but diana seems warm. wake up, di; wake up!" he said. "we has runned away, but we has not run far enough. wake up, di, and let's go on." diana did not stir at all at his first summons. he spoke loudly, looking around him as he did so in some terror. a night owl, preparing to go home, was seated on a tree near by. the owl looked at orion and hooted in a very melancholy manner. his voice seemed to say: "i never saw two greater little fools than you children in all my life." orion felt rather afraid of the owl. having failed to awaken diana by words, he proceeded to shake her. this device succeeded. she opened her great, big, sleepy eyes and stared around her in bewilderment. "so you is our little mother now, iris?" she said. "all wight; i's coming." she sat up on her grassy bed and rubbed her eyes, then stared at orion and burst out laughing. "what are you laughing at?" said orion. "we are in awful danger here. uncle ben may catch us any minute." "who's uncle ben?" asked diana. "why, di! how very queer you are. don't you remember uncle ben, the awful man who has the circus?" "no, i don't," said diana. "is it true that rub-a-dub's dead?" "oh, di! rub-a-dub died weeks ago. what does it matter about a mouse? i'm frightened about uncle ben. if he catches us he'll change his mind, perhaps, and i cannot ride greased lightning again. don't speak so queer, di. do rouse yourself. we must get out of this as fast as we can." "as fast as we can," echoed diana. "all wight, orion; i's k'ite sati'fied." "well, come, then," said orion; "get up." "i don't think i care to." "but we can't run away if you are lying there." "no more we can," said diana. she laughed again. "isn't it fun?" she said. "and so rub-a-dub isn't dead after all?" "yes; of course he is." "orion, look!" said the child; "look!" "look at what?" answered the little fellow. "oh, diana! don't say it's uncle ben!" "i don't know nothing 'bout no uncle ben; but didn't you see something flash there?--something white, just over there? i know who it was; it was mother. mother has gone to the angels, but she has come back. mother! mother! come here! call her, orion; call her, call her!" "mother! mother!" said the little boy; "mother, come here!" but there was no answer to this cry, which, on the part of orion at least, was full of agony. no answer either from the heaven above or the earth beneath. "it was a mistake, i s'pect," said diana. "mother is in heaven; she's a beautiful angel, singing loud. well, let's come 'long." she staggered to her feet, and, supported by orion, began to walk across the field. "let's go into the garding," she said. poor little orion was quite in despair. "we are miles from the garden," he said. "i think you have gone silly." "s'pect i has," said diana. "what fun!" "and you have got such a queer look on your face." "a k'eer look on my face?" repeated diana. "yes; and your eyes, they are ever so big; they frighten me." "my eyes k'ite fwighten you, poor little boy," said diana. "well, let's wun; let's get to the garding. why, it's the day mother went away to the angels, and we has got no lessons. where's iris? i want iris." "so do i," said orion. "oh, di! what is to become of us? you frighten me." "k'ite fwighten poor little boy," echoed diana. "i's sossy, but i can't help it. i's giddy in my head. does this way lead to garding, orion?" "no. what are we to do?" said orion. "oh, i am so frightened!" he really was. diana's strange behavior was more than he could understand. "oh, i'm so bitter hungry!" he cried. he flung himself on the grass. diana stood and looked at him with a puzzled expression on her face. "why, you is a poor little boy," she said. "now, if you'll take my hand we'll go indoors, and fortune will give us a lovely bekfus. come, orion; don't be fwightened, poor little boy." they walked across the field. by this time the sun was up and the place felt warm and dry. little orion, shivering in his queer circus dress, was glad of this, and a faint degree of returning courage came into his heart. diana did not seem to feel anything at all. she walked along, singing as she walked. "we's going to the dead-house," she said. "rub-a-dub's dead." "you'll never know fear any more, little dear; good-by, rub-a-dub." "oh, don't di! you make me feel so frightened," said orion. "why do you talk like that? can't you 'member nothing?" "course i 'member," said diana. "rub-a-dub's dead." "never know fear, little dear; rub-a-dub's dead." "come this way," said orion, taking her hand. she was quite willing to follow him, although she did not in the least know where she was going. "s'pect i aren't well," she said at last. "don't be fwightened, poor little boy. s'pect i aren't k'ite well." "i's so hungry," moaned orion. "well, let's go into the house; let's have bekfus. where's fortune? come 'long, orion; come 'long." they had reached the highroad now, and were walking on, orion's arm flung round diana's waist. suddenly, rattling round a corner of the country road, came a man with a milk cart. he was a very cheery-looking man with a fat face. he had bright blue eyes and a kindly mouth. "hullo!" he said, when he saw the two little children coming to meet him. "well, i never! and what may you two be doing out at this hour?" diana gazed up at him. "i's going to the garding," she said. "i's to meet iris in garding. we is to 'cide whether it's to be a pwivate or a public funeral." "bless us and save us!" said the man. "don't mind her," said orion; "she's not well. she fell off a horse last night, and there's something gone wrong inside her head. i s'pect something's cracked there. she's talking a lot of nonsense. we has runned away, and we is desperate hungry. can you give us a drink of milk?" "well, to be sure," said the man, smacking his lips as he spoke. "i never saw anything like this afore, and never heard anything like it, neither. why, it's like a page out of a printed book. and so you has run away, and you belong to the circus, i guess. why, you are in your circus dresses." "see my bow and arrow," said diana. "i is the gweat diana; i is the gweatest huntwess in all the world." "to be sure; to be sure!" said the man. "and i am orion," said the boy, seeing that diana's words were having a good effect. "you can watch me up in the sky on starful nights. i am a great giant, and this is my girdle, and this is my sword." "i never heard anything so like a fairy tale afore," said the man. "are you sure you are human, you two little mites?" diana took no notice of this. "i want to get into the garding," she said. "i want to lie down in the garding; i want iris; i want mother. man, do you know that my mother has gone away to the angels? she is playing a gold harp and singing ever so loud; and once we had a little mouse, and it was called rub-a-dub, and it's deaded. we gived it a public funeral." "oh, do let us have some milk, and don't mind her!" said orion. the man jumped down off the cart, and, turning a tap in the great big can, poured out a glass of foaming milk. he gave it to orion, who drank it all off at the first draught. he then filled out a second measure, which he gave to diana. she took it, raised it to her lips, took one or two sips, and then gave it to orion. "there's something sick inside of me," she said. "i don't know what's the matter; i isn't well." "she had a bad fall last night at the circus," said orion. "she fell from one of the rings. i s'pect something's cracked inside her head." "i s'pect something's c'acked inside my head," echoed diana, looking up piteously. "i want to go to the garding; i want to lie down." "well, look here," said the man; "this is more than i can understand. you had best, both of you, go back to the circus, and let the people who has the charge of you see what's the matter." "no!" screamed orion; "never! never!" he suddenly put wings to his little feet, and began to fly down the road, away from the milkman. diana stood quite still. "aren't he silly little boy?" she said. "but he mustn't go back to circus, milkman; it would kill him. i isn't able to wide to-day, 'cos i's c'acked inside my head; and he mustn't wide without me, 'cos it would kill him. couldn't we go to your house, milkman, and rest there for a bit?" "well, to be sure; i never thought of that," said the man. "so you shall, and welcome. jump up beside me on the cart, missy." "i can't, 'cos my head's c'acked," said diana. "then i'll lift you up. here, you sit there and lean against the big milk can. now, we'll set peggy going, and she will soon overtake little master." diana laughed gleefully. "do you know, you's an awfu' nice man?" she said. "i am glad you think so, missy." the man took the reins and peggy started forward. they soon overtook little orion, who was lifted also into the milk cart. then the milkman turned swiftly round and carried the children back to a small house on the outskirts of the town. when he got there he called out in a lusty voice: "hi, bessie! are you within?" a woman with a smiling face came to the door. "now, what in the world is the matter with you, jonathan?" she answered. "only this, wife. i met the queerest little pair in all the world on the road. can't you take them in and give them rest for a bit? i believe the little miss is hurt awful." "i's c'acked inside my head, but it don't matter," said diana. the woman stared from the children to the man; then something in diana's face went straight to her heart. "why, you poor little mite," she said, "come along this minute. why, jonathan, don't you know her? course it's the little missy that we both saw in the circus last night. didn't i see her when she fell from the ring? oh, poor little dear! poor little love!" chapter xxiii. fortune. uncle william took the children straight up to london. they spent the night at a great big hotel, and in the morning he went alone to have a long consultation with one of the best detectives in new scotland yard. when he returned after this interview, iris came to meet him with a wise look on her face. "i know what to do," she exclaimed. "well, then, my dear, it's more than i do," replied uncle william. "it's the only thing," repeated iris. "let's go straight home." "home? do you mean to the rectory? why, we have just come from there." "i don't mean the rectory. i mean our real home," answered iris. "let's get back at once to delaney manor." "i don't see much use in that," answered uncle william. "it's all a feel i have inside of me," replied iris. "often and often i get that feel, and whenever i obey it things come right. i have a feel now that i shall be nearer to diana and to orion in the old garden than anywhere else. i always try to obey my feel. perhaps it's silly, but i can't help it. do you ever get that sort of feel inside of you, uncle william?" "if i did," replied uncle william, "your aunt jane would say that i was the silliest old man she had ever come across." "but you aren't, you know. you are a right good sort," answered apollo, in a patronizing tone. "i am glad you think so, my boy," replied uncle william. "well, now," he added, "i always did hate london, and in the middle of summer it seems to me that it is wanting in air. i once heard a countryman say that he believed people only breathed turn about in london, and it really seems something like that this morning. the place is so close and so used-up that there is not a breath anywhere; so, iris, if you have got that feel, and if you will promise not to tell your aunt jane that _that_ is your reason for returning to the manor, why, we may just as well do so--only, i suppose, the place is all shut up." "fortune, at any rate, is there," replied iris; "and if anybody can help us to find diana and orion, it's fortune; for she had them, you know, uncle william, from the moment the angel brought them down from heaven. she had to do for them and nurse them, and tend them from that moment until aunt jane took them away. oh, yes!" continued iris; "if there is a person who will help us to find them, it's fortune." "she partakes of the strange names which seem to run in your family," answered uncle william. "but there, it is as good an idea as any other, and we shall at least each of us have our proper number of breaths at delaney manor. that certainly is in favor of the scheme." accordingly, that very afternoon, uncle william, iris, and apollo took the train into devonshire. they arrived at the manor in the evening. nobody expected them, and the place looked, to uncle william, at least, very dull and desolate. but when iris saw the quaint old gateway, and when apollo felt his feet once again upon the well-known avenue, the sadness of heart which had oppressed both children seemed to lift itself as if it had wings and fly right away. "let's go to the garden this very instant," exclaimed iris, looking at her brother. they clasped each other's hands and, flying along the well-remembered haunts, soon reached their favorite garden. "oh, apollo! i live; i breathe again," said iris, panting as she spoke. "oh, i am happy once more!" "let us see if anything has been injured while we were away," said apollo. "oh, i wonder if anybody has watered our pretty gardens. i planted a lot of mignonette the day before i went away. i wonder if it has come up." the children wandered about the garden. the dead-house was now empty; the four little gardens looked sadly the worse for want of watering and general looking after. the cemetery, however, looked much as usual; so also did the greenswards of grass, the roses, the different summer flowers; and finally iris and apollo visited the little summer-house, and seated themselves on their own chairs. "the garden has not run away," said apollo. "that's a comfort. i'm real glad of that." "it's exactly like the garden of eden," said iris, panting as she spoke. "i don't think anybody," she continued, "could be naughty in this garden." apollo kicked his legs in a somewhat impatient manner. "i feel dreadfully hungry, iris," he said. "suppose we go to the house now and have some supper." "who is that coming down the walk?" said iris. it was dusk by this time, and in the little summer-house all was dark; but iris, as she spoke, sprang to her feet, and the next moment found herself clasped in fortune's motherly arms. "my darling!" said the woman. "why, it drives me near mad to see you again. and now, what in the world is up with the two of you, and where are the others? there's an elderly gentleman--a clergyman--in the house, and he said i was to look for you here, and that you were going to spend the night. what does it mean, iris? oh, my dear! i can't see your face, for it is too dark; but you are very light. why, you are no weight at all, my honey." "i expect i'm rather worn out," replied iris, in her old-fashioned tone. "you know, fortune, when mother went away she told me to be a mother to the others, and--oh, fortune, fortune! i have failed, i have failed." iris' little arms were clasped tightly round her old nurse's neck; her face was hidden against her bosom; her heavy sobs came thick and fast. "why, my poor dear, you are exactly like a feather," said fortune; "it aint to be expected that a young thing like you could be a mother. but what's gone wrong, dearie? what's gone wrong?" "they are lost. that's what has gone wrong," said iris. "orion and diana are lost, fortune." "sakes alive, child! stand up and speak proper," said fortune. "your little brother and sister lost! impossible; you are joking me, iris, and that aint fair, seeing i was with you since you drew the breath of life." "do you think i could joke upon such a subject?" said iris. "you say i am like a feather--that is because i have all wasted away from--from fretting, from--from misery. yes, fortune, they are lost, and i wish i were dead. i feel it here so dreadfully." the child pressed both her hands against her heart. "i have not been a mother," she continued. "oh, fortune! what is to be done?" "you jest sit down on my lap and stop talking nonsense," said fortune. "why, you are trembling like an aspen. you jest rest yourself a bit alongside o' me. now then, master apollo, tell me the whole truth, from beginning to end. the two children lost? now, i don't believe it, and that's a fact." "you'll have to believe it, fortune," said apollo, "for it's true. they went out one day about a month ago--we think they must have gone to some woods not far from that horrid rectory, but nobody seems to know for certain--and they just never came back. we missed them at tea-time, and we began to look for 'em, and we went on looking from that minute until now, and we have never found either of 'em. that's about all. they are both quite lost. what i think," continued the little boy, speaking in a wise tone, "is that diana must have met the great diana of long ago, and gone right away with her, and perhaps orion has been turned into one of the stars that he's called after. i don't really know what else to think," continued apollo. "fudge!" said fortune. "don't you waste your time talking any more such arrant nonsense. now, the two of you are as cold and shivery as can be, and i doubt not, as hungry also. come straight away to the house. this thing has got to be inquired into." "oh, fortune! can you do anything?" asked iris. "can i do anything?" said fortune. "i have got to find those blessed children, or my name's not fortune squeers. did your mother bring me all the way from america to be of no use in an emergency like the present? you needn't fret any more, iris; nor you either, apollo. just come right along to the house and have your cozy, warm supper, the two of you, and then let me undress you and put you into your old little beds, and i'll sleep in the room alongside of you, and in the morning we'll see about getting back those two children. lost, is it? not a bit of it. they are mislaid, if you like, but lost they aint--not while fortune is above ground." fortune's strong words were of the greatest possible comfort to iris. it is true that aunt jane had told her somewhat the same, day by day--aunt jane was also sure that the children were certain to be found--but, as far as iris could gather, she only spoke, and never did anything to aid their recovery; for iris had no faith in detectives, nor secret police, nor any of the known dignitaries of the law. but she put the greatest possible faith in the strong, cheery words of her old nurse, and she returned to the house clasping fortune's hand, and feeling as if the worst of her troubles were at an end. the greater part of delaney manor was shut up, and fortune and two other old servants were left in charge; but very soon a comfortable meal was spread for the travelers, a room was provided for uncle william, and iris and apollo slept once more in the dear old nursery. how very sound iris did sleep that night! how happy she felt once more! fortune had dragged in her bed, and laid it on the floor close to the little girl's side, and the sound of fortune's snores was the sweetest music iris had listened to for a long time. "fortune will find the others, and i can be a real mother once more," she whispered over and over to herself. and so she slept sweetly and dreamed happily, and awoke in the morning with color in her cheeks and hope in her eyes. chapter xxiv. on the trail. it was on the very evening that orion and diana had left the great circus that uncle william and the two children arrived at delaney manor, for delaney manor was only five miles distant from the prosperous seaside town of madersley. now, uncle ben had very little idea, when he brought the two children to the southwest of england, that he was really taking them back to their native country. these things, however, are ordered, and the wisest man in the world cannot go against the leadings of providence. uncle ben thought to hide the children from their best friends, whereas, in reality, he was taking them home once more. but two little circus children might wander about at their own sweet will at madersley, and be heard nothing whatever of at delaney manor, and these little children might never have been found, and this story might have had a totally different ending, but for fortune. when fortune, however, lay down on her mattress by iris' side, she thought a great deal before she went to sleep. she thought, as she expressed it to herself, all round the subject, to the right of it, and to the left of it. she thought of it in its breadth, and she thought of it in its height, and, having finally settled the matter to her own satisfaction, she went to sleep, and soothed little iris with the comforting music of her snores. on the following morning she had an interview with mr. dolman. "i want to ask you a straight question, sir," she said. "what is it the police are doing? it seems a mighty strange thing to me that two little children should be lost in the middle of a civilized country like england." "it seems a stranger thing to me," replied uncle william. "i am dreadfully puzzled over the whole matter. we have now four detectives at work, but up to the present they have not got the slightest clew to the children's whereabouts." "as like as not," said fortune, "these two have been stolen by gypsies." "we thought of that at once," said uncle william. "yes," interrupted fortune, "and then, when you couldn't make the thing fit, or find your clew, you dropped it. now let me tell you, sir, that aint our way in america. when we get the faintest ghost of a clew we cling on to it as if it were grim death, and we don't let it go, not for nobody. it's my belief that gypsies are at the bottom of the matter, and why have not you and your detectives looked in every gypsy encampment in the length and breadth of england?" "there were some gypsies in our neighborhood, only we did not know it the first day," continued mr. dolman, "and their camp was of course thoroughly examined, but no little people in the least resembling the children were found there." "then of course it goes without saying," continued fortune, "that the gypsies passed on the little dears to other folk. now the question is, what sort of folk would be interested in a little pair like them? they was both young, both lissom, both handsome, and miss diana was the bravest child i ever come across--maybe they was sold to someone to train 'em to walk on the tight rope." uncle william smiled indulgently. "the detectives would certainly have found that out by this time," he said. "besides, there were no traveling companies of any sort within a radius of quite fifteen miles." "very well," said fortune; "then, perhaps, sir, you'll allow me to manage things my own way. i aint a detective, but i'm bent on detective work for the time being. i'm going straight off to madersley this morning. i'm going to have descriptions of those children printed in very big characters, and posted all over madersley." "and why specially all over madersley?" asked mr. dolman. "'cos madersley is, so to speak, their native town," answered fortune. "why, there aint a person in madersley who don't know delaney manor; and strangers, when they come there, drive out to see delaney manor as they would any other big place, and folks at this time of year travel from far to stay at madersley, because the place is bracing and the coast good for bathing. so you see, mr. dolman, there'll be lots of people who will read my descriptions, and when they read 'em they'll begin to talk about the children, and there's no saying what may happen." "it doesn't sound a bad idea," said mr. dolman. "bad!" repeated fortune. "it's a first-rate idea; it's an american idea. in america we never let the grass grow under our feet. i'm off to madersley this minute to see after those posters. why, we post up everything in america, every single thing that is lost, let alone children, and we do it in big type, as big as they make it, and we put the posters on the walls, and wherever there's a scrap of available space. by your leave, sir, i'm off to madersley now." fortune was as good as her word. she not only went to madersley and interviewed some of the best printers in the place, but she also visited the police station, and told the police to be on the lookout. "for the two youngest little delaneys are missing," she said, "and found they must be, if heaven and earth are moved to accomplish the job." the superintendent of police remembered that he had already had notice of two children being missing somewhere in the north of england, but as he thought it extremely unlikely that such children would come to the southwest, he had not troubled himself much about them. fortune's words, however, stimulated his zeal, and he promised to keep a sharp lookout. the printer also was full of enthusiasm, and agreed to print posters which should even satisfy fortune. he certainly did his best; and a day or two later flaming posters, in red and black ink, were pasted up all over the little town. in these, fortune had given a most accurate description of little black-eyed diana and orion. their ages were mentioned, their sizes, the color also of their eyes and hair. the immediate effect of these posters was to frighten uncle ben holt considerably. he had been in a dreadful rage when first he discovered that diana and orion had taken him at his word and had decamped. he had been very cruel to every member of the troupe, and in especial to his poor wife. he vowed, and vowed, loudly, that he would not leave a stone unturned to find the children, and he also informed his wife that he would start off the following morning to acquaint the police with the fact that two of his troupe were missing. "why," he said, "there's a fortune in that little gal; i must have the little gal. i don't think nothing at all of the boy. she was quite the most sperited little 'un i ever come across. fact is, i would not lose her for a fifty-pund note." for two days uncle ben stormed, and the performances at the circus went languidly; but when, on the third morning, he saw the posters about the town, and when one happened to be pasted up exactly opposite his own circus, he began to cool down and to change his mind. "where are you, sarah?" he called out. his wife flew to answer the fierce summons of her lord and master. "i'm here, ben," she answered. "'i'm here, ben,'" he retorted, mimicking her tone. "there you are, sarah, without the sperit of a mouse. have you seen, or have you not, what's up all over the town?" "yes, to be sure," replied sarah holt; "and it's a faithful description of the children. why, they are as like what that description says of 'em as two peas, ben." "i'm not saying they aint," snapped ben, in a very indignant voice; "but what i do want to know is this--what's to be done if they are found and we are discovered to have bought 'em? we had all our plans arranged, and we have taken this field for a fortnight; but, bad as the loss will be to ourselves, it'll be better than the perlice discovering that we had anything to do with them children. the fact is this, sarah: i'm going to pack our traps and be off out of this, to-night at the latest." "perhaps you are right, ben," said the woman, in a very sad tone; "only," she added, with a sigh, "if we are really going, may not i run up to delaney manor and just give 'em a hint? it seems so dreadful to me if anything should happen to them little kids, more particular to little diana, who was the mortal image of my rachel who died." "if you do anything of the kind i'll kill you," roared the man. "do you want to see me locked up in prison for kidnaping children? no; we must be out of this to-night, and i must lose the ten pund i paid for the use of the field." by this time the news of the posters had spread not only through the whole town, but amongst the members of ben holt's troupe. the men and women in the troupe were all interested and excited, and whenever they had a spare moment they used to run out to read the poster which fortune had been clever enough to dictate. meanwhile, that good woman herself was by no means idle. "i have done something," she said to iris, "and what i have done at madersley ought to have been done before now all over the length and breadth of england. but now, miss iris, having put the posters up, it doesn't mean that we are to be idle. we have got to do more. i have my eye on that circus. they says it's a very pretty circus indeed, and there are a lot of entertaining spectacles to be viewed there. now, what do you say to you and me and mr. dolman, if he likes to come, and master apollo going this afternoon to see the performance?" "i don't think i much care," answered iris. "i don't seem to take any interest in anything just now." "well, all the same, dear, i would like you to go. the best of us can but take steps, and when we has taken the steps that providence seems to indicate, there's no use a-fretting ourselves into our graves. folks are coming to madersley now from the length and breadth of england, being such a pretty and such a favorite seaside resort. let's go to the circus this afternoon, miss iris, and see what is to be seen." iris could not follow fortune's reasonings, but she submitted to her desire to pay a visit to the traveling circus, and, accordingly, that afternoon, the very last of holt's stay at madersley, two other little delaneys entered the large tent and took their places in the front row. the children were accompanied both by uncle william and fortune. the curtain rose almost immediately after their entrance, and the performance began. for some reason or other it was sadly lacking in spirit, and a neighbor who sat not far from fortune began to remark on the fact. "i wouldn't have paid three shillings for my seat if i had known the thing was so poor," she said. "why, my husband was here last week and said it was downright splendid. but i suppose that was owing to the performances of the children." "the children?" inquired fortune. "i see no children about." "oh, well, there were two the other night--a little girl and boy; and they said the girl rode splendidly, and was the life of the whole thing. she was simply wonderful; she----" but here the curtain rose and the performance began anew. fortune longed to question her loquacious neighbor, but when she turned presently to speak to her she found that she had left the tent. "ho, ho!" thought the american woman to herself; "they had a boy and a girl here, had they, and they aren't here no longer. now i wonder if i can strike that trail? being from america it would be hard if i didn't, and also if i didn't succeed." chapter xxv. found! when the performance came to an end fortune suggested to uncle william that he should go to the best hotel in the place, and give iris and apollo some tea. iris was loath to leave fortune's side, but fortune bent down and whispered to her to obey. "i am on the trail," she said, "and i don't want to be interrupted. i don't mind telling you, iris, that the tea is all an excuse. you get your uncle to take you to the hotel, and keep him there until i join him. now, go off this minute, like a good girl." iris looked into fortune's small, but honest, eyes, and felt once again that her feel was leading her in the right direction. "uncle william, i should like some tea very much," she said. "well, then, my dear, if you want tea you shall have it," replied uncle william. he hailed a fly, and took the children immediately to the best hotel in the town. when fortune found herself alone she turned round, and gazed to right and left of her. the great tent was almost empty, for the spectators had all departed; a few, however, were standing in little groups talking to one another. fortune edged near one of these. it consisted of a good-looking young man and two pretty girls. they were standing opposite the poster which gave such a lifelike account of little diana and orion. "i see you are reading that poster," said fortune, "and maybe you're interested?" "why, of course we are," said one of the girls, turning and looking at fortune. "now, i wonder," continued fortune squeers, "if it lies anywhere in your power to give me a bit of help? fact is, i'm interested in the children described in that poster, and as i was sitting inside the circus, i heard a neighbor say that the children belonging to your show were not present. being an american, i never lose any clews, and there may be just the ghost of a chance that the children who were not at the performance to-day are the very identical same children that are written about in that there poster. maybe you has heard of those children--that is, if you are madersley folk?" "yes, yes; we are madersley folk," said the young man, now turning and speaking eagerly to fortune. "well, sir, do you know anything about the children who were not in the circus to-day?" "i have heard of them, of course," said the man. "don't you remember, amelia," he added, "when i came home last saturday night how i told you we must go and see holt's circus, for he had got a little girl who was riding wonderfully? i could not manage it on saturday, and to-day, it seems, she's off." "and he had a boy as well, hadn't he?" said fortune. "yes, there was talk of a boy; but he didn't seem to have the spirit of his sister. anyhow, they are neither of them playing to-day, and, for my part, i thought the performance lame." "well, that's my opinion," said fortune. "no american would go the length of the road to see anything so poor and common. and so the children are off--but the children were on. now, i wish to goodness i could see those children." "i don't suppose they have anything to do with the lost children who are spoken of in these posters," said the man. "they say they were brown as gypsies, that the boy was timid, and the girl rode wonderfully. she must have been trained for some time to ride as well as she did." not being able to get anything more out of these folks, fortune turned on her heel and wandered in another direction. she crossed the entrance to the great tent, and made for the exit at the opposite side of the field. in doing this she ran right up against a fair-haired, rather pretty circus girl. "my dear," said fortune, "you'll excuse my stopping to speak to you, but will you tell me if i can get into the town by the gate yonder?" "it's rather a roundabout way," answered the girl, "but you can go, of course. you will have to walk quite a way down a country lane, then turn to your left, and it will bring you to the other side of the town." "fact is," continued fortune, "i'm anxious to see some more of those posters. i'm mighty took with them. they seem to describe a most elegant little pair of children." the girl uttered a sigh and changed color. "maybe, miss," said fortune, fixing her with her keen eyes, "you can tell me something about 'em? now, if you could, and would, it would be worth your while." "oh, i know nothing at all," said the girl, in alarm. "what should i know?" "how is it," continued fortune, "that the little children belonging to your circus were not present this afternoon? it seems a sort of cheating of the public." "the little children belonging to our circus?" repeated the girl. "but we hasn't no children." she turned very white now, and suddenly leaving fortune, ran as fast as ever she could in the direction of the tent. fortune followed her with her eyes. she saw a dark man peeping out. "that girl is frightened; she's hiding something," thought the woman. "there's no doubt the trail strengthens, and i, being an american--well, well, 'taint likely i'm going to leave off now. yes, hot grows the trail." fortune pursued her way. she had just reached the gate of the opposite exit of the field when a light hand was laid on her arm. turning quickly, she saw the same girl. "for the love of god, madam," she said, "don't you tell on me--it's as much as my place is worth--he would kill me, if he knew--but we had two little kids here, and that poster in front of the circus gives their very description to a hair. but they have run away--they ran away some days ago, and god in heaven only knows where they are now." "what were their names?" asked fortune. "diana was the name of the girl----" "diana!" cried fortune. "you need not tell me any more; and so it was _you_ who stole 'em?" "i!" said the girl; "i had nothing to do with it. i was kind to 'em when i could, and nothing would ever frighten diana. but oh, please, promise you won't tell on me--you won't let out that i said anything?" "no, my dear; i won't injure you," said fortune; "but i must know this: when was it they ran away?" "three nights ago, madam; and ben holt, he's fairly wild at losing the girl. he doesn't think anything at all about the boy, but the little girl--why, she won us all, she was so plucky and fearless. but they ran away three nights back, and no one knows where they are." "don't keep me," said fortune. "i'm much obliged to you; but don't keep me now." she left the field where the tent was, and began to walk rapidly down the lane. "now, am i an american or am i not?" she thought. "do i, or do i not, want the police to interfere in this matter? do i, or do i not, want to find those children my very own self? they were here three nights ago, and they have run away. what can be the meaning of it?" fortune pressed her hand to her forehead. "well, if there's one thing more evident than another." she muttered after a pause, "it's this: i must not leave madersley at present. i'll just go to the hotel and tell mr. dolman that i am on the trail, and that not all the coaxing and all the worriting in the world will get me off it until i have found those children." no sooner had this resolve formed itself in fortune's stalwart mind than she hailed a fly and desired the man to drive her to the madersley arms. when she reached the big hotel she was shown at once into mr. dolman's presence. "now, sir," she said; "i hope you have all had a good tea and enjoyed it." "very much, thank you," replied uncle william, who really, if the truth must be known, was having quite a delightful time--no aunt jane to pull him up, no sermons to write, and a vast amount of variety to occupy his mind. "we have enjoyed our tea, all of us," he said; "and now, fortune, would not you like a cup? iris, my dear, we'll ring the bell for some more hot water." "thank you, sir" replied fortune; "but i have no time to eat nor drink at present. i am on the trail, and no one can get me off it." "do you really mean that you have had news of the children?" "i have had very positive news. why, they belonged to the circus we went to see to-day! i had my suspicions as soon as ever i heard that woman talking and saying that the performance was miserably poor without the children. at that very instant it came right over me that it was our little miss di who had made things so sparkling and lively." "oh, fortune! let me go to her," cried iris. "is she there? please, fortune, take me to her at once." "now, iris, love, that's just what i can't do. patience has to be exercised always in the matter of trails," continued fortune; "and when we hurry or flurry ourselves we lose the scent, and then we are nowhere. the children did belong to the circus, for i had it from the lips of one of the circus girls. poor innocent lambs, to think of them having anything to do with such a defiling place! but there they were, and there they would not stay, for three nights ago, iris, they ran away, and nobody in the wide world knows where they are at the present moment." "well, and what do you propose to do?" said mr. dolman. "for my part, i think the police----" "excuse me, sir, this is a matter for me, not the police. i propose, sir, to stay at madersley until i bring the children back. i hope to bring them back to-night." "to-night!" cried iris. "oh, fortune! do you mean it?" "yes, my love. i am an american, and i generally do what i say. i mean to bring the little dears back to their rightful home to-night. and now i'm off, and please expect me when you see me." fortune turned abruptly and left the hotel. she walked down the high street. "now," she said to herself, "why should not i just go and pay a visit to my old friend and neighbor, matty bell. i want a woman that is a gossip just now, and if there is a gossip in the whole of madersley, it's matty bell. as a rule, i can't abear her, but there are times when a gossiping woman comes in handy; and matty's neither very low nor very high up in the world, so she's acquainted with all that goes on in both circles, the high and the low. yes, i'll go to matty this very moment; and as there's not any time to lose, i'll take a fly and drive there." fortune hailed the first fly she came across, and was quickly borne to the abode of her old neighbor, matty bell. matty bell was a woman of about sixty years of age. at one time she had been a servant at delaney manor, but having married, and then lost her husband, she had set up in the laundry line. in that interesting trade she had done a thriving business, and kept a comfortable roof over her head. she had never had children, and consequently had plenty of time to attend to her neighbors' affairs. "well, to be sure, fortune, and what brings you here?" she said, when fortune alighted from the fly. "dear heart! i didn't know that you would care to leave delaney manor with all the troubles about." "and what troubles do you mean now, matty bell?" said fortune, as she paid a shilling to the driver, and then tripped lightly into matty's little front parlor. "why, the death of the poor missus, heaven bless her memory! and then the master going off to the other end of nobody knows where, and all them blessed little children took from their home and carried--oh, we needn't go into that, fortune--it's been a trouble to you, and i see it writ on your face." "you are right there, matty," said fortune; "it has been a bitter trouble to me, and there's more behind, for the lady who took the children had no right to interfere, not having a mother's heart in her breast, for all that providence granted her five babes of her own to manage. what do you think she went and did, matty? why, lost two of our children." "lost two of 'em? sakes alive! you don't say so!" replied matty. "have a cup of tea, fortune, do; i have it brewing lovely on the hob." "no, thank you," replied fortune. "i'm in no mood for tea." "well, then, do go on with your story, for it's mighty interesting." "it's simple enough," replied fortune. "two of the children are lost, and now i have traced 'em to a circus in the town." "a circus here--what, holt's?" said the woman. "no less. why, matty; you look queer yourself. do you know anything?" "i know nothing for certain," said matty. "i can only tell you--but there, perhaps i had better not say--only will you excuse me for a minute or two, fortune?" "i'll excuse you, matty, if you are on the trail of the children, but if you aren't, you had better stay here and let me talk matters over. you always were a fearful one for gossip, and perhaps you have picked up news. yes, i see you have--you have got something at the back of your head this blessed minute, matty bell." "that i have," replied mrs. bell. "but please don't ask me a word more, only let me get on my bonnet and cloak." mrs. bell left the room, and quickly returned dressed in her widow's weeds, for though bell had been dead for over ten years, his widow was still faithful to his memory; she slipped a thick crêpe veil over her face, and went out, looking the very essence of respectability. she was not more than twenty minutes away, and when she came back she looked much excited. on each of her smooth, pasty cheeks might even be seen a little flush of color, and her dull blue eyes were brighter than their wont. "fortune," she cried, "as there's a heaven above me, i've found 'em!" "bless you, matty; but where--where?" "why, at no less a place than jonathan darling's." "jonathan darling? who may he be?" "he's as honest a fellow, fortune, as you can find in the whole of madersley--he drives a milk cart. he found the two little dears three mornings ago, wandering about in their circus dresses, and he took 'em home." "well," said fortune, "well--then _that's_ all right. it was a trouble, but it's over, thank the good god. i could fall on my knees this moment and offer up a prayer; that i could, matty bell." fortune's small, twinkling eyes were full of tears; she caught her neighbor's hand and wrung it hard. "and i bless you, matty," she continued, "for you have put me on the right trail. i'll never blame a gossiping neighbor again, never as long as i live." "but you haven't heard me out to the end," said matty, "for one of the little 'uns is very ill. you have found 'em, it is true; but it isn't all beer and skittles, fortune squeers." "one of the children ill?" said fortune. "yes; little miss diana. you come along and see her at once. they say she fell on her head out of a ring at the circus, and she must have hurt herself rather bad. anyhow, she don't know a word she is saying, poor little dear." when fortune heard this news she shut up her mouth very tight, tied her bonnet-strings, and followed her neighbor out of the house. the darlings' humble little domicile happened to be in the next street, and in less than five minutes fortune was standing over little diana's bed. the child was tossing from side to side, her big eyes were wide open; she was gazing straight before her, talking eagerly and incessantly. "is it to be a pwivate funeral?" she said, when fortune entered the room, and, falling on her knees, clasped the hot little hands in hers. "oh, my little darling!" said the good woman, "and have i really found you at last?" she sank down by the child and burst into more bitter tears than she had even shed when mrs. delaney went away. chapter xxvi. the little mother to the rescue. yes, the lost children were found, but little diana was very ill. the blow she had received on her head had developed into inflammation of the brain. she was highly feverish, and did not in the least know what she was saying. fortune immediately made up her mind not to leave her. after standing by her bedside for a minute or two, she went into the next room and asked mrs. darling if she would take a fly and go with little orion to delaney manor. "you are going to your own home, my poor little boy," said the nurse, "and please tell your uncle and iris and apollo that i am staying here to look after diana." the little boy was so excited at the prospect of being home once more that he forgot any small anxieties which he had experienced with regard to diana. he started off, therefore, with mrs. darling in the highest spirits, and fortune returned to the bedside of the sick child. within a couple of hours after orion's departure, mr. dolman arrived in person. when he saw diana he immediately insisted on the best doctor in the place being sent for to see her. the medical man arrived; but, when he did so, he shook his head. "the child is dangerously ill," he said. "i could not hear of her being moved at present. she must have absolute quiet and good nursing." "i'm going to nurse her," said fortune. "a properly trained nurse would be best," said the doctor. "i and no other am going to nurse her," repeated fortune. she had taken off her bonnet and mantle and was seated quietly by the bedside. no one could look more capable, more determined, than the american woman did on this occasion. the doctor saw that he must give way. "haven't i done for her from the blessed moment when she was sent from heaven into her mother's arms?" continued fortune. "i shall nurse her now, whether it's the will of the almighty that she lives or dies." at these words, little diana opened her great, black eyes. "and you'll never know fear any more, little dear," she said in a voice of intense satisfaction. then she looked up at fortune, and raised her brow in a puzzled manner. "i aren't fwightened of g'eased lightning," she said. a smile broke over her little face, then the light of reason once more faded, and she entered the dark region of delirium and danger. the doctor did all he could and fortune did all she could, and presently aunt jane appeared on the scene, and insisted on seeing the child, and shook her head over her and cried a little privately; but, in spite of all their efforts to get her well again, little diana grew weaker, day by day. she did not know fortune, except at very rare intervals. day and night she talked incessantly of her past life, of the beautiful garden, of the animals, of rub-a-dub, and more especially of rub-a-dub's public funeral. she also mentioned greased lightning and pole star, and uncle ben and the circus; but when she talked of them her voice changed; it grew high, eager, and excited, and her little breath panted out of her weary body. she often ended her delirious talk with a cry of distress. "oh, i has fallen," she said, with a sob. "i has fallen from the wing." then she would clasp both her hot hands to her aching head, and moan bitterly. the doctor was very anxious about her, and fortune was very sad, and so was uncle william, and even aunt jane. the cablegram was sent to father, and they all earnestly hoped that he was already on his homeward way. meanwhile, at the manor, iris, apollo, and orion had a hard time. it is true that they were no longer fettered or coerced in any way. aunt jane took scarcely any notice of them, and uncle william spent most of his time alone. the three children could come in and out of the house as they pleased; they could wander about the garden where four used to play happily; they could visit the old haunts that four used to love; but because the fourth was now absent, the joy and the mirth of the old days seemed quite to have left the remaining three. as time went by, iris grew whiter and whiter. often she wandered away by herself, and flinging herself on the ground, would moan out her distress. "mother, mother," she used to sob, "i have not done what you told me; i have not been a little mother. can you ever forgive me? oh, if diana dies, i am certain that i shall never forgive myself." at last, when a fortnight had passed by, iris had a dream. she never told her dream to anyone, but she got up that morning with a very determined expression on her small face. after breakfast she went straight downstairs to the library, and spoke to uncle william. "uncle william," she said, "i want to say that i am going to see diana." "my dear," said uncle william, who was furtively at that moment wiping a tear from his eye, "i greatly fear that you cannot do so; we have had bad news of little diana this morning. i greatly fear, iris, that she will not be long with us; her strength is going, and there is little chance of the fever abating. the doctor has but a small hope of her recovery--in fact, i may almost say that he has no hope." "it is a fortnight since diana was found, and you have never let me see her yet," continued iris; "but i am going to her to-day. i had a dream last night," she continued, "and in my dream i--but i'm not going to say anything more, only i must see diana to-day." "i am afraid you cannot do so, iris," replied uncle william. "and why not, if the child has the wish?" remarked aunt jane suddenly. until that moment iris had no idea that aunt jane was in the room. she started now when she heard her voice; but reading the expression on her face, she ran up to her eagerly. "if you are for it, aunt jane, it will be all right," she cried. "please have a carriage ordered this minute and let me go." "i would not, if i were you, wife," said uncle william. "you see how delicate iris is already, and the sight of her little sister would shock her dreadfully." "she may just as well go," said aunt jane. "in my opinion, it would be wrong to leave any stone unturned, and iris always had a remarkable influence over the other children. besides, my dear william, when david comes back, i should not like iris to have to tell him that i refused what, after all, is a very natural request." "aunt jane, i love you for those words," said iris. aunt jane's face quite flushed when iris said she loved her. she went across the room and rang the bell. "desire the pony carriage to be sent round directly," was her order to the servant when he appeared. accordingly, in less than half an hour, iris and aunt jane were driving into madersley. they went straight to the humble house where the darlings lived. the greater part of the house was given up to little diana and her nurse. "please, aunt jane," said iris, as they approached the door; "may i go into diana's room by myself? i don't want anyone to be with me when i see her." "you may have it your way, iris," said aunt jane. "i interfered once, and i believe i did wrong; now you shall have it your own way." "thank you, aunt jane," answered iris. she scarcely looked at her aunt; all her thoughts were centered on the mission which she had taken in hand. when the carriage drew up at the humble door, the child ran straight into the house. "who may you be, little miss?" said bessie darling, who had never seen her before. "i am the sister of diana; i am a mother to the others," said iris. "sakes alive!" exclaimed the woman. "you a mother? why, you poor little mite, you look as if you wanted a deal of mothering yourself." "please tell me what room my sister is in," said iris, removing her hat as she spoke. bessie darling stared at her for a moment, then she pointed to a door. iris turned the handle and entered the room. it was a hot day, and the window was wide open; a green blind was down to keep out the glare of the sun; there was a quantity of ice in a great pail in one corner of the room, and, as iris softly entered, fortune was in the act of putting a fresh cold cloth on the sick child's forehead. little diana was murmuring her ceaseless refrain: "you'll never know fear, any more, little dear. good-by." "why, diana!" said iris. iris's voice was quite fresh. it had a different note in it from all the voices which for weeks had sounded in little diana's ears. she was lying in a partial stupor, but now she opened her eyes very wide. "iris," she said; "iris." and a smile broke all over her face. iris ran up to the bedside. she was always quiet in her manner; great excitement only accentuated her quiet. she knelt down at once by the sick child, and took both her hot hands in hers. "darling," she said, "i am your little mother, and i have come back to you." "that's beautiful," answered diana. she uttered a very deep sigh. she had been tossing restlessly about, but now her hot hands lay quiet in iris'. as to fortune, she was so amazed that she did not utter a word. "go to sleep, di," said iris, in a voice of authority; "i am your little mother, and i wish you to go to sleep." "it's awfu' nice to be mothered again," said diana. she opened her eyes languidly, fixed them on iris, smiled once more, and then the thick lashes fell over the pale cheeks. in about five minutes she was sound asleep. little diana had often slept during the past fortnight, but during all that time she had had no sleep like this--so quiet, so restful. iris, kneeling by her side, never moved. "let me give you a chair or you'll faint, my love," said fortune, in a low whisper. iris shook her head. soon afterwards fortune softly left the room, and then there fell a deep and solemn silence over the little house. aunt jane, bessie darling, and fortune all sat in the outer room. the heat grew greater; they opened both door and window, and a gentle breeze now blew through the sick-room. the child slept on. the little mother kneeling by her side remained as still as if she was carved in marble. about four in the afternoon the doctor came in. "who is this?" he whispered, looking at iris. "it's the eldest little sister, sir," said fortune; "she came down here this morning quite unbidden, and she told the little one that she was her mother, and the little one smiled and went off sound asleep directly." the doctor, too, retreated into the outer room. "it is my belief that the little girl has saved the child's life," he said. "whatever you do, don't make a sound; my little patient has not slept like this since the beginning of her illness. this sleep will probably be the turning-point. i shall not be far off; send for me whenever she awakens." the day wore on, the evening approached; and iris still knelt by diana's side, and diana still slept. the sick child had no dreams in that healthful, beautiful, life-restoring slumber. slowly, hour by hour, the fret and the worry left the little face, the burning fever departed, the little brow grew cool and calm; smiles--baby smiles--came once more round the lips; the old child-look--the old diana-look--returned. iris knelt on. her knees ached, her arms ached, her head ached; she grew stiff; she grew first hot and then cold; but never once did she move or swerve from her original position. the great joy of her spirit supported her through the terrible ordeal. at long, long last she was really a little mother; she was saving diana's life. now and then fortune approached to hold a cup of milk or other restorative to iris' pale lips. she feared that the child might faint before diana awoke. but great love enabled iris to go through this time of suffering. she neither fainted nor failed. the beautiful healing sleep lasted for nearly eight hours; then, when faint, cool shadows had stolen across the sick room, little diana opened her eyes. she saw iris still kneeling in the same position and looking at her with a world of love in her face. diana smiled back in answer to the love. "i's k'ite well, iris," she said. "i's had a beaut'ful s'eep, and there's not going to be a pwivate nor yet a public funeral." "no, no, di!" said iris, sobbing now as she spoke. "i's hung'y," said little diana. "i'd like my supper awfu' much." * * * * * the crisis was over, and diana was to live. from that hour she recovered, slowly but surely. iris was allowed to be with her a good deal, and the mere fact of iris being in the room always seemed to chase the irritation and the weakness of that long recovery away. at the end of a fortnight the sick child was well enough to return to delaney manor. then, from being half well she became quite well, and when the autumn really came, and the cool breezes blew in from the sea, father returned to his home once more, and he and aunt jane had a long talk, and it was finally arranged that the four children were to remain in the old home, and were to play in the old garden, and that father was to stay at home himself and look after them as best he could. "they are not ordinary children, and i frankly confess i cannot manage them," said aunt jane. "as to iris, she is without exception the most peculiar child i ever came across; i know, of course, she is a good child--i would not say a word to disparage her, for i admire her strength--but when a child considers that she has got a mission----" "i know all about that," said david delaney. "iris thinks that she is to be a little mother to the others--those were evangeline's last words to her. well, jane, it is a heavy burden for such a little creature to carry, but the fact of her obeying her mother's last injunction really saved little diana's life." the end. janet's love and service, by margaret m robertson. ________________________________________________________________________ the set of page scans that was used to create this version of the book was as dirty as it is possible to be, while still making it just about possible to do the ocr and subsequent editing. this latter was very hard work. the scans came from the canadiana online collection. no doubt there is a reason for this lack of quality. but there was a reason for persevering with the editing process, endless as it seemed to be for several weeks, and that was that i do believe this book to be very great literature, even though it has not hitherto been recognised as such by the world in general. to be truthful, the book's first quarter, and perhaps the last quarter, are more dramatic than the two middle quarters. but it is all well worth reading and thinking about, for there are many things in the book that we should all think deeply about, living as we do in a very different world than the one that surrounded the author and her fictional characters almost a hundred and fifty years ago. that the author had very great skill is undoubted, and can be seen from her other works. i hope you will read it and see if you agree with me that the hard work involved on bringing this book to the web has been worthwhile. nh. ________________________________________________________________________ janet's love and service, by margaret m robertson. chapter one. the longest day in all the year was slowly closing over the little village of clayton. there were no loiterers now at the corners of the streets or on the village square--it was too late for that, though daylight still lingered. now and then the silence was broken by the footsteps of some late home-comer, and over more than one narrow close, the sound of boyish voices went and came, from garret to garret, telling that the spirit of slumber had not yet taken possession of the place. but these soon ceased. the wind moved the tall laburnums in the lane without a sound, and the murmur of running water alone broke the stillness, as the gurgle of the burn, and the rush of the distant mill-dam met and mingled in the air of the summer night. in the primitive village of clayton, at this midsummer time, gentle and simple were wont to seek their rest by the light of the long gloaming. but to-night there was light in the manse--in the minister's study, and in other parts of the house as well. lights were carried hurriedly past uncurtained windows, and flared at last through the open door, as a woman's anxious face looked out. "what can be keeping him?" she murmured, as she shaded the flickering candle and peered out into the gathering darkness. "it's no' like him to linger at a time like this. god send he was at home." another moment of eager listening, and then the anxious face was withdrawn and the door closed. soon a sound broke the stillness of the village street; a horseman drew up before the minister's house, and the door was again opened. "well, janet?" said the rider, throwing the reins on the horse's neck and pausing as he went in. the woman curtseyed with a very relieved face. "they'll be glad to see you up the stairs, sir. the minister's no' long home." she lighted the doctor up the stairs, and then turned briskly in another direction. in a minute she was kneeling before the kitchen hearth, and was stirring up the buried embers. "has my father come, janet?" said a voice out of the darkness. "yes, he's come. he's gone up the stairs. i'll put on the kettle. i dare say he'll be none the worse of a cup of tea after his ride." sitting on the high kitchen dresser, her cheek close against the darkening window, sat a young girl, of perhaps twelve or fourteen years of age. she had been reading by the light that lingered long at that western window, but the entrance of janet's candle darkened that, and the book, which at the first moment of surprise had dropped out of her hand, she now hastily put behind her out of janet's sight. but she need not have feared a rebuke for "blindin' herself" this time, for janet was intent on other matters, and pursued her work in silence. soon the blaze sprung up, and the dishes and covers on the wall shone in the firelight. then she went softly out and closed the door behind her. the girl sat still on the high dresser, with her head leaning back on the window ledge, watching the shadows made by the firelight, and thinking her own pleasant thoughts the while. as the door closed, a murmur of wonder escaped her, that "janet had'na sent her to her bed." "it's quite time i dare say," she added, in a little, "and i'm tired, too, with my long walk to the glen. i'll go whenever papa comes down." she listened for a minute. then her thoughts went away to other things--to her father, who had been away all day; to her mother, who was not quite well to-night, and had gone up-stairs, contrary to her usual custom, before her father came home. then she thought of other things-- of the book she had been reading, a story of one who had dared and done much in a righteous cause--and then she gradually lost sight of the tale and fell into fanciful musings about her own future, and to the building of pleasant castles, in which she and they whom she loved were to dwell. sitting in the firelight, with eyes and lips that smiled, the pleasant fancies came and went. not a shadow crossed her brow. not a fear came to dim the light by which she gazed into the future that she planned. so she sat till her dream was dreamed out, and then, with a sigh, in which there was no echo of care or pain, she woke to the present, and turned to her book again. "i might see by the fire," she said, and in a minute she was seated on the floor, her head leaning on her hands, and her eye fastened on the open page. "miss graeme," said janet, softly coming in with a child in her arms, "your mamma's no' weel, and here's wee rosie wakened, and wantin' her. you'll need to take her, for i maun awa'." the book fell from the girl's hand, as she started up with a frightened face. "what ails mamma, janet? is she very ill?" "what should ail her but the one thing?" said janet, impatiently. "she'll be better the morn i hae nae doubt." graeme made no attempt to take the child, who held out her hands toward her. "i must go to her, janet." "indeed, miss graeme, you'll do nothing o' the kind. mrs burns is with her, and the doctor, and it's little good you could do her just now. bide still where you are, and take care o' wee rosie, and hearken if you hear ony o' the ither bairns, for none o' you can see your mamma the night." graeme took her little sister in her arms and seated herself on the floor again. janet went out, and graeme heard her father's voice in the passage. she held her breath to listen, but he did not come in as she hoped he would. she heard them both go up-stairs again, and heedless of the prattle of her baby sister, she still listened eagerly. now and then the sound of footsteps overhead reached her, and in a little janet came into the kitchen again, but she did not stay to be questioned. then the street door opened, and some one went out, and it seemed to graeme a long time before she heard another sound. then janet came in again, and this time she seemed to have forgotten that there was any one to see her, for she was wringing her hands, and the tears were streaming down her cheeks. graeme's heart stood still, and her white lips could scarcely utter a sound. "janet!--tell me!--my mother." "save us lassie! i had no mind of you. bide still, miss graeme. you munna go there," for graeme with her little sister in her arms was hastening away. "your mamma's no waur than she's been afore. it's only me that doesna ken about the like o' you. the minister keeps up a gude heart. gude forgie him and a' mankind." graeme took a step toward the door, and the baby, frightened at janet's unwonted vehemence, sent up a shrill cry. but janet put them both aside, and stood with her back against the door. "no' ae step, miss graeme. the auld fule that i am; 'gin the lassie had been but in her bed. no, i'll no' take the bairn, sit down there, you'll be sent for if you're needed. i'll be back again soon; and you'll promise me that you'll no leave this till i bid you. miss graeme, i wouldna deceive you if i was afraid for your mamma. promise me that you'll bide still." graeme promised, awed by the earnestness of janet, and by her own vague terror as to her mother's mysterious sorrow, that could claim from one usually so calm, sympathy so intense and painful. then she sat down again to listen and to wait. how long the time seemed! the lids fell down over the baby's wakeful eyes at last, and graeme, gathering her own frock over the little limbs, and murmuring loving words to her darling, listened still. the flames ceased to leap and glow on the hearth, the shadows no longer danced upon the wall, and gazing at the strange faces and forms that smiled and beckoned to her from the dying embers, still she listened. the red embers faded into white, the dark forest with its sunny glades and long retreating vistas, the hills, and rocks, and clouds, and waterfalls, that had risen among them at the watcher's will, changed to dull grey ashes, and the dim dawn of the summer morning, gleamed in at last upon the weary sleeper. the baby still nestled in her arms, the golden hair of the child gleaming among the dark curls of the elder sister as their cheeks lay close together. graeme moaned and murmured in her sleep, and clasped the baby closer, but she did not wake till janet's voice aroused her. there were no tears on her face now, but it was very white, and her voice was low and changed. "miss graeme, you are to go to your mamma; she's wantin' you. but mind you are to be quiet, and think o' your father." taking the child in her arms, she turned her back upon the startled girl. chilled and stiff from her uneasy posture, graeme strove to rise, and stumbling, caught at janet's arm. "mamma is better janet," she asked eagerly. janet kept her working face out of sight, and, in a little, answered hoarsely,-- "ay, she'll soon be better, whatever becomes of the rest of us. but, mind, you are to be quiet, miss graeme." chilled and trembling, graeme crept up-stairs and through the dim passages to her mother's room. the curtains had been drawn back, and the daylight streamed into the room. but the forgotten candles still glimmered on the table. there were several people in the room, standing sad and silent around the bed. they moved away as she drew near. then graeme saw her mother's white face on the pillow, and her father bending over her. even in the awe and dread that smote on her heart like death, she remembered that she must be quiet, and, coming close to the pillow, she said softly,-- "mother." the dying eyes came back from their wandering, and fastened on her darling's face, and the white lips opened with a smile. "graeme--my own love--i am going away--and they will have no one but you. and i have so much to say to you." so much to say! with only strength to ask, "god guide my darling ever!" and the dying eyes closed, and the smile lingered upon the pale lips, and in the silence that came next, one thought fixed itself on the heart of the awe-stricken girl, never to be effaced. her father and his motherless children had none but her to care for them now. chapter two. "it's a' ye ken! gotten ower it, indeed!" and janet turned her back on her visitor, and went muttering about her gloomy kitchen: "the minister no' being one to speak his sorrow to the newsmongering folk that frequent your house, they say he has gotten ower it, do they? it's a' they ken!" "janet, woman," said her visitor, "i canna but think you are unreasonable in your anger. i said nothing derogatory to the minister; far be it from me! but we can a' see that the house needs a head, and the bairns need a mother. the minister's growing gey cheerful like, and the year is mair than out; and--" "whisht, woman. dinna say it. speak sense if ye maun speak," said janet, with a gesture of disgust and anger. "wherefore should i no' say it?" demanded her visitor. "and as to speaking sense--. but i'll no' trouble you. it seems you have friends in such plenty that you can afford to scorn and scoff at them at your pleasure. good-day to you," and she rose to go. but janet had already repented her hot words. "bide still, woman! friends dinna fall out for a single ill word. and what with ae thing and anither i dinna weel ken what i'm saying or doing whiles. sit down: it's you that's unreasonable now." this was mistress elspat smith, the wife of a farmer--"no' that ill aff," as he cautiously expressed it--a far more important person in the parish than janet, the minister's maid-of-all-work. it was a condescension on her part to come into janet's kitchen, under any circumstances, she thought; and to be taken up sharply for a friendly word was not to be borne. but they had been friends all their lives; and janet "kenned hersel' as gude a woman as elspat smith, weel aff or no' weel aff;" so with gentle violence she pushed her back into her chair, saying: "hoot, woman! what would folk say to see you and me striving at this late day? and i want to consult you." "but you should speak sense yourself, janet," said her friend. "folk maun speak as it's given them to speak," said janet; "and we'll say nae mair about it. no' but that the bairns might be the better to have some one to be over them. she wouldna hae her sorrow to seek, i can tell you. no that they're ill bairns--" "we'll say no more about it, since that is your will," said mrs smith, with dignity; and then, relenting, she added,-- "you have a full handfu' with the eight of them, i'm sure." "seven only," said janet, under her breath. "she got one of them safe home with her, thank god. no' that there's one ower many," added she quickly; "and they're no' ill bairns." "you have your ain troubles among them, i dare say, and are muckle to be pitied--" "me to be pitied!" said janet scornfully, "there's no fear o' me. but what can the like o' me do? for ye ken, woman, though the minister is a powerful preacher, and grand on points o' doctrine, he's a verra bairn about some things. _she_ aye keepit the siller, and far did she make it gang--having something to lay by at the year's end as well. now, if we make the twa ends meet, it's mair than i expect." "but miss graeme ought to have some sense about these things. surely she takes heed to the bairns?" "miss graeme's but a bairn herself, with little thought and less experience; and its no' to be supposed that the rest will take heed to her. the little anes are no' so ill to do with; but these twa laddies are just spirits o' mischief, for as quiet as norman looks; and they come home from the school with torn clothes, till miss graeme is just dazed with mending at them. and miss marian is near as ill as the laddies; and poor, wee rosie, growing langer and thinner every day, till you would think the wind would blow her awa. master arthur is awa at his eddication: the best thing for a' concerned. i wish they were a' safe unto man's estate," and janet sighed. "and is miss graeme good at her seam?" asked mistress elspat. "oh ay; she's no' that ill. she's better at her sampler and at the flowering than at mending torn jackets, however. but there's no fear but she would get skill at that, and at other things, if she would but hae patience with herself. miss graeme is none of the common kind." "and has there been no word from _her_ friends since? they say her brother has no bairns of his own. he might well do something for hers." janet shook her head. "the minister doesna think that i ken; but when mr ross was here at the burial, he offered to take two of the bairns, norman or harry, and wee marian. she's likest her mamma. but such a thing wasna to be thought of; and he went awa' no' weel pleased. whether he'll do onything for them in ony ither way is more than i ken. he might keep master arthur at the college and no' miss it. how the minister is ever to school the rest o' them is no' easy to be seen, unless he should go to america after all." mistress smith lifted her hands. "he'll never surely think o' taking these motherless bairns to yon savage place! what could ail him at mr ross's offer? my patience! but folk whiles stand in their ain light." "mr ross is not a god-fearing man," replied janet, solemnly. "it's no' what their mother would have wished to have her bairns brought up by him. the minister kenned her wishes well on that point, you may be sure. and besides, he could never cross the sea and leave any of them behind." "but what need to cross the sea?" cried mrs smith; "it's a pity but folk should ken when they're weel aff. what could the like o' him do in a country he kens nothing about, and with so many bairns?" "it's for the bairns' sake he's thinking of it. they say there's fine land there for the working, and no such a thing as payin' rent, but every man farming his own land, with none to say him nay. and there's room for all, and meat and clothes, and to spare. i'm no' sure but it's just the best thing the minister can do. they had near made up their minds afore, ye ken." "hoot, woman, speak sense," entreated her friend. "is the minister to sell rusty knives and glass beads to the indians? that's what they do in yon country, as i've read in a book myself. whatna like way is that to bring up a family?" "losh, woman, there's other folk there beside red indians; folk that dinna scruple to even themselves with the best in britain, no' less. you should read the newspapers, woman. there's one john caldwell there, a friend o' the minister's, that's something in a college, and he's aye writing him to come. he says it's a wonderful country for progress; and they hae things there they ca' institutions, that he seems to think muckle o', though what _they_ may be i couldna weel make out. the minister read a bit out o' a letter the ither night to miss graeme and me." "janet," said her friend, "say the truth at once. the minister is bent on this fule's errand, and you're encouraging in it." "na, na! he needs na encouragement from the like o' me. i would gie muckle, that hasna muckle to spare, gin he were content to bide where he is, though it's easy seen he'll hae ill enough bringing up a family here, and these laddies needing more ilka year that goes o'er their heads. and they say yon's a grand country, and fine eddication to be got in it for next to nothing. i'm no sure but the best thing he can do is to take them there. i ken the mistress was weel pleased with the thought," and janet tried with all her might, to look hopeful; but her truth-telling countenance betrayed her. her friend shook her head gravely. "it might have done, with her to guide them; but it's very different now, as you ken yourself, far better than i can tell you. it would be little else than a temptin' o' providence to expose these helpless bairns, first to the perils o' the sea, and then to those o' a strange country. he'll never do it. he's restless now; and unsettled; but when time, that cures most troubles, goes by, he'll think better of it, and bide where he is." janet made no reply, but in her heart she took no such comfort. she knew it was no feeling of restlessness, no longing to be away from the scene of his sorrow that had decided the minister to emigrate, and that he had decided she very well knew. these might have hastened his plans, she thought, but he went for the sake of his children. they might make their own way in the world, and he thought he could better do this in the new world than in the old. the decision of one whom she had always reverenced for his goodness and wisdom must be right, she thought; yet she had misgivings, many and sad, as to the future of the children she had come to love so well. it was to have her faint hope confirmed, and her strong fears chased away, that she had spoken that afternoon to her friend; and it was with a feeling of utter disconsolateness that, she turned to her work again, when, at last, she was left alone. for janet had a deeper cause for care than she had told, a vague feeling that the worldly wisdom of her friend could not help her here, keeping her silent about it to her. that very morning, her heart had leaped to her lips, when her master in his grave, brief way, had asked,-- "janet, will you go with us, and help me to take care of her bairns?" and she had vowed to god, and to him, that she would never leave them while they needed the help that a faithful servant could give. but the after thought had come. she had other ties, and cares, and duties, apart from these that clustered so closely round the minister and his motherless children. a mile or two down the glen stood the little cottage that had for a long time been the home of her widowed mother, and her son. more than half required for their maintenance janet provided. could she forsake them? could any duty she owed to her master and his children make it right for her to forsake those whose blood flowed in her veins? true, her mother was by no means an aged woman yet, and her son was a well-doing helpful lad, who would soon be able to take care of himself. her mother had another daughter too, but janet knew that her sister could never supply her place to her mother. though kind and well-intentioned, she was easy minded, not to say thriftless, and the mother of many bairns besides, and there could neither be room nor comfort for her mother at her fireside, should its shelter come to be needed. day after day janet wearied herself going over the matter in her mind. "if it were not so far," she thought, or "if her mother could go with her." but this she knew, for many reasons, could never be, even if her mother could be brought to consent to such a plan. and janet asked herself, "what would my mother do if sandy were to die? and what would sandy do if my mother were to die? and what would both do if sickness were to overtake them, and me far-away?" till she quite hated herself for ever thinking of putting the wide sea, between them and her. there had been few pleasures scattered over janet's rough path to womanhood. not more than two or three mornings since she could remember had she risen to other than a life of labour. even during the bright brief years of her married-life, she had known little respite from toil, for her husband had been a poor man, and he had died suddenly, before her son was born. with few words spoken, and few tears shed, save what fell in secret, she had given her infant to her mother's care, and gone back again to a servant's place in the minister's household. there she had been for ten years the stay and right hand of her beloved friend and mistress, "working the work of two," as they told her, who would have made her discontented in her lot, with no thought from year's end to year's end, but how she might best do her duty in the situation in which god had placed her. but far-away into the future--it might be years and years hence--she looked to the time when in a house of her own, she might devote herself entirely to the comfort of her mother and her son. in this hope she was content to strive and toil through the best years of her life, living poorly and saving every penny, to all appearance equally indifferent to the good word of those who honoured her for her faithfulness and patient labour, and to the bad word of those who did not scruple to call her most striking characteristics by less honourable names. she had never, during all these years, spoken, even to her mother, of her plans, but their fulfilment was none the less settled in her own mind, and none the less dear to her because of that. could she give this up? could she go away from her home, her friends, the land of her birth, and be content to see no respite from her labour till the end? yes, she could. the love that had all these years been growing for the children she had tended with almost a mother's care, would make the sacrifice possible-- even easy to her. but her mother? how could she find courage to tell her that she must leave her alone in her old age? the thought of parting from her son, her "bonny sandy," loved with all the deeper fervour that the love was seldom spoken--even this gave her no such pang as did the thought of turning her back upon her mother. he was young, and had his life before him, and in the many changes time might bring, she could at least hope to see him again. but her mother, already verging on the three-score, she could never hope to see more, when once the broad atlantic rolled between them. and so, no wonder if in the misery of her indecision, janet's words grew fewer and sharper as the days wore on. with strange inconsistency she blamed the minister for his determination to go away, but suffered no one else to blame him, or indeed to hint that he could do otherwise than what was wisest and best for all. it was a sore subject, this anticipated departure of the minister, to many a one in clayton besides her, and much was it discussed by all. but it was a subject on which janet would not be approached. she gave short answers to those who offered their services in the way of advice. she preserved a scornful silence in the presence of those who seemed to think she could forsake her master and his children in their time of need, nor was she better pleased with those who thought her mother might be left for their sakes. and so she thought, and wished, and planned, and doubted, till she dazed herself with her vain efforts to get light, and could think and plan no more. "i'll leave it to my mother herself to decide," she said, at last; "though, poor body, what can she say, but that i maun do what i think is my duty, and please myself. the lord above kens i hae little thought o' pleasin' myself in this matter." and in her perplexity janet was ready to think her case an exception to the general rule, and that contrary to all experience and observation, duty pointed two ways at once. chapter three. the time came when the decision could no longer be delayed. the minister was away from home, and before his return it would be made known formally to his people that he was to leave them, and after that the sooner his departure took place it would be the better for all concerned, and so janet must brace herself for the task. so out of the dimness of her spotless kitchen she came one day into the pleasant light of may, knowing that before she entered it again, she would have made her mother's heart as sore as her own. all day, and for many days, she had been planning what she should say to her mother, for she felt that it must be farewell. "if you know not of two ways which to choose, take that which is roughest and least pleasing to yourself, and the chances are it will be the right one," said she to herself. "i read that in a book once, but it's ill choosing when both are rough, and i know not what to do." out into the brightness of the spring day she came, with many misgivings as to how she was to speed in her errand. "it's a bonny day, bairns," said she, and her eye wandered wistfully down the village street, and over the green fields, to the hills that rose dimly in the distance. the mild air softly fanned her cheek, pleasant sights were round her everywhere, and at the garden gate she lingered, vaguely striving under their influence to cast her burden from her. "i mun hae it ower," she muttered to herself as she went on. in each hand she held firmly the hand of a child. marian and little will were to go with her for safe keeping; the lads were at the school, and in her absence graeme was to keep the house, and take care of little rose. "oh, janet!" she exclaimed, as she went down the lane a bit with them; "i wish i were going with you, it's such a bonny day." but janet knew that what she had to say, would be better said without her presence, so she shook her head. "you know miss graeme, my dear, you mun keep the house, and we would weary carrying wee rosie, and she could never go half the distance on her feet; and mind, if ony leddies call, the short bread is in the ben press, and gin they begin with questions, let your answers be short and ceevil, like a gude bairn, and take gude care o' my bonny wee lily," added she, kissing the pale little girl as she set her down. "but i needna tell you that, and we'll soon be back again." the children chattered merrily all the way, and busy with her own thoughts, janet answered them without knowing what she said. down the lane, and over the burn, through green fields, till the burn crossed their path again they went, "the near way," and soon the solitary cottage in the glen was in sight. it was a very humble home, but very pleasant in its loneliness, janet thought, as her eye fell on it. the cat sat sunning herself on the step, and through the open door came the hum of the mother's busy wheel. drawing a long breath, janet entered. "weel, mother," said she. "weel, janet, is this you, and the bairns? i doubt you hadna weel leavin' hame the day," said her mother. "i had to come, and this day's as good as another. it's a bonny day, mother." "ay, its a bonny day, and a seasonable, thank god. come in by, bairns, i sent sandy over to fernie a while syne. it's near time he were hame again. i'll give you a piece, and you'll go down the glen to meet him," and, well pleased, away they went. "i dare say you'll be none the waur of your tea, janet, woman," said her mother, and she put aside her wheel, and entered with great zeal into her preparations. janet strove to have patience with her burden a little longer, and sat still listening to her mother's talk, asking and answering questions on indifferent subjects. there was no pause. janet had seldom seen her mother so cheerful, and in a little she found herself wondering whether she had not been exaggerating to herself her mother's need of her. "the thought ought to give me pleasure," she reasoned, but it did not, and she accused herself of perversity, in not being able to rejoice, that her mother could easily spare her to the duties she believed claimed her. in the earnestness of her thoughts, she grew silent at last, or answered her mother at random. had she been less occupied, she might have perceived that her mother was not so cheerful as she seemed for many a look of wistful earnestness was fastened on her daughter's face, and now and then a sigh escaped her. they were very much alike in appearances, the mother and daughter. the mother had been "bonnier in her youth, than ever janet had," she used to say herself, and looking at her still ruddy cheeks, and clear grey eyes, it was not difficult to believe it. she was fresh-looking yet, at sixty, and though the hair drawn back under her cap was silvery white, her teeth for strength and beauty, might have been the envy of many a woman of half her years. she was smaller than janet, and her whole appearance indicated the possession of more activity and less strength of body and mind than her daughter had, but the resemblance between them was still striking. she had seen many trials, as who that has lived for sixty years, has not? but she had borne them better than most, and was cheerful and hopeful still. when they were fairly seated, with the little table between them, she startled janet, by coming to the point at once. "and so they say the minister is for awa' to america after all. is that true?" "oh, ay! it is true, as ill news oftenest is," said janet, gravely. "he spoke to me about it before he went away. it's all settled, or will be before he comes hame the morn." "ay, as you say, it's ill news to them that he's leaving. but i hope it may be for the good o' his young family. there's many a one going that road now." "ay, there's more going than will better themselves by the change, i doubt. it's no like that all the fine tales, we hear o' yon country can be true." "as you say. but, it's like the minister has some other dependence, than what's ca'ed about the country for news. what's this i hear about a friend o' his that's done weel there?" janet made a movement of impatience. "wha' should he be, but some silly, book-learned body that bides in a college there awa'. i dare say there would be weel pleased in any country, where he could get plenty o' books, and a house to hold them in. but what can the like o' him ken o' a young family and what's needed for them. if he had but held his peace, and let the minister bide where he is, it would hae been a blessing, i'm sure." janet suddenly paused in confusion, to find herself arguing on the wrong side of the question. her mother said nothing, and in a minute she added,-- "there's one thing to be said for it, the mistress aye thought weel o' the plan. oh! if she had been but spared to them," and she sighed heavily. "you may weel say that," said her mother, echoing her sigh. "but i'm no sure but they would miss her care as much to bide here, as to go there. and janet, woman, there's aye a kind providence. he that said, `leave thy fatherless children to me,' winna forsake the motherless. there's no fear but they'll be brought through." "i hae been saying that to myself ilka hour of the day, and i believe it surely. but oh, mother," janet's voice failed her. she could say no more. "i ken weel, janet," continued her mother, gravely, "it will be a great charge and responsibility to you, and i dare say whiles you are ready to run away from it. but you'll do better for them than any living woman could do. the love you bear them, will give you wisdom to guide them, and when strength is needed, there's no fear but you'll get it. the back is aye fitted for the burden. let them gang or let them bide, you canna leave them now." she turned her face away from her mother, and for her life janet could not have told whether the tears that were streaming down her cheeks, were falling for joy or for sorrow. there was to be no struggle between her and her mother. that was well; but with the feeling of relief the knowledge brought, there came a pang--a foretaste of the home-sickness, which comes once, at least, to every wanderer from his country. by a strong effort she controlled herself, and found voice to say,-- "i shall never leave them while they need me. i could be content to toil for them always. but, ah! mother, the going awa' over the sea--" her voice failed her for a minute, then she added,-- "i hae wakened every mornin' with this verse of jeremiah on my mind: `weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him, but weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more nor see his native country.'" janet made no secret of her tears now. "hoot fie, janet, woman," said her mother, affecting anger to hide far other feelings. "you are misapplyin' scripture altogether. that was spoken o' them that were to be carried away captive for their sins, and no' o' honest folk, followin' the leadings o' providence. if there's ony application it's to me, i'm thinkin'. it's them that bide at hame that are bidden weep sore;" and she seemed much inclined to follow the injunction. she recovered in a minute, however, and added,-- "but i'm no' going to add to your trouble. you dinna need me to tell you i'll have little left when you're awa'. but, if it's your duty to go with them, it canna be your duty to bide with me. you winna lose your reward striving in behalf o' these motherless bairns, and the lord will hae me and sandy in his keeping, i dinna doubt." there was a long silence after this. each knew what the other suffered. there was no need to speak of it, and so they sat without a word; janet, with the quiet tears falling now and then over her cheeks; her mother, grave and firm, giving no outward sign of emotion. each shrunk, for the other's sake, from putting their fears for the future into words; but their thoughts were busy. the mother's heart ached for the great wrench that must sever janet from her child and her home, and janet's heart grew sick with the dread of long weary days and nights her mother might have to pass, with perhaps no daughter's hand to close her eyes at last, till the thoughts of both changed to supplication, fervent though unuttered; and the burden of the prayer of each was, that the other might have strength and peace. the mother spoke first. "when will it be?" "it canna be long now. the sooner the better when once it's really settled. there are folk in the parish no weel pleased at the minister, for thinking to go." "it's for none to say what's right, and what's wrang, in the matter," said the mother, gravely. "i hae nae doubt the lord will go with him; but it will be a drear day for plenty besides me." "he's bent on it. go he will, and i trust it may be for the best," but janet sighed drearily. "and how are the bairns pleased with the prospect?" asked her mother. "ah! they're weel pleased, bairn-like, at any thought o' a change. miss graeme has her doubts, i whiles think, but that shouldna count; there are few things that look joyful to her at the present time. she's ower like her father with her ups and downs. she hasna her mother's cheerful spirit." "her mother's death was an awfu' loss to miss graeme, poor thing," said the mother. "aye, that it was--her that had never kent a trouble but by readin' o' them in printed books. it was an awfu' wakening to her. she has never been the same since, and i doubt it will be long till she has the same light heart again. she tries to fill her mother's place to them all, and when she finds she canna do it, she loses heart and patience with herself. but i hae great hope o' her. she has the `single eye,' and god will guide her. i hae nae fear for miss graeme." and then they spoke of many things--settling their little matters of business, and arranging their plans as quietly as though they looked forward to doing the same thing every month during the future years as they had done during the past. nothing was forgotten or omitted; for janet well knew that all her time and strength would be needed for the preparations that must soon commence, and that no time so good as the present might be found for her own personal arrangements. her little savings were to be lodged in safe hands for her mother's use, and if anything were to happen to her they were to be taken to send sandy over the sea. it was all done very quietly and calmly. i will not say that janet's voice did not falter sometimes, or that no mist came between the mother's eyes and the grave face on the other side of the table. but there was no sign given. a strong sense of duty sustained them. a firm belief that however painful the future might be, they were doing right in this matter, gave them power to look calmly at the sacrifice that must cost them so much. at length the children's voices were heard, and at the sound, janet's heart leaped up with a throb of pain, but in words she gave no utterance to the pang. "weel, sandy, lad, is this you," said she, as with mingled shyness and pleasure the boy came forward at his grandmother's bidding. he was a well-grown and healthy lad, with a frank face, and a thick shock of light curls. there was a happy look in his large blue eyes, and the smile came very naturally to his rather large mouth. to his mother, at the moment, he seemed altogether beautiful, and her heart cried out against the great trial that was before her. sandy stood with his hand in hers, while his grandmother questioned him about the errand on which he had been sent, and she had time to quiet herself. but there was a look on her face as she sat there, gently stroking his fair hair with her hand, that was sad to see. marian saw it with momentary wonder, and then coming up to her, she laid her arm gently over her neck and whispered,-- "sandy is going with us too, janet. there will be plenty of room for us all." "i've been telling menie that i canna leave grannie," said sandy, turning gravely to his mother. "you'll hae norman and harry, and them a', but grannie has none but me." "and wouldna you like to go with us too, sandy, man?" asked his mother, with a pang. "to yon fine country john ferguson tells us about?" said sandy, with sparkling eyes. "that i would, but it wouldna be right to leave grannie, and she says she's ower old to go so far-away--and over the great sea too." "nae, my lad, it wouldna be right to leave grannie by herself, and you'll need to bide here. think aye first of what is right, and there will be no fear of you." "and are you goin' mother?" asked sandy, gravely. "i doubt i'll need to go, sandy lad, with the bairns. but i think less of it, that i can leave you to be a comfort to grannie. i'm sure i needna bid you be a good and obedient laddie to her, when--" it needed a strong effort on her part to restrain the bitter cry of her heart. "and will you never come back again, mother?" "i dinna ken, sandy. maybe no. but that's no' for us to consider. it is present duty we maun think o'. the rest is in the lord's hands." what else could be said? that was the sum. it was duty and the lord would take care of the rest. and so they parted with outward calm; and her mother never knew that that night, janet, sending the children home before her, sat down in the lane, and "grat as if she would never greet mair." and janet never knew, till long years afterwards, how that night, and many a night, sandy woke from the sound sleep of childhood to find his grandmother praying and weeping, to think of the parting that was drawing near. each could be strong to help the other, but alone, in silence and darkness, the poor shrinking heart had no power to cheat itself into the belief that bitter suffering did not lie before it. chapter four. it was worship time, and the bairns had gathered round the table with their books, to wait for their father's coming. it was a fair sight to see, but it was a sad one too, for they were motherless. it was all the more sad, that the bright faces and gay voices told how little they realised the greatness of the loss they had sustained. they were more gay than usual, for the elder brother had come home for the summer, perhaps for always; for the question was being eagerly discussed whether he would go back to the college again, or whether he was to go with the rest to america. arthur, a quiet, handsome lad of sixteen, said little. he was sitting with the sleepy will upon his knee, and only put in a word now and then, when the others grew too loud and eager. he could have set them at rest about it; for he knew that his father had decided to leave him in scotland till his studies were finished at the college. "but there's no use to vex the lads and graeme to-night," he said to himself; and he was right, as he had not quite made up his mind whether he was vexed himself or not. the thought of the great countries on the other side of the globe, and of the possible adventures that might await them there, had charms for him, as for every one of his age and spirit. but he was a sensible lad, and realised in some measure the advantage of such an education as could only be secured by remaining behind, and he knew in his heart that there was reason in what his father had said to him of the danger there was that the voyage and the new scenes in a strange land might unsettle his mind from his books. it cost him something to seem content, even while his father was speaking to him, and he knew well it would grieve the rest to know he was to be left behind, so he would say nothing about it, on this first night of his home-coming. there was one sad face among them; for even arthur's home-coming could not quite chase the shadow that had fallen on graeme since the night a year ago while she sat dreaming her dreams in the firelight. it was only a year or little more, but it might have been three, judging from the change in her. she was taller and paler, and older-looking since then. and yet it was not so much that as something else that so changed her, arthur thought, as he sat watching her. the change had come to her through their great loss, he knew; but he could not have understood, even if it had been told him, how much this had changed life to graeme. he had suffered too more than words could ever tell. many a time his heart had been ready to burst with unspeakable longing for his dead mother's loving presence, her voice, her smile, her gentle chiding, till he could only cast himself down and weep vain tears upon the ground. graeme had borne all this, and what was worse to her, the hourly missing of her mother's counsel and care. not one day of all the year but she had been made to feel the bitterness of their loss; not one day but she had striven to fill her mother's place to her father and them all, and her nightly heartbreak had been to know that she had striven in vain. "as how could it be otherwise than vain," she said often to herself, "so weak, so foolish, so impatient." and yet through all her weakness and impatience, she knew that she must never cease to try to fill her mother's place still. some thought of all this came into arthur's mind, as she sat there leaning her head on one hand, while the other touched from time to time the cradle at her side. never before had he realised how sad it was for them all that they had lost their mother, and how dreary life at home must have been all the year. "poor graeme! and poor wee rosie!" he says to himself, stooping over the cradle. "how old is rosie?" asked he, suddenly. "near three years old," said janet. "she winna be three till august," said graeme in the same breath, and she turned beseeching eyes on janet. for this was becoming a vexed question between them--the guiding of poor wee rosie. janet was a disciplinarian, and ever declared that rosie "should go to her bed like ither folk;" but graeme could never find it in her heart to vex her darling, and so the cradle still stood in the down-stairs parlour for rosie's benefit, and it was the elder sister's nightly task to soothe the fretful little lady to her unwilling slumbers. but graeme had no need to fear discussion to-night. janet's mind was full of other thoughts. one cannot shed oceans of tears and leave no sign; and janet, by no means sure of herself, sat with her face turned from the light, intently gazing on the very small print of the bible in her hand. on common occasions the bairns would not have let janet's silence pass unheeded, but to-night they were busy discussing matters of importance, and except to say now and then, "whist, bairns! your father will be here!" she sat without a word. there was a hush at last, as a step was heard descending the stairs, and in a minute their father entered. it was not fear that quieted them. there was no fear in the frank, eager eyes turned toward him, as he sat down among them. his was a face to win confidence and respect, even at the first glance, so grave and earnest was it, yet withal so gentle and mild. in his children's hearts the sight of it stirred deep love, which grew to reverence as they grew in years. the calm that sat on that high, broad brow, told of conflicts passed, and victory secure, of weary wandering through desert places, over now and scarce remembered in the quiet of the resting-place he had found. his words and deeds, and his chastened views of earthly things told of a deep experience in "that life which is the heritage of the few--that true life of god in the soul with its strange, rich secrets, both of joy and sadness," whose peace the world knoweth not of, which naught beneath the sun can ever more disturb. "the minister is changed--greatly changed." janet had said many times to herself and others during the last few months, and she said it now, as her eye with the others turned on him as he entered. but with the thought there came to-night the consciousness that the change was not such a one as was to be deplored. he had grown older and graver, and more silent than he used to be, but he had grown to something higher, purer, holier than of old, and like a sudden gleam of light breaking through the darkness, there flashed into janet's mind the promise, "all things shall work together for good to them that love god." her lips had often spoken the words before, but now her eyes saw the fulfilment, and her failing faith was strengthened. if that bitter trial, beyond which she had vainly striven to see aught but evil, had indeed wrought good, for her beloved friend and master; need she fear any change or any trial which the future might have in store for her? "it will work for good, this pain and separation," murmured she. "i'm no' like the minister, but frail and foolish, and wilful too whiles, but i humbly hope that i am one of those who love the lord." "well, bairns!" said the father. there was a gentle stir and movement among them, though there was no need, for graeme had already set her father's chair and opened the bible at the place. she pushed aside the cradle a little that he might pass, and he sat down among them. "we'll take a psalm, to-night," said he, after a minute's turning of the leaves from a "namey chapter" in chronicles, the usual place. he chose the forty-sixth. "god is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. "therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, though the mountains be cast into the midst of the sea." and thus on through the next. "he shall choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of jacob, whom he loved." and still on through the next till the last verse,-- "this god is our god for ever and ever. he will be our guide, even unto death," seemed like the triumphant ending of a song of praise. then there was a momentary hush and pause. never since the mother's voice had grown silent in death had the voice of song risen at worship time. they had tried it more than once, and failed in bitter weeping. but janet, fearful that their silence was a sin, had to-night brought the hymn-books which they always used, and laid them at arthur's side. in the silence that followed the reading graeme looked from him to them, but arthur shook his head. he was not sure that his voice would make its way through the lump that had been gathering in his throat while his father read, and he felt that to fail would be dreadful, so there was silence still-- there was a little lingering round the fire after worship was over, but when arthur went quietly away the boys soon followed. graeme would fain have stayed to speak a few words to her father, on this first night of his return. he was sitting gazing into the fire, with a face so grave that his daughter's heart ached for his loneliness. but a peevish voice from the cradle admonished her that she must to her task again, and so with a quiet "good-night, papa," she took her little sister in her arms. up-stairs she went, murmuring tender words to her "wee birdie," her "bonny lammie," her "little gentle dove," more than repaid for all her weariness and care, by the fond nestling of the little head upon her bosom; for her love, which was more a mother's than a sister's, made the burden light. the house was quiet at last. the boys had talked themselves to sleep, and the minister had gone to his study again. this had been one of rosie's "weary nights." the voices of her brothers had wakened her in the parlour, and graeme had a long walk with the fretful child, before she was soothed to sleep again. but she did sleep at last, and just as janet had finished her nightly round, shutting the windows and barring the doors, graeme crept down-stairs, and entered the kitchen. the red embers still glowed on the hearth, but janet was in the very act of "resting the fire" for the night. "oh! janet," said graeme, "put on another peat. i'm cold, and i want to speak to you." "miss graeme! you up at this time o' the night! what ails yon cankered fairy now?" "oh, janet! she's asleep long ago, and i want to speak to you." and before janet could remonstrate, one of the dry peats set ready for the morning fire was thrown on the embers, and soon blazed brightly up. graeme crouched down before it, with her arm over janet's knee. "janet, what did your mother say? and oh! janet, arthur says my father--" turning with a sudden movement, graeme let her head fall on janet's lap, and burst into tears. janet tried to lift her face. "whist! miss graeme! what ails the lassie? it's no' the thought of going awa', surely? you hae kenned this was to be a while syne. you hae little to greet about, if you but kenned it--you, who are going altogether." "janet, arthur is to bide in scotland." "well, it winna be for long. just till he's done at the college. i dare say it is the best thing that can happen him to bide. but who told you?" "arthur told me after we went up-stairs to-night. and, oh! janet! what will i ever do without him?" "miss graeme, my dear! you hae done without him these two years already mostly, and even if we all were to bide in scotland, you would hae to do without him still. he could na' be here and at the college too. and when he's done with that he would hae to go elsewhere. families canna aye bide together. bairns maun part." "but, janet, to go so far and leave him! it will seem almost like death." "but, lassie it's no' death. there's a great difference. and as for seeing him again, that is as the lord wills. anyway, it doesna become you to cast a slight on your father's judgment, as though he had decided unwisely in this matter. do you no' think it will cost him something to part from his first-born son?" "but, janet, why need he part from him? think how much better it would be for him, and for us all, if arthur should go with us. arthur is almost a man." "na, lass. he'll no' hae a man's sense this while yet. and as for his goin' or bidin', it's no' for you or me to seek for the why and the wherefore o' the matter. it might be better--more cheery--for you and us all if your elder brother were with us, but it wouldna be best for him to go, or your father would never leave him, you may be sure o' that." there was a long silence. graeme sat gazing into the dying embers. janet threw on another peat, and a bright blaze sprang up again. "miss graeme, my dear, if it's a wise and right thing for your father to take you all over the sea, the going or the biding o' your elder brother can make no real difference. you must seek to see the rights o' this. if your father hasna him to help him with the bairns and--ither things, the more he'll need you, and you maun hae patience, and strive no' to disappoint him. you hae muckle to be thankful for--you that can write to ane anither like a printed book, to keep ane anither in mind. there's nae fear o' your growin' out o' acquaintance, and he'll soon follow, you may be sure. oh, lassie, lassie! if you could only ken!" graeme raised herself up, and leaned both her arms on janet's lap. "janet, what did your mother say?" janet gulped something down, and said, huskily,-- "oh! she said many a thing, but she made nae wark about it. i told your father i would go, and i will. my mother doesna object." "and sandy?" said graeme, softly, for there was something working in janet's face, which she did not like to see. "sandy will aye hae my mother, and she'll hae sandy. but, lassie, it winna bear speaking about to-night. gang awa' to your bed." graeme rose; but did not go. "but couldna sandy go with us? it would only be one more. surely, janet--" janet made a movement of impatience, or entreaty, graeme did not know which, but it stopped her. "na, na! sandy couldna leave my mother, even if it would be wise for me to take him. there's no more to be said about that." and in spite of herself, janet's tears gushed forth, as mortal eyes had never seen them gush before, since she was a herd lassie on the hills. graeme looked on, hushed and frightened, and in a little, janet quieted herself and wiped her face with her apron. "you see, dear, what with one thing and what with another, i'm weary, and vexed to-night, and no' just myself. matters will look more hopeful, both to you and to me, the morn. there's one thing certain. both you and me hae much to do that maun be done, before we see saut water, without losing time in grumblin' at what canna be helped. what with the bairns' clothes and ither things, we winna need to be idle; so let us awa' to our beds that we may be up betimes the morn." graeme still lingered. "oh, janet! if my mother were only here! how easy it all would be." "ay, lass! i hae said that to myself many a time this while. but he that took her canna do wrong. there was some need for it, or she would hae been here to-night. you maun aye strive to fill her place to them all." graeme's tears flowed forth afresh. "oh, janet! i think you're mocking me when you say that. how could _i_ ever fill her place?" "no' by your ain strength and wisdom surely my lammie. but it would be limiting his grace to say he canna make you all you should be--all that she was, and that is saying muckle; for she was wise far by the common. but now gang awa' to your bed, and dinna forget your good words. there's no fear but you will be in god's keeping wherever you go." janet was right; they had need of all their strength and patience during the next two months. when janet had confidence in herself, she did what was to be done with a will. but she had little skill in making purchases, and less experience, and graeme was little better. many things must be got, and money could not be spent lavishly, and there was no time to lose. but, with the aid of mrs smith and other kind friends, their preparations were got through at last. purchases were made, mending and making of garments were accomplished, and the labour of packing was got through, to their entire satisfaction. the minister said good-bye to each of his people separately, either in the kirk, or in his own home or theirs; but he shrunk from last words, and from the sight of all the sorrowful faces that were sure to gather to see them go; so he went away at night, and stayed with a friend, a few miles on their way. but it was the fairest of summer mornings--the mist just lifting from the hills--and the sweet air filled with the laverock's song, when janet and the bairns looked their last upon their home. chapter five. they found themselves on board the "steadfast" at last. the day of sailing was bright and beautiful, a perfect day for the sea, or the land either; but the wind rose in the night and the rain came on, and a very dreary morning broke on them as the last glimpse of land was fading in the distance. "oh! how dismal!" murmured graeme, as in utter discomfort she seated herself on the damp deck, with her little sister in her arms. all the rest, excepting her father, and not excepting janet, were down with sea-sickness, and even norman and harry had lost heart under its depressing influence. another hour in the close cabin, and graeme felt she must yield too--and then what would become of rose? so into a mist that was almost rain she came, as the day was breaking, and sat down with her little sister upon the deck. for a minute she closed her eyes on the dreariness around, and leaned her head on a hencoop at her side. rose had been fretful and uneasy all night, but now well pleased with the new sights around her, she sat still on her sister's lap. soon the cheerful voice of the captain, startled graeme. "touch and go with you i see, miss elliott. i am afraid you will have to give in like the rest." graeme looked up with a smile that was sickly enough. "not if i can help it," said she. "well, you are a brave lass to think of helping it with a face like that. come and take a quick walk up and down the deck with me. it will do you good. set down the bairn," for graeme was rising with rose in her arms. "no harm will come to her, and you don't look fit to carry yourself. sit you there, my wee fairy, till we come back again. here, ruthven," he called to a young man who was walking up and down on the other side of the deck, "come and try your hand at baby tending. that may be among the work required of you in the backwoods of canada, who knows?" the young man came forward laughing, and graeme submitted to be led away. the little lady left on the deck seemed very much inclined to resent the unceremonious disposal of so important a person, as she was always made to feel herself to be. but she took a look into the face of her new friend and thought better of it. his face was a good one, frank and kindly, and rose suffered herself to be lifted up and placed upon his knee, and when graeme came back again, after a brisk walk of fifteen minutes, she found the little one, usually so fretful and "ill to do with," laughing merrily in the stranger's arms. she would have taken her, but rose was pleased to stay. "you are the very first stranger that ever she was willing to go to," said she, gratefully. looking up, she did not wonder at rosie's fancy for the face that smiled down upon her. "i ought to feel myself highly honoured," said he. "i think we'll give him the benefit of little missy's preference," said captain armstrong, who had been watching graeme with a little amused anxiety since her walk was ended. the colour that the exercise had given her was fast fading from her face, till her very lips grew white with the deadly sickness that was coming over her. "you had best go to the cabin a wee while. you must give up, i think," said he. graeme rose languidly. "yes, i'm afraid so. come rosie." "leave the little one with me," said mr ruthven. and that was the last graeme saw of rosie for the next twelve hours, for she was not to escape the misery that had fallen so heavily upon the rest, and very wearily the day passed. it passed, however, at last, and the next, which was calm and bright as heart could wish, saw them all on deck again. they came with dizzy heads and uncertain steps it is true, but the sea air soon brought colour to their cheeks, and strength to their limbs, and their sea life fairly began. but alas! for janet. the third day, and the tenth found her still in her berth, altogether unable to stand up against the power that held her. in vain she struggled against it. the "steadfast's" slightest motion was sufficient to overpower her quite, till at last she made no effort to rise, but lay there, disgusted with herself and all the world. on the calmest and fairest days they would prevail on her to be helped up to the deck, and there amid shawls and pillows she would sit, enduring one degree less of misery than she did in the close cabin below. "it was just a judgment upon her," she said, "to let her see what a poor conceited body she was. she, that had been making muckle o' herself, as though the lord couldna take care o' the bairns without her help." it was not sufficient to be told hourly that the children were well and happy, or to see it with her own eyes. this aggravated her trouble. "useless body that i am." and janet did not wait for a sight of a strange land, to begin to pine for the land she had left, and what with sea-sickness and home-sickness together, she had very little hope that she would ever see land of any kind again. the lads and marian enjoyed six weeks of perfect happiness. graeme and their father at first were in constant fear of their getting into danger. it would only have provoked disobedience had all sorts of climbing been forbidden, for the temptation to try to outdo each other in their imitation of the sailors, was quite irresistible; and not a rope in the rigging, nor a corner in the ship, but they were familiar with before the first few days were over. "and, indeed, they were wonderfully preserved, the foolish lads," their father acknowledged, and grew content about them at last. before me lies the journal of the voyage, faithfully kept in a big book given by arthur for the purpose. a full and complete history of the six weeks might be written from it, but i forbear. norman or harry, in language obscurely nautical, notes daily the longitude or the latitude, and the knots they make an hour. there are notices of whales, seen in the distance, and of shoals of porpoises seen near at hand. there are stories given which they have heard in the forecastle, and hints of practical jokes and tricks played on one another. the history of each sailor in the ship is given, from "handsome frank, the first yankee, and the best-singer" the boys ever saw, to father abraham, the dutchman, "with short legs and shorter temper." graeme writes often, and daily bewails janet's continued illness, and rejoices over "wee rosie's" improved health and temper. with her account of the boys and their doings, she mingles emphatic wishes "that they had more sense," but on the whole they are satisfactory. she has much to say of the books she has been reading--"a good many of sir walter scott's that papa does not object to," lent by allan ruthven. there are hints of discussions with him about the books, too; and graeme declares she "has no patience" with allan. for his favourites in sir walter's books are seldom those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake; and there are allusions to battles fought with him in behalf of the good name of the old puritans--men whom graeme delights to honour. but on the whole it is to be seen, that allan is a favourite with her and with them all. the beautiful bay of boston was reached at last, and with an interest that cannot be told, the little party--including the restored janet-- regarded the city to which they were drawing near. their ideas of what they were to see first in the new world had been rather indefinite and vague. far more familiar with the early history of new england--with such scenes as the landing of the pilgrims, and the departure of roger williams to a still more distant wilderness, than with the history of modern advance, it was certainly not such a city they had expected to see. but they gazed with ever increasing delight, as they drew nearer and nearer to it through the beautiful bay. "and this is the wonderful new world, that promises so much to us all," said allan. "they have left unstained what there they found. freedom to worship god," murmured graeme, softly. "i'm sure i shall like the american people." but allan was taking to heart the thought of parting from them all, more than was at all reasonable, he said to himself, and he could not answer her with a jest as he might at another time. "you must write and tell me about your new home," said he. "yes--the boys will write; we will all write. i can hardly believe that six weeks ago we had never seen you. oh! i wish you were going with us," said graeme. "allan will see arthur when he comes. arthur will want to see all the country," said norman. "and maybe he will like the queen's dominions best, and wish to settle there," said allan. "oh! but we shall see you long before arthur comes," said graeme. "is it very far to canada?" "i don't know--not very far, i suppose. i don't feel half so hopeful now that i am about to know what my fate is to be. i have a great dread on me. i have a mind not to go to my uncle at all, but seek my fortune here." "but your mother wouldna be pleased," said graeme, gravely. "no. she has great hopes of what my uncle may do for me. but it would be more agreeable to me not to be confined to one course. i should like to look about me a little, before i get fairly into the treadmill of business." in her heart graeme thought it an excellent thing for allan that he had his uncle to go to. she had her own ideas about young people's looking about them, with nothing particular to do, and quite agreed with janet and dr watts as to the work likely to be found for them to do. but she thought it would be very nice for them all, if instead of setting off at once for canada, allan might have gone with them for a little while. before she could say this, however, janet spoke. "ay, that's bairn-like, though you hae a man's stature. i dare say you would think it a braw thing to be at naebody's bidding; but, my lad, it's ae' thing to hae a friend's house, and a welcome waiting you in a strange land like this, and it's anither thing to sit solitary in a bare lodging, even though you may hae liberty to come and go at your ain will. if you're like the lads that i ken' maist about, you'll be none the worse of a little wholesome restraint. be thankful for your mercies." allan laughed good-humouredly. "but really, mrs nasmyth, you are too hard on me. just think what a country this is. think of the mountains, and rivers and lakes, and of all these wonderful forests and prairies that norman reads about, and is it strange that i should grudge myself to a dull counting-room, with all these things to enjoy? it is not the thought of the restraint that troubles me. i only fear i shall become too soon content with the routine, till i forget how to enjoy anything but the making and counting of money. i am sure anything would be better than to come to that." "you'll hae many things between you and the like o' that, if you do your duty. you have them you are going to, and them you hae left--your mother and brother. and though you had none o' them, you could aye find some poor body to be kind to, to keep your heart soft. are you to bide in your uncle's house?" "i don't know. mrs peter stone, that was home last year, told us that my uncle lives in the country, and his clerks live in the town anywhere they like. i shall do as the rest do i suppose. all the better--i shall be the more able to do what i like with my leisure." "ay, it's aye liberty that the like o' you delight in. weel, see that you make a good use of it, that's the chief thing. read your bible and gang to the kirk, and there's no fear o' you. and dinna forget to write to your mother. she's had many a weary thought about you 'ere this time, i'll warrant." "i daresay i shall be content enough. but it seems like parting from home again, to think of leaving you all. my bonnie wee rosie, what shall i ever do without you?" said allan, caressing the little one who had clambered on his knee. "and what shall we do without you?" exclaimed a chorus of voices; and norman added,-- "what is the use of your going all the way to canada, when there's enough for you to do here. come with us, allan, man, and never mind your uncle." "and what will you do for him, in case he should give his uncle up for you?" demanded janet, sharply. "oh! he'll get just what we'll get ourselves, a chance to make his own way, and i doubt whether he'll get more where he's going. i've no faith in rich uncles." allan laughed. "thank you, norman, lad. i must go to canada first, however, whether i stay there or not. maybe you will see me again, sooner than i think now. surely, in the great town before us, there might be found work, and a place for me." far-away before them, stretched the twinkling lights of the town, and silence fell upon them as they watched them. in another day they would be among the thousands who lived, and laboured, and suffered in it. what awaited them there? not that they feared the future, or doubted a welcome. indeed, they were too young to think much of possible evils. a new life was opening before them, no fear but it would be a happy one. graeme had seen more trouble than the rest, being older, and she was naturally less hopeful, but then she had no fear for them all, only the thought that they were about to enter on a new, untried life, made her excited and anxious, and the thought of parting with their friend made her sad. as for janet, she was herself again. her courage returned when the sea-sickness departed, and now she was ready "to put a stout heart to a stiff brae" as of old. "disjaskit looking" she was, and not so strong as she used to be, but she was as active as ever, and more than thankful to be able to keep her feet again. "she had been busy all the morning," overhauling the belongings of the family, preparatory to landing, much to the discomfort of all concerned. all the morning graeme had submitted with a passably good grace to her cross-questionings as to the "guiding" of this and that, while she had been unable to give personal supervision to family matters. thankful to see her at her post again, graeme tried to make apparent her own good management of matters in general, during the voyage, but she was only partially successful. there were far more rents and stains, and soiled garments, than janet considered at all necessary, and besides many familiar articles of wearing apparel were missing, after due search made. in vain graeme begged her never to mind just now. they were in the big blue chest, or the little brown one, she couldna just mind where she had put them, but of course they would be found, when all the boxes were opened. "maybe no," said janet. "there are some long fingers, i doubt, in the steerage yonder. miss graeme, my dear, we would need to be carefu'. if i'm no' mistaken, i saw one o' norman's spotted handkerchiefs about the neck o' yon lang johnny heeman, and yon little irish lassie ga'ed past me the day, with a pinafore very like one o' menie's. i maun ha' a look at it again." "oh, janet! never mind. i gave wee norah the pinafore, and the old brown frock besides. she had much need of them. and poor johnny came on board on the pilot boat you ken, and he hadna a change, and norman gave him the handkerchief and an old waistcoat of papa's,--and--" janet's hands were uplifted in consternation. "keep's and guide's lassie--that i should say such a word. your papa hadna an old waistcoat in his possession. what for did you do the like o' that? the like o' norman or menie might be excused, but you that i thought had some sense and discretion. your father's waistcoat! heard anybody ever the like? you may be thankful that you hae somebody that kens the value of good clothes, to take care of you and them--" "oh! i'm thankful as you could wish," said graeme, laughing. "i would rather see you sitting there, in the midst of those clothes, than to see the queen on her throne. i confess to the waistcoat, and some other things, but mind, i'm responsible no longer. i resign my office of general caretaker to you. success to you," and graeme made for the cabin stairs. she turned again, however. "never heed, janet, about the things. think what it must be to have no change, and we had so many. poor wee norah, too. her mother's dead you ken, and she looked so miserable." janet was pacified. "weel, miss graeme, i'll no' heed. but my dear, it's no' like we'll find good clothes growing upon trees in this land, more than in our own. and we had need to be careful. i wonder where a' the strippet pillow slips can be? i see far more of the fine ones dirty than were needed, if you had been careful, and guarded them." but graeme was out of hearing before she came to this. they landed at last, and a very dreary landing it was. they had waited for hours, till the clouds should exhaust themselves, but the rain was still falling when they left the ship. eager and excited, the whole party were, but not after the anticipated fashion. graeme was surprised, and a little mortified, to find no particular emotions swelling at her heart, as her feet touched the soil which the puritans had rendered sacred. indeed, she was too painfully conscious, that the sacred soil was putting her shoes and frock in jeopardy, and had too much trouble to keep the umbrella over marian and herself, to be able to give any thanks to the sufferings of the pilgrim fathers, or mothers either. mr elliott had been on shore in the morning, and had engaged rooms for them in a quiet street, and thither allan ruthven, carrying little rose, was to conduct them, while he attended to the proper bestowment of their baggage. this duty janet fain would have shared with him. her reverence for the minister, and his many excellencies, did not imply entire confidence in his capacity, for that sort of business, and when he directed her to go with the bairns, it was with many misgivings that she obeyed. indeed, as the loaded cart took its departure in another direction, she expressed herself morally certain, that they had seen the last of it, for she fully believed that, "yon sharp-looking lad could carry it off from beneath the minister's nose." dread of more distant evils was, however, driven from her thoughts by present necessities. the din and bustle of the crowded wharf, would have been sufficient to "daze" the sober-minded country-woman, without the charge of little will, and unnumbered bundles, and the two "daft laddies forby." on their part, norman and harry scorned the idea of being taken care of, and loaded with baskets and other movables, made their way through the crowd, in a manner that astonished the bewildered janet. "bide a wee, norman, man. harry, you daft laddie, where are you going? now dinna throw awa' good pennies for such green trash." for harry had made a descent on a fruit stall, and his pockets were turned inside out in a twinkling. "saw ever anybody such cheatry," exclaimed janet, as the dark lady pocketed the coins with a grin, quite unmindful of her expostulations. "harry lad, a fool and his money is soon parted. and look! see here, you hae set down the basket in the dubs, and your sister's bed gowns will be all wet. man! hae you no sense?" "nae muckle, i doubt, janet," said harry, with an exaggerated gesture of humility and penitence, turning the basket upside down, to ascertain the extent of the mischief. "it's awfu' like scotch dubs, now isn't it? never mind, i'll give it a wash at the next pump, and it 'ill he none the worse. give me will's hand, and i'll take care of him." "take care o' yourself, and leave will with me. but, dear me, where's mr allan?" for their escort had disappeared, and she stood alone, with the baskets and the boys in the rainy street. before her consternation had reached a climax, however, ruthven reappeared, having safely bestowed the others in their lodgings. like a discreet lad, as janet was inclined to consider him, he possessed himself of will, and some of the bundles, and led the way. at the door stood the girls, anxiously looking out for them. if their hostess had, at first, some doubt as to the sanity of her new lodgers, there was little wonder. such a confusion of tongues her american ears had not heard before. graeme condoled with will, who was both wet and weary. janet searched for missing bundles, and bewailed things in general. marian was engaged in a friendly scuffle for an apple, and allan was tossing rosie up to the ceiling, while norman, perched on the bannisters high above them all, waved his left hand, bidding farewell, with many words, to an imaginary scotland, while with his right he beckoned to the "brave new world" which was to be the scene of his wonderful achievements and triumphs. the next day rose bright and beautiful. mr elliott had gone to stay with his friend mr caldwell, and janet was over head and ears in a general "sorting" of things, and made no objections when it was proposed that the boys and graeme should go out with allan ruthven to see the town. it is doubtful whether there was ever so much of boston seen in one day before, without the aid of a carriage and pair. it was a day never to be forgotten by the children. the enjoyment was not quite unmixed to graeme, for she was in constant fear of losing some of them. harry was lost sight of for a while, but turned up again with a chapter of adventures at his finger ends for their amusement. the crowning enjoyment of the day was the treat given by allan ruthven on their way home. they were very warm and tired, and hungry too, and the low, cool room down some steps into which they were taken, was delightful. there was never such fruit--there were never such cakes as these that were set before them. as for the ice cream, it was-- inexpressible. in describing the feast afterwards, marian could never get beyond the ice cream. she was always at a loss for adjectives to describe it. it was like the manna that the children of israel had in the wilderness, she thought, and surely they ought to have been content with it. graeme was the only one who did not enjoy it thoroughly. she had an idea that there were not very many guineas left in allan's purse, and she felt bound to remonstrate with him because of his extravagance. "never mind, graeme, dear," said norman; "allan winna have a chance to treat us to manna this while again; and when i am mayor of boston, i'll give him manna and quails too." they came home tired, but they had a merry evening. even graeme "unbent," as harry said, and joined in the mirth; and janet had enough to do to reason them into quietness when bed-time came. "one would think when mr allan is going away in the morning, you might have the grace to seem sorry, and let us have a while's peace," said she. if the night was merry, the morning farewells were sad indeed, and long, long did they wait in vain for tidings of allan ruthven. chapter six. "but where's the town?" the bairns were standing on the highest step of the meeting-house, gazing with eyes full of wonder and delight on the scene before them. the meeting-house stood on a high hill, and beyond a wide sloping field at the foot of the hill, lay merleville pond, like a mirror in a frame of silver and gold. beyond, and on either side, were hills rising behind hills, the most distant covered with great forest trees, "the trees under which the red indians used to wander," graeme whispered. there were trees on the nearer hills too, sugaries, and thick pine groves, and a circle of them round the margin of the pond. over all the great magician of the season had waved his wand, and decked them in colours dazzling to the eyes accustomed to the grey rocks and purple heather, and to the russet garb of autumn in their native land. there were farm-houses too, and the scattered houses along the village street looking white and fair beneath crimson maples and yellow beech-trees. above hung a sky undimmed by a single cloud, and the air was keen, yet mild with the october sunshine. they could not have had a lovelier time for the first glimpse of their new home, yet there was an echo of disappointment in harry's voice as he asked,-- "where's the town?" they had been greatly impressed by the description given them of merleville by mr sampson snow, in whose great wagon they had been conveyed over the twenty miles of country roads that lay between the railway and their new home. "i was the first white child born in the town," said sampson. "i know every foot of it as well as i do my own barn, and i don't want no better place to live in than merleville. it don't lack but a fraction of being ten miles square. right in the centre, perhaps a _leetle_ south, there's about the prettiest pond you ever saw. there are some first-rate farms there, mine is one of them, but in general the town is better calculated for pasturage than tillage. i shouldn't wonder but it would be quite a manufacturing place too after a spell, when they've used up all the other water privileges in the state. there's quite a fall in the merle river, just before it runs into the pond. we've got a fullin'-mill and a grist-mill on it now. they'd think everything of it in your country." "there's just one meetin'-house in it. that's where your pa'll preach if our folks conclude to hire him a spell. the land's about all taken up, though it hain't reached the highest point of cultivation yet. the town is set off into nine school-districts, and i consider that our privileges are first-rate. and if it's nutting and squirrel-hunting you're after, boys, all you have to do is to apply to uncle sampson, and he'll arrange your business for you." "ten miles square and nine school-districts!" boston could be nothing to it, surely, the boys thought. the inconsistency of talking about pasturage and tillage, nutting and squirrel-hunting in the populous place which they imagined merleville to be, did not strike them. this was literally their first glimpse of merleville, for the rain had kept them within doors, and the mist had hidden all things the day before and now they looked a little anxiously for the city they had pictured to themselves. "but norman! harry! i think this is far better than a town," said marian, eagerly. "eh, graeme, isna yon a bonny water?" "ay, it's grand," said graeme. "norman, this is far better than a town." the people were beginning to gather to service by this time; but the children were too eager and too busy to heed them for a while. with an interest that was half wonder, half delight, graeme gazed to the hills and the water and the lovely sky. it might be the "bonny day"--the mild air and the sunshine, and the new fair scene before her, or it might be the knowledge that after much care, and many perils, they were all safe together in this quiet place where they were to find a home; she scarce knew what it was, but her heart felt strangely light, and lips and eyes smiled as she stood there holding one of marian's hands in hers, while the other wandered through the curls of will's golden hair. she did not speak for a long time; but the others were not so quiet, but whispered to each other, and pointed out the objects that pleased them most. "yon's merle river, i suppose, where we see the water glancing through the trees." "and yonder is the kirkyard," said marian, gravely. "it's no' a bonny place." "it's bare and lonely looking," said harry. "they should have yew trees and ivy and a high wall, like where mamma is," said marian. "but this is a new country; things are different here," said norman. "but surely they might have trees." "and look, there are cows in it. the gate is broken. it's a pity." "look at yon road that goes round the water, and then up between the hills through the wood. that's bonny, i'm sure." "and there's a white house, just where the road goes out of sight. i would like to live there." "yes, there are many trees about it, and another house on this side." and so they talked on, till a familiar voice accosted them. their friend mr snow was standing beside them, holding a pretty, but delicate little girl, by the hand. he had been watching them for some time. "well how do you like the looks of things?" "it's bonny here," said marian. "where's the town?" asked harry, promptly. mr snow made a motion with his head, intended to indicate the scene before them. "lacks a fraction of being ten miles square." "it's all trees," said little will. "wooden country, eh, my little man?" "country! yes, it's more like the country than like a town," said harry. "well, yes. on this side of the water, we can afford to have our towns, as big as some folks' countries," said mr snow, gravely. "but it's like no town i ever saw," said norman. "there are no streets, no shops, no market, no anything that makes a town." "there's freedom on them hills," said mr snow, waving his hand with an air. during the journey the other day, mr snow and the lads had discussed many things together; among the rest, the institutions of their respective countries, and mr snow had, as he expressed it, "set their british blood to bilin'," by hints about "aristocracy", "despotism," and so on. "he never had had such a good time," he said, afterwards. they were a little fiery, but first-rate smart boys, and as good natured as kittens, and he meant to see to them. he meant to amuse himself with them too, it seemed. the boys fired up at once, and a hot answer was only arrested on their lips, by the timely interference of graeme. "whist, norman. harry, mind it is the sabbath-day, and look yonder is papa coming up with judge merle," and turning smilingly to mr snow, she added, "we like the place very much. it's beautiful everywhere. it's far bonnier than a town. i'm glad there's no town, and so are the boys, though they were disappointed at first." "no town?" repeated mr snow. but there was no time for explanations. their father had reached the steps, and the children were replying to the greeting of the judge. judge merle, was in the opinion of the majority, the greatest man in merleville, if not in the country. the children had made his acquaintance on saturday. he had brought them with his own hands, through the rain, a pail of sweet milk, and another of hominy, a circumstance which gave them a high idea of his kindness of heart, but which sadly overturned all their preconceived notions with regard to the dignity of his office. janet, who looked on the whole thing as a proper tribute of respect to the minister, augured well from it, what he might expect in his new parish, and congratulated herself accordingly. the children were glad to see him, among the many strangers around them, and when mr snow gave him a familiar nod, and a "morning judge," graeme felt a little inclined, to resent the familiarity. the judge did not resent it, however. on the contrary, when mr snow, nodding sideways toward the minister, said, "he guessed the folks would get about fitted this time," he nodded as familiarly back, and said, "he shouldn't wonder if they did." there are no such churches built in new england now, as that into which the minister and his children were led by the judge. it was very large and high, and full of windows. it was the brilliant light that struck the children first, accustomed as they had been to associate with the sabbath worship, the dimness of their father's little chapel in clayton. norman the mathematician was immediately seized with a perverse desire to count the panes, and scandalised graeme by communicating to her the result of his calculation, just as her father rose up to begin. how many people there were in the high square pews, and in the galleries, and even in the narrow aisles. so many, that graeme not dreaming of the quiet nooks hidden among the hills she had thought so beautiful, wondered where they all could come from. keen, intelligent faces, many of them were, that turned toward the minister as he rose; a little hard and fixed, perhaps, those of the men, and far too delicate, and care-worn, those of the women, but earnest, thoughtful faces, many of them were, and kindly withal. afterwards--years and years afterwards, when the bairns had to shut their eyes to recall their father's face, as it gleamed down upon them from that strange high pulpit, the old people used to talk to them of this first sermon in merleville. there was a charm in the scottish accent, and in the earnest manner of the minister, which won upon these people wonderfully. it was heart speaking to heart, an earnest, loving, human heart, that had sinned and had been forgiven, that had suffered and had been comforted; one who, through all, had by god's grace struggled upwards, speaking to men of like passions and necessities. he spoke as one whom god had given a right to warn, to counsel, to console. he spoke as one who must give account, and his hearers listened earnestly. so earnestly that deacon fish forgot to hear for deacon slowcome, and deacon slowcome forgot to hear for people generally. deacon sterne who seldom forgot anything which he believed to be his duty, failed for once to prove the orthodoxy of the doctrine by comparing it with his own, and received it as it fell from the minister's lips, as the very word of god. "he means just as he says," said mr snow to young mr greenleaf, as he overtook him in going home that afternoon. "he wasn't talking just because it was his business to. when he was a telling us what mighty things the grace of god can do, he believed it himself, i guess." "they all do, don't they?" said mr greenleaf. "well, i don't know. they all say they do. but there's deacon fish now," said mr snow, nodding to that worthy, as his wagon whirled past, "he don't begin to think that grace or anything else, could make _me_ such a good man as he is." mr greenleaf laughed. "if the vote of the town was taken, i guess it would be decided that grace wouldn't have a great deal to do." "well, the town would make a mistake. deacon fish ain't to brag of for goodness, i don't think; but he's a sight better than i be. but see here, squire, don't you think the new minister'll about fit?" "he'll fit _me_," said the squire. "it is easy to see that he is not a common man. but he won't fit the folks here, or they won't fit him. it would be too good luck if he were to stay here." "well, i don't know about that. there are folks enough in the town that know what's good when they hear it, and i guess they'll keep him if they can. and i guess he'll stay. he seems to like the look of things. he is a dreadful mild-spoken man, and i guess he won't want much in the way of pay. i guess you had better shell out some yourself, squire. _i_ mean to." "you are a rich man, mr snow. you can afford it." "come now, squire, that's good. i've worked harder for every dollar i've got, than you've done for any ten you ever earned." the squire shook his head. "you don't understand my kind of work, or you wouldn't say so. but about the minister? if i were to pledge myself to any amount for his support, i should feel just as though i were in a measure responsible for the right arrangement of all things with regard to his salary, and the paying of it. anything i have to do with, i want to have go right along without any trouble, and unless merleville folks do differently than they have so far, it won't be so in this matter." "yes, i shouldn't wonder if there would be a hitch before long. but i guess you'd better think before you say no. i guess it'll pay in the long run." "thank you, mr snow. i'll take your advice and think of it," said mr greenleaf, as sampson stopped at his own gate. he watched him going up the hill. "he's goin' along up to the widow jones' now, i'll bet. i shouldn't wonder if he was a goin' to lose me my chance of getting her place. it kind o' seems as though i ought to have it; it fits on so nice to mine. and they say old skinflint is going to foreclose right off. i'll have to make things fit pretty tight this winter, if i have to raise the cash. but it does seem as if i ought to have it. maybe it's celestia the squire wants, and not the farm." he came back to close the gate which, in his earnestness, he had forgotten, and leaned for a moment over it. "well, now, it does beat all. here have i been forgetting all about what i have heard over yonder to the meeting-house. deacon sterne needn't waste no more words, to prove total depravity to me. i've got to know it pretty well by this time;" and, with a sigh, he turned toward the house. chapter seven. the next week was a busy one to all. mr elliott, during that time, took up his residence at judge merle's, only making daily visits to the little brown house behind the elms where janet and the bairns were putting things to rights. there was a great deal to be done, but it was lovely weather, and all were in excellent spirits, and each did something to help. the lads broke sticks and carried water, and janet's mammoth washing was accomplished in an incredibly short time; and before the week was over the little brown house began to look like a home. a great deal besides was accomplished this week. it was not all devoted to helping, by the boys. norman caught three squirrels in a trap of his own invention, and harry shot as many with mr snow's wonderful rifle. they and marian had made the circuit of the pond, over rocks, through bushes and brambles, over brooks, or through them, as the case might be. they came home tired enough, and in a state which naturally suggested thoughts of another mammoth washing, but in high spirits with their trip, only regretting that graeme and janet had not been with them. it was saturday night, after a very busy week, and janet had her own ideas about the enjoyment of such a ramble, and was not a little put out with them for "their thoughtless ruining of their clothes and shoon." but the minister had come home, and there was but a thin partition between the room that must serve him for study and parlour, and the general room for the family, and they got off with a slight reprimand, much to their surprise and delight. for to tell the truth, janet's patience with the bairns, exhaustless in most circumstances, was wont to give way in the presence of "torn clothes and ruined shoon." the next week was hardly so successful. it was cold and rainy. the gold and crimson glories of the forest disappeared in a night, and the earth looked gloomy and sad under a leaden sky. the inconveniences of the little brown house became more apparent now. it had been declared, at first sight, the very worst house in merleville, and so it was, even under a clear sky and brilliant sunshine. a wretched place it looked. the windows clattered, the chimney smoked, latches and hinges were defective, and there were a score of other evils, which janet and the lads strove to remedy without vexing their father and graeme. a very poor place it was, and small and inconvenient besides. but this could not be cured, and therefore must be endured. the house occupied by mr elliott's predecessor had been burned down, and the little brown house was the only unoccupied house in the village. when winter should be over something might be done about getting another, and in the meantime they must make the best of it. the people were wonderfully kind. one man came to mend windows and doors, another to mend the chimney. orrin green spent two days in banking up the house. deacons fish and slowcome sent their men to bring up wood; and apples and chickens, and pieces of beef were sent in by some of the village people. there were some drawbacks. the wood was green, and made more smoke than heat; and janet mortally offended mr green by giving him his dinner alone in the kitchen. every latch and hinge, and pane of glass, and the driving of every nail, was charged and deducted from the half year's salary, at prices which made janet's indignation overflow. this latter circumstance was not known, however, till the half year was done; and in the meantime it helped them all through this dreary time to find their new friends so kind. in the course of time, things were put to rights, and the little bare place began to look wonderfully comfortable. with warm carpets on the floors, and warm curtains on the windows, with stools and sofas, and tables made out of packing boxes, disguised in various ways, it began to have a look of home to them all. the rain and the clouds passed away, too, and the last part of november was a long and lovely indian-summer. then the explorations of the boys were renewed with delight. graeme and rosie and will went with the rest, and even janet was beguiled into a nutting excursion one afternoon. she enjoyed it, too, and voluntarily confessed it. it was a fair view to look over the pond and the village lying so quietly in the valley, with the kirk looking down upon it from above. it was a fine country, nobody could deny; but janet's eyes were sad enough as she gazed, and her voice shook as she said it, for the thought of home was strong at her heart. in this month they made themselves thoroughly acquainted with the geography of the place, and with the kindly inmates of many a farm-house besides. and a happy month it was for them all. one night they watched the sun set between red and wavering clouds, and the next day woke to behold "the beauty and mystery of the snow." far-away to the highest hill-top; down to the very verge of pond and brook; on every bush, and tree, and knoll, and over every silent valley, lay the white garment of winter. how strange! how wonderful! it seemed to their unaccustomed eyes. "it 'minds me of white grave-clothes," said marian, with a shudder. "whist, menie," said her sister. "it makes me think, of how full the air will be of bonnie white angels at the resurrection-day. just watch the flakes floating so quietly in the air." "but, graeme, the angels will be going up, and--" "well, one can hardly tell by looking at them, whether the snow-flakes are coming down or going up, they float about so silently. they mind me of beautiful and peaceful things." "but, graeme, it looks cold and dreary, and all the bonnie flowers are covered in the dark." "menie! there are no flowers to be covered now, and the earth is weary with her summer work, and will rest and sleep under the bonnie white snow. and, dear, you mustna think of dreary things when you look out upon the snow, for it will be a long time before we see the green grass and the bonnie flowers again," and graeme sighed. but it was with a shout of delight that the boys plunged headlong into it, rolling and tumbling and tossing it at one another in a way that was "perfect ruination to their clothes;" and yet janet had not the heart to forbid it. it was a holiday of a new kind to them; and their enjoyment was crowned and completed when, in the afternoon, mr snow came down with his box-sleigh and his two handsome greys to give them a sleigh-ride. there was room for them all, and for mr snow's little emily, and for half a dozen besides had they been there; so, well wrapped up with blankets and buffalo-robes, away they went. was there ever anything so delightful, so exhilarating? even graeme laughed and clapped her hands, and the greys flew over the ground, and passed every sleigh and sledge on the road. "the bonnie creatures!" she exclaimed; and mr snow, who loved his greys, and was proud of them, took the oft repeated exclamation as a compliment to himself, and drove in a way to show his favourites to the best advantage. away they went, up hill and down, through the village and over the bridge, past the mill to the woods, where the tall hemlocks and cedars stood dressed in white "like brides." marian had no thought of sorrowful things in her heart now. they came home again the other way, past judge merle's and the school-house, singing and laughing in a way that made the sober-minded boys and girls of merleville, to whom sleigh-riding was no novelty, turn round in astonishment as they passed. the people in the store, and the people in the blacksmith's shop, and even the old ladies in their warm kitchens, opened the door and looked out to see the cause of the pleasant uproar. all were merry, and all gave voice to their mirth except mr snow's little emily, and she was too full of astonishment at the others to think of saying anything herself. but none of them enjoyed the ride more than she, though it was not her first by many. none of them all remembered it so well, or spoke of it so often. it was the beginning of sleigh-riding to them, but it was the beginning of a new life to little emily. "isna she a queer little creature?" whispered harry to graeme, as her great black eyes turned from one to another, full of grave wonder. "she's a bonnie little creature," said graeme, caressing the little hand that had found its way to hers, "and good, too, i'm sure." "grandma don't think so," said the child, gravely. "no!" exclaimed harry. "what bad things do you do?" "i drop stitches and look out of the window, and i hate to pick over beans." harry whistled. "what an awful wee sinner! and does your grandma punish you ever? does she whip you?" the child's black eyes flashed. "she daren't. father wouldn't let her. she gives me stints, and sends me to bed." "the turk!" exclaimed harry. "run away from her, and come and bide with us." "hush, harry," said graeme, softly, "grandma is mr snow's mother." there was a pause. in a little emily spoke for the first time of her own accord. "there are no children at our house," said she. "poor wee lammie, and you are lonely sometimes," said graeme. "yes; when father's gone and mother's sick. then there's nobody but grandma." "have you a doll?" asked menie. "no: i have a kitten, though." "ah! you must come and play with my doll. she is a perfect beauty, and her name is flora macdonald." menie's doll had become much more valuable in her estimation since she had created such a sensation among the little merleville girls. "will you come? mr snow," she said, climbing upon the front seat which norman shared with the driver, "won't you let your little girl come and see my doll?" "well, yes; i guess so. if she's half as pretty as you are, she is well worth seeing." menie was down again in a minute. "yes, you may come, he says. and bring your kitten, and we'll play all day. graeme lets us, and doesna send us to bed. will you like to come?" "yes," said the child, quickly, but as gravely as ever. they stopped at the little brown house at last, with a shout that brought their father and janet out to see. all sprang lightly down. little emily stayed alone in the sleigh. "is this your little girl, mr snow?" said mr elliott, taking the child's hand in his. emily looked in his face as gravely and quietly as she had been looking at the children all the afternoon. "yes; she's your marian's age, and looks a little like her, too. don't you think so mrs nasmyth?" janet, thus appealed to, looked kindly at the child. "she might, if she had any flesh on her bones," said she. "well, she don't look ragged, that's a fact," said her father. the cold, which had brought the roses to the cheeks of the little elliotts, had given emily a blue, pinched look, which it made her father's heart ache to see. "the bairn's cold. let her come in and warm herself," said janet, promptly. there was a chorus of entreaties from the children. "well, i don't know as i ought to wait. my horses don't like to stand much," said mr snow. "never mind waiting. if it's too far for us to take her home, you can come down for her in the evening." emily looked at her father wistfully. "would you like to stay, dear?" asked he. "yes, sir." and she was lifted out of the sleigh by janet, and carried into the house, and kissed before she was set down. "i'll be along down after dark, sometime," said mr snow, as he drove away. little emily had never heard so much noise, at least so much pleasant noise, before. mr elliott sat down beside the bright wood fire in the kitchen, with marian on one knee and the little stranger on the other, and listened to the exclamations of one and all about the sleigh-ride. "and hae you nothing to say, my bonnie wee lassie?" said he pushing back the soft, brown hair from the little grave face. "what is your name, little one?" "emily snow arnold," answered she, promptly. "emily arnold snow," said menie, laughing. "no; emily snow arnold. grandma says i am not father's own little girl. my father is dead." she looked grave, and so did the rest. "but it is just the same. he loves you." "oh, yes!" there was a bright look in the eyes for once. "and you love him all the same?" "oh, yes." so it was. sampson snow, with love enough in his heart for half a dozen children, had none of his own, and it was all lavished on this child of his wife, and she loved him dearly. but they did not have "good times" up at their house the little girl confided to graeme. "mother is sick most of the time, and grandma is cross always; and, if it wasn't for father, i don't know what we _should_ do." indeed, they did not have good times. old mrs snow had always been strong and healthy, altogether unconscious of "nerves," and she could have no sympathy and very little pity for his son's sickly wife. she had never liked her, even when she was a girl, and her girlhood was past, and she had been a sorrowful widow before her son brought her home as his wife. so old mrs snow kept her place at the head of the household, and was hard on everybody, but more especially on her son's wife and her little girl. if there had been children, she might have been different; but she almost resented her son's warm affection for his little step-daughter. at any rate she was determined that little emily should be brought up as children used to be brought up when _she_ was young, and not spoiled by over-indulgence as her mother had been; and the process was not a pleasant one to any of them, and "good times" were few and far between at their house. her acquaintance with the minister's children was the beginning of a new life to emily. her father opened his eyes with astonishment when he came into janet's bright kitchen that night and heard his little girl laughing and clapping her hands as merrily as any of them. if anything had been needed to deepen his interest in them all, their kindness to the child would have done it; and from that day the minister, and his children, and mrs nasmyth, too, had a firm and true friend in mr snow. chapter eight. from the time of their arrival, the minister and his family excited great curiosity and interest among the good people of merleville. the minister himself, as mr snow told mrs nasmyth, was "popular." not, however, that any one among them all thought him faultless, unless mr snow himself did. every old lady in the town saw something in him, which she not secretly deplored. indeed, they were more unanimous, with regard to the minister's faults, than old ladies generally are on important subjects. the matter was dispassionately discussed at several successive sewing-circles, and when mrs page, summing up the evidence, solemnly declared, "that though the minister was a good man, and a good preacher, he lacked considerable in some things which go to make a man a good pastor," there was scarcely a dissenting voice. mrs merle had ventured to hint that, "they could not expect everything in one man," but her voice went for nothing, as one of the minister's offences was, having been several times in at the judge's, while he sinfully neglected others of his flock. "it's handy by," ventured mrs merle, again. but the judge's wife was no match for the blacksmith's lady, and it was agreed by all, that whatever else the minister might be, he was "no hand at visiting." true he had divided the town into districts, for the purpose of regularly meeting the people, and it was his custom to announce from the pulpit, the neighbourhood in which, on certain days, he might be expected. but that of course, was a formal matter, and not at all like the affectionate intercourse that ought to exist between a pastor and his people. "he might preach like paul," said mrs page, "but unless on week days he watered the seed sown, with a word in season, the harvest would never be gathered in. the minister's face ought to be a familiar sight in every household, or the youth would never be brought into the fold," and the lady sighed, at the case of the youth, scattered over the ten miles square of merleville. the minister was not sinning in ignorance either, for she herself, had told him his duty in this respect. "and what did he say?" asked some one. "oh! he didn't say much, but i could see that his conscience wasn't easy. however, there has been no improvement yet," she added, with grave severity. "he hain't got a horse, and i've heard say, that deacon fish charges him six cents a mile for his horse and cutter, whenever he has it. he couldn't afford to ride round much at that rate, on five hundred dollars a year." this bold speech was ventured by miss rebecca pettimore, mrs captain liscome's help, who took turns with that lady, in attending the sewing-circle. but it was well known, that she was always "on the off side," and mrs page deigned no reply. there was a moment's silence. "eli heard mr snow say so, in page's shop yesterday," added rebecca, who always gave her authority, when she repeated an item of news. mrs fish took her up sharply. "sampson snow had better let the minister have his horse and cutter, if he can afford to do it for nothing. mr fish can't." "my goodness, mis' fish, i wouldn't have said a word, if i'd thought you were here," said rebecca, with an embarrassed laugh. "mr snow often drives the minister, and thinks himself well paid, just to have a talk with him," said a pretty black-eyed girl, trying to cover rebecca's retreat. but rebecca wouldn't retreat. "i didn't mean any offence, mis' fish, and if it ain't so about the deacon, you can say so now, before it goes farther." but it was not to be contradicted, and that mrs fish well knew, though what business it was of anybody's, and why the minister, who seemed to be well off, shouldn't pay for the use of a horse and cutter, she couldn't understand. the subject was changed by mrs slowcome. "he must have piles and piles of old sermons. it don't seem as though he needs to spend as much time in his study, as mrs nasmyth tells about." here there was a murmur of dissent. would sermons made for the british, be such as to suit free-born american citizens? the children of the puritans? the prevailing feeling was against such a supposition. "old or new, i like them," said celestia jones, the pretty black-eyed girl, who had spoken before. "and so do others, who are better judges than i." "squire greenleaf, i suppose," said ruby fox, in a loud whisper. "he was up there last sunday night; she has been aching to tell it all the afternoon." celestia's black eyes flashed fire at the speaker, and the sly ruby said no more. indeed, there was no more said about the sermons, for that they were something for the merleville people to be proud of, all agreed. mr elliott's preaching had filled the old meeting-house. people who had never been regular churchgoers came now; some from out of the town, even. young squire greenleaf, who seemed to have the prospect of succeeding judge merle, as the great man of merleville, had brought over the judges from rixford, and they had dined at the minister's, and had come to church on sunday. young squire greenleaf was a triumph of himself. he had never been at meeting "much, if any," since he had completed his legal studies. if he ever did go, it was to the episcopal church at rixford, which, to the liberal mrs page, looked considerably like coquetting with the scarlet woman. now, he hardly ever lost a sunday, besides going sometimes to conference meetings, and making frequent visits to the minister's house. having put all these things together, and considered the matter, mrs page came to the conclusion, that the squire was not in so hopeless a condition as she had been wont to suppose, a fact which, on this occasion, she took the opportunity of rejoicing over. the rest rejoiced too. there was a murmur of dissent from miss pettimore, but it passed unnoticed, as usual. there was a gleam which looked a little like scorn, in the black eyes of miss celestia, which said more plainly than miss pettimore's words could have done, that the squire was better now, than the most in merleville, but like a wise young person as she was, she expended all her scornful glances on the shirt sleeve she was making, and said nothing. the minister was then allowed to rest a little while, and the other members of the family were discussed, with equal interest. upon the whole, the conclusion arrived at was pretty favourable. but mrs page and her friends were not quite satisfied with graeme. as the minister's eldest daughter, and "serious," they were disposed to overlook her youthfulness, and give her a prominent place in their circle. but graeme hung back, and would not be prevailed upon to take such honour to herself, and so some said she was proud, and some said she was only shy. but she was kindly dealt with, even by mrs page, for her loving care of the rest of the children had won for her the love of many a motherly heart among these kind people. and she was after all but a child, little more than fifteen. there were numberless stories afloat about the boys,--their mirth, their mischief, their good scholarship, their respect and obedience to their father, which it was not beneath the dignity of the ladies assembled to repeat and discuss. the boys had visited faithfully through the parish, if their father had not, and almost everywhere they had won for themselves a welcome. it is true, there had been one or two rather serious scrapes, in which they had involved themselves, and other lads of the village; but kind-hearted people forgot the mischief sooner than the mirth, and norman and harry were very popular among old and young. but the wonder of wonders, the riddle that none could read, the anomaly in merleville society was janet, or mrs nasmyth, as she was generally called. in refusing one of the many invitations which she had shared with the minister and graeme, she had thought fit to give society in general a piece of her mind. she was, she said, the minister's servant, and kenned her place better than to offer to take her tea with him in any strange house; she was obliged for the invitation all the same. "servant!" echoed mrs sterne's help, who was staying to pass the evening, while her mistress went home, "to see about supper." and, "servant!" echoed the young lady who assisted mrs merle in her household affairs. "i'll let them see that i think myself just as good as queen victoria, if i do live out," said another dignified auxiliary. "she must be a dreadful mean-spirited creature." "why, they do say she'll brush them great boys' shoes. i saw her myself, through the study-door, pull off mr elliott's boots as humble as could be." "to see that little girl pouring tea when there's company, and mrs nasmyth not sitting down. it's ridiculous." "i wouldn't do so for the president!" "well, they seem to think everything of her," said miss pettimore, speaking for the first time in this connection. "why, yes, she does just what she has a mind to about house. and the way them children hang about her, and fuss over her, i never see. they tell her everything, and these boys mind her, as they do their father." "and if any one comes to pay his minister's tax, it's always, `ask mrs nasmyth,' or, `mrs nasmyth will tell you.'" "they couldn't get along without her. if i was her i'd show them that i was as good as them, and no servant." "she's used to it. she's been brought up so. but now that she's got here, i should think she'd be sick of it." "i suppose `servant' there, means pretty much what `help' does here. there don't seem to be difference enough to talk about," said rebecca. "i see considerable difference," said mrs merle's young lady. "it beats all," said another. yes, it did beat all. it was incomprehensible to these dignified people, how janet could openly acknowledge herself a servant, and yet retain her self-respect. and that "mrs nasmyth thought considerable of herself," many of the curious ladies of merleville had occasion to know. the relations existing between her and "the bairns," could not easily be understood. she acknowledged herself their servant, yet she reproved them when they deserved it, and that sharply. she enforced obedience to all rules, and governed in all household matters, none seeking to dispute her right. they went to her at all times with their troubles and their pleasures, and she sympathised with them, advised them, or consoled them, as the case might need. that they were as the very apple of her eye, was evident to all, and that they loved her dearly, and respected her entirely, none could fail to see. there were stories going about in the village to prove that she had a sharp tongue in her head, and this her warmest friends did not seek to deny. of course, it was the duty of all the female part of the congregation to visit at the minister's house, and to give such advice and assistance, with regard to the arrangements, as might seem to be required of them. it is possible they took more interest in the matter than if there had been a mistress in the house. "more liberties," janet indignantly declared, and after the first visitation or two she resolutely set her face against what she called the answering of impertinent questions. according to her own confession, she gave to several of them, whose interest in their affairs was expressed without due discretion, a "downsetting," and graeme and the boys, and even mr elliott, had an idea that a downsetting from janet must be something serious. it is true her victims' ignorance of the scottish tongue must have taken the edge a little off her sharp words, but there was no mistaking her indignant testimony, as regarding "upsettin' bodies," and "meddlesome bodies," that bestowed too much time on their neighbours' affairs, and there was some indignation felt and expressed on the subject. but she had her friends, and that not a few, for sweet words and soft came very naturally to janet's lips when her heart was touched, and this always happened to her in the presence of suffering and sorrow, and many were the sad and sick that her kind words comforted, and her willing hands relieved. for every sharp word brought up against her, there could be told a kindly deed, and janet's friends were the most numerous at the sewing-circle that night. merleville was by no means on the outskirts of civilisation, though viewed from the high hill on which the old meeting-house stood, it seemed to the children to be surrounded with woods. but between the hills lay many a fertile valley. except toward the west, where the hills became mountains, it was laid out into farms, nearly all of which were occupied, and very pleasant homes some of these farm-houses were. the village was not large enough to have a society within itself independent of the dwellers on these farms, and all the people, even to the borders of the "ten miles square," considered themselves neighbours. they were very socially inclined, for the most part, and merleville was a very pleasant place to live in. winter was the time for visiting. there was very little formality in their entertainments. nuts and apples, or doughnuts and cheese, was usually the extent of their efforts in the way of refreshments, except on special occasions, when formal invitations were given. then, it must be confessed, the chief aim of each housekeeper seemed to be to surpass all others in the excellence and variety of the good things provided. but for the most part no invitations were given or needed, they dropped in on one another in a friendly way. the minister's family were not overlooked. scarcely an evening passed but some of their neighbours came in. indeed, this happened too frequently for janet's patience, for she sorely begrudged the time taken from the minister's books, to the entertainment of "ilka idle body that took leave to come in." it gave her great delight to see him really interested with visitors, but she set her face against his being troubled at all hours on every day in the week. "if it's anything particular i'll tell the minister you're here," she used to say; "but he bade the bairns be quiet, and i doubt he wouldna like to be disturbed. sit down a minute, and i'll speak to miss graeme, and i dare say the minister will be at leisure shortly." generally the visitor, by no means displeased, sat down in her bright kitchen for a chat with her and the children. it was partly these evening visits that won for mrs nasmyth her popularity. even in her gloomy days--and she had some days gloomy enough about this time--she would exert herself on such an occasion, and with the help of the young people the visitor was generally well entertained. such singing of songs, such telling of tales, such discussions as were carried on in the pleasant firelight! there was no such thing as time lagging there, and often the nine o'clock worship came before the visitor was aware. even judge merle and young squire greenleaf were sometimes detained in the kitchen, if they happened to come in on a night when the minister was more than usually engaged. "for you see, sir," said she, on one occasion, "what with ae thing and what with anither, the minister has had so many interruptions this week already, that i dinna like to disturb him. but if you'll sit down here for a minute or two, i daresay he'll be ben and i'll speak to miss graeme." "mr elliott seems a close student," said the judge, as he took the offered seat by the fire. "ay, is he. though if you are like the lave o' the folk, you'll think no more o' him for that. folk o' my country judge o' a minister by the time he spends in his study; but here he seems hardly to be thought to be in the way of his duty, unless he's ca'ing about from house to house, hearkening to ilka auld wife's tale." "but," said the judge, much amused, "the minister has been studying all his life. it seems as though he might draw on old stores now." "ay, but out o' the old stores he must bring new matter. the minister's no one that puts his people off with `cauld kail het again,' and he canna make sermons and rin here and there at the same time." "and he can't attend to visitors and make sermons at the same time. that would be to the point at present," said the judge, laughing, "i think i'll be going." "'deed, no, sir," said janet, earnestly, "i didna mean you. i'm aye glad to see you or any sensible person to converse with the minister. it cheers him. but this week it's been worse than ever. he has hardly had an unbroken hour. but sit still, sir. he would be ill-pleased if you went away without seeing him." "i'll speak to papa, judge merle," said graeme. "never mind, my dear. come and speak to me yourself. i think mrs nasmyth is right. the minister ought not to be disturbed. i have nothing particular to say to him. i came because it's a pleasure to come, and i did not think about its being so near the end of the week." graeme looked rather anxiously from him to janet. "my dear, you needna trouble yourself. it's no' folk like the judge and young mr greenleaf that will be likely to take umbrage at being kept waiting a wee while here. it's folk like the 'smith yonder, or orrin green, the upsettin' body. but you can go in now and see if your papa's at leisure, and tell him the judge is here." "we had mr greenleaf here awhile the ither night," she continued, as graeme disappeared. "a nice, pleasant spoken gentleman he is, an no' ae bit o' a yankee." the judge opened his eyes. it was rather an equivocal compliment, considering the person to whom she spoke. but he was not one of the kind to take offence, as janet justly said. chapter nine. other favourites of mrs nasmyth's were mr snow and the schoolmaster, and the secret of her interest in them was their interest in the bairns, and their visits were made as often to the kitchen as to the study. mr snow had been their friend from the very first. he had made good his promise as to nutting and squirrel-hunting. he had taught them to skate, and given them their first sleigh-ride; he had helped them in the making of sleds, and never came down to the village but with his pockets full of rosy apples to the little ones. they made many a day pleasant for his little girl, both at his house and theirs; and he thought nothing too much to do for those who were kind to emily. janet's kind heart had been touched, and her unfailing energies exercised in behalf of mr snow's melancholy, nervous wife. in upon the monotony of her life she had burst like a ray of wintry sunshine into her room, brightening it to at least a momentary cheerfulness. during a long and tedious illness, from which she had suffered, soon after the minister's arrival in merleville, janet had watched with her a good many nights, and the only visit which the partially-restored invalid made during the winter which stirred so much pleasant life among them, was at the minister's, where she was wonderfully cheered by the kindness of them all. but it was seldom that she could be prevailed upon to leave her warm room in wintry weather, and sampson's visits were made alone, or in company with little emily. the schoolmaster, mr isaac newton foster, came often, partly because he liked the lads, and partly because of his fondness for mathematics. the night of his visit was always honoured by the light of an extra candle, for his appearance was the signal for the bringing forth of slates and books, and it was wonderful what pleasure they all got together from the mysterious figures and symbols, of which they never seemed to grow weary. graeme, from being interested in the progress of her brothers, soon became interested in their studies for their own sake, and mr foster had not a more docile or successful pupil than she became. janet had her doubts about her "taking up with books that were fit only for _laddies_," but mr foster proved, with many words, that her ideas were altogether old-fashioned on the subject, and as the minister did not object, and graeme herself had great delight in it, she made no objections. her first opinion on the schoolmaster had been that he was a well-meaning, harmless lad, and it was given in a tone which said plainer than words, that little more could be put forth in his favour. but by and by, as she watched him, and saw the influence for good which he exerted over the lads, keeping them from mischief, and really interesting them in their studies, she came to have a great respect for mr foster. but all the evenings when mr foster was with them were not given up to lessons. when, as sometimes happened, mr snow or mr greenleaf came in, something much more exciting took the place of algebra. mr greenleaf was not usually the chief speaker on such occasions, but he had the faculty of making the rest speak, and having engaged the lads, and sometimes even graeme and janet, in the discussion of some exciting question, often the comparative merits of the institutions of their respective countries, he would leave the burden of the argument to the willing mr foster, while he assumed the position of audience, or put in a word now and then, as the occasion seemed to require. they seldom lost their tempers when he was there, as they sometimes did on less favoured occasions. for janet and janet's bairns were prompt to do battle where the honour of their country was concerned, and though mr foster was good nature itself, he sometimes offended. he could not conscientiously withhold the superior light which he owed to his birth and education in a land of liberty, if he might dispel the darkness of old-world prejudice in which his friends were enveloped. mr snow was ready too with his hints about "despotism" and "aristocracy," and on such occasions the lads never failed to throw themselves headlong into the thick of the battle, with a fierce desire to demolish things in general, and yankee institutions in particular. it is to be feared the disputants were not always very consistent in the arguments they used; but their earnestness made up for their bad logic, and the hot words spoken on both sides were never remembered when the morrow came. a chance word of the master's had set them all at it, one night when mr snow came in; and books and slates were forgotten in the eagerness of the dispute. the lads were in danger of forgetting the respect due to mr foster, as their teacher, at such times; but he was slow to resent it, and mr snow's silent laughter testified to his enjoyment of this particular occasion. the strife was getting warm when mr greenleaf's knock was heard. norman was in the act of hurling some hundred thousands of black slaves at the schoolmaster's devoted head, while mr foster strove hard to shield himself by holding up "britain's wretched operatives and starving poor." "come along, squire," said mr snow. "we want you to settle this little difficulty. mrs nasmyth ain't going to let you into the study just now, at least she wouldn't let me. the minister's busy to-night." mr greenleaf, nothing loth, sat down and drew marian to his knee. neither norman nor mr foster was so eager to go on as mr snow was to have them; but after a little judicious stirring up on his part, they were soon in "full blast," as he whispered to his friend. the discussion was about slavery this time, and need not be given. it was not confined to norman and mr foster. all the rest had something to say; even janet joined when she thought a side thrust would be of use. but norman was the chief speaker on his side. the subject had been discussed in the village school lyceum, and norman had distinguished himself there; not exactly by the clearness or the strength of his arguments--certainly not by their originality. but he thundered forth the lines beginning "i would not have a slave," etcetera, to the intense delight of his side, and to at least the momentary discomfiture of the other. to-night he was neither very logical nor very reasonable, and mr foster complained at last. "but, norman, you don't keep to the point." "talks all round the lot," said mr snow. "i'm afraid that is not confined to norman," said mr greenleaf. "norman is right, anyway," pronounced menie. "he reasons in a circle," said the master. "and because slavery is the only flaw in--" "the only flaw!" said norman, with awful irony. "well, yes," interposed mr snow. "but we have had enough of the constitution for to-night. let's look at our country. _it_ can't be beaten any way you take it. physically or morally," pursued he, with great gravity, "it can't be beaten. there are no such mountains, rivers, nor lakes as ours are. our laws and our institutions generally are just about what they ought to see. even foreigners see that, and prove it, by coming to share our privileges. where will you find such a general diffusion of knowledge among all classes? classes? there is only one class. all are free and equal." "folk thinking themselves equal doesna make them equal," said mrs nasmyth, to whom the last remark had been addressed. "for my part, i never saw pride--really to call pride--till i saw it in this fine country o' yours--ilka ane thinking himself as good as his neighbour." "well--so they be. liberty and equality is our ticket." "but ye're no' a' equal. there's as muckle difference among folks here as elsewhere, whatever be your ticket. there are folk coming and going here, that in my country i would hate sent round to the back door; but naething short of the company of the minister himself will serve them. gentlemen like the judge, or like mr greenleaf here, will sit and bide the minister's time; but upsettin' bodies such as i could name--" "well, i wouldn't name them, i guess. general principles are best in such a case," said mr snow. "and i am willing to confess there is among us an aristocracy of merit. your friend the judge belongs to that and your father, miss graeme; and i expect squire greenleaf will, too, when he goes to congress. but no man is great here just because his father was before him. everybody has a chance. now, on your side of the water, `a man must be just what his father was.' folks must stay just there. that's a fact." "you seem to be weel informed," said janet drily. "ah! yes; i know all about it. anybody may know anything and everything in this country. we're a great people. ain't that so, mr foster?" "it must be granted by all unprejudiced minds, that britain has produced some great men," said mr foster, breaking out in a new spot as mr snow whispered to the squire. "surely that would be granting too much," said norman. "but," pursued mr foster, "britons themselves confess that it is on this western continent that the anglo-saxon race is destined to triumph. descended from britons, a new element has entered into their blood, which shall--which must--which--" "sounds considerable like the glorious fourth, don't it?" whispered mr snow. "which hasna put muckle flesh on their bones as yet," said the literal mrs nasmyth. "i was about to say that--that--" "that the british can lick all creation, and we can lick the british," said mr snow. "any crisis involving a trial of strength, would prove our superiority," said mr foster, taking a new start. "that's been proved already," said mr snow, watching the sparkle in graeme's eye. she laughed merrily. "no, mr snow. they may fight it out without me to-night." "i am glad you are growing prudent. mrs nasmyth, you wouldn't believe how angry she was with me one night." "angry!" repeated graeme. "ask celestia." "well, i guess i shouldn't have much chance between celestia and you. but i said then, and i say now, you'll make a first-rate yankee girl yourself before seven years." "a yankee!" repeated her brothers. "a yankee," echoed menie. "hush, menie. mr snow is laughing at us," said graeme. "i would rather be just a little scotch lassie, than a yankee queen," said menie, firmly. there was a laugh, and menie was indignant at her brothers for joining. "you mean a president's wife. we don't allow queens here--in this free country," said mr snow. "but it is dreadful that you should hate us so," said the squire. "i like you, and the judge. and i like mrs merle." "and is that all?" asked mr snow, solemnly. "i like emily. and i like you when you don't vex graeme." "and who else?" asked mr greenleaf. "i like celestia. she's nice, and doesna ask questions. and so does graeme. and janet says that celestia is a lady. don't you like her?" asked menie, thinking her friend unresponsive. "you seem to be good at asking questions yourself, menie, my woman," interposed mrs nasmyth. "i doubt you should be in your bed by this time." but mr snow caused a diversion from anything so melancholy. "and don't cousin celestia like me?" asked he. "yes; she said you were a good friend of hers; but is she your cousin?" "well, not exactly--we're not very near cousins. but i see to her some, and mean to. i like her." the study-door opened, and there was no time for an answer from any one; but as mr snow went up the hill he said to himself: "yes, i shall see to her. she is smart enough and good enough for him if he does expect to go to congress." chapter ten. "i like the wood fires," said graeme. "they are far clearer than the peat fires at home." they were sitting, graeme and janet, according to their usual custom, a little after the others had all gone to bed. the study-door was closed, though the light still gleamed beneath it; but it was getting late, and the minister would not be out again. graeme might well admire such a wood fire as that before which they were sitting: the fore-stick had nearly burned through, and the brands had fallen over the andirons, but the great back-log glowed with light and heat, though only now and then a bright blaze leapt up. it was not very warm in the room, however, except for their faces, and graeme shivered a little as she drew nearer to the fire, and hardly heeding that janet did not answer her, fell to dreaming in the firelight. without, the rude march winds were roaring, and within, too, for that matter. for though carpets, and curtains, and listings nailed over seams might keep out the bitter frost when the air was still, the east winds of march swept in through every crack and crevice, chilling them to the bone. it roared wildly among the boughs of the great elms in the yard, and the tall well-sweep creaked, and the bucket swung to and fro with a noise that came through graeme's dream and disturbed it at last. looking up suddenly she became aware that the gloom that had been gathering over janet for many a day hung darkly round her now. she drew near to her, and laying her arms down on her lap in the old fashion, said softly: "the winter's near over now, janet." "ay, thank the lord for that, any way," said janet. she knew that graeme's words and movement were an invitation to tell her thoughts, so she bent forward to collect the scattered brands and settle the fore-stick, for she felt that her thoughts were not of the kind to bear telling to graeme or to any one. as she gathered them together between the andirons, she sighed a sigh of mingled sorrow and impatience. and the light that leapt suddenly up made the cloud on her brow more visible. for the winter that had been so full of enjoyment to all the rest had been a time of trial to janet. to the young people, the winter had brought numberless pleasures. the lads had gone to the school, where they were busy and happy, and the little ones had been busy and happy at home. none had enjoyed the winter more than graeme. the change had been altogether beneficial to rose; and never since their mother's death had the elder sister been so much at ease about her. there was little to be done in the way of making or mending, and, with leisure at her disposal, she was falling into her old habits of reading and dreaming. she had been busy teaching the little ones, too, and at night worked with her brothers at their lessons, so that the winter had been profitable as well as pleasant to her. at all times in his study, amid the silent friends that had become so dear to him, mr elliott could be content; and in his efforts to become acquainted with his people, their wants and tastes, he had been roused to something like the cheerfulness of former years. but to janet the winter had been a time of conflict, a long struggle with unseen enemies; and as she sat there in the dim firelight, she was telling herself sorrowfully that she would be worsted by them at last. home-sickness, blind and unreasoning, had taken possession of her. night by night she had lain down with the dull pain gnawing at her heart. morning by morning she had risen sick with the inappeasable yearning for her home, a longing that would not be stilled, to walk again through familiar scenes, to look again on familiar faces. the first letters from home, so longed for by all, so welcomed and rejoiced over by the rest, brought little comfort to her. arthur's letters to his father and graeme, so clear and full of all they wished to hear about, "so like a printed book," made it all the harder for her to bear her disappointment over sandy's obscure, ill-spelt and indifferently-written letter. she had of old justly prided herself on sandy's "hand o' write;" but she had yet to learn the difference between a school-boy's writing, with a copper-plate setting at the head of the page, and that which must be the result of a first encounter with the combined difficulties of writing, spelling and composition. poor sandy! he had laboured hard, doubtless, and had done his best, but it was not satisfactory. in wishing to be minute, he had become mysterious, and, to the same end, the impartial distribution through all parts of the letter of capitals, commas and full stops, had also tended. there was a large sheet closely written, and out of the whole but two clear ideas could be gathered! mr more of the parish school was dead, and they were to have a new master, and that mrs smith had changed her mind, and he was not to be at saughless for the winter after all. there were other troubles too, that janet had to bear alone. the cold, that served to brace the others, chilled her to the bone. unaccustomed to any greater variation of temperature than might be very well met by the putting on or taking off of her plaid, the bitter cold of the new england winter, as she went out and in about her work, was felt keenly by her. she could not resist it, nor guard herself against it. stove-heat was unbearable to her. an hour spent in mrs snow's hot room often made her unfit for anything for hours after; and sleigh-riding, which never failed to excite the children to the highest spirits, was as fatal to her comfort as the pitching of the "steadfast" had been. to say that she was disappointed with herself in view of all this, is, by no means, saying enough. she was angry at her folly, and called herself "silly body" and "useless body," striving with all her might to throw the burden from her. then, again, with only a few exceptions, she did not like the people. they were, in her opinion, at the same time, extravagant and penurious, proud and mean, ignorant, yet wise "above what is written," self-satisfied and curious. the fact was, her ideas of things in general were disarranged by the state of affairs in merleville. she never could make out "who was somebody and who was naebody;" and what made the matter more mysterious, they did not seem to know themselves. mrs judge merle had made her first visit to the minister's in company with the wife of the village blacksmith, and if there was a lady between them mrs page evidently believed it to be herself. mrs merle was a nice motherly body, that sat on her seat and behaved herself, while mrs page went hither and thither, opening doors and spying fairlies, speiring about things she had no concern with, like an ill-bred woman as she is; and passing her remarks on the minister and the preaching, as if she were a judge. both of them had invited her to visit them very kindly, no doubt; but janet had no satisfaction in this or in anything that concerned them. she was out of her element. things were quite different from anything she had been used with. she grew depressed and doubtful of herself, and no wonder that a gloom was gathering over her. some thought of all this came into graeme's mind, as she sat watching her while she gathered together the brands with unsteady hands, and with the thought came a little remorse. she had been thinking little of janet and her trials all these days she had been passing so pleasantly with her books, in the corner of her father's study. she blamed herself for her thoughtlessness, and resolved that it should not be so in future. in the mean time, it seemed as though she must say something to chase the shadow from the kind face. but she did not know what to say. janet set down the tongs, and raised herself with a sigh. graeme drew nearer. "what is it, janet?" asked she, laying her hand caressingly on hers. "winna you tell me?" janet gave a startled look into her face. "what is what, my dear?" "something is vexing you, and you winna tell me," said graeme, reproachfully. "hoot, lassie! what should ail me. i'm weel enough." "you are wearying for a letter, maybe. but it's hardly time yet, janet." "i'm no wearyin' the night more than usual. and if i got a letter, it mightna give me muckle comfort." "then something ails you, and you winna tell me," said graeme again, in a grieved voice. "my dear, i hae naething to tell." "is it me, janet? hae i done anything? you ken i wouldna willingly do wrong?" pleaded graeme. janet put her fingers over the girl's lips. "whist, my lammie. it's naething--or naething that can be helpit," and she struggled fiercely to keep back the flood that was swelling in her full heart. graeme said nothing, but stroked the toil-worn hand of her friend, and at last laid her cheek down upon it. "lassie, lassie! i canna help it," and the long pent up flood gushed forth, and the tears fell on graeme's bent head like rain. graeme neither moved nor spoke, but she prayed in her heart that god would comfort her friend in her unknown sorrow; and by the first words she spoke she knew that she was comforted. "i am an auld fule, i believe, or a spoiled bairn, that doesna ken it's ain mind, and i think i'm growing waur ilka day," and she paused to wipe the tears from her face. "but what is it, janet?" asked graeme, softly. "it's naething, dear, naething that i can tell to mortal. i dinna ken what has come ower me. it's just as if a giant had a gripe o' me, and move i canna. but surely i'll be set free in time." there was nothing graeme could say to this; but she laid her cheek down on janet's hand again, and there were tears upon it. "now dinna do that, miss graeme," cried janet, struggling with another wave of the returning flood. "what will come o' us if you give way. there's naething ails me but that i'm an auld fule, and i canna help that, you ken." "janet, it was an awful sacrifice you made, to leave your mother and sandy to come with us. i never thought till to-night how great it must have been." "ay, lassie. i'll no deny it, but dinna think that i grudge it now. it wasna made in a right sperit, and that the lord is showing me. i thought you couldna do without me." "we couldna, janet." "and i aye thought if i could be of any use to your father and your father's bairns, and could see them contented, and well in a strange land, that would be enough for me. and i hae gotten my wish. you're a' weel, and weel contented, and my heart is lying in my breast as heavy as lead, and no strength of mine can lift the burden. god help me." "god will help you," said graeme, softly. "it is the sore home-sickness, like the captives by babel stream. but the lord never brought you here in anger, and, janet, it will pass away." "weel, it may be. that's what my mother said, or something like it. he means to let me see that you can do without me. but i'll bide still awhile, anyway." graeme's face was fall of dismay. "janet! what could we ever do without you?" "oh, you could learn. but i'm not going to leave you yet. the giant shallna master me with my will. but, oh! lassie, whiles i think the lord has turned against me for my self-seeking and pride." "but, janet," said graeme, gravely, "the lord never turns against his own people. and if anybody in the world is free from self-seeking it is you. it is for us you are living, and not for yourself." janet shook her head. "and, janet, when the bonny spring days come, the giant will let you go. the weight will be lifted off, i'm sure it will. and, janet, about sandy--. you may be sure o' him. if you had been there to guide him, he might have been wilful, and have gone astray, like others. but now the lord will have him in his keeping, for, janet, if ever a fatherless child was left to the lord, you left sandy for our sakes, and he will never forsake him--never, _never_!" janet's tears were falling softly now, like the bright drops after the tempest is over, and the bow of promise is about to span the heavens. "and, janet, we all love you dearly." graeme had risen, and put her arms round her neck by this time. "sometimes the boys are rough, and don't seem to care, but they do care; and i'm thoughtless, too, and careless," she added, humbly, "but i was that with my mother, whiles, and you ken i loved her dearly." and the cry of pain that came with the words, told how dearly her mother was remembered still. janet held her close. "and, janet, you must 'mind me of things, as my mother used to do. when i get a book, you ken i forget things, and you winna let me do wrong for my mother's sake. we have no mother, janet, and what could we do without you? and all this pain will pass away, and you will grow light-hearted again." and so it was. the worst was over after that night. much more was said before they separated, and graeme realised, for the first time, some of the discomforts of their present way of living, as far as janet was concerned. housekeeping affairs had been left altogether in her hands, and everything was so different from all that she had been accustomed to, and she was slow to learn new ways. the produce system was a great embarrassment to her. this getting "a pickle meal" from one, and "a corn tawties" from another, she could not endure. it was "living from hand to mouth" at best, to say nothing of the uncomfortable doubts now and then, as to whether the articles brought were intended as presents, or as the payment of the "minister's tax," as the least delicate among the people called it. "and, my dear, i just wish your father would get a settlement with them, and we would begin again, and put aething down in a book. for i hae my doubts as to how we are to make the two ends meet. things mount up you ken, and we maun try and guide things." graeme looked grave. "i wonder what my father thinks," said she. janet shook her head. "we mauna trouble your father if we can help it. the last minister they had had enough ado to live, they say, and he had fewer bairns. i'm no' feared but we'll be provided for. and, miss graeme, my dear, you'll need to begin and keep an account again." janet's voice had the old cheerful echo in it by this time, and graeme promised, with good heart, to do all she could to keep her father's mind easy, and the household accounts straight. weeks passed on, and even before the bonny spring days had come, the giant had let janet go, and she was her own cheerful self again. the letter that harry brought in with a shout before march was over, was a very different letter from the one that had caused janet to shed such tears of disappointment on that sad november, though sandy was the writer still. the two only intelligible items of news which the last one had conveyed, were repeated here, and enlarged upon, with reason. a new master had come to the school, who was taking great pains with all the lads, and especially with sandy, "as you will see by this letter, mother," he wrote, "i hope it will be better worth reading than the last." if mrs smith had changed her mind, it was all for good. janet was no more to think of her mother as living by herself, in the lonely cot in the glen, but farther up in another cottage, within sight of the door of saughless. and sandy was to go to the school a while yet and there was no fear but something would be found for him to do, either on the farm, or in the garden. and so his mother was to set her heart at rest about them. and her heart was set at rest; and janet sang at her work again, and cheered or chid the bairns according as they needed, but never more, though she had many cares, and troubles not a few, did the giant hold her in his grasp again. chapter eleven. "miss graeme," said janet, softly opening the study-door, and looking in. graeme was at her side in a moment. "never mind putting by your book, i only want to tell you, that i'm going up the brae to see mrs snow awhile. it's no' cold, and i'll take the bairns with me. so just give a look at the fire now and then, and have the kettle boiling gin tea time. i winna bide late." graeme put down her book, and hastened the preparations of the little ones. "i wish i could up with you, janet. how mild and bright it is to-day." "but your papa mustna be left to the keeping of fires, and the entertainment of chance visitors. you winna think long with your book, you ken, and we'll be home again before it's dark." "think long!" echoed graeme. "not if i'm left at peace with my book--i only hope no one will come." "my dear!" remonstrated janet, "that's no' hospitable. i daresay if anybody comes, you'll enjoy their company for a change. you maun try and make friends with folk, like menie here." graeme laughed. "it's easy for menie, she's a child. but i have to behave myself like a grown woman, at least, with most folk. i would far rather have the afternoon to myself." she watched them down the street, and then betook herself to her book, and her accustomed seat at the study window. life was very pleasant to graeme, these days. she did not manifest her light-heartedness by outward signs; she was almost always as quiet as sorrow and many cares had made her, since her mother's death. but it was a quiet always cheerful, always ready to change to grave talk with janet, or merry play with the little ones. janet's returning cheerfulness banished the last shade of anxiety from her mind, and she was too young to go searching into the future for a burden to bear. she was fast growing into companionship with her father. she knew that he loved and trusted her entirely, and she strove to deserve his confidence. in all matters concerning her brothers and sisters, he consulted her, as he might have consulted her mother, and as well as an elder sister could, she fulfilled a mother's duty to them. in other matters, her father depended upon her judgment and discretion also. often he was beguiled into forgetting what a child she still was, while he discussed with her subjects more suited for one of maturer years. and it was pleasant to be looked upon with respect and consideration, by the new friends they had found here. she was a little more than a child in years, and shy and doubtful of herself withal, but it was very agreeable to be treated like a woman, by the kind people about her. not that she would have confessed this. not that she was even conscious of the pleasure it gave her. indeed, she was wont to declare to janet, in private, that it was all nonsense, and she wished that people would not speak to her always, as though she were a woman of wisdom and experience. but it was agreeable to her all the same. she had her wish that afternoon. nobody came to disturb them, till the failing light admonished her that it was time to think of janet, and the tea-kettle. then there came a knock at the door, and graeme opened it to mr greenleaf. if she was not glad to see him, her looks belied her. he did not seem to doubt a welcome from her, or her father either, as he came in. what the charm was, that beguiled mr greenleaf into spending so many hours in the minister's study, the good people of merleville found it difficult to say. the squire's ill-concealed indifference to the opinions of people generally, had told against him always. for once, mrs page had been too charitable. he was not in a hopeful state, at least, in her sense of the term, and it might be doubted, whether frequent intercourse with the minister, would be likely to encourage the young man to the attainment of mrs page's standard of excellence. but to the study he often came, and he was never an unwelcome guest. "if i am come at a wrong time, tell me so," said he, as he shook hands with mr elliott, over a table covered with books and papers. "you can hardly do that," said the minister, preparing to put the books and papers away. "i am nearly done for the night. excuse me, for a minute only." graeme lingered talking to their visitor, till her father should be quite at liberty. "i have something for you," said mr greenleaf, in a minute. graeme smiled her thanks, and held out her hand for the expected book, or magazine. it was a note this time. "from celestia!" she exclaimed, colouring a little. graeme did not aspire to the honour of celestia's confidence in all things, but she knew, or could guess enough, about the state of affairs between her friend and mr greenleaf, to be wonderfully interested in them, and she could not help feeling a little embarrassed, as she took the note, from his hands. "read it," said he. graeme stooped down to catch the firelight. the note was very brief. celestia was going away, and wished graeme to come and see her, to-morrow. mr greenleaf would fetch her. "celestia, going away!" she exclaimed, raising herself up. "yes," said he, "have you not heard it?" "i heard the farm was to be sold, but i hoped they would still stay in merleville." "so did i," said mr greenleaf, gravely. "when will they go?" "miss jones is to be a teacher, in the new seminary at rixford. they are going to live there, and it cannot be very long before they go." "to her uncle?" "no, celestia thinks her mother would not be happy there. they will live by themselves, with the children." "how sorry celestia will be to go away," said graeme, sadly. "she will not be persuaded to stay," said mr greenleaf. graeme darted a quick, embarrassed look at him, as much as to say, "have you asked her?" he answered her in words. "yes, i have tried, and failed. she does not care to stay." there was only sadness in his voice; at least, she detected nothing else. there was none of the bitterness which, while it made celestia's heart ache that afternoon, had made her all the more determined to do what she believed to be right. "oh! it's not that," said graeme, earnestly, "i'm sure she cares. i mean if she goes, it will be because she thinks it right, not because she wishes it." "is it right to make herself and me unhappy?" "but her mother and the rest. they are in trouble; it would seem like forsaking them." "it need not. they might stay with her." "i think, perhaps--i don't think--" graeme hesitated, and then said hurriedly,-- "are you rich, mr greenleaf?" he laughed. "i believe you are one of those who do not compute riches by the number of dollars one possesses. so i think, to you i may safely answer, yes. i have contentment with little, and on such wealth one pays no taxes." "yes; but--i think,--oh, i can't say what i think; but i'm sure celestia is right. i am quite sure of that." mr greenleaf did not look displeased, though graeme feared he might, at her bold speech. "i don't believe i had better take you to see her to-morrow. you will encourage her to hold out against me." "not against you. she would never do that. and, besides, it would make no difference. celestia is wise and strong, and will do what she believes to be right." "wise and strong," repeated mr greenleaf, smiling, but his face grew grave in a minute again. mr elliott made a movement to join them, and graeme thought of her neglected tea-kettle, and hastened away. "never mind," she whispered, "it will all end well. things always do when people do right." mr greenleaf might have some doubt as to the truth of this comforting declaration in all cases, but he could have none as to the interest and good wishes of his little friend, so he only smiled in reply. not that he had really many serious doubts as to its ending well. he had more than once that very afternoon grieved celestia by saying that she did not care for him; but, if he had ever had any serious trouble on the subject, they vanished when the first touch of anger and disappointment had worn away, giving him time to acknowledge and rejoice over the "strength and wisdom" so unhesitatingly ascribed by graeme to her friend. so that it was not at all in a desponding spirit that he turned to reply, when the minister addressed him. they had scarcely settled down to one of their long, quiet talks, when they were summoned to tea by graeme, and before tea was over, janet and the bairns came home. the boys had found their way up the hill when school was over, and they all came home together in mr snow's sleigh. to escape from the noise and confusion which they brought with them, mr greenleaf and the minister went into the study again. during the silence that succeeded their entrance, there came into mr greenleaf's mind a thought that had been often there before. it was a source of wonder to him that a man of mr elliott's intellectual power and culture should content himself in so quiet a place as merleville, and to-night he ventured to give expression to his thoughts. mr elliott smiled. "i don't see that my being content to settle down here for life, is any more wonderful than that you should have done so. indeed, i should say, far less wonderful. you are young and have the world before you." "but my case is quite different. i settle here to get a living, and i mean to get a good one too, and besides," added he, laughing, "merleville is as good a place as any other to go to congress from; there is no american but may have that before him you know." "as for the living, i can get here such as will content me. for the rest, the souls in this quiet place are as precious as elsewhere. i am thankful for my field of labour." mr greenleaf had heard such words before, and he had taken them "for what they were worth," as a correct thing for a minister to say. but the quiet earnestness and simplicity of mr elliott's manner struck him as being not just a matter of course. "he is in earnest about it, and does not need to use many words to prove it. there must be something in it." he did not answer him, however. "there is one thing which is worth consideration," continued mr elliott, "you may be disappointed, but i cannot be so, in the nature of things." "about getting a living?" said mr greenleaf, and a vague remembrance of deacons fish and slowcome made him move uneasily in his chair. "that is not what i was thinking of, but i suppose i may be sure of that, too. `your bread shall be given you, and your water sure.' and there is no such thing as disappointment in that for which i really am labouring, the glory of god, and the good of souls." "well," said mr greenleaf, gravely, "there must be something in it that i don't see, or you will most assuredly be disappointed. it is by no means impossible that i may have my wish, men of humbler powers than mine--i may say it without vanity--have risen higher than to the congress of our country. i don't look upon mine as by any means a hopeless ambition. but the idea of your ever seeing all the crooked natures in merleville made straight! well, to say the least, i don't see how you can be very sanguine about it." "well, i don't say that even that is beyond my ambition, or beyond the power of him whom i serve to accomplish. but though i may never see this, or the half of this accomplished, it does not follow that i am to be disappointed, more than it follows that your happiness will be secured when you sit in the congress of this great nation, or rule in the white house even, which is not beyond your ambition either, i suppose. you know how a promise may be `kept to the ear and broken to the heart,' as somebody says." "i know it is the fashion to speak in that way. we learn, in our school books, all about the folly of ambition, and the unsatisfying nature of political greatness. but even if the attainment must disappoint, there is interest and excitement in the pursuit. and, if you will allow me to say so, it is not so in your case, and to me the disappointment seems even more certain." mr elliott smiled. "i suppose the converse of the poet's sad declaration may be true. the promise may be broken to the eye and ear, and yet fulfilled divinely to the heart. i am not afraid." "and, certainly," thought the young man, "he looks calm and hopeful enough." "and," added mr elliott, "as to the interest of the pursuit, if that is to be judged by the importance of the end to be attained, i think mine may well bear comparison to yours." "yes, in one sense, i suppose--though i don't understand it. i can imagine an interest most intense, an engagement--a happiness altogether absorbing in such a labour of love, but--i was not looking at the matter from your point of view." "but from no other point of view can the subject be fairly seen," said mr elliott, quietly. "well, i have known few, even among clergymen, who have not had their eyes turned pretty frequently to another side of the matter. one ought to be altogether above the necessity of thinking of earthly things, to be able to enjoy throwing himself wholly into such a work, and i fancy that can be said of few." "i don't understand you," said mr elliott. "do you mean that you doubt the sincerity of those to whom you refer." "by no means. my thoughts were altogether in another direction. in fact, i was thinking of the great `bread and butter' struggle in which ninety-nine out of every hundred are for dear life engaged; and none more earnestly, and few with less success, than men of your profession." mr elliott looked as though he did not yet quite understand. mr greenleaf hesitated, slightly at a loss, but soon went on. "constituted as we are, i don't see how a man can wholly devote himself to a work he thinks so great, and yet have patience to struggle with the thousand petty cares of life. the shifts and turnings to which insufficient means must reduce one, cannot but vex and hurt such a nature, if it does not change it at last. but i see i fail to make myself understood by you; let me try again. i don't know how it may be in your country, but here, at least as far as my personal observation has extended, the remuneration received by ministers is insufficient, not to say paltry. i don't mean that in many cases they and their families actually suffer, but there are few of them so situated as regards income, that economy need not be the very first consideration in all their arrangements. comparing them with other professional men they may be called poor. such a thing as the gratification of taste is not to be thought of in their case. there is nothing left after the bare necessaries are secured. it is a struggle to bring up their children, a struggle to educate them, a struggle to live. and what is worse than all, the pittance, which is rightly theirs, comes to them often in a way which, to say the least, is suggestive of charity given and received. no, really, i cannot look on the life of a minister as a very attractive one." "i should think not, certainly, if such are your views of it," said mr elliott. "i wish i could have the comfort of doubting their justness, but i cannot, unless the majority of cases that have fallen under my observation are extreme ones. why, there are college friends of mine who, in any other profession, might have distinguished themselves--might have become wealthy at least, who are now in some out of the way parish, with wives and little children, burdened with the cares of life. how they are to struggle on in the future it is sad to think of. they will either give up the profession or die, or degenerate into very commonplace men before many years." "unless they have some charm against it--which may very well be," said mr elliott, quietly. "i see you do not agree with me. take yourself for instance, or rather, let us take your predecessor. he was a good man, all say who knew him well, and with time and study he might have proved himself a great man. but if ever a man's life was a struggle for the bare necessaries of life, his was, and the culpable neglect of the people in the regular payment of his very small salary was the cause of his leaving them at last. he has since gone west, i hear, to a happier lot, let us hope. the circumstances of his predecessor were no better. he died here, and his wife broke down in a vain effort to maintain and educate his children. she was brought back to merleville and laid beside her husband less than a year ago. there is something wrong in the matter somewhere." there was a pause, and then mr greenleaf continued. "it may seem an unkindly effort in me to try to change your views of your future in merleville. still, it is better that you should be in some measure prepared, for what i fear awaits you. otherwise, you might be disgusted with us all." "i shall take refuge in the thought that you are showing me the dark side of the picture," said mr elliott. "pray do. and, indeed, i am. i may have said more than enough in my earnestness. i am sure when you really come to know our people, you will like them notwithstanding things that we might wish otherwise." "i like you already," said mr elliott, smiling. "i assure you i had a great respect for you as the children of the puritans, before ever i saw you." "yes, but i am afraid you will like us less; before you like us better. we are the children of the puritans, but very little, i daresay, like the grave gentlemen up on your shelves yonder. your countrymen are, at first, generally disappointed in us as a people. mind, i don't allow that we are in reality less worthy of respect than you kindly suppose us to be for our fathers' sakes. but we are different. it is not so much that we do not reach so high a standard, as that we have a different standard of excellence--one that your education, habits, and prepossessions as a people, do not prepare you to appreciate us." "well," said mr elliott, as his friend paused. "oh! i have little more to say, except, that what is generally the experience of your countrymen will probably be yours in merleville. you have some disappointing discoveries to make among us, you who are an earnest man and a thinker." "i think a want of earnestness can hardly be called a sin of your countrymen," said the minister. "earnestness!" said mr greenleaf. "no, we are earnest enough here in merleville. but the most of even the good men among us seem earnest, only in the pursuit of that, in comparison to which my political aspirations seem lofty and praiseworthy. it is wealth they seek. not that wealth which will result in magnificent expenditure, and which, in a certain sense, may have a charm for even high-minded men, but money-making in its meanest form--the scraping together of copper coins for their own sakes. at least one might think so, for any good they ever seem to get of it." "you are severe," said the minister, quietly. "not too severe. this seems to be the aim of all of us, whether we are willing to acknowledge it or not. and such a grovelling end will naturally make a man unscrupulous as to the means to attain it. there are not many men among us here--i don't know more than two or three--who would not be surprised if you told them, being out of the pulpit, that they had not a perfect right to make the very most out of their friends--even by shaving closely in matters of business." "and yet you say their standard is a high one?" "high or not, the religious people among us don't seem to doubt their own christianity on account of these things. and what is more, they don't seem to lose faith in each other. but how it will all seem to you is another matter." "how does it seem to you?" "oh, i am but a spectator. being not one of the initiated, i am not supposed to understand the change they profess to have undergone; and so, instead of being in doubt about particular cases, i am disposed to think little of the whole matter. with you it is different." "yes, with me it is indeed different," said the minister, gravely--so gravely, that mr greenleaf almost regretted having spoken so freely, and when he spoke again it was to change the subject. "it must have required a great wrench to break away from your people and country and old associations," said he, in a little. mr elliott started,-- "no, the wrench came before. it would have cost me more to stay and grow old in my own land than it did to leave it, than it ever can do to live and die among strangers." fearful that he had awakened painful thoughts, mr greenleaf said no more. in a little mr elliott went on,-- "it was an old thought, this wishing to find a home for our children in this grand new world. we had always looked forward to it sometime. and when i was left alone, the thought of my children's future, and the longing to get away--anywhere--brought me here." he paused, and when he spoke again it was more calmly. "perhaps it was cowardly in me to flee. there was help for me there, if my faith had not failed. i thought it would be better for my children when i left them to leave them here. but god knows it was no desire to enrich myself that brought me to america." "we can live on little. i trust you will be mistaken in your fears. but if these troubles do come, we must try, with god's grace, and mrs nasmyth's help, to get through them as best we can. we might not better ourselves by a change, as you seem to think the evil a national one." "the love and pursuit of the `almighty dollar,' is most certainly a national characteristic. as to the bearing it may have in church matters in other places, of course i have not the means of judging. here i know it has been bad enough in the past." "well, i can only say i have found the people most kind and liberal hitherto," said mr elliott. "have you had a settlement with them since you came?" asked the squire; the remembrance of various remarks he had heard of late coming unpleasantly to his mind. "no, i have not yet. but as the half-year is nearly over, i suppose it will come soon. still i have no fears--i think i need have none. it is not _theirs_ but _them_ i seek." "do you remember the sabbath i first came among you? i saw you there among the rest. if my heart rose up in thankfulness to god that day, it was with no thought of gold or gear. god is my witness that i saw not these people as possessors of houses and lands, but of precious souls-- living souls to be encouraged--slumbering souls to be aroused--dead souls to be made alive in christ, through his own word, spoken by me and blessed by him. "no, i do not think i can possibly be disappointed in this matter. i may have to bear trial, and it may come to me as it oftenest comes to god's people, in the very way that seems hardest to bear, but god _will bless his word_. and even if i do not live to see it, i can rest in the assurance that afterward, `both he that soweth and he that reapeth shall rejoice together.'" he paused. a momentary gleam of triumph passed over his face and left it peaceful. "the peace that passeth understanding," thought the young man, with a sigh. for he could not quite satisfy himself by saying, that mr elliott was no man of business, an unworldly man. it came into his mind that even if the minister were chasing a shadow, it was a shadow more satisfying than his possible reality of political greatness. so he could not but sigh as he sat watching that peaceful face. the minister looked up and met his eye. "and so, my friend, i think we must end where we begun. you may be disappointed even in the fulfilment of your hopes. but for me, all must end well--let the end be what it may." chapter twelve. the time of settlement came at last. the members of the church and congregation were requested to bring to deacon sterne and his coadjutors an account of money and produce already paid by each, and also a statement of the sum they intended to subscribe for the minister's support during the ensuing half year. after a delay which, considering all things, was not more than reasonable, this was done, and the different accounts being put into regular form by the proper persons, they were laid before the minister for his inspection and approval. this was done by deacons fish and slowcome alone. deacon sterne, as his brethren in office intimated to mrs nasmyth, when she received them, having just then his hands fall of his own affairs. deacon fish "expected" that brother sterne had got into trouble. it had been coming on for some time. his son, the only boy he had left, had been over to rixford, and had done something dreadful, folks said, he did not exactly know what, and the deacon had gone over to see about it. deacon sterne was janet's favourite among the men in office, and apart from her regret that he should not be present on an occasion so important, she was greatly concerned for him on his own account. "dear me!" said she, "i saw him at the kirk on the sabbath-day, looking just as usual." "well, yes, i expect so," said mr fish. "brother sterne looks always pretty much so. he ain't apt to show his feelin's, if he's got any. he'll have something to suffer with his son william, i guess, whether he shows it or not." janet liked both father and son, though it was well known in the town that there was trouble between them; so instead of making any answer, she hastened to usher them into the study. the minister awaited them, and business began. first was displayed the list of subscriptions for the coming half-year. this was quite encouraging. three hundred and fifty and odd dollars. this looked well. there had never been so much subscribed in merleville before. the deacons were elated, and evidently expected that the minister should be so, too. he would be well off now, said they. but the minister was always a quiet man, and said little, and the last half-year's settlement was turned to. there were several sheets of it. the minister in danger of getting bewildered among the items, turned to the sum total. "two hundred and seventy-two dollars, sixty-two and a-half cents." he was a little mystified still, and looked so. "if there is anything wrong, anything that you object to, it must be put right," said deacon slowcome. deacon fish presumed, "that when mr elliott should have compared it with the account which he had no doubt kept, it would be found to be all right." mr elliott had to confess that no such account had been kept. he supposed it was all it should be. he really could say nothing with regard to it. he left the management of household affairs entirely to his daughter and mrs nasmyth. it was suggested that mrs nasmyth should be called in, and the deacon cleared his voice to read it to her. "if there's anything you don't seem to understand or remember," prefaced the accommodating deacon slowcome, "don't feel troubled about saying so. i expect we'll make things pretty straight after a while." mrs nasmyth looked at the minister, but the minister did not look at her, and the reading began. after the name of each person, came the days' work, horse hire, loads of firewood, bushels of corn, pounds of butter and cheese, sugar and dried apples, which he or she had contributed. deacon fish's subscription was chiefly paid by his horse and his cow. the former had carried the minister on two or three of his most distant visits, and the latter had supplied a quart or two of milk daily during a great part of the winter. it was overpaid indeed by just seventeen and a-half cents, which, however, the deacon seemed inclined to make light of. "there ain't no matter about it. it can go right on to the next half year. it ain't no matter about it anyhow," said he, in liberal mood. he had an attentive listener. mrs nasmyth listened with vain efforts not to let her face betray her utter bewilderment at the whole proceeding, only assenting briefly when mr slowcome interrupted the reading, now and then, to say interrogatively,-- "you remember?" it dawned upon her at last that these were the items that made up the subscription for the half year that was over; but except that her face changed a little, she gave no sign. it is possible the deacon had had some slight misgiving as to how mrs nasmyth might receive the statement; certainly his voice took a relieved tone as he drew near the end, and at last read the sum total: "two hundred and seventy-two dollars sixty-two and a-half cents." again janet's eye sought the minister's, and this time he did not avoid her look. the rather pained surprise had all gone out of his face. intense amusement at janet's changing face, on which bewilderment, incredulity and indignation were successively written, banished, for a moment, every other feeling. but that passed, and by the look that followed janet knew that she must keep back the words that were rising to her lips. it required an effort, however, and a rather awkward silence followed. deacon slowcome spoke first: "well, i suppose, we may consider that it stands all right. and i, for one, feel encouraged to expect great things." "i doubt, sirs," said janet in a voice ominously mild and civil, "there are some things that haena been put down on yon paper. there was a cum apples, and a bit o' unco spare rib, and--" "well, it's possible there are some folks ain't sent in their accounts yet. that can be seen to another time." janet paid no attention to the interruption. "there were some eggs from mrs sterne--a dozen and three, i think--and a goose at the new year from somebody else; and your wife sent a pumpkin-pie; and there was the porridge and milk that judge merle brought over when first we came here--" "ah! the pie was a present from my wife," said deacon fish, on whom mrs nasmyth's awful irony was quite lost. "and i presume judge merle didn't mean to charge for the porridge, or hominy, or whatever it was," said deacon slowcome. "and what for no'?" demanded janet, turning on him sharply. "i'm sure we got far more good and pleasure from it than ever we got o' your bloody fore-quarter of beef, that near scunnered the bairns ere we were done with it. things should stand on your papers at their true value." deacon slowcome was not, in reality, more surprised at this outbreak than he had been when his "fore-quarter of bloody beef" had been accepted unchallenged, but he professed to be so; and in his elaborate astonishment allowed janet's remarks about a slight mistake she had made, and about the impropriety of "looking a gift horse in the mouth" to pass unanswered. "you were at liberty to return the beef if you didn't want it," said he, with an injured air. "weel, i'll mind that next time," said she in a milder tone, by no means sure how the minister might approve of her plain speaking. deacon fish made a diversion in favour of peace, by holding up the new subscription-list, and asking her triumphantly if that "didn't look well." "ay, on paper," said janet, dryly. "figures are no' dollars. and if your folk have been thinking that the minister and his family hae been living only on the bits o' things written down on your paper you are mistaken. the gude money that has helped it has been worth far more than the like o' that, as i ken weel, who hae had the spending o' it; but i daresay you're no' needing me longer, sir," she added, addressing the minister, and she left the room. this matter was not alluded to again for several days, but it did janet a deal of good to think about it. she had no time to indulge in homesick musings, with so definite a subject of indignant speculation as the meanness of the deacons. she "was nettled at herself beyond all patience" that she should have allowed herself, to fancy that so many of the things on the paper had been tokens of the people's good-will. "two hundred and seventy dollars and more," she repeated. "things mount up, i ken weel; but i maun take another look at it. and i'll hae more sense anither time, i'm thinking." she did not speak to graeme. there would be no use to vex her; but she would fain have had a few words with the minister, but his manner did not encourage her to introduce the subject. a circumstance soon occurred which gave her an opening, and the subject, from first to last, was thoroughly discussed. march was nearly over. the nights were cold still, but the sun was powerful during the day, and there were many tokens that the earth was about to wake from her long sleep and prepare for the refreshment of her children. "and time for her," sighed janet, taking a retrospective view of all that had happened since she saw her face. the boys had been thrown into a state of great excitement by a proposal made to them by their friend mr snow. he had offered to give them sixty of the best trees in his sugar place, with all the articles necessary to the making of sugar, on terms that, to them, seemed easy enough. they were to make their own preparations, gather the sap, cut their own wood, in short, carry on the business entirely themselves; and, nothing daunted, they went the very first fine day to see the ground and make a beginning. graeme and the other girls went with them as far as mr snow's house, and janet was left alone. the minister was in his study as usual, and when they were all gone, uncomfortable with the unaccustomed quietness of the house, she arose and went to the door and looked rather sadly down the street. she had not long to indulge her feelings of loneliness, however. a sleigh came slowly grating along the half-bare street, and its occupant, mr silas spears, not one of her favourites, stopped before the door, and lost no time in "hitching" his horse to the post. janet set him a chair, and waited for the accustomed question whether the minister was at home, and whether he could see him. "the body has some sense and discretion," said janet to herself, as he announced instead that he "wa'ant a going to stay but a minute, and it wouldn't be worth while troubling the minister." he did stay, however, telling news and giving his opinion on matters and things in general in a way which was tolerable to janet in her solitude. he rose to go at last. "i've got a bucket of sugar out here," said he. "our folks didn't seem to want it, and i thought i'd fetch it along down. i took it to cook's store, but they didn't want it, and they didn't care enough about it at sheldon's to want to pay for it, so i thought i might as well turn it in to pay my minister's tax." so in he came within a minute. "there's just exactly twenty-nine pounds with the bucket. sugar's been sellin' for twelve and a-half this winter, and i guess i ought to have that for it, then we'll be about even, according to my calculation." "sugar!" ejaculated janet, touching the solid black mass with her finger. "call you _that_ sugar?" "why, yes, i call it sugar. not the best, maybe, but it's better than it looks. it'll be considerable whiter by the time you drain it off, i expect." "and weigh considerable lighter, i expect," said mrs nasmyth, unconsciously imitating mr spears' tone and manner in her rising wrath. "i'm very much obliged to you, but we're in no especial need o' sugar at this time, and we'll do without a while before we spend good siller on staff like that." "well i'll say eleven cents, or maybe ten, as sugarin' time is 'most here. it _ain't_ first-rate," he added, candidly. "it mightn't just do for tea, but it's as good as any to sweeten pies and cakes." "many thanks to you. but we're no' given to the makin' o' pies and cakes in this house. plain bread, or a sup porridge and milk does for us, and it's mair than we're like to get, if things dinna mend with us. so you'll just take it with you again." "well," said mr spears, slightly at a loss, "i guess i'll leave it. i ain't particular about the price. mr elliott can allow me what he thinks it worth, come to use it. i'll leave it anyhow." "but you'll no' leave it with my consent. deacon slowcome said the minister wasna needing to take anything he didna want, and the like o' that we could make no use of." "the deacon might have said that in a general kind of way, but i rather guess he didn't mean you to take him up so. i've been calculating to pay my minister's tax with that sugar, and i don't know as i've got anything else handy. i'll leave it, and if you don't conclude to keep it, you better speak to the deacon about it, and maybe he'll give you the money for it. i'll leave it anyhow." "but you'll no leave it here," exclaimed mrs nasmyth, whose patience was not proof against his persistence, and seizing the bucket, she rushed out at the door, and depositing it in the sleigh, was in again before the astonished mr spears quite realised her intention. "you'll no' find me failing in my duty to the minister, as i hae done before," exclaimed she, a little breathless with the exertion. "if the minister canna hae his stipend paid in good siller as he has been used wi', he shall at least hae nae trash like yon. so dinna bring here again what ither folk winna hae from you, for i'll hae none o' it." "i should like to see the minister a minute," said mr spears, seating himself with dignity. "i don't consider that you are the one to settle this business." "there's many a thing that you dinna consider that there's sense in, notwithstanding. it's just me that is to decide this business, and a' business where the minister's welfare, as regards meat and drink, is concerned. so dinna fash yourself and me mair about it." "i'd like to see him, anyhow," said he, taking a step towards the study-door. "but you'll no' see him about any such matter," and janet placed herself before him. "i'm no' to hae the minister vexed with the like o' that nonsense to-night, or any night. i wonder you dinna think shame, to hold up your face to me, forby the minister. what kens the minister about the like o' that? he has other things to think about. it's weel that there's aye me to stand between him and the like o' your `glegs and corbies'."--and janet, as her manner was when excited, degenerated into scotch to such a degree, that her opponent forgot his indignation in astonishment, and listened in silence. janet was successful. mr spears was utterly nonplussed, and took his way homeward, by no means sure that he hadn't been abused! "considerable beat, anyhow." scarcely had he taken his departure, when mr elliott made his appearance, having had some idea that something unusual had been going on. though loth to do so, janet thought best to give a faithful account of what had taken place. he laughed heartily at her success and mr spears' discomfiture, but it was easy to see he was not quite at his ease about the matter. "i am at a loss to know how all this will end," he said, gravely, after a minute. "indeed, sir, you need be at no loss about that. it will end in a `toom pantry' for us, and that before very long." this was the beginning of a conversation with regard to their affairs, that lasted till the children came home. much earnest thought did the minister bestow on the subject for the next three days, and on the evening of the fourth, at the close of a full conference meeting, when most of the members of the church were present, the result of his meditations was given to the public. he did not use many words, but they were to the point. he told them of the settlement for the past, and the prospect for the future. he told them that the value to his family of the articles brought in, was not equal to their value, as named in the subscription-lists, their real value he supposed. they could not live in comfort on these terms, and they should never try it. he had a proposal to make to them. the deacon had estimated that an annual amount equal to seven hundred dollars could be raised. let each subscriber deduct a seventh part of what he had promised to pay, and let the remainder be paid in money to the treasurer, so that he might receive his salary in quarterly payments. this would be the means of avoiding much that was annoying to all parties, and was the only terms on which he would think it wise to remain in merleville. he alluded to a report that had lately reached him, as to his having money invested in scotland. in the hand of a friend he had deposited sufficient to defray the expenses of his eldest son, until his education should be completed. he had no more. the comfort of his family must depend upon his salary; and what that was to be, and how it was to be paid, must be decided without loss of time. he said just two or three words about his wish to stay, about the love he felt for many of them, and of his earnest desire to benefit them all. he had no other desire than to cast in his lot with theirs, and to live and die among them. but no real union or confidence could be maintained between them, while the matter of support was liable at any moment to become a source of discomfort and misunderstanding to all concerned. he added, that as so many were present, perhaps no better time than to-night could be found for arranging the matter, and so he left them. there was quite a gathering that night. judge merle was there, and the deacons, and the pages, and mr spears, and a great many besides. behind the door, in a corner seat, sat mr snow, and near him, mr greenleaf. he evidently felt he was not expected to remain, and made a movement to go, but sampson laid his hand on his arm. "hold on, squire," he whispered; "as like as not they'd spare us, but i'm bound to see this through." there was a long pause. then deacon fish got up and cleared his throat, and "felt as though he felt," and went over much ground, without accomplishing much. deacon slowcome did pretty much the same. judge merle came a little nearer the mark, and when he sat down, there was a movement behind the door, and sampson snow rose, and stepped out. he laid his hand on the door latch, and then turned round and opened his lips. "i expect you'll all think it ain't my place to speak in meetin', and i ain't goin' to say a great deal. it's no more than two hours or so since i got home from rixford, and squire stone, he told me that their minister had given notice that he was goin' to quit. goin' to boston, i guess. and the squire, says he to me, `we've a notion of talking a little to your mr elliott,' and says he, `we wouldn't begrudge him a thousand dollars cash down, and no mistake.' so now don't worry any about the minister. _he's_ all right, and worth his pay any day. that's all i've got to say," and mr snow opened the door and walked out. sampson's speech was short, but it was the speech of the evening, and told. that night, or within a few days, arrangements were made for the carrying out of the plan suggested by mr elliott, with this difference, that the seventh part was not to be deducted because of money payment. and the good people of merleville did not regret their promptitude, when the very next week there came a deputation from rixford, to ascertain whether mr elliott was to remain in merleville, and if not, whether he would accept an invitation to settle in the larger town. mr elliott's answer was brief and decided. he had no wish to leave merleville while the people wished him to remain. he hoped never to leave them while he lived. and he never did. chapter thirteen. spring came and went. the lads distinguished themselves both for the quantity and quality of their sugar, and highly enjoyed the work besides. the free out-of-door life, the camping in the woods beside a blazing fire, and the company of the village lads who daily and nightly crowded around them, charmed them from all other pursuits. mr foster and his mathematics were sadly neglected in these days. in future they were to devote themselves to agriculture. in vain janet hinted that "new things aye pleased light heads," and warned them that they were deciding too soon. in vain mr snow said that it was not sugaring time all the year; and that they should summer and winter among the hills before they committed themselves to a farmer's life. harry quoted cincinnatus, and norman proved to his own satisfaction, if not to mr snow's, that on scientific principles every farm in merleville could be cultivated with half the expense, and double the profits. even their father was carried away by their enthusiasm; and it is to be feared, that if he had had a fortune to invest, it would have been buried for ever among these beautiful hills of merleville. an opportunity to test the strength of the lads' determination, came in a manner which involved less risk than a purchase would have done. early in may a letter was received from mr ross, in which he offered to take the charge of arthur's education on himself, and, as he was well able to do so, mr elliott saw no reason for refusing the offer. the money, therefore, that he had set apart for his son's use, returned to his hands, and he did a wiser thing than to invest it either in mountain or valley. it came, about this time, to the worst, with mrs jones and her daughter celestia. the mortgage on the farm could not be paid, even the interest had fallen far behind, and squire skinflint had foreclosed. nothing remained for the widow, but to save what she could from the wreck of a property that had once been large, and go away to seek a new home for herself and her children. on the homestead she was about to leave, the heart and eyes of mr snow had long been fixed. as a relation of the widow, he had done what could be done, both by advice and assistance, to avert the evil day; but the widow was no farmer, and her boys were children, and the longer she kept the place, the more she must involve herself; and now that the land must pass from her hands, sampson would fain have it pass into his. but the only condition of sale was for ready money, and this without great sacrifice he could not obtain. meanwhile, others were considering the matter of the purchase, and the time was short; for there had been some failure in squire skinflint's western land speculation, and money must be had. if the widow could have held it still, mr snow would never have desired to have the land; but what with the many thoughts he had given to it, and the fear of getting bad neighbours, he had about come to the conclusion that it was not worth while to farm at all, unless he could have the two farms put into one. just at this juncture, the minister surprised him greatly by asking his advice about the investment of the money which his brother-in-law's generosity had placed at his disposal. a very few words settled the matter. the minister lent the money to mr snow, and for the annual interest of the same, he was to have the use of the farm-house and the ten acres of meadow and pasture land, that lay between it and the pond. the arrangement was in all respects advantageous to both parties, and before may was out, the little brown house behind the elms was left in silence, to await the coming of the next chance tenants; and the pleasurable excitement of settling down in their new home, filled the minds of janet and the bairns. and a very pleasant home it promised to be. even in that beautiful land of mountain and valley they would have sought in vain for a lovelier spot. sheltered by high hills from the bleak winds of the north and east, it was still sufficiently elevated to permit a wide view of the farms and forests around it. close below, with only a short, steep bank, and a wide strip of meadow land between, lay merle pond, the very loveliest of the many lovely lakelets, hidden away among these mountains. over on the rising ground beyond the pond stood the meeting-house, and scattered to the right and left of it were the white houses of the village, half-hidden by the tall elms and maples that fringed the village street. close by the farm-house, between it and the thick pine grove on the hill, ran carson's brook, a stream which did not disappear in summer-time, as a good many of these hill streams are apt to do, and which, for several months in the year was almost as worthy of the name of river as the merle itself. before the house was a large grassy yard, having many rose-bushes and lilac trees scattered along the fences and the path that led to the door. there were shade trees, too. once they had stood in regular lines along the road, and round the large garden. some of these had been injured because of the insufficient fences of late years; but those that remained were trees worthy of the name of trees. there were elms whose branches nearly touched each other, from opposite sides of the wide yard; and great maples that grew as symmetrically in the open space, as though each spring they had been clipped and cared for by experienced hands. there had been locusts once, but the old trees had mostly died, and there were only a few young ones springing up here and there, but they were trees before the children went away from the place which they were now beginning to look upon as home. formerly, there had been a large and handsome garden laid out at the end of the house, but since trouble had come on the family, its cultivation had been considered too much expense, and the grass was growing green on its squares and borders now. there were a few perennials easy to cultivate; and annuals such as sow themselves, marigolds and pansies. there was balm in abundance, and two or three gigantic peonies, in their season the admiration of all passers by; and beds of useful herbs, wormwood and sage, and summer savory. but, though it looked like a wilderness of weeds the first day they came to see it, janet's quick eye foresaw a great deal of pleasure and profit which might be got for the bairns out of the garden, and, as usual, janet saw clearly. there was a chance to find fault with the house, if anyone had at this time been inclined to find fault with anything. it was large and pleasant, but it was sadly out of repair. much of it had been little used of late, and looked dreary enough in its dismantled state. but all this was changed after a while, and they settled down very happily in it, without thinking about any defect it might have, and these disappeared in time. for, by and by, all necessary repairs were made by their provident landlord's own hands. he had no mind to pay out money for what he could do himself; and many a wet afternoon did he and his hired man devote to the replacing of shingles, the nailing on of clapboards, to puttying, painting, and other matters of the same kind. a good landlord he was, and a kind neighbour too; and when the many advantages of their new home were being told over by the children, the living so near to mr snow and little emily was never left till the last. a very pleasant summer thus began to them all. it would be difficult to say which of them all enjoyed their new life the most. but janet's prophecy came true. the _newness_ of farming proved to be its chief charm to the lads; and if it had been left entirely to them to plant and sow, and care for, and gather in the harvest, it is to be feared there would not have been much to show for the summer's work. but their father, who was by no means inexperienced in agricultural matters, had the success of their farming experiment much at heart, and with his advice and the frequent expostulations and assistance of mr snow, affairs were conducted on their little farm on the whole prosperously. not that the lads grew tired of exerting themselves. there was not a lazy bone in their bodies, mr snow declared, and no one had a better opportunity of knowing than he. but their strength and energy were not exerted always in a direction that would _pay_, according to mr snow's idea of remuneration. much time and labour were expended on the building of a bridge over carson's brook, between the house and pine grove hill, and much more to the making of a waterfall above it. even mr snow, who was a long time in coming to comprehend why they should take so much trouble with what was no good but to look at, was carried away by the spirit of the affair at last, and lent his oxen, and used his crowbar in their cause, conveying great stones to the spot. when the bridge and the waterfall were completed, a path was to be made round the hill, to the pine grove at the top. then, among the pines, there was a wonderful structure of rocks and stones, covered with mosses and creeping plants. the grotto, the children called it, mr snow called it the cave. a wonderful place it was, and much did they enjoy it. to be sure, it would not hold them all at once, but the grove would, and the grotto looked best on the outside, and much pleasure did they get out of their labours. the lads did not deserve all the credit of these great works. the girls helped, not only with approving eyes and lips, but with expert hands as well. even graeme grew rosy and sunburnt by being out of doors so much on bright mornings and evenings, and if it had been always summer-time, there might have been some danger that even graeme would not very soon have come back to the quiet indoor enjoyment of work and study again. as for janet, her home-sickness must have been left in the little brown house behind the elms, for it never troubled her after she came up the brae. with the undisputed possession of poultry, pigs and cows, came back her energy and peace of mind. the first basket of eggs collected by the children, the first churning of golden butter which she was able to display to their admiring gaze, were worth their weight in gold as helps to her returning cheerfulness. not that she valued her dumb friends for their usefulness alone, or even for the comforts they brought to the household. she had a natural love for all dependent creatures, and petted and provided for her favourites, till they learned to know and love her in return. all helpless creatures seemed to come to her naturally. a dog, which had been cruelly beaten by his master, took refuge with her; and being fed and caressed by her hand, could never be induced to leave her guardianship again. the very bees, at swarming time, did not sting janet, though they lighted in clouds on her snowy cap and neckerchief; and the little brown sparrows came to share with the chickens the crumbs she scattered at the door. and so, hens and chickens, and little brown sparrows did much to win her from a regretful remembrance of the past, and to reconcile her to what was strange--"unco like" in her new home. her cows were, perhaps, her prime favourites. not that she would acknowledge them at all equal to "fleckie" or "blackie," now, probably, the favourites of another mistress on the other side of the sea. but "brindle and spottie were wise-like beasts, with mair sense and discretion than some folk that she could name," and many a child in merleville got less care than she bestowed on them. morning and night, and, to the surprise of all the farmers' wives in merleville, at noon too, when the days were long she milked them with her own hands, and made more and better butter from the two, than even old mrs snow, who prided herself on her abilities in these matters, made from any three on her pasture. and when in the fall mr snow went to boston with the produce of his mother's dairy, and his own farm, a large tub of janet's butter went too, for which was to be brought back "tea worth the drinking, and at a reasonable price," and other things besides, which at merleville and at merleville prices, could not be easily obtained. the indian-summer had come again. its mysterious haze and hush were on all things under the open sky, and within the house all was quiet, too. the minister was in the study, and the bairns were in the pine grove, or by the water side, or even farther away; for no sound of song or laughter came from these familiar places. janet sat at the open door, feeling a little dreary, as she was rather apt to do, when left for hours together alone by the bairns. besides, there was something in the mild air and in the quiet of the afternoon, that "'minded" her of the time a year ago, when the bairns, having all gone to the kirk on that first sabbath-day, she had "near grat herself blind" from utter despairing home-sickness. she could now, in her restored peace and firmness, afford to to feel a little contemptuous of her former self, yet a sense of sadness crept over her, at the memory of the time, a slight pang of the old malady stirred at her heart. even now, she was not quite sure that it would be prudent to indulge herself in thoughts of the old times, lest the wintry days, so fast hastening, might bring back the old gloom. so she was not sorry when the sound of footsteps broke the stillness, and she was pleased, for quite other reasons, when mr snow appeared at the open door. he did not accept her invitation to enter, but seated himself on the doorstep. "your folks are all gone, are they?" asked he. "the minister is in his study, and miss graeme and the bairns are out by, some way or other. your emily's with them." "yes, i reckoned so. i've just got home from rixford. it wouldn't amount to much, all i could do to-night, so i thought i'd come along up a spell." janet repeated her kindly welcome. "the minister's busy, i presume," said he. "yes,--as it's saturday,--but he winna be busy very long now. if you'll bide a moment, he'll be out, i daresay." "there's no hurry. it's nothing particular." but mr snow was not in his usual spirits evidently, and watching him stealthily, janet saw a care-worn anxious expression fastening on his usually, cheerful face. "are you no' weel the night?" she asked. "sartain. i never was sick in my life." "and how are they all down-by?" meaning at mr snow's house, by "down-by." "well, pretty much so. only just middling. nothing to brag of, in the way of smartness." there was a long silence after that. mr snow sat with folded arms, looking out on the scene before them. "it's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it?" said he, at last. "ay," said janet, softly, not caring to disturb his musings. he sat still, looking over his own broad fields, not thinking of them as his, however, not calculating the expense of the new saw-mill, with which he had been threatening to disfigure carson's brook, just at the point where its waters fell into the pond. he was looking far-away to the distant hills, where the dim haze was deepening into purple, hiding the mountain tops beyond. but it could not be hills, nor haze, nor hidden mountain tops, that had brought that wistful longing look into his eyes, janet thought, and between doubt as to what she ought to say, and doubt as to whether she should say anything at all, she was for a long time silent. at last, a thought struck her. "what for wasna you at the lord's table, on the sabbath-day?" asked she. sampson gave her a queer look, and a short amused laugh. "well, i guess our folks would ha' opened their eyes, if i had undertook to go there." janet looked at him in some surprise. "and what for no? i ken there are others of the folk, that let strifes and divisions hinder them from doing their duty, and sitting down together. though wherefore the like of these things should hinder them from remembering their lord, is more than i can understand. what hae you been doing, or what has somebody been doing to you?" there was a pause, and then sampson looked up and said, gravely. "mis' nasmyth, i ain't a professor. i'm one of the world's people deacon fish tells about." janet looked grave. "come now, mis' nasmyth, you don't mean to say you thought i was one of the good ones?" "you ought to be," said she, gravely. "well,--yes, i suppose i ought to. but after all, i guess there ain't a great sight of difference between folks,--leastways, between merleville folks. i know all about _them_. i was the first white child born in the town, i was raised here, and in some way or other, i'm related to most folks in town, and i ought to know them all pretty well by this time. except on sundays, i expect they're all pretty much so. it wouldn't do to tell round, but there are some of the world's people, that i'd full as lief do business with, as with most of the professors. now that's a fact." "you're no' far wrong _there_, i daresay," said janet, with emphasis. "but that's neither here nor there, as far as your duty is concerned, as you weel ken." "no,--i don't know as it is. but it kind o' makes me feel as though there wasn't much in religion, anyway." janet looked mystified. mr snow continued. "well now, see here, i'll tell you just how it is. there ain't one of them that don't think i'm a sinner of the worst kind--gospel hardened. they've about given me up, i know they have. well now, let alone the talk, i don't believe there's a mite of difference, between me, and the most of them, and the lord knows i'm bad enough. and so you see, i've about come to the conclusion, that if there is such a thing as religion, i haven't never come across the real article." "that's like enough," said janet, with a groan. "i canna say that i have seen muckle o' it myself in this town, out of our own house. but i canna see that that need be any excuse to you. you have aye the word." "well, yes. i've always had the bible, and i've read it considerable, but i never seem to get the hang of it, somehow. and it ain't because i ain't tried, either. there was one spell that i was dreadful down, and says i to myself, if there's comfort to be got out of that old book, i'm bound to have it. so i began at the beginning about the creation, and adam and eve, but i didn't seem to get much comfort there. there was some good reading, but along over a piece, there was a deal that i could see nothing to. some of the psalms seemed to kind o' touch the spot, and the proverbs _are_ first-rate. i tell _you_ he knew something of human nature, that wrote _them_." "there's one thing you might have learned, before you got far over in genesis," said mrs nasmyth, gravely, "that you are a condemned sinner. you should have settled that matter with yourself, before you began to look for comfort." "yes. i knew that before, but i couldn't seem to make it go. then i thought, maybe i didn't understand it right, so i talked with folks and went to meeting, and did the best i could, thinking surely what other folks had got, and i hadn't, would come sometime. but it didn't. the talking, and the going to meeting, didn't help me. "now there's deacon sterne; he'd put it right to me. he'd say, says he, `sampson, you're a sinner, you know you be. you've got to give up, and bow that stiff neck o' your'n to the yoke.' well, `i'd say, i'd be glad to, if i only knew how to.' then he'd say, `but you can't do it yourself, no how. you're clay in the hands of the potter, and you'll have to perish, if the lord don't take right hold to save you.' then says i, `i wish to mercy he would.' then he'd talk and talk, but it all came to about that, `i must, and i couldn't,' and it didn't help me a mite. "that was a spell ago, after captain jennings' folks went west. i wanted to go awfully, but father he was getting old, and mother she wouldn't hear a word of it. i was awful discontented, and then, after a spell, worse came, and i tell _you_, i'd ha' given most anything, to have got religion, just to have had something to hold on to." mr snow paused. there was no doubting his earnestness now. janet did not speak, and in a little while he went on again. "i'd give considerable, just to be sure there's anything in getting religion. sometimes i seem to see that there is, and then again i think, why don't it help folks more. now, there's deacon sterne, he's one of the best of them. he wouldn't swerve a hair, from what he believed to be right, not to save a limb. he is one of the real old puritan sort, not a mite like fish and slowcome. but he ain't one of the meek and lowly, i can tell you. and he's made some awful mistakes in his lifetime. he's been awful hard and strict in his family. his first children got along pretty well. most of them were girls, and their mother was a smart woman, and stood between them and their father's hardness. and besides, in those days when the country was new, folks had to work hard, old and young, and that did considerable towards keeping things straight. but his boys never thought of their father, but to fear him. they both went, as soon as ever they were of age. silas came home afterwards, and died. joshua went west, and i don't believe his father has heard a word from him, these fifteen years. the girls scattered after their mother died, and then the deacon married again, abby sheldon, a pretty girl, and a good one; but she never ought to have married him. she was not made of tough enough stuff, to wear along side of him. she has changed into a grave and silent woman, in his house. her children all died when they were babies, except william, the eldest,--wilful will, they call him, and i don't know but he'd have better died too, for as sure as the deacon don't change his course with him, he'll drive him right straight to ruin, and break his mother's heart to boot. now, what i want to know is--if religion is the powerful thing it is called, why don't it keep folks that have it, from making such mistakes in life?" janet did not have her answer at her tongue's end, and sampson did not give her time to consider. "now there's becky pettimore, she's got religion. but it don't keep her from being as sour as vinegar, and as bitter as gall--" "whist, man!" interrupted janet. "it ill becomes the like o' you to speak that way of a poor lone woman like yon--one who never knew what it was to have a home, but who has been kept down with hard work and little sympathy, and many another trial. she's a worthy woman, and her deeds prove it, for all her sourness. there's few women in the town that i respect as i do her." "well, that's so. i know it. i know she gets a dollar a week the year round at captain liscome's, and earns it, too; and i know she gives half of it to her aunt, who never did much for her but spoil her temper. but it's an awful pity her religion don't make her pleasant." "one mustna judge another," said mrs nasmyth, gently. "no, and i don't want to. only i wish--but there's no good talking. still i must say it's a pity that folks who have got religion don't take more comfort out of it. now there's mother; she's a pillar in the church, and a good woman, i believe, but she's dreadful crank sometimes, and worries about things as she hadn't ought to. now it seems to me, if i had all they say a christian has, and expects to have, i'd let the rest go. they don't half of them live as if they took more comfort than i do, and there are spells when i don't take much." janet's eyes glistened with sympathy. there was some surprise in them, too. mr snow continued-- "yes, i do get pretty sick of it all by spells. after father died--and other things--i got over caring about going out west, and i thought it as good to settle down on the old place as any where. so i fixed up, and built, and got the land into prime order, and made an orchard, a first-rate one, and made believe happy. and i don't know but i should have stayed so, only i heard that joe arnold had died out west--he had married rachel jennings, you know; so i got kind of unsettled again, and went off at last. rachel had changed considerable. she had seen trouble, and had poor health, and was kind o' run down, but i brought her right home--her and little emily. well--it didn't suit mother. i hadn't said anything to her when i went off. i hadn't anything to say, not knowing how things might be with rachel. come to get home, things didn't go smooth. mother worried, and rachel worried, and life wasn't what i expected it was going to be, and i worried for a spell. and mis' nasmyth, if there had been any such thing as getting religion, i should have got it then, for i tried hard, and i wanted something to help me bad enough. there didn't seem to be anything else worth caring about any way. "well, that was a spell ago. emily wasn't but three years old when i brought them home. we've lived along, taking some comfort, as much as folks in general, i reckon. i had got kind of used to it, and had given up expecting much, and took right hold to make property; and have a good time, and here is your minister has come and stirred me up, and made me as discontented with myself and everything else as well." "you should thank the lord for that," interrupted janet, devoutly. "well, i don't know about that. sometimes when he has been speaking, i seem to see that there is something better than just to live along and make property. but then again, i don't see but it's just what folks do who have got religion. most of the professors that i know--" "man!" exclaimed janet, hotly, "i hae no patience with you and your professors. what need you aye to cast them up? canna you read your bible? it's that, and the blessing that was never yet withheld from any one that asked it with humility, that will put you in the way to find abiding peace, and an abiding portion at the last." "just so, mis' nasmyth," said mr snow, deprecatingly, and there was a little of the old twinkle in his eye. "but it does seem as though one might naturally expect a little help from them that are spoken of as the lights of the world; now don't it?" "there's no denying that, but if you must look about you, you needna surely fix your eyes on such crooked sticks as your fishes and your slowcomes. it's no breach o' charity to say that _they_ dinna adorn the doctrine. but there are other folk that i could name, that are both light and salt on the earth." "well, yes," admitted sampson; "since i've seen your folks, i've about got cured of one thing. i see now there is something in religion with some folks. your minister believes as he says, and has a good time, too. he's a good man." "you may say that, and you would say it with more emphasis if you had seen him as i have seen him for the last two twelve-months wading through deep waters." "yes, i expect he's just about what he ought to be. but then, if religion only changes folks in one case, and fails in ten." "man! it never fails!" exclaimed janet, with kindling eye. "it never failed yet, and never will fail while the heavens endure. and lad! take heed to yourself. that's satan's net spread out to catch your unwary soul. it may serve your turn now to jeer at professors, as you call them, and at their misdeeds that are unhappily no' few; but there's a time coming when it will fail you. it will do to tell the like of me, but it winna do to tell the lord in `that day.' you have a stumbling block in your own proud heart that hinders you more than all the fishes and slowcomes o' them, and you may be angry or no' as you like at me for telling you." sampson opened his eyes. "but you don't seem to see the thing just as it is exactly. i ain't jeering at professors or their misdeeds, i'm grieving for myself. if religion ain't changed them, how can i expect that it will change me; and i need changing bad enough, as you say." "if it hasna changed them, they have none of it," said mrs nasmyth, earnestly. "a christian, and no' a changed man! is he no' a sleeping man awakened, a dead man made alive--born again to a new life? has he not the spirit of god abiding in him? and no' changed!--no' that i wish to judge any man," added she, more gently. "we dinna ken other folk's temptations, or how small a spark of grace in the heart will save a man. we have all reason to be thankful that it's the lord and no' man that is to be our judge. maybe i have been over hard on those men." here was a wonder! mrs nasmyth confessing herself to have been hard upon the deacons. sampson did not speak his thoughts, however. he was more moved by his friend's earnestness than he cared to show. "well, i expect there's something in it, whether i ever see it with my own eyes or not," said he, as he rose to go. "ay, is there," said mrs nasmyth, heartily; "and there's no fear but you'll see it, when you ask in a right spirit that your eyes may be opened." "mis' nasmyth," said sampson, quietly and solemnly, "i may be deceiving myself in this matter. i seem to get kind o' bewildered at times over these things. but i do think i am in earnest. surely i'll get help some time?" "ay--that you will, as god is true. but oh man! go straight to _him_. it's between you and him, this matter. but winna you bide still? i daresay the minister will soon be at leisure now." "i guess not. i hadn't much particular to say to him. i can just as well come again." and without turning his face toward her, he went away. janet looked after him till the turn of the road hid him, saying to herself,-- "if the lord would but take him in hand, just to show what he could make of him. something to his praise, i hae no doubt--yankee though he be. god forgive me for saying it. i daresay i hae nae all the charity i might hae for them, the upsettin' bodies." chapter fourteen. even in quiet country places, there are changes many and varied wrought by the coming and going of seven years, and merleville has had its share of these since the time the minister's children looked upon the pleasant place with the wondering eyes of strangers. standing on the church-steps, one looks down on the same still hamlet, and over the same hills and valleys and nestling farm-houses. but the woods have receded in some places, and up from the right comes the sound of clashing machinery, telling that the merle river is performing its mission at last, setting in motion saws and hammers and spindles, but in so unpretending a manner that no miniature city has sprung up on its banks as yet; and long may that day be distant. the trees in the grave-yard cast a deeper shadow, and the white grave-stones seem to stand a little closer than of old. the tall, rank grass has many times been trodden by the lingering feet of the funeral-train, and fresh sods laid down above many a heart at rest forever. voices beloved, and voices little heeded, have grown silent during these seven years. some have died and have been forgotten; some have left a blank behind them which twice seven years shall have no power to fill. the people have changed somewhat, some for the better, some for the worse. judge merle has grown older. his hair could not be whiter than it was seven years ago, but he is bent now, and never forgets his staff as he takes his daily walk down the village street; but on his kindly face rests a look of peace, deeper and more abiding than there used to be. his kind and gentle wife is kind and gentle still. she, too, grows old, with a brightening face, as though each passing day were bringing her nearer to her hope's fulfilment. deacon sterne is growing older; his outward man gives no token thereof. his hair has been iron-grey, at least since anybody in merleville can remember, and it is iron-grey still. he looks as if seven times seven years could have no power to make his tall form less erect, or to soften the lines on his dark, grave face. and yet i am not sure. they say his face is changing, and that sometimes in the old meeting-house on sabbath afternoons, there has come a look over it as though a bright light fell on it from above. it comes at other times, too. his patient wife, pretending to look another way as he bends over the cradle of his wilful william's little son, yet turns stealthily to watch for the coming of the tender smile she has so seldom seen on her husband's face since the row of little graves was made in the church-yard long ago. by the deacon's fireside sits a pale, gentle woman, will's bride that was, will's sorrowing widow now. but though the grave has closed over him, whom his stern father loved better than all the world beside, there was hope in his death, and the mourner is not uncomforted; and for the deacon there are happier days in store than time has brought him yet. deacon slowcome has gone west, but, "yearning for the privileges he left behind,"--or not successful in his gains-getting, is about to return. deacon fish has gone west and has prospered. content in his heart to put the wonderful wheat crops in place of school and meeting, he yet deplores aloud, and in doleful terms enough, the want of these, and never ends a letter to a merleville crony without an earnest adjuration to "come over and help us." but on the whole, it is believed that, in his heart, deacon fish will not repine while the grain grows and the markets prosper. mr page is growing rich, they say, which is a change indeed. his nephew, timothy, having invented a wonderful mowing or reaping-machine, mr page has taken out a patent for the same, and is growing rich. mrs page enjoys it well, and goes often to rixford, where she has her gowns and bonnets made now; and patronises young mrs merle, and young mrs greenleaf, and does her duty generally very much to her own satisfaction, never hearing the whispered doubts of her old friends-- which are audible enough, too--whether she is as consistent as she ought to be, and whether, on the whole, her new prosperity is promoting her growth in grace. becky pettimore has got a home of her own, and feels as if she knows how to enjoy it. and so she does, if to enjoy it means to pick her own geese, and spin her own wool, and set her face like a flint against the admission of a speck of dirt within her own four walls. but it is whispered among some people, wise in these matters, that there is something going to happen in becky's home, which may, sometime or other, mar its perfect neatness, without, however, marring becky's enjoyment of it. it may be so, for hidden away in the corner of one of her many presses, is a little pillow of down, upon which no mortal head has ever rested, and which no eyes but becky's own have ever seen; and they fill with wonder and tenderness whenever they fall upon it; and so there is a chance that she may yet have more of home's enjoyments than geese or wool or dustless rooms can give. behind the elms, where the old brown house stood, stands now a snow-white cottage, with a vine-covered porch before it. it is neat without and neat within, though often there are children's toys and little shoes upon the floor. at this moment there is on the floor a row of chairs overturned, to make, not horses and carriages as they used to do in my young days, but a train of cars, and on one of them sits arthur elliott greenleaf, representing at once engine, whistle, conductor and freight. and no bad representative either, as far as noise is concerned, and a wonderful baby that must be who sleeps in the cradle through it all. beside the window, unruffled amid the uproar, sits celestia with her needle in her hand--a little paler, a little thinner than she used to be, and a little care-worn withal. for celestia is "ambitious," in good housewife phrase, and thereto many in merleville and beyond it who like to visit at her well-ordered home. the squire's newspaper nestles as peacefully amid the din as it used to do in the solitude of his little office seven years ago. he is thinner, too, and older, and more care-worn, and there is a look in his face suggestive of "appeals" and knotty points of law; and by the wrinkles on his brow and at the corners of his eyes, one might fancy he is looking out for the capitol and the white house in the distance still. "he is growing old while he is young," as mrs nasmyth says, "yankees have a knack of doing--standing still at middle age and never changing more." but despite the wrinkles, the squire's face is a pleasant one to see, and he has a way of turning back a paragraph or two to read the choice bits to celestia, which proves that he is not altogether absorbed in law or politics, but that he enjoys all he has, and all he hopes to be, the more that he has celestia to enjoy it with him. as for her, seven years have failed to convince her that mr greenleaf is not the gentlest, wisest, best in all the world. and as her opinion has survived an attack of dyspepsia, which for months held the squire in a giant's gripe, and the horrors of a contested election, in which the squire was beaten, it is to be supposed it will last through life. at this very moment her heart fills to the brim with love and wonder as he draws his chair a little nearer and says: "see, here, celestia. listen to what daniel webster says," and then goes on to read. "now, what do you think of that?" he asks, with sparkling eyes. hers are sparkling too, and she thinks just as he does, you may be sure, whatever that may be. not that she has a very clear idea of what has been read, as how could she amid rushing engines and railroad whistles, and the energetic announcement of the conductor that "the cars have got to boston." "see here, elliott, my son. ain't you tired riding?" asks papa, gently. "ain't you afraid you'll wake sister?" says mamma. "i wouldn't make quite so much noise, dear." "why, mother, i'm the cars," says elliott. "but hadn't you better go out into the yard? carlo! where's carlo? i haven't seen carlo for a long time. where's carlo?" it is evident solomon is not in the confidence of these good people. moral suasion is the order of the day. they often talk very wisely to each other, about the training of their children, and gravely discuss the prescriptions given long ago, for the curing of evils which come into the world with us all. they would fain persuade themselves that there is not so much need for them in the present enlightened age. they do not quite succeed, however, and fully intend to commence the training process soon. celestia, especially, has some misgivings, as she looks into the face of her bold, beautiful boy, but she shrinks from the thought of severe measures, and hopes that it will all come out right with him, without the wise king's medicine; and if mother's love and unfailing patience will bring things out right, there need be no fear for little elliott. it is a happy home, the greenleaf's. there are ease and comfort without luxury; there is necessity for exertion, without fear of want. there are many good and pretty things in the house, for use and ornament. there are pictures, books and magazines in plenty, and everything within and without goes to prove the truth of mr snow's declaration, that "the greenleafs take their comfort as they go along." but no change has come to anyone in merleville, so great as the change that has come to mr snow himself. death has been in his dwelling once--twice. his wife and his mother have both found rest, the one from her weary waiting, the other from her cares. the house to which sampson returns with lagging footsteps, is more silent than ever now. but a change greater than death can make, had come to sampson first, preparing him for all changes. it came to him as the sight of rushing water comes to the traveller who has been long mocked with the sound of it. it came, cleansing from his heart and from his life the dust and dimness of the world's petty cares, and vain pursuits. it found him weary of gains-getting, weary of toiling and moiling amid the dross of earth for that which could not satisfy, and it gave him for his own, the pearl which is above all price. weary of tossing to and fro, it gave him a sure resting-place, "a refuge whereunto he may continually resort," a peace that is abiding. with its coming the darkness passed away, and light to cheer and guide was his for evermore. behind the closed blinds of his deserted house, he was not alone. the promise, made good to so many in all ages, was made good to him. "he that loveth me shall be loved of my father, and we will come and make our abode with him." that wonderful change has come to him, which the world would fain deny-- the change which so many profess to have experienced, but which so few manifest in their lives. he has learned of the "meek and lowly." he is a christian at last. he has "experienced religion," the neighbours say, looking on with varied feelings to see what the end may be. sampson snow never did anything like anybody else, it was said. he "stood it" through "a season of interest," when deacons fish and slowcome had thought it best to call in the aid of the neighbouring ministers, to hold "a series of meetings." good, prudent men these ministers were, and not much harm was done, and some good. some were gathered into the church from the world; some falling back were restored; some weak ones were strengthened; some sorrowing ones comforted. and through all, the interested attention of mr snow never flagged. he attended all the meetings, listened patiently to the warnings of deacon fish, and the entreaties of deacon slowcome. he heard himself told by mr page that he was on dangerous ground, "within a few rods of the line of demarcation." he was formally given up as a hopeless case, and "left to himself", by all the tender-hearted old ladies in merleville, and never left the stand of a spectator through it all. then when deacons fish and slowcome, and all merleville with them, settled down into the old gloom again, his visits to the minister became more frequent, and more satisfactory, it seemed, for in a little time, to the surprise of all, it was announced in due form, that sampson snow desired to be admitted into fellowship with the church of merleville. after that time his foes watched for his halting in vain. different from other folks before, he was different from them still. he did not seem to think his duty for the week was done, when he had gone twice to meeting on the day time, and had spoken at conference on the sunday evening. indeed, it must be confessed, that he was rather remiss with regard to the latter duty. he did not seem to have the gift of speech on those occasions. he did not seem to have the power of advising or warning, or even of comforting, his neighbours. his gift lay in helping them. "inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me," were words that sampson seemed to believe. "he does folks a good turn, as though he would a little rather do it than not," said the widow lovejoy, and no one had a better right to know. as for the poor, weak, nervous rachel, who could only show her love for her husband, by casting all the burden of her troubles, real and imaginary, upon him, she could hardly love and trust him more than she had always done, but he had a greater power of comforting her now, and soon the peace that reigned in his heart influenced hers a little, and as the years went on, she grew content, at last, to bear the burdens god had laid upon her, and being made content to live and suffer on, god took her burden from her and laid her to rest, where never burden presses more. if his mother had ever really believed that no part of her son's happiness was made by his peevish, sickly wife, she must have acknowledged her mistake when poor rachel was borne away forever. she must have known it by the long hours spent in her silent room, by the lingering step with which he left it, by the tenderness lavished on every trifle she had ever cared for. "sampson seemed kind o' lost," she said; and her motherly heart, with all its worldliness, had a spot in it which ached for her son in his desolation. she did not even begrudge his turning to emily with a tender love. she found it in her heart to rejoice that the girl had power to comfort him as she could not. and little emily, growing every day more like the pretty rachel who had taken captive poor sampson's youthful fancy, did what earnest love could do to comfort him. but no selfishness mingled with her stepfather's love for emily. it cost him much to decide to send her from him for a while, but he did decide to do so. for he could not but see that emily's happiness was little cared for by his mother, even yet. she could not now, as in the old time, take refuge in her mother's room. she was helpful about the house too, and could not often be spared to her friends up the hill, or in the village; for old mrs snow, much as she hated to own it, could no longer do all things with her own hands, as she used to do. to be sure, she could have had help any day, or every day in the year; but it was one of the old lady's "notions" not to be able "to endure folks around her." and, besides, "what was the use of emily arnold?" and so, what with one thing and another, little emily's cheek began to grow pale; and the wilful gaze with which she used to watch her father's home-coming, came back to her eyes again. "there is no kind o' use for emily's being kept at work," said her father. "she ain't strong; and there's hannah lovejoy would be glad to come and help, and i'd be glad to pay her for it. emily may have a good time as well as not." but his mother was not to be moved. "girls used to have a good time and work too, when i was young. emily arnold is strong enough, if folks would let her alone, and not put notions in her head. and as for hannah, i'll have none of her." so mr snow saw that if emily was to have a good time it must be elsewhere; and he made up his mind to the very best thing he could have done for her. he fitted her out, and sent her to mount holyoke seminary; that school of schools for earnest, ambitions new england girls. and a good time she had there, enjoying all that was pleasant, and never heeding the rest. there were the first inevitable pangs of home-sickness, making her father doubt whether he had done best for his darling after all. but, in a little, her letters were merry and healthful enough. one would never have found out from them anything of the hardships of long stairs and the fourth storey, or of extra work on recreation day. pleasantly and profitably her days passed, and before she returned home at the close of the year, mrs snow had gone, where the household work is done without weariness. her father would fain have kept her at home then, but he made no objections to her return to school as she wished, and he was left to the silent ministrations of hannah lovejoy in the deserted home again. by the unanimous voice of his brethren in the church, he was, on the departure of deacons fish and slowcome, elected to fill the place of one of them, and in his own way he magnified the office. he was "lonesome, awful lonesome," at home; but cheerfulness came back to him again, and there is no one more gladly welcomed at the minister's house, and at many another house, than he. there have been changes in the minister's household, too. when his course in college was over, arthur came out to the rest. he lingered one delightful summer in merleville, and then betook himself to canada, to study his profession of the law. for arthur, wise as the merleville people came to think him, was guilty of one great folly in their eye. he could never, he said, be content to lose his nationality and become a yankee; so, for the sake of living in the queen's dominions, he went to canada; a place, in their estimation, only one degree more desirable as a place of residence than greenland or kamtschatka. that was five years ago. arthur has had something of a struggle since then. by sometimes teaching dull boys latin, sometimes acting as sub-editor for a daily paper, and at all times living with great economy, he has got through his studies without running much in debt; and has entered his profession with a fair prospect of success. he has visited merleville once since he went away, and his weekly letter is one of the greatest pleasures that his father and sisters have to enjoy. norman and harry have both left home, too. mr snow did his best to make a farmer first of the one and then of the other, but he failed. to college they went in spite of poverty, and having passed through honourably, they went out into the world to shift for themselves. norman writes hopefully from the far west. he is an engineer, and will be a rich man one day he confidently asserts, and his friends believe him with a difference. "he will make money enough," janet says, "but as to his keeping it, that's another matter." harry went to canada with the intention of following arthur's example and devoting himself to the law, but changed his mind, and is now in the merchant's counting-room; and sends home presents of wonderful shawls and gowns to janet and his sisters, intending to impress them with the idea that he is very rich indeed. those left at home, are content now to be without the absent ones; knowing that they are doing well their share in the world's work, and certain that whatever comes to them in their wanderings, whether prosperity to elate, or adversity to depress them, their first and fondest thought is, and ever will be, of the loving and beloved ones at home. chapter fifteen. the indian-summer-time was come again. the gorgeous glory of the autumn was gone, but so, for one day, at least, was its dreariness. there was no "wailing wind" complaining among the bare boughs of the elms. the very pines were silent. the yellow leaves, still lingering on the beech-trees in the hollow, rustled, now and then, as the brown nuts fell, one by one, on the brown leaves beneath. the frosts, sharp and frequent, had changed the torrent of a month ago into a gentle rivulet, whose murmur could scarce be heard as far as the gate over which graeme elliott leaned, gazing dreamily upon the scene before her. she was thinking how very lovely it was, and how very dear it had become to her. seen through "the smoky light," the purple hills beyond the water seemed not so far-away as usual. the glistening spire of the church on the hill, and the gleaming grave-stones, seemed strangely near. it looked but a step over to the village, whose white houses were quite visible among the leafless trees, and many farm-houses, which one could never see in summer for the green leaves, were peeping out everywhere from between the hills. "there is no place like merleville," graeme thinks in her heart. it is home to them all now. there were few but pleasant associations connected with the hills, and groves, and homesteads over which she was gazing. it came very vividly to her mind, as she stood there looking down, how she had stood with the bairns that first sabbath morning on the steps of the old meeting-house; and she strove to recall her feeling of shyness and wonder at all that she saw, and smiled to think how the faces turned to them so curiously that day were become familiar now, and some of them very dear. yes; merleville was home to graeme. not that she had forgotten the old home beyond the sea. but the thought of it came with no painful longing. even the memory of her mother brought now regret, indeed, and sorrow, but none of the loneliness and misery of the first days of loss, for the last few years had been very happy years to them all. and yet, as graeme stood gazing over to the hills and the village, a troubled, vexed look came over her face, and, with a gesture of impatience, she turned away from it all and walked up and down among the withered leaves outside the gate with an impatient tread. something troubled her with an angry trouble that she could not forget; and though she laughed a little, too, as she muttered to herself, it was not a pleasant laugh, and the vexed look soon came back again, indeed, it never went away. "it is quite absurd," she murmured, as she came within the gate, and then turned and leaned over it. "i won't believe it; and yet--oh, dear! what shall we ever do if it happens?" "it's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it?" said a voice behind her. graeme started more violently than there was any occasion for. it was only mr snow who had been in the study with her father for the last hour, and who was now on his way home. graeme scarcely answered him, but stood watching him, with the troubled look deepening on her face, as he went slowly down the road. mr snow had changed a good deal within these few years. he had grown a great deal greyer and graver, and graeme thought, with a little pang of remorse, as she saw him disappear round the turn of the road, that she had, by her coldness, made him all the graver. and yet she only half regretted it; and the vexed look came back to her face again, as she gathered up her work that had fallen to the ground and turned toward the house. there was no one in the usual sitting-room, no one in the bright kitchen beyond, and, going to the foot of the stairs, graeme raises her voice, which has an echo of impatience in it still, and calls: "mrs nasmyth." for janet is oftener called mrs nasmyth than the old name, even by the bairns now, except at such times as some wonderful piece of coaxing is to be done, and then she is janet, the bairn's own janet still. there was no coaxing echo in graeme's voice, however, but she tried to chase the vexed shadow from her face as her friend came slowly down the stairs. "are you not going to sit down?" asked graeme, as she seated herself on a low stool by the window. "i wonder where the bairns are?" "the bairns are gone down the brae," said mrs nasmyth; "and i'm just going to sit down to my seam a wee while." but she seemed in no hurry to sit down, and graeme sat silent for a little, as she moved quietly about the room. "janet," said she, at last, "what brings deacon snow so often up here of late?" janet's back was toward graeme, and, without turning round, she answered: "i dinna ken that he's oftener here than he used to be. he never stayed long away. he was ben the house with the minister. i didna see him." there was another pause. "janet," said graeme again, "what do you think mrs greenleaf told me all merleville is saying?" janet expressed no curiosity. "they say deacon snow wants to take you down the brae." still mrs nasmyth made no answer. "he hasna ventured to hint such a thing?" exclaimed graeme interrogatively. "no' to me," said janet, quietly, "but the minister." "the minister! he's no' blate! to think of him holding up his face to my father and proposing the like of that! and what did my father say?" "i dinna ken what he said to him; but to me he said he was well pleased that it should be so, and--" "janet!" graeme's voice expressed consternation as well as indignation, mrs nasmyth took no notice, but seated herself to her stocking-darning. "janet! if you think of such a thing for a moment, i declare i'll take second thoughts and go away myself." "weel, i aye thought you might have done as weel to consider a wee afore you gave mr foster his answer," said janet, not heeding graeme's impatient answer. "janet! a sticket minister!" "my dear, he's no' a sticket minister. he passed his examinations with great credit to himself. you hae your father's word for that, who was there to hear him. and he's a grand scholar--that's weel kent; and though he mayna hae the gift o' tongues like some folk, he may do a great deal of good in the world notwithstanding. and they say he has gotten the charge of a fine school now, and is weel off. i aye thought you might do worse than go with him. he's a good lad, and you would have had a comfortable home with him." "thank you. but when i marry it won't be to get a comfortable home. i'm content with the home i have." "ay, if you could be sure of keeping it," said janet, with a sigh; "but a good man and a good home does not come as an offer ilka day." "the deacon needna be feared to leave his case in your hands, it seems," said graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly. "miss graeme, my dear," said mrs nasmyth, gravely, "there's many a thing to be said of that matter; but it must be said in a different spirit from what you are manifesting just now. if i'm worth the keeping here, i'm worth the seeking elsewhere, and deacon snow has as good a right as another." "right, indeed! nobody has any right to you but ourselves. you are ours, and we'll never, never let you go." "it's no' far down the brae," said janet, gently. "janet! you'll never think of going! surely, surely, you'll never leave us now. and for a stranger, too! when you gave up your own mother and sandy, and the land you loved so well, to come here with us--!" graeme could not go on for the tears that would not be kept back. "miss graeme, my dear bairn, you were needing me then. nae, hae patience, and let me speak. you are not needing me now in the same way. i sometimes think it would be far better for you if i wasna here." graeme dissented earnestly by look and gesture, but she had no words. "it's true though, my dear. you can hardly say that you are at the head of your father's house, while i manage all things, as i do." but graeme had no desire to have it otherwise. "you can manage far best," said she. "that's no to be denied," said mrs nasmyth, gravely; "but it ought not to be so. miss graeme, you are no' to think that i am taking upon myself to reprove you. but do you think that your present life is the best to fit you for the duties and responsibilities that, sooner or later, come to the most of folk in the world? it's a pleasant life, i ken, with your books and your music, and your fine seam, and the teaching o' the bairns; but it canna last; and, my dear, is it making you ready for what may follow? it wouldna be so easy for you if i were away, but it might be far better for you in the end!" there was nothing graeme could answer to this, so she leaned her head upon her hand, and looked out on the brown leaves lying beneath the elms. "and if i should go," continued janet, "and there's many an if between me and going--but if i should go, i'll be near at hand in time of need--" "i know i am very useless," broke in graeme. "i don't care for these things as i ought--i have left you with too many cares, and i don't wonder that you want to go away." "whist, lassie. i never yet had too much to do for your mother's bairns; and if you have done little it's because you havena needed. and if i could aye stand between you and the burdens of life, you needna fear trouble. but i canna. miss graeme, my dear, you were a living child in your mother's arms before she was far past your age, and your brother was before you. think of the cares she had, and how she met them." graeme's head fell lower, as she repeated her tearful confession of uselessness, and for a time there was silence. "and, dear," said janet, in a little, "your father tells me that mr snow has offered to send for my mother and sandy. and oh! my bairn, my heart leaps in my bosom at the thought of seeing their faces again." she had no power to add more. "but, janet, your mother thought herself too old to cross the sea when we came, and that is seven years ago." "my dear, she kenned she couldna come, and it was as well to put that face on it. but she would gladly come now, if i had a home to give her." there was silence for a while, and then graeme said,-- "it's selfish in me, i know, but, oh! janet, we have been so happy lately, and i canna bear to think of changes coming." mrs nasmyth made no answer, for the sound of the bairns' voices came in at the open door, and in a minute marian entered. "where have you been, dear? i fear you have wearied yourself," said janet, tenderly. "we have only been down at mr snow's barn watching the threshing. but, indeed, i have wearied myself." and sitting down on the floor at janet's feet, she laid her head upon her lap. a kind, hard hand was laid on the bright hair of the bonniest of a' the bairns. "you mustna sit down here, my dear. lie down on the sofa and rest yourself till the tea be ready. have you taken your bottle to-day?" marian made her face the very picture of disgust. "oh! janet, i'm better now. i dinna need it. give it to graeme. she looks as if she needed something to do her good. what ails you, graeme?" "my dear," remonstrated janet, "rise up when i bid you; and go to the sofa, and i'll go up the stair for the bottle." marian laid herself wearily down. in a moment mrs nasmyth reappeared with a bottle and spoon in one hand, and a pillow in the other, and when the bitter draught was fairly swallowed, marian was laid down and covered and caressed with a tenderness that struck graeme as strange; for though janet loved them all well, she was not in the habit of showing her tenderness by caresses. in a little, marian slept. janet did not resume her work immediately, but sat gazing at her with eyes as full of wistful tenderness as ever a mother's could have been. at length, with a sigh, she turned to her basket again. "miss graeme," said she, in a little, "i dinna like to hear you speak that way about changes, as though they did not come from god, and as though he hadna a right to send them to his people when he pleases." "i canna help it, janet. no change that can come to us can be for the better." "that's true, but we must even expect changes that are for the worse; for just as sure as we settle down in this world content, changes will come. you mind what the word says, `as an eagle stirreth up her nest.' and you may be sure, if we are among the lord's children, he'll no leave us to make a portion of the rest and peace that the world gives. he is kinder to us than we would be to ourselves." a restless movement of the sleeper by her side, arrested janet's words, and the old look of wistful tenderness came back into her eyes as she turned toward her. graeme rose, and leaning over the arm of the sofa, kissed her softly. "how lovely she is!" whispered she. a crimson flush was rising on marian's cheeks as she slept. "ay, she was aye bonny," said janet, in the same low voice, "and she looks like an angel now." graeme stood gazing at her sister, and in a little janet spoke again. "miss graeme, you canna mind your aunt marian?" no, graeme could not. "menie is growing very like her, i think. she was bonnier than your mother even, and she kept her beauty to the very last. you ken the family werena well pleased when your mother married, and the sisters didna meet often till miss marian grew ill. they would fain have had her away to italy, or some far awa' place, but nothing would content her but just her sister, her sister, and so she came home to the manse. that was just after i came back again, after sandy was weaned; and kind she was to me, the bonny, gentle creature that she was. "for a time she seemed better, and looked so blooming--except whiles, and aye so bonny, that not one of them all could believe that she was going to die. but one day she came in from the garden, with a bonny moss-rose in her hand--the first of the season--and she said to your mother she was wearied, and lay down; and in a wee while, when your mother spoke to her again, she had just strength to say that she was going, and that she wasna feared, and that was all. she never spoke again." janet paused to wipe the tears from her face. "she was good and bonny, and our menie, the dear lammie, has been growing very like her this while. she 'minds me on her now, with the long lashes lying over her cheeks. miss marian's cheeks aye reddened that way when she slept. her hair wasna so dark as our menie's, but it curled of itself, like hers." mrs nasmyth turned grave pitying eyes toward graeme, as she ceased speaking. graeme's heart gave a sudden painful throb, and she went very pale. "janet," said she, with difficulty, "there is not much the matter with my sister, is there? it wasna that you meant about changes! menie's not going to die like our bonny aunt marian!" her tones grew shrill and incredulous as she went on. "i cannot tell. i dinna ken--sometimes i'm feared to think how it may end. but oh! miss graeme--my darling--" "but it is quite impossible--it can't be, janet," broke in graeme. "god knows, dear." janet said no more. the look on graeme's face showed that words would not help her to comprehend the trouble that seemed to be drawing near. she must be left to herself a while, and janet watched her as she went out over the fallen leaves, and over the bridge to the pine grove beyond, with a longing pity that fain would have borne her trouble for her. but she could not bear it for her--she could not even help her to bear it. she could only pray that whatever the end of their doubt for marian might be, the elder sister might be made the better and the wiser for the fear that had come to her to-day. there are some sorrows which the heart refuses to realise or acknowledge, even in knowing them to be drawing near. possible danger or death to one beloved is one of these; and as graeme sat in the shadow of the pines shuddering with the pain and terror which janet's words had stirred, she was saying it was impossible--it could not be true--it could never, _never_ be true, that her sister was going to die. she tried to realise the possibility, but she could not. when she tried to pray that the terrible dread might be averted, and that they might all be taught to be submissive in god's hands, whatever his will might be, the words would not come to her. it was, "no, no! no, no! it cannot be," that went up through the stillness of the pines; the cry of a heart not so much rebellious as incredulous of the possibility of pain so terrible. the darkness fell before she rose to go home again, and when she came into the firelight to the sound of happy voices, menie's the most mirthful of them all, her terrors seemed utterly unreasonable, she felt like one waking from a painful dream. "what could have made janet frighten herself and me so?" she said, as she spread out her cold hands to the blaze, all the time watching her sister's bright face. "graeme, tea's over. where have you been all this time?" asked rose. "my father was asking where you were. he wants to see you," said will. "i'll go ben now," said graeme, rising. the study lamp was on the table unlighted. the minister was sitting in the firelight alone. he did not move when the door opened, until graeme spoke. "i'm here, papa. did you want me?" "graeme, come in and sit down. i have something to say to you." she sat down, but the minister did not seem in haste to speak. he was looking troubled and anxious, graeme thought; and it suddenly came into her mind as she sat watching him, that her father was growing an old man. indeed, the last seven years had not passed so lightly over him as over the others. the hair which had been grey on his temples before he reached his prime, was silvery white now, and he looked bowed and weary as he sat there gazing into the fire. it came into graeme's mind as she sat there in the quiet room, that there might be other and sadder changes before them, than even the change that janet's words had implied. "my dear," said the minister, at last, "has mrs nasmyth been speaking to you?" "about--" menie, she would have asked, but her tongue refused to utter the word. "about mr snow," said her father, with a smile, and some hesitation. graeme started. she had quite forgotten. "mrs greenleaf told me something--and--" "i believe it is a case of true love with him, if such a thing can come to a man after he is fifty--as indeed why should it not?" said the minister. "he seems bent on taking janet from us, graeme." "papa! it is too absurd," said graeme, all her old vexation coming back. mr elliott smiled. "i must confess it was in that light i saw it first, and i had well nigh been so unreasonable as to be vexed with our good friend. but we must take care, lest we allow our own wishes to interfere with what may be for mrs nasmyth's advantage." "but, papa, she has been content with us all these years. why should there be a change now?" "if the change is to be for her good, we must try to persuade her to it, however. but, judging from what she said to me this afternoon, i fear it will be a difficult matter." "but, papa, why should we seek to persuade her against her own judgment." "my dear, we don't need to persuade her against her judgment, but against her affection for us. she only fears that we will miss her sadly, and she is not quite sure whether she ought to go and leave us." "but she has been quite happy with us." "yes, love--happy in doing what she believed to be her duty--as happy as she could be so far separated from those whom she must love better than she loves us even. i have been thinking of her to-night, graeme. what a self-denying life janet's has been! she must be considered first in this matter." "yes, if it would make her happier--but it seems strange that--" "graeme, mr snow is to send for her mother and her son. i could see how her heart leapt up at the thought of seeing them, and having them with her again. it will be a great happiness for her to provide a home for her mother in her old age. and she ought to have that happiness after such a life as hers." graeme sighed, and was silent. "if we had golden guineas to bestow on her, where we have copper coins only, we could never repay her love and care for us all; and it will be a matter of thankfulness to me to know that she is secure in a home of her own for the rest of her life." "but, papa, while we have a home, she will never be without one." "i know, dear, while we have a home. you need not tell me that; but graeme, there is only my frail life between you and homelessness. not that i fear for you. you are all young and strong, and the god whom i have sought to serve, will never leave my children. but janet is growing old, graeme, and i do think this way has been providentially opened to her." "if it were quite right to marry for a home, papa--" graeme hesitated and coloured. her father smiled. "mrs nasmyth is not so young as you, my dear. she will see things differently. and besides, she always liked and respected mr snow. i have no doubt she will be very happy with him." "we all liked him," said graeme, sighing. "but oh! i dread changes. i can't bear to break up our old ways." "graeme," said her father, gravely, "changes must come, and few changes can be for the better, as far as we are concerned. we have been very happy of late--so happy that i fear we were in danger of sitting down contented with the things of this life, and we need reminding. we may think ourselves happy if no sadder change than this comes to us." the thought of menie came back to graeme, with a pang, but she did not speak. "i know, dear," said her father, kindly, "this will come hardest upon you. it will add greatly to your cares to have mrs nasmyth leave us, but you are not a child now, and--" "oh, papa! it is not that--i mean it is not that altogether, but--" graeme paused. she was not sure of her voice, and she could not bear to grieve her father. in a little, she asked. "when is it to be?" "i don't know, indeed, but soon, i suppose; and my dear child, i trust to you to make smooth much that might otherwise be not agreeable in this matter to us all. the change you dread so much, will not be very great. our kind friend is not going very far-away, and there will be pleasant things connected with the change. i have no doubt, it will be for the best." "shall i light your lamp, papa?" said graeme, in a little while. "no, love, not yet. i have no mind for my book to-night." graeme stirred the fire, and moved about the room a little. when she opened the door, the sound of the children's voices came in merrily, and she shrunk from going out into the light. so she sat down in her accustomed place by the window, and thought, and listened to the sighs, that told her that her father was busy with anxious thoughts, too. "only my frail life between my children and homelessness," he had said. it seemed to graeme, as she sat there in the darkness, that since the morning, everything in the world had changed. they had been so at rest, and so happy, and now it seemed to her, that they could never settle down to the old quiet life again. "as an eagle stirreth up her nest," she murmured to herself. "well, i ought no' to fear the changes he brings--but, oh! i am afraid." chapter sixteen. the rest of the bairns received the tidings of the change that was going to take place among them, in a very different way from graeme. their astonishment at the idea of janet's marriage was great, but it did not equal their delight. graeme was in the minority decidedly, and had to keep quiet. but then janet was in the minority, too, and mr snow's suit was anything but prosperous for some time. indeed, he scarcely ventured to show his face at the minister's house, mrs nasmyth was so evidently out of sorts, anxious and unhappy. her unhappiness was manifested by silence chiefly, but the silent way she had of ignoring sampson and his claims, discouraging all approach to the subject, that lay so near the good deacon's heart, was worse to bear than open rebuff would have been; and while mrs nasmyth's silence grieved mr snow, the elaborate patience of his manner, his evident taking for granted that "she would get over it," that "it would all come right in the end," were more than she could sometimes patiently endure. "he's like the lave o' them," said she to graeme one day, after having closed the door, on his departure, with more haste than was at all necessary. "give a man an inch, and he'll take an ell. because i didna just set my face against the whole matter, when the minister first spoke about it, he's neither to hold nor bind, but `when will it be?' and `when will it be?' till i have no peace of my life with him." graeme could not help laughing at her excitement. "but, when will it be?" asked she. "my dear, i'm no sure that it will ever be." "janet!" exclaimed graeme. "what has happened?" "nothing has happened; but i'm no' sure but i ought to have put a stop to the matter at the very first. i dinna weel ken what to do." "janet," said graeme, speaking with some embarrassment, "my father thinks it right, and it does not seem so--so strange as it did at first--and you should speak to mr snow about it, at any rate." "to put him out o' pain," said janet, smiling grimly. "there's no fear o' him. but i'll speak to him this very night." and so she did, and that so kindly, that the deacon, taking heart, pleaded his own cause, with strong hopes of success. but janet would not suffer herself to be entreated. with tearful eyes, she told him of her fears for marian, and said, "it would seem like forsaking the bairns in their trouble, to leave them now." mr snow's kind heart was much shocked at the thought of marian's danger. she had been his favourite among the bairns, and emily's chief friend from the very first, and he could not urge her going away, now that there was so sorrowful a reason for her stay. "so you'll just tell the minister there is to be no more said about it. he winna ask any questions, i dare say." but in this janet was mistaken. he did ask a great many questions, and failing to obtain satisfactory answers, took the matter into his own hands, and named an early day for the marriage. in vain janet protested and held back. he said she had been thinking of others all her life, till she had forgotten how to think of herself, and needed some one to think and decide for her. as to marian's illness being an excuse, it was quite the reverse. if she was afraid marian would not be well cared for at home, she might take her down the brae; indeed, he feared there was some danger that he would be forsaken of all his children when she went away. and then he tried to thank her for her care of his motherless bairns, and broke down into a silence more eloquent than words. "and, my dear friend," said he, after a little, "i shall feel, when i am to be taken away, i shall not leave my children desolate, while they have you to care for them." so for mrs nasmyth there was no help. but on one thing she was determined. the day might be fixed, but it must be sufficiently distant to permit the coming home of the lads, if they could come. they might come or not, as it pleased them, but invited they must be. she would fain see them all at home again, and that for a better reason than she gave the minister. to mr snow, who doubted whether "them boys" would care to come so far at such expense, she gave it with a sadder face than he had ever seen her wear. "if they are not all together soon, they may never be together on earth again; and it is far better that they should come home, and have a few blithe days to mind on afterward, than that their first home-coming should be to a home with the shadow of death upon it. they must be asked, any way." and so they were written to, and in due time there came a letter, saying that both harry and arthur would be home for a week at the time appointed. from norman there came no letter, but one night, while they were wondering why, norman came himself. his first greeting to janet was in words of grave expostulation, that she should think of forsaking her "bairns" after all these years; but when he saw how grave her face became, he took it all back, and declared that he had been expecting it all along, and only wondered that matters had not been brought to a crisis much sooner. he rejoiced mr snow's heart, first by his hearty congratulations, and then by his awful threats of vengeance if mrs snow was not henceforth the happiest woman in merleville. norman was greatly changed by his two years' absence, more than either of his brothers, the sisters thought. arthur was just the same as ever, though he was an advocate and a man of business; and harry was a boy with a smooth chin and red cheeks, still. but, with norman's brown, bearded face the girls had to make new acquaintance. but, though changed in appearance, it was in appearance only. norman was the same mirth-loving lad as ever. he was frank and truthful, too, if he was still thoughtless; and graeme told herself many a time, with pride and thankfulness, that as yet, the world had not changed for the worse, the brother for whom she had dreaded its temptations most of all. norman's letters had always been longest and most frequent; and yet, it was he who had the most to tell. if his active and exposed life as an engineer at the west had anything unpleasant in it, this was kept out of sight at home, and his adventures never wearied the children. his "once upon a time" was the signal for silence and attention among the little ones; and even the older ones listened with interest to norman's rambling stories. nor did their interest cease when the sparkle in norman's eye told that his part in the tale was ended; and the adventures of an imaginary hero begun. there was one story which they were never tired of hearing. it needed none of norman's imaginary horrors to chase the blood from the cheeks of his sisters, when it was told. it was the story of the burning steamboat, and how little hilda bremer had been saved from it; the only one out of a family of eight. father, mother, brothers, all perished together; and she was left alone in a strange land, with nothing to keep here from despair but the kind words of strangers, uttered in a tongue that she could not understand. it would, perhaps, have been wiser in norman to have given her up to the kind people who had known her parents in their own land; but he had saved the child's life, and when she clung to him in her sorrow, calling him dear names in her own tongue, he could not bear to send her away. "these people were poor, and had many children of their own," said norman. "i would have thought it a hard lot for menie or rosie to go with them; and when she begged to stay with me, i could not send her with them. if it had not been so far, i would have sent her to you, graeme. but as i could not do that, i kept her with me while i stayed in c, and there i sent her to school. they say she bids fair to be a learned lady some day." this was an item of news that norman's letters had not conveyed. they only knew that he had saved hilda from the burning boat, and that he had been kind to her afterwards. "but norman, man, the expense!" said the prudent mrs nasmyth, "you havena surely run yourself in debt?" norman laughed. "no; but it has been close shaving sometimes. however, it would have been that anyway. i am afraid i have not the faculty for keeping money, and i might have spent it to worse purpose." "and is the little thing grateful?" asked graeme. "oh! yes; i suppose so. she is a good little thing, and is always glad to see me in her quiet way." "it's a pity she's no' bonny," said marian. "oh! she is bonny in german fashion; fair and fat." "how old is she?" asked mrs nasmyth. norman considered. "well, i really can't say. judging by her inches, i should say about rosie's age. but she is wise enough and old-fashioned enough to be rosie's grandmother. she's a queer little thing." "tell us more," said rose; "do you go to see her often?" "as often as i can. she is very quiet; she was the only girl among the eight, and a womanly little thing even then. you should hear her talk about her little business matters. my dear mrs nasmyth, you need not be afraid of my being extravagant, with such a careful little woman to call me to account. "i have a great mind to send her home to you in the spring, graeme. it seems very sad for a child like her to be growing up with no other home but a school. she seems happy enough, however." "and would she like to come?" "she says she wouldn't; but, of course, she would like it, if she were once here. i must see about it in the spring." the wedding-day came, and in spite of many efforts to prevent it, it was rather a sad day to them all. it found janet still "in a swither." she could not divest herself of the idea that she was forsaking "the bairns." "and, oh! miss graeme, my dear, if it werena for the thought of seeing my mother and sandy, my heart would fail me quite. and are you quite sure that you are pleased now, dear?" "janet, it was because i was selfish that i wasna pleased from the very first; and you are not really going away from us, only just down the brae." graeme did not look very glad, however. but if the wedding-day was rather sad, thanksgiving-day, that soon followed, was far otherwise. it was spent at the deacon's. miss lovejoy distinguished herself forever by her chicken-pies and fixings. mr and mrs snow surpassed themselves as host and hostess; and even the minister was merry with the rest. emily was at home for the occasion; and though at first she had been at a loss how to take the change, menie's delight decided her, and she was delighted, too. they grew quiet in the evening but not sad. seated around the fire in the parlour, the young people spoke much of the time of their coming to merleville. and then, they went further back, and spoke about their old home, and their mother, and their long voyage on the "steadfast." "i wonder what has become of allan ruthven," said marian. "it's strange that you have never seen him, arthur." "i may have seen him twenty times without knowing him. you mind, i was not on the `steadfast' with you." "but harry saw him; and, surely, he could not have changed so much but that he would know him now if he saw him." "and do you know no one of the name?" asked graeme. "i have heard of several ruthvens in canada west. and the house of elphinstone and gilchrist have a western agent of that name. do you know anything about him, harry? who knows but he may be allan ruthven of the `steadfast.'" "no, i thought he might be, and made inquiries," said harry. "but that ruthven seems quite an old fogey. he has been in the employment of that firm ever since the flood,--at least, a long time. do you mind allan ruthven, menie?" "mind him!" that she did. menie was very quiet to-night, saying little, but listening happily as she lay on the sofa, with her head on graeme's knee. "allan was the first one i heard say our menie was a beauty," said norman. "menie, do you mind?" menie laughed. "yes, i mind." "but i think rosie was his pet. graeme, don't you mind how he used to walk up and down the deck, with rosie in his arms?" "but that was to rest graeme," said harry. "miss rosie was a small tyrant in those days." rosie shook her head at him. "eh! wasna she a cankered fairy?" said norman, taking rosie's fair face between his hands. "graeme had enough ado with you, i can tell you." "and with you, too. never heed him, rosie," said graeme, smiling at her darling. "i used to admire graeme's patience on the `steadfast'," said harry. "i did that before the days of the `steadfast,'" said arthur. rosie pouted her pretty lips. "i must have been an awful creature." "oh! awful," said norman. "a spoilt bairn, if ever there was one," said harry. "i think i see you hiding your face, and refusing to look at any of us." "i never thought graeme could make anything of you," said norman. "graeme has though," said the elder sister, laughing. "i wouldna give my bonny scottish rose, for all your western lilies, norman." and so they went on, jestingly. "menie," said arthur, suddenly, "what do you see in the fire?" menie was gazing with darkening eyes, in among the red embers. she started when her brother spoke. "i see--oh! many things. i see our old garden at home,--in clayton, i mean--and--" "it must be an imaginary garden, then. i am sure you canna mind that." "mind it! indeed i do. i see it as plainly as possible, just as it used to be. only somehow, the spring and summer flowers all seem to be in bloom together. i see the lilies and the daisies, and the tall white rose-bushes blossoming to the very top." "and the broad green walk," said harry. "and the summer-house." "and the hawthorn hedge." "and the fir trees, dark and high." "and the two apple trees." "yes,--the tree of life, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, i used to think them," said norman. "and i, too," said menie. "whenever i think of the garden of eden, i fancy it like our garden at home." "your imagination is not very brilliant, if you can't get beyond _that_ for paradise," said arthur, laughing. "well, maybe not, but i always do think of it so. oh! it was a bonny place. i wish i could see it again." "well, you must be ready to go home with me, in a year or two," said norman. "you needna laugh, graeme, i am going home as soon as i get rich." "in a year or two! you're nae blate!" "oh! we winna need a great fortune, to go home for a visit. we'll come back again. it will be time enough to make our fortune then. so be ready, menie, when i come for you." "many a thing may happen, before a year or two," said marian, gravely. "many a thing, indeed," said graeme and norman, in a breath. but while graeme gazed with sudden gravity into her sister's flushed face, norman added, laughingly. "i shouldn't wonder but you would prefer another escort, before that time comes. i say, menie, did anybody ever tell you how bonny you are growing?" menie laughed, softly. "oh! yes. emily told me when she came home; and so did harry. and you have told me so yourself to-day, already." "you vain fairy! and do you really think you're bonny?" "janet says, i'm like aunt marian, and she was bonnier even than mamma." "like aunt marian!" graeme remembered janet's words with a pang. but she strove to put the thought from her; and with so many bright faces round her, it was not difficult to do to-night. surely if marian were ill, and in danger, the rest would see it too. and even janet's anxiety had been at rest for a while. menie was better now. how merry she had been with her brothers for the last few days. and though she seemed very weary to-night, no wonder. so were they all. even rosie, the tireless, was half asleep on arthur's knee, and when all the pleasant bustle was over, and they were settled down in their old quiet way, her sister would be herself again. nothing so terrible could be drawing near, as the dread which janet had startled herewith that day. "emily," said harry, "why do you persist in going back to that horrid school? why don't you stay at home, and enjoy yourself?" "i'm not going to any horrid school," said emily. "you can't make me believe that you would rather be at school than at home, doing as you please, and having a good time with rose and menie here." emily laughed. "i would like that; but i like going back to school too." "but you'll be getting so awfully wise that there will be no talking to you, if you stay much longer." "in that case, it might do you good to listen," said emily, laughing. "but you are altogether too wise already," harry persisted. "i really am quite afraid to open my lips in your presence." "we have all been wondering at your strange silence, and lamenting it," said arthur. "but, indeed, i must have a word with the deacon about it," said harry. "i can't understand how he has allowed it so long already. i must bring my influence to bear on him." "you needn't," said emily. "i have almost prevailed upon graeme, to let menie go back with me. there will be two learned ladies then." graeme smiled, and shook her head. "not till summer. we'll see what summer brings. many things may happen before summer," she added, gravely. they all assented gravely too, but not one of them with any anxious thought of trouble drawing near. they grew quiet after that, and each sat thinking, but it was of pleasant things mostly; and if on anyone there fell a shadow for a moment, it was but with the thought of the morrow's parting, and never with the dread that they might not all meet on earth again. chapter seventeen. they all went away--the lads and emily, and quietness fell on those that remained. the reaction from the excitement in which they had been living for the last few weeks was very evident in all. even will and rosie needed coaxing to go back to the learning of lessons, and the enjoyment of their old pleasures; and so graeme did not wonder that marian was dull, and did not care to exert herself. the weather had changed, too, and they quite agreed in thinking it was much nicer to stay within doors than to take their usual walks and drives. so marian occupied the arm-chair or the sofa, with work in her hand, or without it, as the case might be, and her sister's fears with regard to her were, for a time, at rest. for she did not look ill; she was as cheerful as ever, entering into all the new arrangements which janet's departure rendered necessary with interest, and sharing with graeme the light household tasks that fell to her lot when the "help" was busy with heavier matters. there was not much that was unpleasant, for the kind and watchful eyes of mrs snow were quite capable of keeping in view the interests of two households, and though no longer one of the family, she was still the ruling spirit in their domestic affairs. with her usual care for the welfare of the bairns, she had sent the experienced hannah lovejoy up the brae, while she contented herself with "breaking in" sephronia, hannah's less helpful younger sister. there was a great difference between the service of love that had all their life long shielded them from trouble and annoyance, and miss lovejoy's abrupt and rather familiar ministrations. but hannah was faithful and capable, indeed, "a treasure," in these days of destitution in the way of help; and if her service was such as money could well pay, she did not grudge it, while her wages were secure; and housekeeping and its responsibilities were not so disagreeable to graeme as she had feared. indeed, by the time the first letter from norman came, full of mock sympathy for her under her new trials, she was quite as ready to laugh at herself as any of the rest. her faith in hannah was becoming fixed, and it needed some expostulations from mrs snow to prevent her from letting the supreme power, as to household matters, pass into the hands of her energetic auxiliary. "my dear," said she, "there's many a thing that hannah could do well enough, maybe better than you could, for that matter; but you should do them yourself, notwithstanding. it's better for her, and it's better for you, too. every woman should take pleasure in these household cares. if they are irksome at first they winna be when you are used to them; and, my dear, it may help you through many an hour of trouble and weariness to be able to turn your hand to these things. there is great comfort in it sometimes." graeme laughed, and suggested other resources that might do as well to fall back upon in a time of trouble, but mrs snow was not to be moved. "my dear, that may be all true. i ken books are fine things to keep folk from thinking, for a time; but the trouble that is put away that way comes back on one again; and it's only when folk are doing their duty that the lord gives them abiding comfort. i ken by myself. there have been days in my life when my heart must have been broken, or my brain grown crazed, if i hadna needed to do this and to do that, to go here and to go there. my dear, woman's work, that's never done, is a great help to many a one, as well as me. and trouble or no trouble, it is what you ought to know and do in your father's house." so graeme submitted to her friend's judgment, and conscientiously tried to become wise in all household matters, keeping track of pieces of beef and bags of flour, of breakfasts, dinners and suppers, in a way that excited admiration, and sometimes other feelings, in the mind of the capable hannah. so a very pleasant winter wore on, and the days were beginning to grow long again, before the old dread was awakened in graeme. for only in one way was marian different from her old self. she did not come to exert herself. she was, perhaps, a little quieter, too, but she was quite cheerful, taking as much interest as ever in home affairs and in the affairs of the village. almost every day, after the sleighing became good, she enjoyed a drive with graeme or her father, or with mr snow in his big sleigh after the "bonny greys." they paid visits, too, stopping a few minutes at judge merle's or mr greenleaf's, or at some other friendly home in the village; and if their friends' eyes grew grave and very tender at the sight of them, it did not for a long time come into graeme's mind that it was because they saw something that was invisible as yet to hers. so the time wore on, and not one in the minister's happy household knew that each day that passed so peacefully over them was leaving one less between them and a great sorrow. the first fear was awakened in graeme by a very little thing. after several stormy sabbaths had kept her sister at home from church, a mild, bright day came, but it did not tempt her out. "i am very sorry not to go, graeme," said she; "but i was so weary last time. let me stay at home to-day." so she stayed; and all the way down the hill and over the valley the thought of her darkened the sunlight to her sister's eyes. nor was the shadow chased away by the many kindly greetings that awaited her at the church door; for no one asked why her sister was not with her, but only how she seemed to-day. it was well that the sunshine, coming in on the corner where she sat, gave her an excuse for letting fall her veil over her face, for many a bitter tear fell behind it. when the services were over, and it was time to go home, she shrunk from answering more inquiries about marian, and hastened away, though she knew that mrs merle was waiting for her at the other end of the broad aisle, and that mrs greenleaf had much ado to keep fast hold of her impatient boy till she should speak a word with her. but she could not trust herself to meet them and to answer them quietly, and hurried away. so she went home again, over the valley and up the hill with the darkness still round her, till menie's bright smile and cheerful welcome chased both pain and darkness away. but when the rest were gone, and the sisters were left to the sabbath quiet of the deserted home, the fear came back again, for in a little marian laid herself down with a sigh of weariness, and slept with her cheek laid on the bible that she held in her hand. as graeme listened to her quick breathing, and watched the hectic rising on her cheek, she felt, for the moment, as though all hope were vain. but she put the thought from her. it was too dreadful to be true; and she chid herself for always seeing the possible dark side of future events, and told herself that she must change in this respect. with all her might she strove to reason away the sickening fear at her heart, saying how utterly beyond belief it was that menie could be going to die--menie, who had always been so well and so merry. she was growing too fast, that was all; and when the spring came again, they would all go to some quiet place by the sea-shore, and run about among the rocks, and over the sands, till she should be well and strong as ever again. "if spring were only come!" she sighed to herself. but first there were weeks of frost and snow, and then weeks of bleak weather, before the mild sea-breezes could blow on her drooping flower, and graeme could not reason her fears away; nor when the painful hour of thought was over, and menie opened her eyes with a smile, did her cheerful sweetness chase it away. after this, for a few days, graeme grow impatient of her sister's quietness, and strove to win her to her old employments again. she would have her struggle against her wish to be still, and took her to ride and to visit, and even to walk, when the day was fine. but this was not for long. menie yielded always, and tried with all her might to seem well and not weary; but it was not always with success; and graeme saw that it was in vain to urge her beyond her strength; so, in a little, she was allowed to fall back into her old ways again. "i will speak to doctor chittenden, and know the worst," said graeme, to herself, but her heart grew sick at the thought of what the worst might be. by and by there came a mild bright day, more like april than january. mr elliott had gone to a distant part of the parish for the day, and had taken will and rosie with him, and the sisters were left alone. graeme would have gladly availed herself of deacon snow's offer to lend them grey major, or to drive them himself for a few miles. the day was so fine, she said to menie; but she was loth to go. it would be so pleasant to be a whole day quite alone together. or, if graeme liked, they might send down for janet in the afternoon. graeme sighed, and urged no more. "we can finish our book, you know," went on menie. "and there are the last letters to read to mrs snow. i hope nobody will come in. we shall have such a quiet day." but this was not to be. there was the sound of sleigh-bells beneath the window, and graeme looked out. "it is doctor chittenden," said she. marian rose from the sofa, trying, as she always did, when the doctor came, to look strong and well. she did not take his visits to herself. doctor chittenden had always come now and then to see her father, and if his visits had been more frequent of late they had not been more formal or professional than before. graeme watched him as he fastened his horse, and then went to the door to meet him. "my child," said he, as he took her hand, and turned her face to the light, "are you quite well to-day?" "quite well," said graeme; but she was very pale, and her cold hand trembled in his. "you are quite well, i see," said he, as marian came forward to greet him. "i ought to be," said marian, laughing and pointing to an empty bottle on the mantelpiece. "i see. we must have it replenished." "don't you think something less bitter would do as well?" said marian, making a pitiful face. "graeme don't think it does me much good." "miss graeme had best take care how she speaks disrespectfully of my precious bitters. but, i'll see. i have some doubts about them myself. you ought to be getting rosy and strong upon them, and i'm afraid you are not," said he, looking gravely into the fair pale face that he took between his hands. he looked up, and met graeme's look fixed anxiously upon him. he did not avert his quickly as he had sometimes done on such occasions. the gravity of his look deepened as he met hers. "where has your father gone?" asked he. "to the bell neighbourhood, for the day. the children have gone with him, and graeme and i are going to have a nice quiet day," said marian. "_you_ are going with me," said the doctor. "with you!" "yes. have you any objections?" "no. only i don't care to ride just for the sake of riding, without having anywhere to go." "but, i am going to take you somewhere. i came for that purpose. mrs greenleaf sent me. she wants you to-day." "but, i can go there any time. i was there, not long ago; i would rather stay at home to-day with graeme, thank you." "and what am i to say to mrs greenleaf? no, i'm not going without you. so, get ready and come with me." menie pouted. "and graeme had just consented to my staying at home quietly for the day." "which does not prove miss graeme's wisdom," said the doctor. "why, child, how many april days do you think we are going to have in january? be thankful for the chance to go out; for, if i am not much mistaken, we are to have a storm that will keep us all at home. miss graeme, get your sister's things. it is health for her to be out in such a day." graeme went without a word, and when she came back the doctor said,-- "there is no haste. i am going farther, and will call as i come back. lie down, dear child, and rest just now." graeme left the room, and as the doctor turned to go out, she beckoned him into the study. "you don't mean to tell me that menie is in danger?" said she, with a gasp. "i am by no means sure what i shall say to you. it will depend on how you are likely to listen," said the doctor, gravely. graeme strove to command herself and speak calmly. "anything is better than suspense." then, laying her hand on his arm, she added, "she is not worse! surely you would have told us!--" "my dear young lady, calm yourself. she is not worse than she has been. the chances of recovery are altogether in her favour. the indications of disease are comparatively slight--that is, she has youth on her side, and a good constitution. if the month of march were over, we would have little to fear with another summer before us. your mother did not die of consumption?" "no, but--" the remembrance of what janet had told her about their "bonny aunt marian" took away graeme's power to speak. "well, we have everything to hope if we can see her safely through the spring without taking cold, and you must keep her cheerful." "she is always cheerful." "well--that's well. you must not let her do anything to weary herself. i don't like the stove-heat for her. you should let her sleep in the other room where the fireplace is. when the days are fine, she must be well wrapped up and go out, and i will send her something. my dear, you have no occasion for despondency. the chances are all in her favour." he went toward the door, but came back again, and after walking up and down the room for a little, he came close to graeme. "and if it were not so, my child, you are a christian. if the possibility you have been contemplating should become a reality, ought it to be deplored?" a strong shudder passed over graeme. the doctor paused, not able to withstand the pain in her face. "nay, my child--if you could keep her here and assure to her all that the world can give, what would that be in comparison with the `rest that remaineth?' for her it would be far better to go, and for you--when your time comes to lie down and die--would it sooth you then to know that she must be left behind, to travel, perhaps, with garments not unspotted, all the toilsome way alone?" graeme's face drooped till it was quite hidden, and her tears fell fast. her friend did not seek to check them. "i know the first thought is terrible. but, child! the grave is a safe place in which to keep our treasures. mine are nearly all there. i would not have it otherwise--and they are safe from the chances of a changeful world. you will be glad for yourself by and by. you should be glad for your sister now." "if i were sure--if i were quite sure," murmured graeme through her weeping. "sure that she is going home?" said the doctor, stooping low to whisper the words. "i think you may be sure--as sure as one can be in such a case! it is a great mystery. your father will know best. god is good. pray for her." "my father! he does not even think of danger." graeme clasped her hands with a quick despairing motion. "miss graeme," said the doctor, hastily, "you must not speak to your father yet. marian's case is by no means hopeless, and your father must be spared all anxiety at present. a sudden shock might--" he paused. "is not my father well? has he not quite recovered?" asked graeme. "quite well, my dear, don't be fanciful. but it will do no good to disturb him now. i will speak to him, or give you leave to speak to him, if it should become necessary. in the meantime you must be cheerful. you have no cause to be otherwise." it was easy to say "be cheerful." but graeme hardly hoped for her sister, after that day. often and often she repeated to herself the doctor's words, that there was no immediate danger, but she could take no comfort from them. the great dread was always upon her. she never spoke of her fears again, and shrank from any allusion to her sister's state, till her friends--and even the faithful janet, who knew her so well--doubted whether she realised the danger, which was becoming every day more apparent to them all. but she knew it well, and strove with all her power, to look calmly forward to the time when the worst must come; and almost always, in her sister's presence, she strove successfully. but these quiet, cheerful hours in marian's room, were purchased by hours of prayerful agony, known only to him who is full of compassion, even when his chastisements are most severe. chapter eighteen. no. none knew so well as graeme that her sister was passing away from among them; but even she did not dream how near the time was come. even when the nightly journey up-stairs was more than marian could accomplish, and the pretty parlour, despoiled of its ornaments, became her sick-room, graeme prayed daily for strength to carry her through the long months of watching, that she believed were before her. as far as possible, everything went on as usual in the house. the children's lessons were learned, and recited as usual, generally by marian's side for a time, but afterwards they went elsewhere, for a very little thing tired her now. still, she hardly called herself ill. she suffered no pain, and it was only after some unusual exertion that she, or others, realised how very weak she was becoming day by day. her work-basket stood by her side still, for though she seldom touched it now, graeme could not bear to put it away. their daily readings were becoming brief and infrequent. one by one their favourite books found their accustomed places on the shelves, and remained undisturbed. within reach of her hand lay always menie's little bible, and now and then she read a verse or two, but more frequently it was graeme's trembling lips, that murmured the sweet familiar words. almost to the very last she came out to family worship with the rest, and when she could not, they went in to her. and the voice, that had been the sweetest of them all, joined softly and sweetly still in their song of praise. very quietly passed these last days and nights. many kind inquiries were made, and many kind offices performed for them, but for the most part the sisters were left to each other. even the children were beguiled into frequent visits to mrs snow and others, and many a tranquil hour did the sisters pass together. tranquil only in outward seeming many of these hours were to graeme, for never a moment was the thought of the parting, that every day brought nearer, absent from her, and often when there were smiles and cheerful words upon her lips, her heart was like to break for the desolation that was before them. "graeme," said marian, one night, as the elder sister moved restlessly about the room, "you are tired to-night. come and lie down beside me and rest, before will and rosie come home." weary graeme was, and utterly despondent, with now and then such bitter throbs of pain, at her heart, that she felt she must get away to weep out her tears alone. but she must have patience a little longer, and so, lying down on the bed, she suffered the wasted arms to clasp themselves about her neck, and for a time the sisters lay cheek to cheek in silence. "graeme," said marian, at last, "do you think papa kens?" "what love?" "that i am going soon. you know it, graeme?" graeme's heart stirred with a sudden throb of pain. there was a rushing in her ears, and a dimness before her eyes, as though the dreaded enemy had already come, but she found voice to say, softly,-- "you're no' feared, menie?" "no," said she, quickly, then raising herself up, and leaning close over, so as to see her sister's face, she added, "do you think i need to fear, graeme?" if she had had a thousand worlds to give, she would have given all to know that her little sister, standing on the brink of the river of death, need not fear to enter it. "none need fear who trust in jesus," said she, softly. "no. and i do trust him. who else could i trust, now that i am going to die? i know he is able to save." "all who come to him," whispered graeme. "my darling, have you come?" "i think he has drawn me to himself. i think i am his very own. graeme, i know i am not wise like you--and i have not all my life been good, but thoughtless and wilful often--but i know that i love jesus, and i think he loves me, too." she lay quietly down again. "graeme, are you afraid for me?" "i canna be afraid for one who trusts in jesus." it was all she could do to say it, for the cry that was rising to her lips from her heart, in which sorrow was struggling with joy. "there is only one thing that sometimes makes me doubt," said marian, again. "my life has been such a happy life. i have had no tribulation that the bible speaks of--no buffetting--no tossing to and fro. i have been happy all my life, and happy to the end. it seems hardly fair, graeme, when there are so many that have so much suffering." "god has been very good to you, dear." "and you'll let me go willingly, graeme?" "oh! menie, must you go. could you no' bide with us a little while?" said graeme, her tears coming fast. a look of pain came to her sister's face. "graeme," said she, softly; "at first i thought i couldna bear to go and leave you all. but it seems easy now. and you wouldna bring back the pain, dear?" "no, no! my darling." "at first you'll all be sorry, but god will comfort you. and my father winna have long to wait, and you'll have rosie and will--and, graeme, you will tell papa?" "yes, i will tell him." "he'll grieve at first, and i could not bear to see him grieve. after he has time to think about it, he will be glad." "and arthur, and all the rest--" murmured graeme. a momentary shadow passed over marian's face. "oh! graeme, at first i thought it would break my heart to leave you all--but i am willing now. god, i trust, has made me willing. and after a while they will be happy again. but they will never forget me, will they, graeme?" "my darling! never!" "sometimes i wish i had known--i wish i had been quite sure, when they were all at home. i would like to have said something. but it doesna really matter. they will never forget me." "we will send for them," said graeme, through her tears. "i don't know. i think not. it would grieve them, and i can bear so little now. and we were so happy the last time. i think they had best not come, graeme." but the words were slow to come, and her eyes turned, oh! so wistfully, to her sister's face, who had no words with which to answer. "sometimes i dream of them, and when i waken, i do so long to see them," and the tears gathered slowly in her eyes. "but it is as well as it is, perhaps. i would rather they would think of me as i used to be, than to see me now. no, graeme, i think i will wait." in the pause that followed, she kissed her sister softly many times. "it won't be long. and, graeme--i shall see our mother first--and you must have patience, and wait. we shall all get safe home at last--i am quite, _quite_ sure of that." a step was heard at the door, and mrs snow entered. "weel, bairns!" was all she said, as she sat down beside them. she saw that they were both much moved, and she laid her kind hand caressingly on the hair of the eldest sister, as though she knew she was the one who needed comforting. "have the bairns come?" asked menie. "no, dear, i bade them bide till i went down the brae again. do you want them home?" "oh no! i only wondered why i didna hear them." the wind howled drearily about the house, and they listened to it for a time in silence. "it's no' like spring to-night, janet," said menie. "no, dear, it's as wintry a night as we have had this while. but the wind is changing to the south now, and we'll soon see the bare hills again." "yes; i hope so," said menie, softly. "are you wearying for the spring, dear?" "whiles i weary." but the longing in those "bonny e'en" was for no earthly spring, janet well knew. "i aye mind the time when i gathered the snowdrops and daisies, and the one rose, on my mother's birthday. it was long before this time of the year--and it seems long to wait for spring." "ay, i mind; but that was in the sheltered garden at the ebba. there were no flowers blooming on the bare hills in scotland then more than here. you mustna begin to weary for the spring yet. you'll get down the brae soon, maybe, and then you winna weary." menie made no answer, but a spasm passed over the face of graeme. the same thought was on the mind of all the three. when menie went down the brae again, it must be with eyelids closed, and with hands folded on a heart at rest forever. "janet, when will sandy come? have you got a letter yet?" "yes; i got a letter to-day. it winna be long now." "oh! i hope not. i want to see him and your mother. i want them to see me, too. sandy would hardly mind me, if he didna come till afterwards." "miss graeme, my dear," said mrs snow, hoarsely, "go ben and sit with your father a while. it will rest you, and i'll bide with menie here." graeme rose, and kissing her sister, softly went away. not into the study, however, but out into the darkness, where the march wind moaned so drearily among the leafless elms, that she might weep out the tears which she had been struggling with so long. up and down the snow-encumbered path she walked, scarce knowing that she shivered in the blast. conscious only of one thought, that menie must die, and that the time was hastening. yes. it was coming very near now. god help them all. weary with the unavailing struggle, weary to faintness with the burden of care and sorrow, she had borne through all these months of watching, to-night she let it fall. she bowed herself utterly down. "so let it be! god's will be done!" and leaning with bowed head and clasped hands over the little gate, where she had stood in many a changing mood, she prayed as twice or thrice in a lifetime. god gives power to his children to pray--face to face--in his very presence. giving her will and wish up quite, she lay at his feet like a little child, chastened, yet consoled, saying not with her lips, but with the soul's deepest breathing, "i am thine. save me." between her and all earthly things, except the knowledge that her sister was dying, a kindly veil was interposed. no foreshadowing of a future more utterly bereaved than menie's death would bring, darkened the light which this momentary glimpse of her lord revealed. in that hour she ate angel's food, and from it received strength to walk through desert places. she started as a hand was laid upon her shoulder, but her head drooped again as she met mr snow's look, so grave in its kindliness. "miss graeme, is it best you should be out here in the cold?" "no," said graeme, humbly. "i am going in." but she did not move even to withdraw herself from the gentle pressure of his hand. "miss graeme," said he, as they stood thus with the gate between them, "hadn't you better give up now, and let the lord do as he's a mind to about it?" "yes," said graeme, "i give up. his will be done." "amen!" said her friend, and the hand that rested on her shoulder was placed upon her head, and graeme knew that in "the golden vials full of odours" before the throne, deacon snow's prayer for her found a place. she opened the gate and held it till he passed through, and then followed him up the path into hannah's bright kitchen. "will you go in and see papa, or in there?" asked she, glancing towards the parlour door, and shading her eyes as she spoke. "well, i guess i'll sit down here. it won't be long before mis' snow'll be going along down. but don't you wait. go right in to your father." graeme opened the study-door and went in. "i will tell him to-night," said she. "god help us." her father was sitting in the firelight, holding an open letter in his hand. "graeme," said he, as she sat down, "have you seen janet?" "yes, papa. i left her with marian, a little ago." "poor janet!" said her father, sighing heavily. no one was so particular as the minister in giving janet her new title. it was always "mistress snow" or "the deacon's wife" with him, and graeme wondered to-night. "has anything happened?" asked she. "have you not heard? she has had a letter from home. here it is. her mother is dead." the letter dropped from graeme's outstretched hand. "yes," continued her father. "it was rather sudden, it seems--soon after she had decided to come out here. it will be doubly hard for her daughter to bear on that account. i must speak to her, poor janet!" graeme was left alone to muse on the uncertainly of all things, and to tell herself over and over again, how vain it was to set the heart on any earthly good. "poor janet!" well might her father say; and amid her own sorrow graeme grieved sincerely for the sorrow of her friend. it was very hard to bear, now that she had been looking forward to a happy meeting, and a few quiet years together after their long separation. it did seem very hard, and it was with a full heart that in an hour afterward, when her father returned, she sought her friend. mr snow had gone home and his wife was to stay all night, graeme found when she entered her sister's room. marian was asleep, and coming close to mrs snow, who sat gazing into the fire, graeme knelt down beside her and put her arm's about her neck without a word. at first graeme thought she was weeping. she was not; but in a little she said, in a voice that showed how much her apparent calmness cost her, "you see, my dear, the upshot of all our fine plans." "oh, janet! there's nothing in all the world that we can trust in." "ay, you may weel say that. but it is a lesson that we are slow to learn; and the lord winna let us forget." there was a pause. "when was it?" asked graeme, softly. "six weeks ago this very night, i have been thinking, since i sat here. her trouble was short and sharp, and she was glad to go." "and would she have come?" "ay, lass, but it wasna to be, as i might have kenned from the beginning. i thought i asked god's guiding, and i was persuaded into thinking i had gotten it. but you see my heart was set on it from the very first--guiding or no guiding--and now the lord has seen fit to punish me for my self-seeking." "oh, janet!" said graeme, remonstratingly. "my dear, it's true, though it sets me ill to vex you with saying it now. i have more need to take the lesson to heart. may the lord give me grace to do it." graeme could say nothing, and janet continued-- "it's ill done in me to grieve for her. she is far better off than ever i could have made her with the best of wills, and as for me--i must submit." "you have sandy still." "aye, thank god. may he have him in his keeping." "and he will come yet." "yes, i have little doubt. but i'll no' set myself to the hewing out of broken cisterns this while again. the lord kens best." after that night mrs snow never left the house for many hours at a time till menie went away. graeme never told her father of the sorrow that was drawing near. as the days went on, she saw by many a token, that he knew of the coming parting, but it did not seem to look sorrowful to him. he was much with her now, but all could see that the hours by her bedside were not sorrowful ones to him or to her. but to graeme he did not speak of her sister's state till near the very last. they were sitting together in the firelight of the study, as they seldom sat now. they had been sitting thus a long time--so long that graeme, forgetting to wear a cheerful look in her father's presence, had let her weary eyes close, and her hands drop listlessly on her lap. she looked utterly weary and despondent, as she sat there, quite unconscious that her father's eyes were upon her. "you are tired to-night, graeme," said he, at last. graeme started, but it was not easy to bring her usual look back, so she busied herself with something at the table and did not speak. her father sighed. "it will not be long now." graeme sat motionless, but she had no voice with which to speak. "we little thought it was our bonny menie who was to see her mother first. think of the joy of that meeting, graeme!" graeme's head drooped down on the table. if she had spoken a word, it must have been with a great burst of weeping. she trembled from head to foot in her effort to keep herself quiet. her father watched her for a moment. "graeme, you are not grudging your sister to such blessedness?" "not now, papa," whispered she, heavily. "i am almost willing now." "what is the happiest life here--and menie's has been happy--to the blessedness of the rest which i confidently believe awaits her, dear child?" "it is not that i grudge to let her go, but that i fear to be left behind." "ay, love! but we must bide god's time. and you will have your brothers and rose, and you are young, and time heals sore wounds in young hearts." graeme's head drooped lower. she was weeping unrestrainedly but quietly now. her father went on-- "and afterwards you will have many things to comfort you. i used to think in the time of my sorrow, that its suddenness added to its bitterness. if it had ever come into my mind that your mother might leave me, i might have borne it better, i thought. but god knows. there are some things for which we cannot prepare." there was a long silence. "graeme, i have something which i must say to you," said her father, and his voice showed that he was speaking with an effort. "if the time comes--when the time comes--my child, i grieve to give you pain, but what i have to say had best be said now; it will bring the time no nearer. my child, i have something to say to you of the time when we shall no longer be together--" graeme did not move. "my child, the backward look over one's life, is so different from the doubtful glances one sends into the future. i stand now, and see all the way by which god has led me, with a grieved wonder, that i should ever have doubted his love and care, and how it was all to end. the dark places, and the rough places that once made my heart faint with fear, are, to look back upon, radiant with light and beauty--mounts of god, with the bright cloud overshadowing them. and yet, i mind groping about before them, like a bond man, with a fear and dread unspeakable. "my child, are you hearing me? oh! if my experience could teach you! i know it cannot be. the blessed lesson that suffering teaches, each must bear for himself; and i need not tell you that there never yet was sorrow sent to a child of god, for which there is no balm. you are young; and weary and spent as you are to-night, no wonder that you think at the sight, of the deep wastes you may have to pass, and the dreary waters you may have to cross. but there is no fear that you will be alone, dear, or that he will give you anything to do, or bear, and yet withhold the needed strength. are you hearing me, my child?" graeme gave a mute sign of assent. "menie, dear child, has had a life bright and brief. yours may be long and toilsome, but if the end be the same, what matter! you may desire to change with her to-night, but we cannot change our lot. god make us patient in it,--patient and helpful. short as your sister's life has been, it has not been in vain. she has been like light among us, and her memory will always be a blessedness--and to you graeme, most of all." graeme's lips opened with a cry. turning, she laid her face down on her father's knee, and her tears fell fast. her father raised her, and clasping her closely, let her weep for a little. "hush, love, calm yourself," said he, at last. "nay," he added, as she would have risen, "rest here, my poor tired graeme, my child, my best comforter always." graeme's frame shook with sobs. "don't papa--i cannot bear it--" she struggled with herself, and grew calm again. "forgive me, papa. i know i ought not. and indeed, it is not because i am altogether unhappy, or because i am not willing to let her go--" "hush, love, i know. you are your mother's own patient child. i trust you quite, graeme, and that is why i have courage to give you pain. for i must say more to-night. if anything should happen to me--hush, love. my saying it does not hasten it. but when i am gone, you will care for the others. i do not fear for you. you will always have kind friends in janet and her husband, and will never want a home while they can give you one, i am sure. but graeme, i would like you all to keep together. be one family, as long as possible. so if arthur wishes you to go to him, go all together. he may have to work hard for a time, but you will take a blessing with you. and it will be best for all, that you should keep together." the shock which her father's words gave, calmed graeme in a moment. "but, papa, you are not ill, not more than you have been?" "no, love, i am better, much better. still, i wished to say this to you, because it is always well to be prepared. that is all i had to say, love." but he clasped her to him for a moment still, and before he let her go, he whispered, softly,-- "i trust you quite, love, and you'll bring them all home safe to your mother and me." it was not very long after this, a few tranquil days and nights only, and the end came. they were all together in marian's room, sitting quietly after worship was over. it was the usual time for separating for the night, but they still lingered. not that any of them thought it would be to-night. mrs snow might have thought so, for never during the long evening, had she stirred from the side of the bed, but watched with earnest eyes, the ever changing face of the dying girl. she had been slumbering quietly for a little while, but suddenly, as mrs snow bent over her more closely, she opened her eyes, and seeing something in her face, she said, with an echo of surprise in her voice,-- "janet, is it to be to-night? are they all here? papa, graeme. where is graeme?" they were with her in a moment, and graeme's cheek was laid on her sister's wasted hand. "well, my lammie!" said her father, softly. "papa! it is not too good to be true, is it?" her father bent down till his lips touched her cheek. "you are not afraid, my child?" afraid! no, it was not fear he saw in those sweet triumphant eyes. her look never wandered from his face, but it changed soon, and he knew that the king's messenger was come. murmuring an inarticulate prayer, he bowed his head in the awful presence, and when he looked again, he saw no more those bonny eyes, but janet's toil-worn hand laid over them. graeme's cheek still lay on her sister's stiffening hand, and when they all rose up, and her father, passing round the couch put his arm about her, she did not move. "there is no need. let her rest! it is all over now, the long watching and waiting! let the tired eyelids close, and thank god for the momentary forgetfulness which he has given her." chapter nineteen. that night, graeme slept the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion, and the next day, whenever her father or mrs snow stole in to look at her, she slept or seemed to sleep still. "she is weary," they said, in whispers. "let her rest." kind neighbours came and went, with offers of help and sympathy, but nothing was suffered to disturb the silence of the now darkened chamber. "let her rest," said all. but when the next night passed, and the second day was drawing to a close, mrs snow became anxious, and her visits were more frequent. graeme roused herself to drink the tea that she brought her, and to mrs snow's question whether she felt rested, she said, "oh! yes," but she closed her eyes, and turned her face away again. janet went out and seated herself in the kitchen, with a picture of utter despondency. just then, her husband came in. "is anything the matter?" asked he, anxiously. "no," said his wife, rousing herself. "only, i dinna ken weel what to do." "is miss graeme sick? or is she asleep?" "i hope she's no' sick. i ken she's no sleeping. but she ought to be roused, and when i think what she's to be roused to--. but, if she wants to see her sister, it must be before--before she's laid in--" a strong shudder passed over her. "oh! man! it's awful, the first sight of a dear face in the coffin--" "need she see her again?" asked mr snow. "oh! yes, i doubt she must. and the bairns too, and it will soon be here, now." "her father," suggested mr snow. "he has seen her. he was there for hours, both yesterday and to-day. but he is asleep now, and he has need of rest. i canna disturb him." "couldn't you kind of make her think she was needed--to her father or the little ones? she would rouse herself if they needed her." "that's weel said," said mrs snow, gratefully. "go you down the brae for the bairns, and i'll go and speak to her again." "miss graeme, my dear," said she, softly; "could you speak to me a minute?" her manner was quite calm. it was so like the manner in which graeme had been hundreds of times summoned to discuss domestic matters, that without seeming to realise that there was anything peculiar in the time or circumstances, she opened her eyes and said, quietly,-- "well, what is it, janet?" "my dear, it is the bairns. there is nothing the matter with them," added she hastily, as graeme started. "they have been down the brae with emily all the day, but they are coming home now; and, my dear, they havena been ben yonder, and i think they should see her before--before she's moved, and i dinna like to disturb your father. my bairn, are you able to rise and take will and wee rosie ben yonder." graeme raised herself slowly up. "janet, i have been forgetting the bairns." mrs snow had much ado to keep back her tears; but she only said cheerfully: "my dear, you were weary, and they have had emily." she would not be tender with her, or even help her much in her preparations; though her hands trembled, and she touched things in a vague, uncertain way, as though she did not know what she was doing. janet could not trust herself to do what she would like to have done; she could only watch her without appearing to do so, by no means sure that she had done right in rousing her. she was ready at last. "are they come?" asked graeme, faintly. "no, dear. there's no haste. rest yourself a wee while. my dear, are you sure you are quite able for it?" added she, as graeme rose. "yes, i think so. but i would like to go alone, first." "my poor lamb! if i were but sure that i have been right," thought janet, as she sat down to wait. an hour passed, and when the door opened, and graeme came out again, the fears of her faithful friend were set at rest. "she hasna' been alone all this time, as i might have known," said janet to herself, with a great rush of hidden tears. "i'm faithless, and sore beset myself whiles, but i needna fear for them. the worst is over now." and was the worst over? after that was the covering of the beloved forever from their sight, and the return to the silent and empty home. there was the gathering up of the broken threads of their changed life; the falling back on their old cares and pleasures, all so much the same, and yet so different. there was the vague unbelief in the reality of their sorrow, the momentary forgetfulness, and then the pang of sudden remembrance,--the nightly dreams of her, the daily waking to find her gone. by and by, came letters from the lads; those of norman and harry full of bitter regrets, which to graeme seemed almost like reproaches, that they had not been sent for before the end; and the grief of those at home came back strong and fresh again. the coming of the "bonny spring days" for which norman had so wished, wakened "vain longings for the dead." the brooks rose high, and the young leaves rustled on the elms; and all pleasant sounds spoke to them with menie's voice. the flowers which she had planted,--the may-flower and the violets by the garden path, looked at them with menie's eyes. the odour of the lilacs, by the gate, and of the pine trees on the hill came with that mysterious power to awaken old associations, bringing back to graeme the memory of the time when they first came to the house on the hill, when they were all at home together, and menie was a happy child. all these things renewed their sorrow, but not sharply or bitterly. it was the sorrow of chastened and resigned hearts, coming back with hopeful patience to tread the old paths of their daily life, missing the lost one, and always with a sense of waiting for the time when they shall meet again, but quite content. and mrs snow, watching both the minister and graeme, "couldna be thankful enough" for what she saw. but as the weeks passed on there mingled with her thankfulness an anxiety which she herself was inclined to resent. "as though the lord wasna bringing them through their troubles in a way that was just wonderful," she said to herself, many a time. at last, when the days passed into weeks, bringing no colour to the cheeks, and no elasticity to the step of graeme, she could not help letting her uneasiness be seen. "it's her black dress that makes her look so pale, ain't it?" said mr snow, but his face was grave, too. "i dare say that makes a difference, and she is tired to-day, too. she wearied herself taking the flowers and things over yonder," said mrs snow, glancing towards the spot where the white grave-stones gleamed out from the pale, green foliage of spring-time. "and no wonder. even emily was over tired, and hasna looked like herself since. i dare say i'm troubling myself when there is no need." "the children, will, and rosie, don't worry her with their lessons, do they?" "i dinna ken. sometimes i think they do. but she would weary far more without them. we must have patience. it would never do to vex the minister with fears for her." "no, it won't do to alarm him," said mr snow, with emphasis; and he looked very grave. in a little he opened his lips as if to say more, but seemed to change his mind. "it ain't worth while to worry her with it. i don't more than half believe it myself. doctors don't know everything. it seems as though it couldn't be so--and if it is so, it's best to keep still about it-- for a spell, anyhow." and mr snow vaguely wished that doctor chittenden had not overtaken him that afternoon, or that they had not talked so long and so gravely beneath the great elms. "and the doctor ain't given to talking when he had ought to keep still. can't nothing be done for him? i'll have a talk with the squire, anyhow." that night mr and mrs snow were startled by a message from graeme. her father had been once or twice before sharply and suddenly seized with illness. the doctor looked very grave this time, but seeing graeme's pale, anxious face, he could not find it in his heart to tell her that this was something more than the indigestion which it had been called--severe but not dangerous. the worst was over for this time, and graeme would be better able to bear a shock by and by. the minister was better, but his recovery was very slow--so slow, that for the first time during a ministry of thirty years he was two sabbaths in succession unable to appear in his accustomed place in the pulpit. it was this which depressed him and made him grow so grave and silent, graeme thought, as they sat together in the study as it began to grow dark. she roused herself to speak cheerfully, so as to win him from the indulgence of his sad thoughts. "shall i read to you, papa? you have hardly looked at the book that mr snow brought. i am sure you will like it. shall i read awhile." "yes, if you like; by and by, when the lamp is lighted. there is no haste. i have been thinking as i sat here, graeme--and i shall find no better time than this to speak of it to you--that--" but what he had been thinking graeme was not to hear that night, for a hand was laid on the study-door, and in answer to graeme's invitation, mr and mrs snow came in, "just to see how the folks were getting along," said mr snow, as graeme stirred the fire into a blaze. but there was another and a better reason for the visit, as he announced rather abruptly after a little. "they've been talking things over, down there to the village, and they've come to the conclusion that they'd better send you off--for a spell--most anywhere--so that you come back rugged again. some say to the seaside, and some say to the mountains, but _i_ say to canada. it's all fixed. there's no trouble about ways and means. it's in gold, to save the discount," added he, rising, and laying on the table something that jingled. "for they do say they are pretty considerable careful in looking at our bills, up there in canada, and it is all the same to our folks, gold or paper," and he sat down again, as though there was enough said, and then he rose as if to go. graeme was startled, and so was her father. "sit down, deacon, and tell me more. no, i'm not going to thank you-- you need not run away. tell me how it happened." "they don't think papa so very ill?" said graeme, alarmed. "well--he ain't so rugged as he might be--now is he?" said mr snow, seating himself. "but he ain't so sick but that he can go away a spell, with you to take care of him--i don't suppose he'd care about going by himself. and mis' snow, and me--we'll take care of the children--" "and what about this, deacon?" asked mr elliott, laying his hand on the purse that sampson had placed on the table. but mr snow had little to say about it. if he knew where the idea of the minister's holidays originated, he certainly did not succeed in making it clear to the minister and graeme. "but that matters little, as long as it is to be," said mrs snow, coming to the deacon's relief. "and it has all been done in a good spirit, and in a proper and kindly manner, and from the best of motives," added she, looking anxiously from graeme to her father. "you need not be afraid, my kind friends," said mr elliott, answering her look, while his voice trembled. "the gift shall be accepted in the spirit in which it is offered. it gives me great pleasure." "and, miss graeme, my dear," continued mrs snow, earnestly, "you needna look so grave about it. it is only what is right and just to your father--and no favour--though it has been a great pleasure to all concerned. and surely, if i'm satisfied, you may be." sampson gave a short laugh. "she's changed her mind about us merleville folks lately--" "whist, man! i did that long ago. and, miss graeme, my dear, think of seeing your brothers, and their friends, and yon fine country, and the grand river that harry tells us of! it will be almost like seeing scotland again, to be in the queen's dominions. my dear, you'll be quite glad when you get time to think about it." "yes--but do they really think papa is so ill?" she had risen to get a light, and mrs snow had followed her from the room. "ill? my dear, if the doctor thought him ill would he send him from home? but he needs a rest, and a change--and, my dear, you do that yourself, and i think it's just providential. not but that you could have gone without their help, but this was done in love, and i would fain have you take pleasure in it, as i do." and graeme did take pleasure in it, and said so, heartily, and "though it wasna just the thing for the sabbath night," as janet said, they lingered a little, speaking of the things that were to be done, or to be left undone, in view of the preparations for the journey. they returned to the study with the light just as mr elliott was saying,-- "and so, i thought, having the prospect of but few sabbaths, i would like to spend them all at home." janet's first impulse was to turn and see whether graeme had heard her father's words. she evidently had not, for she came in smiling, and set the lamp on the table. there was nothing reassuring in the gravity of her husband's face, mrs snow thought, but his words were cheerful. "well, yes, i vote for canada. we ain't going to believe all the boys say about it, but it will be a cool kind of place to go to in summer, and it will be a change, to say nothing of the boys." graeme laughed softly. the boys would not have been the last on her list of good reasons, for preferring canada as the scene of their summer wanderings. she did not join in the cheerful conversation that followed, however, but sat thinking a little sadly, that the meeting with the boys, in their distant home, would be sorrowful as well as joyful. if mrs snow had heard anything from her husband, with regard to the true state of the minister's health, she said nothing of it to graeme, and she went about the preparations for their journey cheerfully though very quietly. indeed, if her preparations had been on a scale of much greater magnificence, she needed not have troubled herself about them. ten pairs of hands were immediately placed at her disposal, where half the number would have served. her affairs were made a personal matter by all her friends. each vied with the others in efforts to help her and save her trouble; and if the reputation of merleville, for all future time, had depended on the perfect fit of graeme's one black silk, or on the fashion of her grey travelling-dress, there could not, as mrs snow rather sharply remarked, "have been more fuss made about it." and she had a chance to know, for the deacon's house was the scene of their labours of love. for mrs snow declared "she wouldna have the minister and miss graeme fashed with nonsense, more than all their proposed jaunt would do them good, and so what couldna be redone there needna be done at all." but mrs snow's interest and delight in all the preparations were too real and manifest, to permit any of the willing helpers to be offended at her sharpness. in her heart mrs snow was greatly pleased, and owned as much in private, but in public, "saw no good in making a work about it," and, on behalf of the minister and his daughter, accepted the kindness of the people as their proper right and due. when mrs page identified herself with their affairs, and made a journey to rixford for the purpose of procuring the latest boston fashion for sleeves, before graeme's dress should be made, she preserved the distant civility of manner, with which that lady's advances were always met; and listened rather coldly to graeme's embarrassed thanks, when the same lady presented her with some pretty lawn handkerchiefs; but she was warm enough in her thanks to becky pettimore--i beg her pardon, mrs eli stone--for the soft lamb's wool socks, spun and knitted for the minister by her own hands, and her regrets that her baby's teeth would not permit her to join the sewing parties, were far more graciously received than were mrs page's profuse offers of assistance. on the whole, it was manifest that mrs snow appreciated the kindness of the people, though she was not quite impartial in her bestowment of thanks; and, on the whole, the people were satisfied with the "deacon's wife," and her appreciation of them and their favours. nothing could be more easily seen, than that the deacon's wife had greatly changed her mind about many things, since the minister's janet used "to speak her mind to the merleville folk," before they were so well known to her. as for graeme, her share in the business of preparation was by no means arduous. she was mostly at home with the bairns, or sharing the visits of her father to the people whom he wished to see before he went away. it was some time before will and rosie could be persuaded that it was right for graeme to leave them, and that it would be altogether delightful to live all the time at mr snow's, and go to school in the village--to the fine new high-school, which was one of the evidences of the increasing prosperity of merleville. but they were entirely persuaded of it at last, and promised to become so learned, that graeme should afterward have nothing to teach them. about the little ones, the elder sister's heart was quite at rest. it was not the leaving them alone, for they were to be in the keeping of the kind friend, who had cared for them all their lives. graeme never ceased to remember those happy drives with her father, on his gentle ministrations to the sick and sorrowful of his flock, in those days. she never thought of the cottage at the foot of the hill, but she seemed to see the suffering face of the widow lovejoy, and her father's voice repeating,-- "god is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." long afterwards, when the laughter of little children rose where the widow's groans had risen, graeme could shut her eyes and see again the suffering face--the dooryard flowers, the gleaming of the sunlight on the pond-- the very shadows of the maples on the grass. then it was her sorrowful delight to recall those happy hours of quiet converse, the half sad, half joyful memories which her father loved to dwell upon--the firm and entire trust for the future, of which his words assured her. afterwards it came to her, that through all this pleasant time, her father was looking at a possibility to which her eyes were shut. he had spoke of her mother as he had seldom spoken even to graeme, of the early days of their married-life--of all she had been to him, of all she had helped him to be and to do. and more than once he said,-- "you are like your mother, graeme, in some things, but you have not her hopeful nature. you must be more hopeful and courageous, my child." he spoke of marian, graeme remembered afterward. not as one speaks of the dead, of those who are hidden from the sight, but as of one near at hand, whom he was sure to meet again. of the lads far-away, he always spoke as "your brothers, graeme." he spoke hopefully, but a little anxiously, too. "for many a gallant bark goes down when its voyage is well nigh over; and there is but one safe place of anchorage, and i know not whether they have all found it yet. not that i am afraid of them. i believe it will be well with them at last. but in all the changes that may be before you, you will have need of patience. you must be patient with your brothers, graeme; and be faithful to them, love, and never let them wander unchecked from what is right, for your mother's sake and mine." he spoke of their leaving home, and very thankfully of the blessings that had followed them since then; of the kindness of the people, and his love to them; and of the health and happiness of all the bairns, "of whom one has got home before me, safely and soon." "we might have come here, love, had your mother lived. and yet, i do not know. the ties of home and country are strong, and there was much to keep us there. her departure made all the rest easy for me, and i am quite convinced our coming was for the best. there is only one thing that i have wished, and i know it is a vain thing." he paused a moment. "of late i have sometimes thought--i mean the thought has sometimes come to me unbidden--that i would like to rest beside her at last. but it is only a fancy. i know it will make no difference in the end." if graeme grew pale and trembled as she listened, it was with no dread that she could name. if it was forced upon her that the time must come when her father must leave them, it lay in her thoughts, far-away. she saw his grave dimly as a place of rest, when the labours of a long life should be ended; she had no thought of change, or separation, or of the blank that such a blessed departure must leave. the peace, which had taken possession of his mind had its influence on hers, and she "feared no evil." afterwards, when the thought of this time and of these words came back she chid herself with impatience, and a strange wonder, that she should not have seen and understood all that was in his thought--forgetting in her first agony how much better was the blessed repose of these moments, than the knowledge of her coming sorrow could have made them. they all passed the rides and visits and the happy talks together. the preparations for the journey were all made. the good-byes were said to all except to mrs snow and emily. the last night was come, and graeme went round just as she always did, to close the doors and windows before she went to bed. she was tired, but not too tired to linger a little while at the window, looking out upon the scene, now so familiar and so dear. the shadows of the elms lay dark on the town, but the moonlight gleamed bright on the pond, and on the white houses of the village, and on the white stones in the grave-yard, grown precious to them all as menie's resting-place. how peaceful it looked! graeme thought of her sister's last days, and joyful hope, and wondered which of them all should first be called to lie down by menie's side. she thought of the grave far-away on the other side of the sea, where they had laid her mother with her baby on her breast; but her thoughts were not all sorrowful. she thought of the many happy days that had come to them since the time that earth had been left dark and desolate by their mother's death, and realised for the moment how true it was, as her father had said to her, that god suffers no sorrow to fall on those who wait on him, for which he does not also provide a balm. "i will trust and not be afraid," she murmured. she thought of her brothers and of the happy meeting that lay before them, but beyond their pleasant holiday she did not try to look; but mused on till her musings lost themselves in slumber, and changed to dreams. at least, she always thought she must have fallen asleep, and that it was the sudden calling of her name, that awakened her with a start. she did not hear it when she listened for it again. she did not think of rosie or will, but went straight to her father's room. through the half-open door, she saw that the bed was undisturbed, and that her father sat in the arm-chair by the window. the lamp burned dimly on the table beside him, and on the floor lay an open book, as it had fallen from his hand. the moonlight shone on his silver hair, and on his tranquil face. there was a smile on his lips, and his eyes were closed, as if in sleep; but even before she touched his cold hand, graeme knew that from that sleep her father would never waken more. chapter twenty. it was a very changed life that opened before the bairns when arthur took them home with him to montreal. a very dismal change it seemed to them all, on the first morning when their brothers left them alone. home! could it ever seem like home to them? think of the dwellers among the breezy hills of merleville shut up in a narrow brick house in a close city street. graeme had said that if they could all keep together, it did not so much matter how or where; but her courage almost failed as she turned to look out of the window that first morning. before her lay a confined, untidy yard, which they were to share with these neighbours; and beyond that, as far as could be seen, lay only roofs and chimneys. from the room above the view was the same, only the roofs and chimneys stretched farther away, and here and there between them showed the dusty bough of a maple or elm, or the ragged top of a lombardy poplar, and, in the distance, when the sun shone, lay a bright streak, which they came at last to know as harry's grand river. on the other side, toward the street, the window looked but on a brick wall, over which hung great willow-boughs shading half the street. the brick wall and the willows were better than the roofs and chimney-tops, rosie thought; but it was a dreary sort of betterness. from graeme's room above were seen still the wall and the willows, but over the wall and between the willows was got a glimpse of a garden--a very pretty garden. it was only a glimpse--a small part of a circular bit of green grass before the door of a handsome house, and around this, and under the windows, flowers and shrubs of various kinds. there was a conservatory at one end, but of that they saw nothing but a blinding glare when the sun shone on it--many panes of glass when the sun was gone. the garden seemed to extend behind the house; but they could only see a smooth gravel walk with an edge of green. clumps of evergreens and horse-chestnuts hid all the rest. but even these were very beautiful; and this glimpse of a rich man's garden, from an upper window, was the redeeming feature in their new home. for it was summer--the very prime of summer-time--and except for that little glimpse of garden, and the dusty maple boughs, and the ragged tops of the poplars, it might just as well have been winter. there was nothing to remind them of summer, but the air hanging over them hot and close, or sweeping in sudden dust-laden gusts down the narrow street. yes; there was the long streak of blue, which harry called the river, seen from the upper window; but it was only visible in sunny days, at least it only gleamed and sparkled then; it was but a dim, grey line at other times. how changed their life was; how they drooped and pined for the sights and sounds and friends of merleville. "if there were but a green field in sight, or a single hill," said rosie; but she always added, "how nice it is to have the willow trees and the sight of the garden." for rose was by no means sure that their longing for green fields and hills and woods was not wrong. it seemed like ingratitude to arthur, this pining for the country and their old home; and these young girls from the very first made a firm stand against the home-sickness that came upon them. not that home-sickness is a sickness that can be cured by struggling against it; but they tried hard to keep the knowledge of it from their brothers. whatever happened during the long days, they had a pleasant breakfast-hour and a pleasant evening together. they seldom saw their brothers at other times during the first few months. harry's hours were long, and arthur's business was increasing so as to require close attention. this was a matter of much rejoicing to graeme, who did not know that all arthur's business was not strictly professional--that it was business wearisome enough, and sometimes bringing in but little, but absolutely necessary for that little's sake. graeme and rosie were at home alone, and they found the days long and tedious often, though they conscientiously strove to look at all things from their best and brightest side. for a while they were too busy--too anxious for the success of their domestic plans, to have time for home-sickness. but when the first arrangements were made--when the taste and skill of graeme, and the inexhaustible strength of their new maid, nelly anderson, had changed the dingy house into as bright and pleasant a place as might well be in a city street, then came the long days and the weariness. then came upon graeme that which janet had predicted, when she so earnestly set her face against their going away from merleville till the summer was over. her fictitious strength failed her. the reaction from all the exertion and excitement of the winter and spring came upon her now, and she was utterly prostrate. she did not give up willingly. indeed, she had no patience with herself in the miserable state into which she had fallen. she was ashamed and alarmed at her disinclination to exert herself--at her indifference to everything; but the exertion she made to overcome the evil only aggravated it, and soon was quite beyond her power. her days were passed in utter helplessness on the sofa. she either denied herself to their few visitors, or left them to be entertained by rose. all her strength and spirits were needed for the evening when her brothers were at home. some attention to household affairs was absolutely necessary, even when the time came, that for want of something else to do nelly nodded for hours in the long afternoons over the knitting of a stocking. for though nelly could do whatever could be accomplished by main strength, the skill necessary for the arrangement of the nicer matters of their little household was not in her, and graeme was never left quite at rest as to the progress of events in her dominions. it was a very fortunate chance that had cast her lot with theirs soon after their arrival, graeme knew and acknowledged; but after the handiness and immaculate neatness of hannah lovejoy, it was tiresome to have nothing to fall back upon but the help of the untaught nelly. her willingness and kind-heartedness made her, in many respects, invaluable to them; but her field of action had hitherto been a turnip-field, or a field in which cows were kept; and though she was, by her own account, "just wonderfu' at the making of butter," she had not much skill at anything else. if it would have brought colour to the cheek, or elasticity to the step of her young mistress, nelly would gladly have carried her every morning in her arms to the top of the mountain; but nothing would have induced her, daring these first days, to undertake the responsibility of breakfast or dinner without graeme's special overlooking. she would walk miles to do her a kindness; but she could not step lightly or speak softly, or shut the door without a bang, and often caused her torture when doing her very best to help or cheer her. but whatever happened through the day, for the evening graeme exerted herself to seem well and cheerful. it was easy enough to do when harry was at home, or when arthur was not too busy to read to them. then she could still have the arm-chair or the sofa, and hear, or not hear, as the case might be. but when any effort was necessary--when she must interest herself, or seem to interest herself in her work, or when arthur brought any one home with him, making it necessary for graeme to be hospitable and conversational, then it was very bad indeed. she might get through very well at the time with it all, but a miserable night was sure to follow, and she could only toss about through the slow hours exhausted yet sleepless. oh, how miserable some of these sultry august nights were, when she lay helpless, her sick fancy changing into dear familiar sounds the hum that rose from the city beneath. now it was the swift spring-time rush of carson's brook, now the gentle ripple of the waters of the pond breaking on the white pebbles of the beach. the wind among the willow-boughs whispered to her of the pine grove and the garden at home, till her heart grew sick with longing to see them again. it was always the same. if the bitter sorrow that bereavement had brought made any part of what she suffered now; if the void which death had made deepened the loneliness of this dreary time, she did not know it. all this weariness of body and sinking of heart might have come though she had never left merleville, but it did not seem so to her. it was always of _home_ she thought. she rose up and lay down with longing for it fresh and sore. she started from troubled slumber to break into passionate weeping when there was no one to see her. she struggled against the misery that lay so heavily upon her, but not successfully. health and courage failed. of course, this state of things could not continue long. they must get either better or worse, graeme thought, and worse it was. arthur and harry coming home earlier than usual found her as she had never allowed them to find her before, lying listlessly, almost helplessly on the sofa. her utmost effort to appear well and cheerful at the sight of them failed this once. she rose slowly and leaned back again almost immediately, closing her eyes with a sigh. "graeme!" exclaimed harry, "what ails you! such a face! look here, i have something for you. guess what." "a letter," said rose. "oh! graeme look!" but graeme was past looking by this time. her brothers were startled and tried to raise her. "don't, arthur," said rose; "let her lie down. she will be better in a little. harry get some water." poor, wee rosie! her hands trembled among the fastenings of graeme's dress, but she knew well what to do. "you don't mean that she has been like this before?" said arthur, in alarm. "yes, once or twice. she is tired, she says. she will soon be better, now." in a minute graeme opened her eyes, and sat up. it was nothing, she said, and arthur was not to be frightened; but thoroughly frightened arthur was, and in a little while graeme found herself placed in the doctor's hands. it was a very kind, pleasant face that bent over her, but it was a grave face too, at the moment. when graeme repeated her assurance that she was not ill, but only overcome with the heat and weariness, he said these had something to do with it, doubtless, and spoke cheerfully about her soon being well again; and arthur's face quite brightened, as he left the room with him. rose followed them, and when her brother's hand was on the door, whispered,-- "please, arthur, may i say something to the doctor? i think it is partly because graeme is homesick." "homesick!" repeated the doctor and arthur in a breath. "perhaps not homesick exactly," said rose, eagerly addressing her brother. "she would not go back again you know; but everything is so different--no garden, no hills, no pond. and oh! arthur, don't be vexed, but we have no janet nor anything here." rosie made a brave stand against the tears and sobs that were rising in spite of her, but she was fain to hide her face on her brother's arm as he drew her toward him, and sat down on the sofa. the doctor sat down, too. "why, rosie! my poor, wee rosie! what has happened to my merry little sister?" "i thought the doctor ought to know, and you must not tell graeme. she does not think that i know." "know what?" asked arthur. "that she is so sad, and that the time seems long. but i have watched her, and i know." "well, i fear it is not a case for you, doctor," said arthur, anxiously. but the doctor thought differently. there was more the matter with graeme than her sister knew, though the home-sickness may have something to do with it; and then he added,-- "her strength must have been severely tried to bring her to this state of weakness." arthur hesitated a moment. "there was long illness in the family--and then death--my sister's first, and then my father's. and then i brought the rest here." it was not easy for arthur to say all this. in a little he added with an effort,-- "i fear i have not done well in bringing them. but they wished to come, and i could not leave them." "you did right, i have no doubt," said the doctor. "your sister might have been ill anywhere. she might have been worse without a change. the thing is to make her well again--which, i trust, we can soon do-- with the help of miss rosie, who will make a patient and cheerful nurse, i am sure." "yes," said rose, gravely. "i will try." arthur said something about taking them to the country, out of the dust and heat of the town. "yes," said the doctor. "the heat is bad. but it will not last long now, and on the whole, i think she is better where she is, at present. there is no danger. she will soon be as well as usual, i think." but it was not very soon. indeed, it was a long time before graeme was as well as usual; not until the leaves on the willows had grown withered and grey, and the summer had quite gone. not until kind doctor mcculloch had come almost daily for many weeks--long enough for him to become much interested in both patient and nurse. a wonderful nurse rose proved herself to be. at first something was said about introducing a more experienced person into graeme's chamber, but both rose and nelly anderson objected so decidedly to this, and aided and abetted one another so successfully in their opposition to it, that the design was given up on condition that rosie kept well and cheerful to prove her claim to the title of nurse. she kept cheerful, but she grew tall and thin, and a great deal too quiet to be like herself, her brothers thought; so whatever was forgotten or neglected during the day, rosie must go out with one of them for a long walk while the other stayed with graeme, and by this means the health and spirits of the anxious little lady were kept from failing altogether. for indeed the long days and nights might well be trying to the child, who had never needed to think twice about her own comfort all her life, and who was now quite too acutely sensible, how much the comfort of all the rest depended upon her. but she bore the trial well, and indeed came to the conclusion, that it was quite as pleasant to be made useful, to be trusted and consulted, and depended upon, as to be petted and played with by her brothers. she quite liked the sense of responsibility, especially when graeme began to get well again, and though she got tired very often, and grew pale now and then, they all agreed afterward that this time did rose no harm, but a great deal of good. as for nelly anderson, circumstances certainly developed her powers in a most extraordinary manner--not as a nurse, however. her efforts in that line were confined to rambling excursions about the sick-room in her stockinged-feet, and to earnest entreaties to graeme not to lose heart. but in the way of dinners and breakfasts, she excited the astonishment of the household, and her own most of all. when arthur had peremptorily forbidden that any reference should be made to graeme in household matters, nelly had helplessly betaken herself to rose, and rose had as helplessly betaken herself to "catherine beecher." nothing short of the state of absolute despair in which she found herself, would have induced nelly to put faith in a "printed book," in any matter where the labour of her hands was concerned. but her accomplishments as a cook did not extend the making of "porridge" or the "choppin' of potatoes," and more was required. so with fear and trembling, rose and she "laid their heads together," over that invaluable guide to inexperienced housekeepers, and the result was success--indeed a series of successes. for emboldened by the favourable reception of their efforts, nelly want on and prospered; and rose, content that she should have all the honour of success, permitted her to have all the responsibility also. almost every morning rose had a walk, either with harry to his office, or with will, to the school, while arthur stayed with graeme. the walk was generally quick enough to bring a bright colour to her cheeks, and it was always a merry time if harry was with her, and then she was ready for her long day at home. she sometimes lingered on the way back. on the broad shady pavements of the streets she used to choose, when she was alone, she made many a pause to watch the little children at their play. she used to linger, too, wherever the ugly brick walls had been replaced by the pretty iron railings, with which every good rich man will surround his gardens, in order that they who have no gardens of their own may have a chance to see something beautiful too. and whenever she came to an open gate, the pause was long. she was in danger then of forgetting her womanliness and her gravity, and of exclaiming like a little girl, and sometimes she forgot herself so far as to let her feet advance farther up the gravel walk than in her sober moments she would have considered advisable. one bright morning, as she returned home, she found herself standing before the large house on the other side of the street. for the first time she found the large gate wide open. there was no one in sight, and taking two steps forward, rose saw more of the pretty garden within than she had ever seen before. she had often been tempted to walk round the smooth broad walks of other gardens, but second thoughts had always prevented her. this time she did not wait for second thoughts, but deliberately determined to walk round the carriage way without leave asked or given. the garden belonged to mr elphinstone, a great man--at least a great merchant in the eyes of the world. one of rose's amusements during the time she was confined in her sister's sick-room was to watch the comings and goings of his only child, a girl only a little older than rose herself. sometimes she was in a little pony-carriage, which she drove herself; sometimes she was in a large carriage driven by a grave-looking coachman with a very glossy hat, and very white gloves. rosie used to envy her a little when she saw her walking about in the garden gathering the flowers at her own will. "how happy she must be!" she thought now, as she stood gazing about her. "if she is a nice young lady, as i am almost sure she is, she would rather that i enjoyed her flowers than not. at any rate i am going to walk round just once--and then go." but it was not an easy matter to get round the circle. it was not a very large one, but there were flowers all round it, and rosie passed slowly on lost in wonder and delights as some strange blossom presented itself. it took a long time to pass quite round, and before this was accomplished, her footsteps were arrested by a splendid cardinal flower, that grow within the shadow of the wall. it was not quite a stranger. she had gathered a species of it often in the low banks of the pond; and as she bent over it with delight, a voice startled her-- "you should have soon it a while ago. it is past its best now." rose turning saw the gardener, and hastily stammering an excuse, prepared to go. but he did not seem to understand that she was an intruder. "if you'll come, round this way i'll show you flowers that are worth looking at," said he. "he thinks i am a visitor," said rose to herself. "i'm sure i admire his flowers as much as any of them can do. it won't trouble him much to show them to me, and i'll just go with him." so picking up her bonnet that had fallen on the walk, she followed him, a little frightened at her own boldness, but very much elated. she did not think the garden grew prettier as they went on, and her conductor hurried her past a great many pretty squares and circles without giving her time to admire them. he stopped at last before a long, narrow bed, where the flowers were growing without regard to regularity as to arrangement; but oh! such colouring! such depth and richness! what verbenas and heliotropes!--what purples--crimsons--scarlets! rose could only gaze and wonder and exclaim, while her friend listened, and was evidently well pleased with her delight. at last it was time to go, and rose sighed as she said it. but she thanked him with sparkling eyes for his kindness, and added deprecatingly-- "i am not a visitor here. i saw the gate open and came in. i couldn't help it." it was a small matter to her new friend whether she were a visitor at the great house or not. "you ken a flower when you see it," said he, "and that's more than can be said of some of the visitors here." he led the way round the garden till they came to a summer-house covered with a flowering vine, which was like nothing ever rose had seen before. "it was just like what a bower ought to be," she told graeme, afterwards. "it was just like a lady's bower in a book." there was a little mound before it, upon which and in the borders close by grew a great many flowers. not rare flowers, such as she had just been admiring, but flowers sweet and common, pansies and thyme, sweet peas and mignonette. it was miss elphinstone's own bower, the gardener said, and these were her favourite flowers. rose bent over a pale little blossom near the path-- "what is this?" asked she; and then she was sorry, fearing to have it spoiled by some long unpronounceable name. "surely you have seen that--and you from scotland? that's a gowan." "a gowan!" she was on her knees beside it in a moment. "is it the real gowan, `that glints on bank and brae'? no, i never saw one; at least i don't remember. i was only a child when i came away. oh! how graeme would like to see them. and i must tell janet. a real gowan! `wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower'--you mind? and here is a white one, `with silver crest and golden eye.' oh! if graeme could only see them! give me just one for my sister who is ill. she has gathered them on the braes at home." "ahem! i don't know," said her friend, in a changed voice. "these are miss elphinstone's own flowers. i wouldna just like to meddle with them. but you can ask her yourself." rose turned. the pretty young lady of the pony-carriage, was standing beside her. rose's confusion was too deep for words. she felt for a minute as though she must run away, but thought better of it, and murmured something about the flowers being so beautiful, and about not wishing to intrude. the young lady's answer was to stoop down and gather a handful of flowers, gowans, sweet peas, violets and mignonette. when she gave them into rose's hand she asked,-- "is your sister very ill? i have seen the doctor going often to your house." "she is getting better now. she has been very ill. the doctor says she will soon be well." "and have you taken care of her all the time? is there no one else?" "i have taken care of her, nelly anderson and i, all the day, and our brothers are home at night." "i am glad she is getting better. is she fond of flowers. mr stirling is thinking i haven't arranged mine nicely, but you can do that when you put them in water, you know." "oh! thank you. they are beautiful. yes, graeme is very fond of flowers. this will be like a bit of summer to her, real summer in the country, i mean. and besides, she has gathered gowans on the braes at home." "i am a canadian," said the young lady. "i never saw the `gowany braes,' but i shall see them soon." they had reached the gate by this time. "come again, soon. come into the garden, whenever you like. i am sure mr stirling will like to show you his flowers, you are so fond of them. i think a few of his would improve your bouquet." mr stirling touched his hat to his young lady. "i shall be proud to show the flowers to miss rose, and i shall have the honour of making her a bouquet soon." the young lady laughed. "you are to be a favourite. is your name rose," added she, lingering by the gate. "yes, rose elliott. i am the youngest. we all live over there, my brothers, and graeme and i. it would be a dreary place, if it were not for the glimpse we get of your garden. look, there is nelly looking for me. i am afraid i have hindered arthur. thank you very much, and good-bye." rose shyly put forth her hand. the young lady took it in both hers, and drawing her within the gate again, kissed her softly, and let her go. "stirling," said she, as she turned toward the house, "how did you know the young lady's name is rose? is she a friend of yours? do you know her?" "i know her face, that is all i have seen her for hours together, looking in on the garden from that upper window. and whiles she looks through the gate. i heard her brothers calling her rose. she's a bonny lassie, and kens a flower when she sees it." that night, nelly was startled into a momentary forgetfulness of her thick shoes, and her good manners, and came rushing into graeme's room, where they were all sitting after tea, bearing a bouquet, which a man, "maybe a gentleman," nelly seemed in doubt, had sent in with his compliments to miss rose elliott. a bouquet! it would have won the prize at any floral exhibition in the land, and never after that, while the autumn frosts spared them, were they without flowers. even when the autumn beauties hung shrivelled and black on their stems, and afterwards, when the snows of winter lay many feet above the pretty garden beds, many a rare hot-house blossom brightened the little parlour, where by that time graeme was able to appear. "for," said mr stirling, to the admiring nelly, "such were miss elphinstone's directions before she went away, and besides, directions or no directions, the flowers are well bestowed on folk that take real pleasure in their beauty." the autumn and winter passed pleasantly away. as graeme grew strong, she grew content. the children were well and happy, and arthur's business was prospering in a wonderful way, and all anxiety about ways and means, might be put aside for the present. they often heard from norman, and from their friends in merleville, and graeme felt that with so much to make her thankful and happy, it would be ungrateful indeed to be otherwise. in the spring, they removed to another house. it was in town, but compared with the only one they had left, it seemed to be quite in the country. for the street was not closely built up, and it stood in the middle of a little garden, which soon became beautiful under the transforming hands of rose and her brothers. there was a green field behind the house too, and the beautiful mountain was plainly visible from it; and half an hour's walk could take them to more than one place, where there was not a house to be seen. the house itself, seemed like a palace, after the narrow brick one they had just left. it was larger than they needed, graeme thought, and the rent was higher than they could well afford, but the garden was enough to content them with everything else. it was a source of health, if not of wealth, to them all, and a never failing source of delight besides. their new home was quite away from mr stirling's end of town, but he found time to come and look at their garden every week or two; and his gifts of roots, and seeds, and good advice were invaluable. this was a short and pleasant summer to them all. it is wonderful how much pleasure can be made out of the quiet every-day duties of life, by young and happy people on the watch for pleasant things. to will and rosie everything was delightful. the early marketing with nelly, to which graeme and arthur, and sometimes even harry was beguiled, never lost its charm for them. harry had lived in town, long enough, to permit himself to be a little scornful of the pleasure which the rest took, in wandering up and down among the vegetables and fruits, and other wares in the great market, and made himself merry over rosie's penchant for making acquaintance with the old french woman and little children whom they met. he mystified rose and her friends by his free interpretation of both french and english, and made the rest merry too; so it was generally considered a great thing when he could be induced to rise early enough to go with them. sometimes they went in the early boats to the other side of the river, a pleasure to be scorned by none on lovely summer mornings; and they would return home with appetites ready to do honour to the efforts of nelly and miss beecher. sometimes when a holiday came, it was spent by the whole family, nelly and all, at lachine or the back river, or on the top of the mountain. all this may seem stupid enough to them who are in the habit of searching long, and going far for pleasure, but with the help of books and pencils, and lively conversation, the elliotts were able to find a great deal of enjoyment at such holiday times. they had pleasures of another kind, too. arthur's temporary connection with one of the city newspapers, placed at their disposal magazines, and a new book now and then, as well as tickets for lectures and concerts, and there was seldom a treat of the kind but was highly enjoyed by one or other of them. they had not many acquaintances at this time. in janet's estimation, the averseness of graeme to bring herself in contact with strangers, had been a serious defect in her character. it was easier to avoid this in the town than it used to be in the country, graeme found. besides, she had no longer the sense of parish responsibilities as a minister's daughter, and was inclined for quietness. once or twice she made a great effort, and went with an acquaintance to the "sewing meetings" of the ladies of the church which they attended; but it cost her a great deal of self-denial to very little purpose, it seemed to her, and so she compromised the matter with her conscience, by working for, and being very kind indeed, to a family of little motherless girls, who lived in a lane near their house, and stayed at home. she was by no means sure that she did right. for everybody knows, or ought to know, how praiseworthy is the self-denial which is willing to give up an afternoon every week, or every second week, to the making of pincushions, and the netting of tidies, which are afterwards to appear in the form of curtains or pulpit covers, or organs, or perhaps in the form of garments for those who have none. but then, though the "sewing-circle" is the generally approved and orthodox outlet for the benevolent feelings and efforts of those dear ladies who _love to do good_, but who are apt to be bored by motherless little girls, and other poor people, who live in garrets, and out of the way places, difficult of access, it is just possible that direct efforts in their behalf may be accepted too. one thing is certain, though graeme did not find it easy for a while to satisfy herself, as to the "moral quality" of the motive which kept her at home, the little finlays were all the happier and better for the time she conscientiously bestowed on them and their affairs. they made some acquaintances that summer, and very pleasant ones, too. arthur used sometimes to bring home to their six o'clock dinner, a friend or two of his clients from the country, or a young lawyer, or lawyer's clerk, to whom the remembrance of his own first lonely days in the city made him wish to show kindness. there were two or three gay french lads of the latter class who, strange to say, had taken a great liking to the grave and steady arthur, and who often came to pass an evening at his pleasant fireside. graeme was shy of them for a while, not being clear as to the principles and practice of the french as a people, and as for rose, the very sight of these polite moustached gentlemen suggested historical names and events, which it was not at all comfortable to think about. but those light-hearted canadian lads soon proved themselves to be as worthy of esteem as though english had been their mother tongue. very agreeable visitors they were, with their nice gentlemanly manners, their good humour, and their music; and far better subjects for the exercise of rosie's french than the old market women were, and in a little while they never came but they were kindly welcomed. this was a busy time, too. graeme taught rosie english, and they studied together french and german, and music; and were in a fair way, harry declared, of becoming a pair of very learned ladies indeed. very busy and happy ladies they were, which was a matter of greater importance. and if sometimes it came into graeme's mind that the life they were living was too pleasant to last, the thought did not make her unhappy, but humble and watchful, lest that which was pleasant in their lot should make them forgetful of life's true end. chapter twenty one. "it is just three years to-night since we came to m. did you remember it, arthur?" said graeme, looking up from her work. "is it possible that it can be three years?" said arthur, in surprise. "it has been a very happy time," said graeme. rose left her book, and came and seated herself on the arm of her brother's chair. arthur took the cigar from his lips, and gently puffed the smoke into his sister's face. rose did not heed it. "three years!" repeated she. "i was quite a child then." the others laughed, but rose went on without heeding. "it rained that night, and then we had a great many hot, dusty days. how well i remember the time! graeme was ill and homesick, and we wished so much for janet." "that was only at first, till you proved yourself such a wonderful nurse and housekeeper," said graeme; "and you were not at all homesick yourself, i suppose?" "perhaps just a little at first, in those hot, dreary days," said rose, gravely; "but i was not homesick very long." "i am afraid there were a good many dreary days about that time--more than you let me know about," said arthur. graeme smiled and shook her head. "i am afraid you had a good many anxious days about that time. if i had known how hard you would have to work, i think i would have stayed in merleville after all." "pooh! nonsense! hard work is wholesome. and at the very worst time, what with one thing and another, we had a larger income than my father had in merleville." "but that was quite different--" "did i tell you that i have got a new client? i have done business for mr stone before, but to-day it was intimated to me, that henceforth i am to be the legal adviser of the prosperous firm of `grove & stone.' it will add something to our income, little woman." rose clapped her hands, and stooping down, whispered something in her brother's ear. "don't be planning any extravagance, you two, on the strength of `grove & stone.' you know any superfluous wealth we may have, is already appropriated," said graeme. "to the merleville visit. but this is not at all an extravagance, is it, arthur?" said rose. "that depends--. i am afraid graeme is the best judge. but we won't tell her to-night. we must break the matter to her gently," said arthur. "graeme is so dreadfully prudent," sighed rose. graeme laughed. "it is well there is one prudent one among us." "i don't believe she would at all approve of your smoking another cigar, for instance. they are nicer than usual, are they not?" said rose, inhaling the fragrance from her brother's case. "yes. i treated myself to a few of the very best, on the strength of grove & stone. they are very nice. have one?" rose took it with great gravity. "suppose we take a little walk first, and smoke afterwards," said she, coaxingly. arthur made a grimace. "and where will you beguile me to, when you get me fairly out?" "there is no telling, indeed," said rose. "graeme, i am going to put on my new hat. when mr elliott honours us with his company, we must look our very best, you know." "but, arthur, you have an engagement to-night. don't you remember?" asked graeme. "to mrs barnes'," said rose. "miss cressly brought home my dress to-day, and she told me all about it. her sister is nurse there. the party is to be quite a splendid affair. it is given in honour of miss grove, who has just come home. i wish i were going with you." "you may go without me! i will give you my invitation. it is a great bore, and i don't believe i shall go. i don't see the good of it." "but you promised," said graeme. "well, i suppose i must go for a while. but it is very stupid." "just as if you could make us believe that. it must be delightful. i think it's very stupid of you and graeme, not to like parties." "you forget. i was not asked," said graeme. "but you might have been, if you had returned mrs barnes' call soon enough. how nice it would have been! i wish i were miss grove, to have a party given for me. she is a beauty, they say. you must notice her dress, arthur, and tell me all about it." "oh! certainly," said arthur, gravely. "i'll take particular notice. but come, get your hats. there is time enough for a walk before i go. haste, rosie, before the finest of the evening is past. are you coming, will? man! you shouldna read by that light. you will blind yourself. put away your book, you'll be all the better for a walk." they lingered a moment at the gate. "here is harry!" exclaimed rose. "and some one with him. charlie millar, i think." "we will wait for them," said arthur. the look that came to graeme's face, as she stood watching her brother's coming, told that the shadow of a new care was brooding over her, and the light talk of her brother and sister told that it was one they did not see. she stood back a little, while they exchanged greetings, and looked at harry with anxious eyes. "are you going out, graeme?" asked he, coming within the gate. "only to walk. will you go with us? or shall i stay?" "miss elliott," interposed charlie millar, "i beg you will not. he doesn't deserve it at your hands. he is as cross as possible. besides, we are going to d street, by invitation, to meet the new partner. he came yesterday. did harry tell you?" "harry did not come home last night. what kept you, harry?" asked rose. "we were kept till a most unreasonable hour, and harry stayed with me last night," said charlie. "and of course graeme stayed up till all hours of the night, waiting for me," said harry, with an echo of impatience in his voice. "of course she did no such foolish thing. i saw to that," said arthur. "but which is it to be? a walk, or a quiet visit at home?" "oh! a walk, by all means," said charlie millar. "i have a great mind not to go," said harry. "nonsense, man! one would think you were about to receive the reward of your evil deeds. i refer to you, miss elliott. would it be respectful to the new firm, if he were to refuse to go?" "bother the new firm," said harry, impatiently. "the new partner, you mean. he has taken a most unreasonable dislike to my brother at first sight--calls him proud, and a snob, because he happens to be shy and awkward with strangers." "shy! a six-footer, with a beard enough for three. after that i'll vanish," said harry. "i don't think harry is very polite," said rose. "never mind. there are better things in the world than politeness. he will be more reasonable by and by," said harry's friend. "so your brother has come," said graeme. "how long is it since you have seen him?" "oh! not for ten years. he was home once after he came out here, but i was away at school, and did not see him. i remembered him quite well, however. he is not spoiled by his wanderings, as my mother used to fear he might be;" then he added, as harry reappeared, "the fact is, miss elliott, he expected to be asked to dinner. we must overlook his ill-temper." "by all means," said graeme, laughing. "thank you," said harry. "and i'll try to be patient." "well, shall we go now?" said arthur, who had been waiting patiently through it all. the others followed him and will. "is your brother going to remain here?" asked graeme. "that will be nice for you." "yes, on some accounts it would be nice. but if they send harry off to fill his place at the west, i shall not like that, unless, indeed, they send us both. and i am not sure i should like that long." "send harry!" exclaimed graeme. "nonsense, graeme!" said harry. "that is some of charlie's stuff." "i hope so; but we'll see," said charlie. "miss elliott, i had a letter from my mother to-day." the lad's eyes softened, as he turned them on graeme. "have you?" said graeme, turning away from her own thoughts to interest herself in his pleasure. "is she quite well?" "yes, she is much better than she was, and, miss elliott, she sends her love to you, and her best thanks." "for what?" said graeme, smiling. "oh! you know quite well for what. what should i have done, if it had not been for you and harry? i mean if you had not let me come to your house sometimes." "stuff!" said harry. "truth!" said charlie. "i never shall forget the misery of my first months, till harry came into our office. it has been quite different since the night he brought me to your house, and you were so kind as to ask me to come again." "that was no great self-denial on our part," said graeme, smiling. "you minded graeme on some one she used to know long ago," said rose. "and, besides, you are from scotland." both lads laughed. "and graeme feels a motherly interest in all scottish laddies, however unworthy they may be," said harry. and so they rambled on about many things, till they came to the gate of mr elphinstone's garden, beyond which arthur and will were loitering. "how pretty the garden is!" said rose. "look, graeme, at that little girl in the window. i wonder whether the flowers give her as much pleasure, as they used to give me." "i am afraid she does not get so many of them as you used to get," said graeme. "come in and let me gather you some," said charlie. "no, indeed. i should not venture. though i went in the first time without an invitation. and you dare not pick mr stirling's flowers." "dare i not?" said charlie, reaching up to gather a large spray from a climbing rose, that reached high above the wall. "oh! don't. oh! thank you," said rose. as far down as they could see for the evergreens and horse-chestnuts a white dress gleamed, and close beside the little feet that peeped out beneath it, a pair of shining boots crushed the gravel. "look," said rose, drawing back. "the new partner," said harry, with a whistle. "a double partnership-- eh, charlie?" "i shouldn't wonder," said charlie, looking wise. "he knows what he's about, that brother of yours. he's cute. he knows a thing or two, i guess." "harry," said rose, gravely, "don't talk slang. and i don't think it very polite to speak that way to mr millar about his brother." "my dear rosie, i am not talking slang, but the pure american language; and i think you are more considerate about other people's brothers than you are of your own. twice this night i have heard your brother called cross and disagreeable, without rebuke." "you deserved it," said rose, laughing. "miss rose," said charlie, "let your smile beam on him for one moment, and he can't look cross for the rest of the evening." rose turned her laughing face to her brother. "be a good boy, harry. good bye." as they returned, will and rose went on before, while graeme lingered with arthur. "did you hear what mr millar said about the possibility of harry's being sent west? it must be to take the new partner's place, i suppose," said graeme, after a little. "no; did he say so? it would be a capital good thing for harry." "do you think so? he would have to leave home." "yes; that would be a pity, of course; but the opening for him would be a very good one. i doubt whether there is much in it, however. harry has been for so short a time in the employment of the firm, and he is very young for a place so responsible. still, it may be. i know they have great confidence in him." there was a pause, and they walked slowly on. "arthur," said graeme, in a low voice. "do you think harry is--quite steady?" "steady," repeated arthur in a surprised and shocked tone. "why should you doubt it?" graeme strove to speak quietly, but her hand trembled on her brother's arm, and he knew it cost her an effort. "i dare say there is no cause for doubt. still, i thought i ought to speak to you. you will know better than i; and you must not think that i am unkind in speaking thus about harry." "you unkind! no; i should think two or three things before i thought that. but tell me why you have any fears?" "you know, arthur, harry has been very late in coming home, a good many times lately; and sometimes he has not come at all. and once or twice-- more indeed--he has been excited, more than excited--and--" graeme could not go on. "still, graeme, i do not think there is any real cause for apprehension. he is young and full of spirit, and his society is sought after--too much for his good, i dare say. but he has too much sense to give us any real cause for uneasiness on that ground. why, graeme, in p street harry is thought much of for his sense and talent." graeme sighed. there came into her mind something that her father had once said, about gallant ships being wrecked at last. but she did not speak. "shall i speak to him, graeme? what would you like me to do? i don't think there is much to fear for him." "well, i will think so, too. no; don't speak to him yet. it was hearing that he might be sent away, that made me speak to-night. i dare say i am foolish." they walked on in silence for a little, and then graeme said,-- "i hope it is only that i am foolish. but we have been so happy lately; and i mind papa and janet both said to me--it was just when we were beginning to fear for menie--that just as soon as people were beginning to settle down content, some change would come. it proved so then." "yes; i suppose so," said arthur, with a sigh. "we must expect changes; and scarcely any change would be for the better as far as we are concerned. but, graeme, we must not allow ourselves to become fanciful. and i am quite sure that after all your care for harry, and for us all, you will not have to suffer on his account. that would be too sad." they said no more till they overtook the children,--as rose and will were still called in this happy household. "i have a good mind not to go, after all. i would much rather stay quietly at home," said arthur, sitting down on the steps. "but you promised," said graeme. "you must go. i will get a light, and you need not stay long." "you must go, of course," said rose. "and graeme and i will have a nice quiet evening. i am going to practise the new music you brought home." "a quiet evening," said will. "yes; i have rather neglected my music of late, and other things, too. i'm sure, i don't know where the time goes to. i wish i were going with you, arthur." "you are far better at home." "yes, indeed," said graeme; and will added,-- "a child like rosie!" "well, be sure and look well at all the dresses, especially miss grove's, and tell me all about them." "yes; especially miss grove, if i get a glimpse of her in the crowd, which is doubtful." "well, good-night," said rose. "i don't believe there will be a gentleman there to compare to you." arthur bowed low. "i suppose i ought to say there will be no one there to compare with you. and i would, if i could conscientiously. but `fine feathers make fine birds,' and miss grove aspires to be a belle it seems,--and, many who don't aspire to such distinction, will, with the help of the dressmaker, eclipse the little scottish rose of our garden. good-night to you all--and graeme, mind you are not to sit up for me past your usual time." he went away, leaving rose to her practising, will to his books, and graeme to pace up and down the gallery in the moonlight, and think her own thoughts. they were not very sad thoughts, though arthur feared they might be. her brother's astonishment at her fears for harry, had done much to re-assure her with regard to him; for surely, if there were danger for harry, arthur would see it; and she began to be indignant with herself for having spoken at all. "arthur will think i am foolish. he will think that i have lost confidence in harry, which is not true. i wish i were more hopeful. i wish i did not take fright at the very first shadow. janet aye said that the first gloom of the cloud, troubled me more than the falling of the shower should do. such folly to suppose that anything could happen to our harry! i won't think about it. and even if harry has to go away, i will believe with arthur, that will be for the best. he will be near norman, at any rate, and that will be a great deal. norman will be glad. and i will not fear changes. why should i? they cannot come to us unsent. i will trust in god." but quite apart from the thought of harry's temptation or prospects, there was in graeme's heart a sense of pain. she was not quite satisfied in looking back over these pleasant years. she feared she had been beginning to settle down content with their pleasant life, forgetting higher things. except the thought about harry, which had come and gone, and come again a good many times within the last few months, there had scarcely been a trouble in their life daring these two years and more. she had almost forgotten how it would seem, to waken each morning to the knowledge that painful, self-denying duties lay before her. even household care, nelly's skill and will had put far from her. and now as she thought about all of this, it came into her mind how her father and janet had always spoken of life as a warfare--a struggle, and the bible so spoke of it, too. she thought of janet's long years of self-denial, her toils, her disappointments; and how she had always accepted her lot as no uncommon one, but as appointed to her by god. she thought of her father--how, even in the most tranquil times of his life--the time she could remember best, the peaceful years in merleville, he had given himself no rest, but watched for souls as one who must give account. yes, life was a warfare. not always with outward foes. the struggle need not be one that a looker-on could measure or see, but the warfare must be maintained--the struggle must only cease with life. it had been so with her father, she knew; and through his experience, graeme caught a glimpse of that wonderful paradox of the life that is hid with christ in god,--constant warfare-- and peace that is abiding; and could the true peace be without the warfare? she asked herself. and what was awaiting them after all these tranquil days? it was not the fear that this might be the lull before the storm that pained her, so much as the doubt whether this quiet time had been turned to the best account. had she been to her brothers all that father had believed she would be? had her influence always been decidedly on the side where her father's and her mother's would have been? they had been very happy together, but were her brothers really better and stronger christian men, because of her? and if, as she had sometimes feared, harry were to go astray, could she be altogether free from blame? the friends that had gathered around them during these years, were not just the kind of friends they would have made, had her father instead of her brother been at the head of the household; and the remembrance of the pleasure they had taken in the society of some who did not think as their father had done on the most important of all matters, came back to her now like a sin. and yet if this had worked for evil among them, it was indirectly; for it was the influence of no one whom they called their friend that she feared for harry. she always came back to harry in her thoughts. "but i will not fear for him," she repeated often. "i will trust god's care for harry and us all. surely i need not fear, i think i have been beginning at the wrong end of my tangled thoughts to-night. outward circumstances cannot make much difference, surely. if we are humble and trustful god will guide us." and busy still with thoughts from which renewed trust had taken the sting, graeme sat still in the moonlight, till the sound of approaching footsteps recalled her to the present. chapter twenty two. the shining boots crashed the gravel, and the white dress gleamed through the darkness, some time after the young men were seated in mr elphinstone's handsome drawing-room. the master of the mansion sat alone when they entered, gazing into a small, bright coal fire, which, though it was not much past midsummer, burned in the grate. for mr elphinstone was an invalid, with little hope of being other than an invalid all his life, though he was by no means an old man yet. if he had been expecting visitors, he had forgotten it, for they had come quite close to him before he looked up, and he quite started at the sound of mr millar's voice. he rose and received them courteously and kindly, however. mr elphinstone in his own drawing-room was a different person, or rather, he showed a different manner from mr elphinstone in his counting-room in intercourse with his clerks; and harry, who had had none but business intercourse with him, was struck with the difference. it required an effort for him to realise that the bland, gentle voice was the same that he had so often heard in brief and prompt command. business was to be ignored to-night, however. their talk was of quite other matters. there was an allusion to the new partnership, and to mr millar's half-brother, the new partner, who at the moment, as they all knew, was passing along the garden walk with a little white hand on his coat-sleeve. this was not alluded to, however, though each thought his own thoughts about it, in the midst of their talk. that those of mr elphinstone were rather agreeable to himself, the lads could plainly see. he had no son, and that his partner and nephew should fall into a son's place was an idea that pleased him well. indeed, it had cost him some self-denial to-night not to intimate as much to him after the pretty lilias had withdrawn, and the smile that harry was stealthily watching on his face, was called up by the remembrance of the admiration which his daughter had evidently called forth. harry watched the smile, and in his heart called the new partner "lucky," and "cute," and looked at charlie's discontented face with a comic astonishment that would have excited some grave astonishment to their host, if by any chance he had looked up to see. though why charlie should look discontented about it, harry could not well see. they talked about indifferent matters with a little effort till the white dress gleamed in the firelight, and a soft voice said-- "what, still in the dark, papa!" the lights came in, and harry was introduced to miss elphinstone. he had shared rosie's interest in the lady of the pony-carriage, long ago, and had sometimes seen and spoken with her in the garden in those days, but he had not seen her since her return from scotland, where her last three years had been spent. a very sweet-looking and graceful little lady she was, though a little silent and shy at first, perhaps in sympathy, harry thought, with the tall, bearded gentleman who had come in with her. it was evidently harry's interest to be on good terms with the new partner, and common politeness might have suggested the propriety of some appearance of interest in him and his conversation. but he turned his back upon the group by the fire, and devoted himself to the entertainment of their young hostess who was by this time busy with her tea-cups in another part of the room. there was some talk about the weather and the voyage and sea-sickness, and in the first little pause that came, the young lady looked up and said,-- "you don't live in the house opposite now, i think." it was the first voluntary remark she had made, and thankful for a new opening, harry said,-- "no; my sisters were never quite contented there. we left it as soon as possible; and we are quite at the other end of the town now." "and is your little sister as fond of flowers as ever?" "rose? oh, yes! she has a garden of her own now, and aspires to rival the pansies and verbenas of mr stirling, even." miss elphinstone smiled brightly. "i remember the first time she came into the garden." "yes, that was a bright day in rosie's life. she has the gowans you gave her still. the garden was a great resource to her in those days." "yes; so she said. i was very glad. i never gathered gowans among the hills at home, but i seemed to see that pretty shy face looking up at me." "yes," said harry, meditatively, "rose was a very pretty child." mr millar had drawn near by this time. indeed, the other gentlemen were listening too, and when miss elphinstone looked up it was to meet a very wondering look from the new partner. "by the by, mr elliott," said her father, breaking rather suddenly into the conversation, "whom did your elder brother marry?" "marry!" repeated charles. "he is not married," said harry. "no? well he is to be, i suppose. i saw him walking the other day with a young lady. indeed, i have often seen them together, and i thought--" "it was my sister, i presume," said harry. "perhaps so. she was rather tall, with a pale, grave face--but pretty-- quite beautiful indeed." "it was graeme, i daresay. i don't know whether other people think her beautiful or not." harry did not say it, but he was thinking that his sister seemed beautiful to them all at home, and his dark eyes took the tender look of graeme's own as he thought. it vanished quickly as a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and he turned to meet the look of the new partner. "you don't mean that you are the harry elliott that sailed with me in the `steadfast,' ten years ago." "yes, i am harry elliott, and i crossed the sea in the `steadfast' ten years ago. i knew _you_ at the first glance, mr ruthven." "i never should have known you in the least," said mr ruthven. "why, you were quite a little fellow, and now you can nearly look down on me." "i never thought of that," said harry, looking foolish. "and you thought the new partner fancied himself too big a man to know you," said charlie. "and that's the reason you took umbrage at him, and told your sister he was--ahem, harry?" miss elphinstone's laugh recalled charlie to a sense of propriety, and harry looked more foolish than ever. but mr ruthven did not seem to notice what they were saying. "i never should have known you. i see your father's look in you now-- and you have your elder sister's eyes. why did you not write to me as you promised?" "we did write--norman and i both, and afterwards graeme. we never heard a word from you." "you forget, it was not decided where you were to settle when i left you. you promised to write and tell me. i wrote several times to your father's friend in c---, but i never heard from him." "he died soon after we arrived," said harry. "and afterward i heard of a reverend mr elliott in the western part of new york, and went a day's journey thinking i had found you all at last. but i found this mr elliott was a very young man, an englishman--a fine fellow, too. but i was greatly disappointed." harry's eyes grew to look more like graeme's than ever, as they met allan's downward gaze. "i can't tell you how many mr elliotts i have written to, and then i heard of your father's death, harry, and that your sisters had gone home again to scotland. i gave up all hope then, till last winter, when i heard of a young elliott, an engineer--norman, too--and when i went in search of him, he was away from home; then i went another fifty miles to be disappointed again. they told me he had a sister in a school at c---, but rose never could have grown into the fair, blue-eyed little lady i found there, and i knew it could not be either of the others, so i only said i was sorry not to see her brother, and went away." harry listened eagerly. "i daresay it was our norman, and the little girl you saw was his adopted sister, hilda. if norman had only known--" said harry. and then he went on to tell of how norman had saved the little girl from the burning boat, and how he had cared for her since. by and by they spoke of other things and had some music, but the new partner said little, and when it was time for the young men to go, he said he would walk down the street with them. "so, charlie, you have found the friends who were so kind to me long ago," said his brother, as they shut the gate. "yes," said charlie, eagerly, "i don't know how i should have lived in this strange land without them. it has been a different place to me since harry came to our office, and took me home with him." "and i suppose i am quite forgotten." "oh, no, indeed!" said harry, and charlie added-- "don't you mind, harry, your sister rose said to-night that i reminded miss elliott of some one she knew long ago. it was allan, i daresay, she meant. my mother used to say i looked as allan did when he went away." they did not speak again till they came near the house. then charlie said,-- "it is not very late, harry. i wonder whether they are up yet. there is a light." "allan," said harry, lingering behind, "marian died before my father. don't speak of her to graeme." graeme was still sitting on the steps. "miss elliott," whispered charlie, eagerly, "who is the new partner, do you think? did i ever tell you my half-brother's name? it is allan ruthven." graeme gave neither start nor cry, but she came forward holding out her hands to the tall figure who came forward with an arm thrown over harry's shoulder. they were clasped in his. "i knew you would come. i was quite sure that some time we should see you again," said graeme, after a little. "and i--i had quite lost hope of ever finding you," said allan. "i wonder if you have missed me as i have missed you?" "we have been very happy together since we parted from you," said graeme, "and very sorrowful, too. but we never forgot you, either in joy or sorrow; and i was always sure that we should see you again." they went into the house together. rose, roused from the sleep into which she had fallen, stood very much amazed beneath the chandelier. "you'll never tell me that my wee white rose has grown into a flower like this!" said allan. it was a bold thing for him to do, seeing that rose was nearly as tall as her sister; but he clasped her in his arms and kissed her "cheek and chin" as he had done that misty morning on the deck of the "steadfast" so many years ago. "rose," said graeme, "it is allan--allan ruthven. don't you remember. i was always sure we should see him again." they were very, very glad, but they did not say so to one another in many words. the names of the dead were on their lips, making their voices trembling and uncertain. "arthur," said rose, as they were all sitting together a day or two after, "you have forgotten to tell us about the party." "you have forgotten to ask me, you mean. you have been so taken up with your new hero that i have had few of your thoughts." mr ruthven smiled at rose from the other side of the table. "well, tell us about it now," said she. "you must have enjoyed it better than you expected, for more than one of the `small-hours' had struck before you came home." "oh, yes, i enjoyed it very well. i met young storey, who has just returned from europe. i enjoyed his talk very much. and then mrs gridley took me under her protection. she is a clever woman, and handsome, too." "handsome!" echoed rose. "why she is an old woman, with grown-up daughters. and if you were to see her by daylight!" they all laughed. "well, that might make a difference. but she says very clever, or maybe very sharp, things about her neighbours, and the time passed quickly till supper. it was rather late but i could not leave before supper-- the event of the evening." "i should think not," said harry. "well, we won't ask about the supper, lest it might make harry discontented with his own. and what happened after supper?" "oh! after supper mr grove and his friend barnes began to discuss the harbour question, and i very foolishly allowed myself to be drawn into the discussion. mr green was there, the great western merchant. he is a long-headed fellow, that. you must know him, mr ruthven." "i know him well. he is a remarkably clever business-man, and a good fellow; though, i suppose, few know it so well as i do. i had a long illness in c once, and he nursed me as if i had been a brother. i might have known him for years in the way of business, without discovering his many excellent qualities. he has the name of being rather hard in the way of business, i believe?" "he has a clear head of his own," said arthur; "i enjoyed a talk with him very much. he intends visiting europe, he tells me." "well, what next?" said rose, to whom mr green and his good qualities were matters of indifference. "then i came home. mr green walked down the street with me." "and didn't you see miss grove, the belle of the evening!" exclaimed rose. "oh, yes! i had the honour of an introduction to her. she is a pretty little thing." "pretty! is that all you can say for the belle? how does she look? is she fair or dark? what colour are her eyes?" "i can hardly say. she would be called fair, i think. i can't say about her eyes. she has a very pretty hand and arm, and--is aware of it." "don't be censorious, arthur! does she wear curls? and what did she say to you?" "curls! i cannot say. i have the impression of a quantity of hair, not in the best order toward the end of the evening. she seemed to be dancing most of the time, and she dances beautifully." "but she surely said something to you. what did you talk about?" demanded rose, impatiently. "she told that if she were to dance all the dances for which she was engaged, she wouldn't get home till morning." "you don't mean to say you asked her to dance?" "oh, no! she volunteered the information. i could have waited so long as to have the honour." "and, of course, you can't tell a word about her dress?" "i beg your pardon," said arthur, searching his pocket. "it must be in my other vest. i asked mrs gridley what the young lady's dress was made of, and put it down for your satisfaction. rosie, i hope i haven't lost it." "arthur! what nonsense!" said graeme, laughing. "i am sure mrs gridley was laughing in her sleeve at you all the time." "she hadn't any sleeve to laugh in. but when i told her that i was doing it for the benefit of my little sister rosie, she smiled in her superior way." "i think i see her," said rosie, indignantly. "but what was her dress, after all? was it silk or satin?" "no, nothing so commonplace as that. i could have remembered silk or satin. it was--" "was it lace, or gauze, or crape?" suggested rose. "or tarltan or muslin?" said graeme, much amused. "or damask, or velvet, or cloth of gold, or linsey-woolsey?" said harry. arthur assumed an air of bewilderment. "it was gauze or crape, i think. no; it had a name of three syllables at least. it was white or blue, or both. but i'll write a note to mrs gridley, shall i, rosie?" "it would be a good plan. i wonder what is the use of your going to parties?" "so do i, indeed," said her brother. "i am quite in the dark on the subject. but i was told in confidence that there are cards to be issued for a great entertainment in grove house, and i should not wonder if my `accomplished sisters'--as mrs gridley in her friendly way calls them-- were to be visited in due form by the lady of the grove preparatory to an invitation to the same. so be in readiness. i think i should write the note to mrs gridley, rosie; you'll need a hint." graeme laughed, while rose clapped her hands. "i am not afraid of the call or the invitation," said graeme. but they came--first the call, which was duly returned, and then the invitation. that was quite informal. mrs grove would be happy if miss elliott and her sister would spend the evening at her house to meet a few friends. to their surprise, harry, as well as arthur, came home with a little pink note to the same effect. "i didn't know that you knew the groves, harry," said arthur. "oh, yes, i know mr grove in a general way; but i am invited through a mistake. however, i shall go all the same. i am not responsible for other people's mistakes. nothing can be plainer than that." "a mistake!" repeated several voices. "yes; mrs grove thinks i am a rising man, like the squire here; and why undeceive her? i shall add to the brilliancy of her party, and enjoy it mightily myself. why undeceive her, i ask?" "don't be nonsensical, harry," said rose. "how came mrs grove to make such an absurd mistake?" said arthur, laughing. "she's _cute_, i know; still it was not surprising in the circumstances. i met her on the street yesterday, and i saw the invitation in her eyes as plainly as i see this little pink concern now;" and he tossed the note to rose. "i think i should send the acceptance to miss elphinstone. it was she who obtained the invitation for me." "miss elphinstone!" "yes, or jack, or both, i should perhaps say. for if jack had been at his post, i should not have been politely requested to call a carriage for miss elphinstone, and mrs grove would not have seen me escorting her down the street as she sat in her carriage at alexander's door. i know she was thinking i was very bold to be walking on n street with my master's daughter. of course she didn't know that i was doing the work of that rascal jack. and so i am going to the grove party, unless, indeed, there is any objection to our going _en masse_. eh, graeme?" "it is not a party, only a few friends," said rose, eagerly. "certainly, we'll all go," said arthur. "if they had not wanted us all, they would not have asked us. of course, we'll all go for once." "but, graeme," said harry, coming back after he had left to go away, "don't let the idea of `a few friends' delude you. make yourselves as fine as possible. there will be a great crowd, you may be sure. miss elphinstone and mr ruthven are invited, and they are not among the intimate friends of such people as the groves. shall i send you home a fashion book, rosie?" "or write a note to mrs gridley," said arthur. rose laughed. she was pleasantly excited at the prospect of her first large party, there was no denying it. indeed, she did not seek to deny it, but talked merrily on, not seeing, or not seeming to see, the doubtful look on graeme's face. she alone, had not spoken during the discussion. she had not quite decided whether this invitation was so delightful as rosie thought, and in a little when her sister had left the room, she said-- "shall i accept the invitation then for rose and me?" "have you not accepted yet? you need not of course, unless you wish. but i think you will enjoy it, and rosie, too." "yes, but i am by no means sure, that i like mrs grove," said she, hesitating. "are you not?" said her brother, laughing. "well, i have got much farther than you. i am sure that i don't like her at all. but, what of that?" "only that i don't fancy accepting kindness, from a person i don't like, and to whom i don't think it would be pleasant to repay in kind." "oh! nonsense. the obligation is mutual. her kindness will be quite repaid, by having a new face in her splendid rooms. and as for repaying her in kind, as you call it, that is quite out of the question. there are not a dozen people in town who do the thing on the scale the groves attempt. and besides, rosie would be disappointed." graeme did not believe that it was the best thing that could happen to rosie, to be gratified in this matter, but she did not say so. "after all," thought she, "i daresay there is no harm in it. i shall not spoil the pleasure of the rest, by not seeming to enjoy it. but i don't like mrs grove." the last words were emphatically repeated. she did not like her. she did not wish to see her frequently, or to know her intimately. she wished she had neither called, nor invited them. she wished she had followed her first impulse, which had been to refuse at once without referring to her brothers. now, however, she must go with a good grace. so they all went, and enjoyed it very much, one and all, as they found on comparing notes around the bright little fire, which nelly had kept burning, against their return. "only," said rosie, with a little shamefacedness, "i am not sure that graeme liked me to dance quite so much." graeme was not sure either, but she did not think this the best time to speak about it. so she did not. "but how you ever learned to dance is a mystery to me," said arthur, "and harry too, i saw him carrying off miss elphinstone, with all the coolness imaginable. really, the young people of the present day amaze me." "oh! one can dance without learning," said rose, laughing. "the music inspires it." "and i have danced many a time before," said harry. "you are not sorry you went, are you graeme?" "sorry! no indeed! i have had a very pleasant evening." and so had they all. mrs grove had made a great effort to get a great many nice and clever people together, and she had succeeded. it had required an effort, for it was only lately, since his second marriage, that mr grove had affected the society of clever people, or indeed, any society at all. there were people who fancied that he did not affect it yet, and who pitied him, as he wandered about, or lingered in corners among the guests, that his more aspiring wife managed to bring together. he did not enjoy society much, but that was a small matter in the opinion of his wife. he was as little of a drawback to the general enjoyment, as could be expected in the circumstances. if he was not quite at his ease, at least he was seldom in anybody's way, and mrs grove was quite able to do the honours for both. mr grove was a man whom it was not difficult to ignore, even in his own dining-room. indeed, the greatest kindness that could be shown to the poor little man in the circumstances, was to ignore him, and a great deal of this sort of kind feeling was manifested towards him by his guests. on the first entrance of arthur and graeme, their host fastened on the former, renewing with great earnestness a conversation commenced in the morning in the young man's office. this did not last long, however. the hostess had too high an opinion of mr elliott's powers of pleasing, to permit them to be wasted on her husband, so she smilingly carried him off, leaving mr grove, for the present, to the tender mercies of graeme. he might have had a worse fate; for graeme listened and responded with a politeness and interest, to which he was little accustomed from his wife's guests. before he became unbearably tedious, she was rescued by mr ruthven, and mr grove went to receive mr elias green, the great western merchant, a guest far more worthy of his attention than any of the fine ladies and gentlemen, who only knew him in the character of feast-maker, or as the stupid husband of his aspiring wife. graeme had seen allan ruthven often since that first night. they had spoken of the pleasant and painful things that had befallen them, since they parted so long ago, or they might not have been able to walk so quietly up and down the crowded rooms, as they did for a while. then they found a quiet, or rather a noisy, corner in the music room, where they pursued their conversation unmolested, till harry brought miss elphinstone to be introduced to graeme. this was a mutual pleasure, for graeme wished to know the young lady who had long been rosie's ideal of all that was sweet and beautiful, and miss elphinstone was as pleased to become the friend of one whom her cousins allan and charlie admired so much. and when she begged permission to call upon her and rose, what could graeme do, but be charmed more and more. then miss elphinstone was claimed for another dance, and who should present himself again but their host, and with him the guest of the evening, the great western merchant! then there were a few minutes not so pleasant, and then mr green proposed that they "should make the tour of the rooms." but graeme had not the courage for such an ordeal, and smilingly begged to be excused; and so he sat down beside her, and by and by, graeme was surprised to find herself interested in his conversation. before he had been a great merchant. mr green had been a farmer's boy among the hills of vermont, and when he knew that miss elliott had passed seven happy years in a new england village, he found enough to say to her; and graeme listened and responded, well pleased. she had one uncomfortable moment. it was when the supper movement began to be made, and the thought flashed upon her, that she must be led to the supper room, by this western giant. mr ruthven saved her from this, however, to the discontent of the giant, who had been so engaged in talking and listening, as not to have perceived that something interesting was about to take place. the sight of the freely flowing champagne gave graeme a shock, but a glance at harry reassured her. there was no danger for him to-night. yes, they had all enjoyed it, they acknowledged, as they lingered over the fire after their return. "but, arthur," said graeme, "i was disappointed in miss grove. she is pretty, certainly, but there is something wanting--in expression i mean. she looks good tempered, but not intellectual." "intellectual!" repeated arthur. "no. one would hardly make use of that word in describing her. but she is almost the prettiest little thing i ever saw, i think." "and she certainly is the silliest little thing i ever saw," said harry. "rosie, if i thought you capable of talking such stuff, as i heard from her pretty lips to-night, _i_ would--" arthur laughed; less, it seemed, at what harry had said, than at what it recalled. "she is not likely to astonish the world by her wisdom, i should think," said he, as he rose to go up-stairs. "nor rosie either, for that matter," he added, laughing, and looking back. "none of us are giving great proof of wisdom just now, i think," said graeme. "come, rosie, nelly will lose patience if breakfast is kept waiting. good-night, harry. don't sit long." chapter twenty three. whether nelly lost her patience next morning or not, history does not record; but it is a fact that breakfast was late, and late as it was, rosie did not make her appearance at it. graeme had still a very pleasant remembrance of the evening; but it was not altogether unmixed. the late breakfast, the disarrangement of household matters, rosie's lassitude, and her own disinclination to engage in any serious occupation, was some drawback to the remembrance of her enjoyment. all were more or less out of sorts, some from one cause, some from another. this did not last long, however. the drawback was forgotten, the pleasure was remembered, so that when a day or two afterward, a note came from mrs gridley, begging the presence of the brothers and sisters at a small party at her house, nothing was said about refusing. mrs gridley had promised some friends from toronto, a treat of scottish music, and she would be inconsolable should they disappoint her. but the consolation of mrs gridley was not the chief reason of the acceptance. arthur was to be out of town, but will was to go in his place. they went, and enjoyed it well; indeed, it was very enjoyable. mrs gridley was a serious person, said her friends, and some, who had no claim to the title said the same--the tone and manner making all the difference in the sense of the declaration. she would not for much, have been guilty of giving dancing or card parties in her own house, though by some mysterious process of reasoning, she had convinced herself that she could quite innocently make one of such parties in the houses of other people. so there was only music and conversation, and a simple game or two for the very young people. graeme and rosie, and will too, enjoyed it well. harry professed to have been bored. out of these parties sprang others. graeme hardly knew how it happened, but the number of their acquaintances greatly increased about this time. perhaps it was partly owing to the new partnership entered into by arthur, with the long-established firm of black & company. they certainly owed to this, the sight of several fine carriages at their door, and of several pretty cards in their receiver. invitations came thick and fast, until an entire change came over their manner of life. regular reading was interfered with or neglected. household matters must have fallen into confusion, if nelly had not proved herself equal to all emergencies. the long quiet evening at home became the exception. they went out, or some one came in, or there was a lecture or concert, or when the sleighing became good a drive by moonlight. there were skating parties, and snow-shoeing parties, enough to tire the strongest; and there was no leisure, no quiet time. graeme was not long in becoming dissatisfied with this changed, unsettled life. the novelty soon wore off for her, and she became painfully conscious of the attendant evils. sadly disinclined herself to engage in any serious occupation, she could not but see that with her sister it was even worse. rose enjoyed all these gay doings much more, and in a way quite different from her; and the succeeding lassitude and depression were proportionably greater. indeed, lassitude and depression were quite too gentle terms to apply to the child's sensations, and her disinclination to occupation sometimes manifested itself in an unmistakable approach to peevishness, unless, indeed, the party of the evening was to be followed by the excursion of the day. then the evil effects were delayed, not averted. for a time, graeme made excuses for her to herself and to her brothers; then she did what was much wiser. she determined to put a stop to the cause of so much discomfort. several circumstances helped her to this decision, or rather to see the necessity for it. she only hesitated as to the manner in which she was to make her determination known; and while she hesitated, an opportunity to discuss their changed life occurred, and she did not permit it to pass unimproved. christmas and new year's day had been past for some weeks, and there was a pause in the festivities of their circle, when a billet of the usual form and purport was left at the door by a servant in livery. rose, who had seen him pass the window, had much to do to keep herself quiet, till nelly had taken it from his hand. she just noticed that it was addressed to graeme, in time to prevent her from opening it. "what is it, graeme?" asked she, eagerly, as she entered the room where her sister was writing. "i am almost sure it was left by mrs roxbury's servant. see, there is their crest. what is it? an invitation?" "yes," said graeme, quietly, laying down the note. "for the twenty-seventh." "such a long time! it will be a grand affair. we must have new dresses, graeme." she took up the note and read: "mrs roxbury's compliments to miss elliott." "miss elliott!" she repeated. "why, graeme! i am not invited." "so it seems; but never mind, rosie. i am not going to accept it." rose was indeed crestfallen. "oh, you must go, of course. you must not stay at home on my account." "no; certainly. that is not the reason. your being invited would have made no difference." "i could hardly have gone without you," said rose, doubtfully. "certainly not. neither of us would have gone. if i don't accept this invitation our acquaintance with the roxburys will perhaps go no further. that would be a sufficient reason for my refusal, if there were no others." "a sufficient reason for not refusing, i should rather say," said rose. "no. there is no good reason for keeping up an acquaintance with so many people. there is no pleasure in it; and it is a great waste of time and strength, and money too, for that matter." "but arthur wishes it. he thinks it right." "yes, to a certain extent, perhaps, but not at too great a cost. i don't mean of money, though in our circumstances that is something, too. but so much going out has been at a great sacrifice of time and comfort to us all. i am tired of it. we won't speak of it now, however; i must finish my letter." for to tell the truth, rosie's face did not look promising. "don't send a refusal till you have spoken to arthur, graeme. if he wishes you to go, you ought, you know." "i am by no means sure of that. arthur does not very often go to these large parties himself. he does not enjoy them, and i see no reason why i should deny myself, in so bad a cause." "but graeme, you have enjoyed some of them, at least. i am sure i have always enjoyed them." "yes, i have enjoyed some of them, but i am not sure that it is a right kind of enjoyment. i mean, it may be too dearly bought. and besides, it is not the party, as a party, that i ever enjoy. i have had more real pleasure in some of our quiet evenings at home, with only--only one or two friends, than i ever had at a party, and--, but we won't talk about it now," and she bent over her letter again. she raised her head almost immediately, however. "and yet, rosie, i don't know why this is not the best time to say what, for a long time, i have meant to say. we have not been living a good or wise life of late. do you mind, love, what janet said to us, the night before we came away? do you mind the charge she gave us, to keep our garments unspotted till we meet our father and mother again? do you think, dear, the life of pleasure we have been living, will make us more like what our mother was, more like what our father wished us to be-- more fit to meet them where they are?" graeme spoke very earnestly. there were tears in her eyes. "graeme," said rose, "do you think it wrong to go to parties--to dance? many good people do not." "i don't know, love. i cannot tell. it might be right for some people, and yet quite wrong for us. certainly, if it withdraws our minds from things of importance, or is the cause of our neglecting duty, it cannot be right for us. i am afraid it has been doing this for us all lately." rosie looked grave, but did not reply. in a little, graeme added,-- "i am afraid our last letters have not given much satisfaction to mrs snow, rosie. she seems afraid for us; afraid, lest we may become too much engrossed with the pleasant things about us, and reminds us of the care and watchfulness needed to keep ourselves unspotted from the world." "but, graeme, everything is so different in merleville, janet cannot know. and, besides--" "i know, dear; and i would not like to say that we have been doing anything very wrong all this time, or that those who do the same are doing wrong. if we were wiser and stronger, and not so easily influenced for evil, i daresay it would do us no harm. but, rosie, i am afraid for myself, that i may come to like this idle gay life too much, or, at least, that it may unfit me for a quiet useful life, as our father would have chosen for us, and i am afraid for you, too, dear rose." "i enjoy parties very much, and i can't see that there is any harm in it," said rosie, a little crossly. "no, not in enjoying them, in a certain way, and to a certain extent. but, rose, think how dreadful, to become `a lover of pleasure.' is there no danger do you think, love?" rose hung her head, and was silent. graeme went on,-- "my darling, there is danger for you--for me--for us all. how can we ever hope to win harry from the society of those who do him harm, when we are living only to please ourselves?" "but, graeme, it is better that we should all go together--i mean harry is more with us than he used to be. it must be better." "i don't know, dear. i fear it is only a change of evils. harry's temptation meets him even with us. and, oh! rosie, if our example should make it easier for harry to go astray! but we won't speak about harry. i trust god will keep him safe. i believe he will." though graeme tried to speak calmly, rose saw that she trembled and grew very white. "at any rate, rose, we could not hope that god would hear our prayers for harry, or for each other, if we were living in a way displeasing to him. for it is not well with us, dear. we need not try to hide it from ourselves. we must forget the last few troubled months, and begin again. yes, we must go farther back than that, rosie," said graeme, suddenly rising, and putting her arms about her sister. "do you mind that last night, beside the two graves? how little worth all seemed to us then, except to get safe home together. rosie! i could not answer for it to our father and mother if we were to live this troubled life long. my darling! we must begin again." there were tears on rose's cheeks, as well as graeme's, by this time. but in a little graeme sat down again. "it is i who have been most to blame. these gay doings never should have commenced. i don't think arthur will object to our living much more quietly than we have done of late. and if he does, we must try and reconcile him to the change." it was not difficult to reconcile arthur to the change. "graeme must do as she thought right," he said. "it must be rather a troublesome thing to keep up such a general acquaintance--a loss of time to little purpose," and so it would have ended, as far as he was concerned, if harry had not discovered mrs roxbury's note. "i declare mrs gridley is right," said he. "we are a rising family. i hope you gave that lady a chance to peep into this note, when she was here to-day. but how is this? miss elliott. have you one, rosie?" rose shook her head. "no. have you, harry?" "have i? what are you thinking of, rose? do you suppose those lofty portals would give admission to one who is only a humble clerk? it is only for such commercial successes as mr green, or allan ruthven, that that honour is reserved. but never mind, rosie. we shall find something to amuse us that night, i have no doubt." "graeme is not going," said rose. "not going! oh! she'll think better of it." "no, she has sent her refusal." "and why, pray?" "oh! one can't go everywhere, as mrs gridley says," replied graeme, thus appealed to. "yes; but mrs gridley said that with regard to a gathering of our good friend, willie birnie, the tailor. i can understand how she should not find time to go there. but how you should find time to shine on that occasion, and have none to spare for mrs roxbury's select affair, is more than i can comprehend." "don't be snobbish, harry," said will. "i think the reasons are obvious," said arthur. "yes," said graeme, "we knew willie birnie when we were children. he was at the school with you all. and i like his new wife very much, and our going gave them pleasure, and, besides, i enjoyed it well." "oh! if you are going to take a sentimental view of the matter, i have nothing to say. and willie is a fine fellow; i don't object to willie, or the new wife either--quite the contrary. but of the two, people generally would prefer to cultivate the acquaintance of mrs roxbury and her set." "graeme is not like people generally," said rose. "i hope not," said will. "and, harry, what do you suppose mrs roxbury cares about any of us, after all?" "she cares about graeme going to her party, or she would not have asked her." "i am not sure of that," said graeme, smiling at the eagerness of the brothers. "i suppose she asked me for the same reason that she called here, because of the partnership. they are connected with the blacks, in some way. now, that it is off her conscience, having invited me, i daresay she will be just as well pleased that i should stay at home." "that is not the least bit uncharitable, is it graeme?" "no. i don't think so. it certainly cannot make much difference to her, to have one more or less at her house on the occasion. i really think she asks me from a sense of duty--or rather, i ought to say, from a wish to be polite to her friends the blacks. it is very well that she should do so, and if i cared to go, it would, of course, be agreeable to her, but it will not trouble her in the least though i stay away." "well, i can't but say you have chosen an unfortunate occasion to begin to be fastidious. i should think the roxbury's would be the very house you would like to go to." "oh! one has to make a beginning. and i am tired of so much gaiety. it makes no difference about its being mrs roxbury." "very well. please yourself and you'll please me," said harry, rising. "are you going out to-night, harry?" said graeme, trying not to look anxious. "yes; but pray don't wait for me if i should not be in early," said harry, rather hastily. there was nothing said for some time after harry went out. will went to his books, and rose went to the piano. graeme sewed busily, but she looked grave and anxious. "what can make harry so desirous that you should go to mrs roxbury's?" said arthur, at last. "have you any particular reason for not wishing to go?" "do you think harry really cared? no; i have no reason for not wishing to go there. but, arthur, we have been going out too much lately. it is not good for rosie, nor for me, either; and i refused this invitation chiefly because she was not invited, i might not have had the courage to refuse to go with her--as she would have been eager to go. but it is not good for her, all this party-going." "i dare say you are right. she is too young, and not by any means beyond being spoiled. she is a very pretty girl." "pretty! who can compare with her?" said graeme. "but she must not be spoiled. she is best at home." "proudfute tells me this is to be a reception in honour of your friend ruthven, and miss elphinstone," said arthur. "it seems the wedding is to come off soon. proudfute is a relation of theirs, you know." "no; i did not know it," said graeme; and in a little she added, "ought that to make any difference about my going? my note is written but not sent." "i should think not. you are not supposed to know anything about it. it is very likely not true. and it is nothing to us." "no; that is true," said graeme. "rosie, my dear, you are playing too quickly. that should be quite otherwise at the close," and rising, she went to the piano and sat down beside her sister. they played a long time together, and it was rose who was tired first `for a wonder.' "graeme, why did you not tell harry the true reason that you did not wish to go to mrs roxbury's?" said rose, when they went up-stairs together. "the true reason?" repeated graeme. "i mean, why did you not speak to him as you spoke to me?" "i don't know, dear. perhaps i ought to have done so. but it is not so easy to speak to others as it is to you. i am afraid harry would have cared as little for the true reason as for the one i gave." "i don't know, graeme. he was not satisfied; and don't you think it would have been better just to say you didn't think it right to go out so much--to large parties, i mean." "perhaps it would have been better," said graeme, but she said no more; and sat down in the shadow with her bible in her hand for the nightly reading. rose had finished her preparations for bed before she stirred, and coming up behind her she whispered softly,-- "graeme, you are not afraid for harry now? i mean not more afraid?" graeme started. her thoughts were painful, as her face showed; but they were not of harry. "i don't know, love. i hope not. i pray god, no harm may come to harry. oh! rosie, rosie, we have been all wrong this long, long time. we have been dreaming, i think. we must waken up, and begin again." chapter twenty four. graeme's first judgment of allan ruthven, had been, "how these ten years have changed him;" but she quite forgot the first judgment when she came to see him more, and meeting his kind eyes and listening to his kind voice, in the days that followed she said to herself, "he is the same, the very same." but her first judgment was the true one. he was changed. it would have been strange if the wear and tear of commercial life for ten years had not changed him, and that not for the better. in the renewal of intercourse with his old friends, and in the new acquaintance he made with his brother charlie, he came to know himself that he had changed greatly. he remembered sadly enough, the aspirations that had died out of his heart since his youth, the temptations that he had struggled against always, but which, alas! he had not always withstood. he knew now that his faith had grown weak, that thoughts of the unseen and heavenly had been put far-away from him. yes; he was greatly changed since the night he had stood with the rest an the deck of the "steadfast," watching the gleaming lights of a strange city. standing now face to face with the awakened remembrance of his own ideal, he knew that he had fallen far short of its attainment; and reading in graeme's truthful eye "the same, the very same," his own often fell with a sense of shame as though he were deceiving her. he was changed, and yet the wonder was, that the influences of these ten years had not changed him more. the lonely life he had pictured to his friends, that last night on the "steadfast," fell far short of the reality that awaited him. removed from the kindly associations of home, and the tranquil pursuits and pleasures of a country village, to the turmoil of a western city, and the annoyance of a subordinate in a merchant's office, he shrunk, at first, in disgust from the life that seemed opening before him. his native place, humble as it was, had lived in song and story for many centuries; and in this city which had sprung up in a day, nothing seemed stable or secure. a few months ago the turf of the prairie had been undisturbed, where to-day its broad streets are trodden by the feet of thousands. between gigantic blocks of buildings rising everywhere, strips of the prairie turf lay undisturbed still. the air of newness, of incompleteness, of insecurity that seemed to surround all things impressed him painfully; the sadden prosperity seemed unreal and unnatural, as well it might, to one brought up in a country where the first thought awakened by change or innovation is one of mistrust and doubt. all his preconceived ideas of business and a business-life, availed him nothing in the new circumstances in which he found himself. if business men were guided in their mutual relations by any principle of faith or honour, he failed in the first bitterness of his disgust to see it. business-life seemed but a scramble, in which the most alert seized the greatest portion. the feverish activity and energy which were fast changing the prairie into a populous place seemed directed to one end-- the getting of wealth. wealth must be gotten by fair means or foul, and it must be gotten suddenly. there was no respite, no repose. one must go onward or be pushed aside, or be trodden under foot. fortune was daily tempted, and the daily result was success, or utter failure, till a new chance could be grasped at. "honest labour! patient toil!" allan wondered within himself if the words had ever reached the inward sense of these eager, anxious men, jostling each other in their never-ceasing struggle. allan watched, and wondered, and mused, trying to understand, and to make himself charitable over the evil, by calling it a national one, and telling himself that these men of the new world were not to be judged by old laws, or measured by old standards. but there were among the swiftest runners of the race for gold men from all lands, men whose boyish feet had wandered over english meadows, or trod the heather on scottish hills. men whose fathers had spent their lives content in mountain sheilings, with no wish beyond their flocks and their native glens; humble artisans, smiths, and masons, who had passed in their own country for honest, patient, god-fearing men, grew as eager, as unscrupulous, as swift as the fleetest in the race. the very diggers of ditches, and breakers of stone on the highway, the hewers of wood and drawers of water; took with discontent that it was no more their daily wages, doubled or tripled to them, since they set foot on the soil of the new world. that there might be another sort of life in the midst of this turmoil, he did not consider. he never could associate the idea of home or comfort with those dingy brick structures, springing up in a day at every corner. he could not fancy those hard voices growing soft in the utterance of loving words, or those thin, compressed lips gladly meeting the smiling mouth of a little child. home! why, all the world seemed at home in those vast hotels; the men and women greeting each other coldly, in these great parlours, seemed to have no wants that a black man, coming at the sound of a bell, might not easily supply. even the children seemed at ease and self-possessed in the midst of the crowd. they troubled no one with noisy play or merry prattle, but sat on chairs with their elders, listening to, or joining in the conversation, with a coolness and appropriateness painfully suggestive of what their future might be. looking at these embryo merchants and fine ladies, from whose pale little lips "dollar" and "change" fall more naturally than sweeter words, ruthven ceased to wonder at the struggle around him. he fancied he could understand how these little people, strangers, as it seemed to him, to a home or even to a childhood, should become in time the eager, absorbed, unscrupulous runners and wrestlers, jostling each other in the daily strife. ruthven was very bitter and unjust in many of his judgments during the first part of his residence in c. he changed his opinions of many things afterwards, partly because he became wiser, partly because he became a little blind, and, especially, because he himself became changed at last. by and by his life was too busy to permit him to watch those about him, or to pronounce judgment on their aims or character. uncongenial as he had at first found the employment which his uncle had provided for him, he pursued it with a patient steadiness, which made it first endurable, then pleasant to him. at first his duties were merely mechanical; so much writing, so much computing each day, and then his time was his own. but this did not continue long. trusted always by the firm, he was soon placed in a position where he was able to do good service to his employers. his skill and will guided their affairs through more than one painful crisis. his integrity kept their good name unsullied at a time when too many yielding to what seemed necessity, were betaking themselves to doubtful means to preserve their credit. he thoroughly identified himself with the interests of the firm, even when his uncle was a comparative stranger to him. he did his duty in his service as he would have done it in the service of another, constantly and conscientiously, because it was right to do so. so passed the first years of his commercial life. in default of other interests, he gave himself wholly up to business pursuits, till no onlooker on the busy scene in which he was taking part would have thought of singling him out as in any respect different from those who were about him. those who came into close contact with him called him honourable and upright, indeed, over scrupulous in many points; and he, standing apart from them, and in a certain sense above them, was willing so to be called. but as one cannot touch pitch without being defiled, so a man must yield in time to the influences in the midst of which he has voluntarily placed himself. so it came to pass that, as the years went on, allan ruthven was greatly changed. it need not have been so. it doubtless was far otherwise with some who, in his pride and ignorance, he had called earth-worms and worshippers of gold; for though, in the first bitterness of his isolation, he was slow to discover it, there were in the midst of the turmoil and strife of that new city warm hearts and happy homes, and the blessed influence of the christian faith and the christian life. there were those over whom the gains-getting demon of the place had no power, because of a talisman they held, the "constraining love of christ," in them. those walked through the fire unscathed, and, in the midst of much that is defiling, kept their garments clean. but ruthven was not one of them. he had the name of the talisman on his lips, but he had not its living power in his heart. he was a christian only in name; and so, when the influence of early associations began to grow weak, and he began to forget, as men will for a time, his mother's teachings "in the house, and by the way," at the "lying down and the rising up," no wonder that the questionable maxims heard daily from the lips of the worldly-wise should come to have weight with him at last. not that in those days he was, in any sense, a lover of gold for its own sake. he never sank so low as that. but in the eagerness with which he devoted himself to business, he left himself no time for the performance of other and higher duties, or for the cultivation of those principles and affections which can alone prevent the earnest business-man from degenerating into a character so despicable. if he was not swept away by the strong current of temptation, it was because of no wisdom or strength or foresight of his. another ten years of such a life would have made him, as it has made many another, a man outwardly worthy of esteem, but inwardly selfish, sordid, worldly--all that in his youth he had most despised. this may seem a hard judgment, but it is the judgement he passed on himself, when there came a pause in his busy life, and he looked back over those years and felt that he did not hold the world loosely--that he could not open his hand and let it go. he had been pleasing himself all along with the thought that he was not like the men about him-- content with the winning of wealth and position in the world; but there came a time when it was brought sharply home to him that without these he could not be content. it was a great shock and surprise to him to be forced to realise how far he had drifted on with the current, and how impossible it had become to get back to the old starting-place again, and in the knowledge he did not spare himself, but used harder and sterner words of self-contempt than any that are written here. ruthven's intercourse with his uncle's family, though occurring at long intervals, had been of a very pleasant kind, for he was a great favourite with his aunt and his cousin lilias, who was then a child. indeed, she was only a child when her mother died; and when there fell into his hands a letter written by his aunt to his mother, during one of his first visits to m, in which half seriously, half playfully, was expressed a wish that the cousins might one day stand in a nearer and dearer relation to one another, he was greatly surprised and amused. i am afraid it was only the thought that the hand that had penned the wish was cold in death, that kept him from shocking his mother by laughing outright at the idea. for what a child lilias must have been when that was written, thought he! what a child she was still! but the years went on, and the child grew into a beautiful woman, and the remembrance of his aunt's wish was pleasant to allan ruthven, because of his love and admiration for his cousin, and because of other things. he could not be blind to the advantages that such a connection would ensure to him. the new partnership was anticipated and entered upon, on very different terms from those which might have been, but for the silent understanding with regard to lilias that existed between the uncle and nephew. it was no small matter that the young merchant should find himself in a position to which the greater number attain only after half a lifetime of labour. he was at the head of a lucrative business, conscious of possessing skill and energy to conduct it well--conscious of youth and health and strength to enjoy the future opening before him. nor was there anything wrong in this appreciation of the advantages of his position. he knew that this wealth had not bought him. he loved his cousin lilias, or he thought he loved her; and though up to this time, and after this time their intercourse was only after a cousinly sort, he believed she loved him. the thought _did_ come into his mind sometimes whether his cousin was all to him that a woman might be, but never painfully. he did not doubt that, as years went on, they would be very happy together after a quiet, rational fashion, and he smiled, now and then, at the fading remembrance of many a boyish dream as to how his wife was to be wooed and won. he was happy--they were all happy; and the tide of events flowed quietly on the the night when allan clasped the trembling hand of graeme elliott. indeed, it flowed quietly on long after that, for in the charm that, night after night, drew him into the happy circle of the elliotts, he recognised only the pleasure that the renewal of old friendships and the awakening of old associations gave him. the pleasure which his cousin took in the society of these young people was scarcely less than his own. around the heiress and only child of mr elphinstone there soon gathered a brilliant circle of admirers, the greater part of whom would hardly have recognised the elliotts as worthy of sharing the honour with them. but there was to the young girl, who had neither brother nor sister, something better than brilliancy or fashion in graeme's quiet parlour. the mutual love and confidence that made their home so happy, filled her with wonder and delight, and there were few days, for several pleasant months, in which they did not meet. the pleasant intercourse was good for lilias. she brightened under it wonderfully, and grew into a very different creature from the pale, quiet, little girl, who used to sit so gravely at her father's side. her father saw the change and rejoiced over it, and though at first he was not inclined to be pleased with the intimacy that had sprung up so suddenly, he could not but confess that the companionship of one like rose elliott must be good for her. graeme he seldom saw. the long morning calls, and spending of days with her friend, which were rosie's delight, graeme seldom shared. but she was quite as much the friend of lilias as was her livelier sister, and never did his cousin seem so beautiful to allan, never was she so dear, as when, with pretty willfulness; she hung about graeme, claiming a right to share with rose the caresses or gentle reproofs of the elder sister. he did not think of danger to himself in the intercourse which lilias shared so happily. he was content with the present, and did not seek to look into the future. but he was not quite free from troubled thoughts at this time. in the atmosphere in which he lived things wore a new aspect to him. almost unconsciously to himself at first, he began to judge of men, and motives, and actions, by a new rule--or rather, he came back to the old rule, by which he had measured all things in his youthful days. these days did not seem so far removed from him now as they used to do, and sometimes he found himself looking back over the last ten years, with the clear truthful eyes of eighteen. it was not always a pleasant retrospect. there were some things covered up by that time, of which the review could not give unmingled pleasure. these were moments when he could not meet graeme's truthful eyes, as with "don't you remember?" she recalled his own words, spoken long ago. he knew, though she did not, how his thoughts of all things had changed since then; and though the intervening years had made him a man of wealth and note, there came to him, at such moments, a sense of failure and regret, as though his manhood had belied the promise of his youth--a strong desire to begin anew--a longing after a better life than these ten years had witnessed. but these pleasant days came to an end. business called allan, for a time, to his old home in c, and to his uncongenial life there. it was not pleasant business. there was a cry, louder than usual, of "hard times" through the country, and the failure of several houses, in which he had placed implicit confidence, threatened, not, indeed, to endanger the safety, but greatly to embarrass the operations of the new firm. great losses were sustained, and complicated as their affairs at the west had become, allan began to fear that his own presence there would for some time be necessary. he was surprised and startled at the pain which the prospect gave him, and before he had time to question himself as to why it should be so, the reason was made plain to him. a letter written by his uncle immediately after a partial recovery from an illness, a return of which, his physicians assured him, must prove fatal, set the matter before him in its true light. the letter was brief. knowing little of the disorder into which recent events had thrown their affairs, he entreated allan's immediate return, for his sake, and for the sake of lilias, whom it distressed him to think of leaving till he should see her safe with one who should have a husband's right to protect and console her. it was simply and frankly said, as one might speak of a matter fully understood and approved of by all concerned. but the words smote on allan's heart with sharp and sudden pain, and he knew that something had come into his life, since the time when he had listened in complacent silence to mr elphinstone's half-expressed ideas, concerning lilias and her future. there was pleasure in the pain, sharp and sweet while it lasted, for with the knowledge that came to him, that he loved graeme elliott, there came also the hope, that there was something more than gentle friendliness in the feelings with which she regarded him. but the pleasure passed, and the pain remained, growing sharper and deeper as he looked the future in the face. it was not a hopeful future. as for his cousin, there had passed between them no words or tokens of affection, that cousins might not very well exchange; at least, he was willing to believe so now; and judging her feelings, partly by his own, and partly by the remembrance of many a chance word and action of the last few months, he said to himself, the happiness of her life would not be marred though they might never be more than cousins to each other. but this did not end his doubts as to the course that lay before him, and every day that he lingered in miserable indecision, made more evident to him the difficulties of his position. he knew it was a son's place that he had got in the firm. he could only claim it as a son. if his relations to lilias and her father were changed, it seemed to him that he could not honourably claim a position which had been urged upon him, and which he had gladly accepted with a view to these relations. the past ten years must be as nothing to him, except for the experience they had given him, the good name they had won for him. he must begin life again a poor man. but let me not be unjust to him. it was not this that made all the misery of his indecision. had all this come in a time of prosperity, or when mr elphinstone had strength and courage to meet disaster unmoved, it would have been different. but now, when all things looked threatening, when certain loss--possible ruin--lay before them, when the misfortunes of some, and the treachery of others were making the very ground beneath their feet insecure, could he leave the feeble old man to struggle through these difficult and dangerous times alone? he knew his uncle too well to believe that he would willingly accept help from him, their relations being changed, and he knew that no skill and knowledge but his own, could conduct to a successful issue, enterprises undertaken under more favourable circumstances. he was very wretched. he could not put away the discomfort of his indecision by permitting time and circumstances to decide in the course which he must take. whatever was done must be done by him, and at once. there was no respite of time or chance to fall back upon, in the strait in which he found himself. he did not hasten home. he had cause enough to excuse the delay to himself, and he threw himself into the increasingly painful details of business, with an energy that, for the time, left no room for painful thoughts. but it was only for the time. he knew that his lingering was useless, in view of what the end must be, and he despised himself for his indecision. if his choice had been altogether between poverty and wealth, it would have been easy to him, he thought, though it forced itself upon him with intense bitterness during these days, how the last ten years had changed the meaning of the word to him. but his honour was involved--his honour as a man, and as a merchant. he could not leave his uncle to struggle with misfortune in his old age. he could not let the name, so long honoured and trusted in the commercial world, be joined with the many which during the last few months had been coupled with ruin, and even with shame. he was responsible for the stability or the failure of the house, which for thirty years had never given cause for doubt or fear. more than this. his own reputation as a wise and successful man of business, if not even his personal honour was at stake, to make it impossible for him to separate himself from the affairs of the firm at a juncture so perilous. and then, lilias. nothing but her own spoken word could free him from the tacit engagement that existed between them. in honour he could never ask her to speak that word. through his long journey of days and nights he pondered it all, making no decision as to what was to be done or said, but growing gradually conscious as he drew near home, that the life of the last few months, was coming to seem more and more like a pleasant dream that must be forgotten in the future. he met his uncle's eager greeting with no word of change. his face was pale and very grave when he met his cousin, but not more so than hers. but that might very well be said each of the other. lilias knew more of the losses which the firm had sustained than her father knew; and allan might well look grave, she thought, and the watching and anxiety for her father's sake might well account to him for her sad looks. after the first clasp of their hands he knew that the vows hitherto unspoken, must now be fulfilled. chapter twenty five. graeme did go to mrs roxbury's party, and it happened in this way. the invitations had been sent out before mr elphinstone's short, sharp illness, and lilias had been made very useful by her aunt on the occasion. she had not been consulted about the sending of graeme's invitation, or probably rose would have had one too, but by good fortune, as she declared, graeme's refusal came first to her hand, and the little lady did a most unprecedented thing. she put it quietly into her pocket, and going home that night by the elliott's, ventured to expostulate. "first, you must promise not to be vexed," and then she showed the note. graeme looked grave. "now you must not be angry with me. rosie, tell her not to be vexed, because, you know you can write another refusal, if you are determined. but i am sure you will not be so cruel. i can't tell you any reason, except that i have set my heart on your being there, and you'll come to please me, will you not?" "to please you, ought to be sufficient reasons, i know," said graeme, smiling. and lilias knew she had prevailed with her friend. she saw the acceptance written, and carried it off to place it with dozens of others, in the hands of mrs roxbury. she did not say much to graeme about it, but to rosie, she triumphed. "i want aunt roxbury to see graeme looking her very best. graeme will look like a queen among us. aunt will see that allan and i have good reasons for our admiration. fancy any of these trumpery people patronising graeme! but you are not to tell her what i say. you don't think she was really vexed with me, do you? and she must wear her new peach-blossom silk. i am so glad." but poor little lilias went through deep waters, before the peach-blossom silk was worn by graeme. mr elphinstone was brought very near the gates of death, and anxious days and nights were passed by his daughter at his bedside. mrs roxbury would have recalled her invitations, and lilias' soul sickened at the thought of the entertainment; but when the immediate danger was over, events fell into their usual channel, and though she gave no more assistance, either by word or deed, her aunt counted on her presence on the occasion, and even her father insisted that it was right for her to go. "and so, my love," said mrs roxbury, "as your father and i see no impropriety in your coming, there can be none, and you will enjoy it, indeed you will. you are tired now." "impropriety! it is not that i don't wish to go. i cannot bear the thought of going." "nonsense! you are overtired, that is all. and mr ruthven will be here by that time, and i depend on you to bring him." but if allan's presence had depended on lilias, mrs roxbury would not have seen him in her splendid rooms that night. it was mr elphinstone that reminded her of the note that awaited the return of her cousin, and it was he who insisted that they should appear, for at least an hour or two, at the party. and they went together, a little constrained and uncomfortable, while they were alone, but to all appearance at their ease, and content with one another when they entered the room. graeme saw them the moment they came in, and she saw, too, many a significant glance exchanged, as they made their way together to mrs roxbury. lilias saw graeme almost as soon. she was standing near the folding-doors, seemingly much interested in what mr proudfute, her brother's friend, was saying to her. "there, aunt," said lilias, eagerly, when the greetings were over, "did i not tell you that my friend miss elliott would eclipse all here to-night? look at her now." "my dear," said her aunt, "she does better than that. she is very lovely and lady-like, and tries to eclipse no one, and so wins all hearts." lilias' eyes sparkled as she looked at her cousin, but he did not catch her look. "my dear," continued mrs roxbury, "i have news for you, but perhaps it is no news to you. ah! he has found her." mr elias green was at the moment, making his bow to graeme. "there was no truth in the rumour, about him and little miss grove. mr green has more sense. your friend is fortunate, lilias." lilias looked at her aunt in astonishment, but nothing more could be said, for there were more arrivals, and her attention was claimed. "aunt roxbury does not know what she is talking about," said she, to her cousin, as he led her away. "the idea of mr green's daring to lift his eyes to graeme elliott. she would not look at him." "mr green is a great man in his own circle, i can assure you," said mr ruthven. "miss elliott will be thought fortunate by people generally." "do you think so? you know very little about her, if you think that," said lilias, impatiently. "i know mr green better than most people do, and i respect him--and he is very rich--" "oh! don't talk folly," cried lilias. "i have no patience with people who think, because a man is rich--. but you don't know graeme, cousin allan--i thought--" they were very near graeme by this time. she turned at the moment, and greeted them frankly enough, as far as any one could see. she noticed the cloud on lilias' face, and asked her if she was quite well; she expressed pleasure at the return of mr ruthven too, but she did not meet his eye, though he told her he had seen her brother norman at a station by the way, and detained her to give her a message that he had sent. he had schooled himself well, if he was really as unmoved by the words of mrs roxbury and lilias, as to his cousin he appeared to be. but he was not a man who let his thoughts write themselves on his face, and she might easily be deceived. it was not a pleasant moment, it was a very bitter moment indeed, to him, when with a smile to them, graeme placed her hand on the willing arm of mr green, and walked away "like a queen," he said to himself, but to his cousin he said-- "my friend will be a very happy man, and _your_ friend may be happy too, let us hope." but lilias never answered a word. she followed them, with her eyes, till they disappeared through the door that led to the room beyond; and then she said only,-- "i have made a great mistake." had she made a mistake or had he? a mistake never to be undone, never outlived--a mistake for graeme, for himself, perhaps for lilias too. it was not a thought to be borne, and he put it from him sternly, saying it could not have been otherwise--nothing could be changed now; and he was very gentle and tender with his little cousin that night and afterwards, saying to himself that she, at least, should have no cause to grieve in the future, if his loving care for her could avail. about this time will was threatened with a serious illness. it did not prove so serious as they at first feared, but it was long and tedious, and gave his eldest sister an excuse for denying herself to many who called, and accounted for her pale looks to those whom she was obliged to see. in the silence of her brother's sick-room, graeme looked a great sorrow in the face. in other circumstances, with the necessity laid upon her to deceive others, she might for a time have deceived herself; for the knowledge that one's love has been given unsought, is too bitter to be accepted willingly. but the misery of those long silent nights made plain to her what the first sharp pang had failed to teach her. in the first agony of her self-scorn, she saw herself without excuse. she was hard and bitter to herself. she might have known, she thought, how it was with allan and his cousin. during all those years in which she had been a stranger to them both, they had loved each other; and now, with no thought of her, they loved each other still. it was natural that it should be so, and right. what was she, to think to come between them with her love? she was very bitter to herself and unjust in her first misery, but her feeling changed. her heart rebelled against her own verdict. she had not acted an unmaidenly part in the matter. she had never thought of harm coming to her, or to anyone, out of the pleasant intercourse of these months--the renewal of their old friendship. if she had sinned against lilias, it had been unconsciously. she had never thought of these things in those days. if she had only known him sooner, she thought, or not so soon, or not at all! how should she ever be able to see them again in the old unrestrained way? how should she be able to live a life changed and empty of all pleasure? then she grew bitter again, and called herself hard names for her folly, in thinking that a change in one thing must change all her life. would not the passing away of this vain dream leave her as rich in the love of brothers and sister, as ever? hitherto their love had sufficed for her happiness, and it should still suffice. the world need not be changed to her, because she had wished for one thing that she could not have. she could be freed from no duty, absolved from no obligation because of this pain; it was a part of her life, which she must accept and make the best of, as she did of all other things that came upon her. as she sat one night thinking over the past and the future, wearily enough, but without the power to withdraw her mind from what was sad in them, there suddenly came back to her one of janet's short, sharp speeches, spoken in answer to a declaration half vexed, half mirthful, made by her in the days when the mild mr foster had aspired to be more to her than a friend. "my dear," she had said, "bide till your time comes. you are but a woman like the lave, and you maun thole the brunt of what life may bring. love! ay will you, and that without leave asked or given. and if you get love for love, you'll thank god humbly for one of his best gifts; and if you do not well, he can bring you through without it, as he has done many a one before. but never think you can escape your fate, and make the best of it when it comes." "and so my fate has found me," murmured graeme to herself. "this is part of my life, and i must make the best of it. well, he can bring me through, as janet said." "graeme," said will suddenly, "what are you thinking about?" graeme started painfully. she had quite forgotten will. those bright, wakeful eyes of his had been on her many a time when she thought he was asleep. "what were you thinking about? you smiled first, then you sighed." "did i? well, i was not aware that i was either smiling or sighing. i was thinking about janet, and about something that she said to me once." she rose and arranged the pillows, stooping down to kiss her brother as she did so, and then she said sadly,-- "i am afraid you are not much better to-night, will." "yes; i think i am better. my head is clearer. i have been watching your face, graeme, and thinking how weary and ill you look." "i am tired, will, but not ill." graeme did not like the idea of her face having been watched, but she spoke cheerfully. "i have been a great trouble to you," said will. "yes, indeed! a dreadful trouble. i hope you are not going to try my patience much longer." "i don't know. i hope not, for your sake." and then in a little will added, "do you know, graeme, i am beginning to be glad of this illness after all." graeme laughed. "well, if you are glad of it, i will try and bear it patiently a little longer. i daresay we are taking the very best means to prolong it chattering at this unreasonable hour." "i am not sleepy," said will, "and i am not restless either. i think i am really better, and it will do me good to have a little talk; but you are tired." "i am tired, but i am not sleepy. besides, if you are really better, i can sleep for a week, if i like. so, if it be a pleasure to you, speak on." "what was it that janet said that made you sigh so drearily just now?" asked will. graeme would have liked the conversation to take any other turn rather than that, but she said, gently,-- "i think my smile must have been for what janet said. i am sure i laughed heartily enough when she said it to me so long ago. i suppose i sighed to think that what she said has come true." "what was it, graeme?" "oh! i can hardly tell you--something about the changes that come to us as we grow older, and how vain it is to think we can avoid our fate." "our fate?" repeated will. "oh, yes! i mean there are troubles--and pleasures, too, that we can't foresee--that take us at unawares, and we have just to make the best of them when they come." "i don't think i quite understand you, graeme." "no, i daresay not; and it is not absolutely necessary that you should,--in the connection. but i am sure a great many pleasant things that we did not expect, have happened to us since we came here." "and was it thinking of these pleasant things that made you sigh?" asked will. "no. i am afraid i was thinking of the other kind of surprises; and i daresay i had quite as much reason to smile as to sigh. we can't tell our trials at first sight, will, nor our blessings either. time changes their faces wonderfully to us as the years go on. at any rate, janet's advice is always appropriate; we must make the best of them when they come." "yes;" said will, doubtfully; he did not quite understand yet. "for instance, will, you were disconsolate enough when the doctor told you you must give up your books for an indefinite time, and now you are professing yourself quite content with headache and water-gruel--glad even at the illness that at first was so hard to bear." will made a face at the gruel she presented. "i dare say it is good for me, though i can't say i like it, or the headache. but, graeme, i did not get this check before i needed it. it is pleasant to be first, and i was beginning to like it. now this precious month taken from me, at the time i needed it most, will put me back. to be sure," added he, with a deprecating glance, "it is not much to be first among so few. but as janet used to say, pride is an ill weed and grows easily--flourishes even on a barren soil; and in the pleasure and excitement of study, it is not difficult to forget that it is only a means to an end." "yes," said graeme, "it is easy to forget what we ought to remember." but it came into will's mind that her sympathy did not come so readily as usual, that her thoughts were elsewhere, and he had a feeling that they were such as he was not to be permitted to share. in a little he said,-- "graeme; i should like very much to go home to scotland." graeme roused herself and answered cheerfully,-- "yes, i have never quite given up the hope of going home again; but we should find sad changes, i doubt." "but i mean i should like to go home soon. not for the sake of clayton and our friends there. i would like to go to fit myself better for the work i have to do in the world." "you mean, you would like to go home to study." "yes. one must have a far better opportunity there, and it is a grand thing to be `thoroughly furnished'." there was a pause, and then he added, "if i go, i ought to go soon--within a year or two, i mean." "oh, will, how could i ever let you go away?" "why, graeme! that is not at all like you; you could let me go if it were right. but i have not quite decided that it is not selfish in me to wish to go." "but why?" asked graeme. "partly because it would be so pleasant. don't you remember how janet used to say, we are not so likely to see all sides of what we desire very much. perhaps i desire it more for the pleasure it would give me, than for the benefit it might be to me. and then the expense. it would be too much to expect from arthur." "but there is the merleville money. it was meant for arthur's education, and as he did not need it, it is yours." "no, that belongs to you and rose. it would not be right to take that." "nonsense, will. what is ours is yours; if the expense were all! but i cannot bear to think of you going away, and harry, too, perhaps." "rose tells me that harry is more bent on going west than ever." "yes, within a few days he has become quite eager about it. i cannot understand why he should be so. oh, i cannot feel hopeful about it." "arthur thinks it may be a good thing for harry," said will. "yes, for some things i suppose so. but, oh! will, i could not let harry go as i could let you, sure that he would be kept safe till--" graeme laid her head down on her brother's pillow, and the tears she had been struggling with for so long a time burst forth. she had never spoken to will of her fears for harry, but he knew that they all had had cause for anxiety on his account, so instead of speaking he laid his arm over his sister's neck. she struggled with herself a moment, unable to speak. "graeme," said will, softly, "we cannot keep harry safe from evil, and he who can is able to keep him safe there as well as here." "i know it; i say it to myself twenty times a day. that is, i say it in words; but i do not seem to get the comfort i might from them." "but, graeme, harry has been very little away this winter, and i had thought--" "i know, dear, and i have been quite hopeful about him till lately. but, oh, will! it won't bear talking about. we can only wait patiently." "yes, graeme, we can pray and trust, and you are exaggerating to yourself harry's danger, i think. what has happened to make you so faint-hearted, dear?" "what should have happened, will? i am tired--for one thing--and something is wrong i know." she paused to struggle with her tears. "somehow, i don't feel so anxious about harry as you do, graeme. he will come back again. i am sure this great sorrow is not waiting you." he paused a moment, and then added, hesitatingly,-- "i have had many thoughts since i sat down here, graeme. i think one needs--it does one good, to make a pause to have time to look back and to look forward. things change to us; we get clearer and truer views of life, alone in the dark, with nothing to withdraw our thoughts from the right and the wrong of things, and we seem to see more clearly how true it is, that though we change god never changes. we get courage to look our troubles fairly in the face, when we are alone with god and them." still graeme said nothing, and will added,-- "graeme, you must take hope for harry. and there is nothing else, is there?--nothing that you are afraid to look at--nothing that you cannot bring to the one place for light and help?" she did not answer for a minute. "no, will, i hope not. i think not. i daresay--i am quite sure that all will be for the best, and i shall see at some time." not another word was said till graeme rose and drawing aside the curtains, let in on them the dim dawn of a bleak march morning. in a few more days will was down-stairs again. not in his accustomed corner among his books, but in the arm-chair in the warmest place by the fire, made much of by rose and them all. it seemed a long time since he had been among them. a good many things had happened during the month that graeme and he had passed together up-stairs. march, that had come in "like a lion" was hastening out "like a lamb;" the sky was clear and the air was mild; spring was not far-away. the snow lay still in sullied ridges in the narrow streets where the sun had little power, and the mud lay deep in the streets where the snow had nearly disappeared. but the pavements were dry and clean, and in spite of dirty crossings and mud bespattering carriages, they were thronged with gay promenaders, eager to welcome the spring. those who were weatherwise shook their heads, declaring that having april in march would ensure march weather when april came, or it might be even in may. so it might prove, but there was all the more need, because of this, that the most should be made of the sunshine and the mild air, and even their quiet sweet was quite gay with the merry goers to and fro, and it seemed to will and graeme that more than a month had passed since his illness began. harry had quite decided to go west now, and was as eager and impatient to be gone as if he had all his life been dreaming of no other future than that which awaited him there. that he should be so glad to go, pained his sister as much as the thought of his going. that was at first, for it did not take graeme long to discover that harry was not so gay as he strove to appear. but her misgivings as to his departure were none the less sad on that account, and it was with a heavy heart that she listened to his plans. perhaps it was in contrast to harry's rather ostentations mirth that his friend charlie millar seemed so very grave on the first night that will ventured to prolong his stay among them after the gas had been lighted. rose was grave, too, and not at ease, though she strove to hide it by joining in harry's mirth. charlie did not strive to hide his gravity, but sat silent and thoughtful after his first greetings were over. even harry's mirth failed at last, and he leaned back on the sofa, shading his face with his hands. "i am afraid your brother would think us very ungrateful if he could see how badly we are thanking him for his great kindness to harry." graeme forced herself to say it. allan's name had not been mentioned among them for days, and the silence, at first grateful, had come to seem strange and unnatural, and it made graeme's cheeks tingle to think what might be the cause. so, looking into charlie's face with a smile, she spoke to him about his brother. but charlie did not answer, or graeme did not hear, and in a little while she said again,-- "is mr ruthven still in town?" "oh! yes. it is not likely he will leave again soon." "and your uncle is really recovering from his last attack? what on anxious time miss elphinstone must have had!" "yes, he seems better, and, contrary to all expectation, seems likely to live for some time yet. but his mind is much affected. at least it seems so to me." "poor lilias!" said graeme, "is she still alone?" "oh, no. there is a houseful of them. her aunt mrs roxbury is there, and i don't know how many besides. i declare, i think those women enjoy it." graeme looked shocked. "charlie means the preparations for the wedding," said rose. "it is to take place soon, is it not?" "within the month, i believe," said charlie, gravely. "so soon!" said graeme; and in a little she added, "is it not sudden?" "no--yes, i suppose so. they have been engaged, or something like it for some time; but the haste is because of mr elphinstone. he thinks he cannot die happy till he sees his daughter safe under the care of her husband. just as if allan would not be her friend all the same. it seems to me like madness." "and lilias," said rose, almost in a whisper, "is she content?" "on the whole, i suppose so. but this haste and her father being so ill, and all these horrid preparations are too much for her. she looks ill, and anything but cheerful." "we have not seen your brother for a long time," said will. "i have scarcely seen him, either. he did not find matters much to his mind in c, i fear. harry will have to keep his eyes open among those people." "how soon will harry have to go?" asked rose. "the sooner the better, i suppose," said charlie, rising and walking about. "oh! dear me. this is a miserable overturning that has come upon us--and everything seemed to be going on so smoothly." "harry will not have to go before arthur comes back, i hope," said rose. "i don't know, indeed. when does he come?" "charlie, man," said harry, rising suddenly, "did i not hear you promising crofts to meet him to-night? it is eight o'clock." "no. i don't care if i never see crofts, or any of his set again. you had much better stay where you are harry." "charlie, don't be misanthropical. i promised if you didn't. come along. no? well, good-night to you all. will, it is time you were in bed, your eyes are like saucers. don't sit up for me, graeme." graeme had no heart to remonstrate. she felt it would do no good, and he went away leaving a very silent party behind him. charlie lingered. when graeme came down-stairs after seeing will in his room she found him still sitting opposite rose, silent and grave. he roused himself as she entered. graeme would gladly have excused him, but she took a seat and her work, and prepared to be entertained. it was not an easy matter, though charlie had the best will in the world to be entertaining, and graeme tried to respond. she did not think of it at the time, but afterwards, when charlie was gone, she remembered the sad wistful look with which the lad had regarded her. rose too, hung about her, saying nothing, but with eyes full of something to which graeme would not respond. one angry throb, stirred her heart, but her next thoughts were not in anger. "these foolish young people have been dreaming dreams about allan and me,--and i must undeceive them--or deceive them--" "graeme," said rose, softly, "if either of us wait for harry it must be me, for you are very tired." "yes, i am very tired." "charlie said, perhaps he would take harry home with him. should we wait?" said rose. "no. he may not come. we will not wait. i shall sleep near will. he cannot spare me yet. now go, love." she kissed the troubled face upturned to her, but would suffer no lingering over the good-night. she was in no haste to go herself, however. she did not mean to wait for harry, but when two hours had passed, she was still sitting where rose had left her, and then harry came. but oh! the misery of that home-coming. graeme must have fallen asleep, she thought, for she heard nothing till the door opened, and then she heard harry's voice, thick and interrupted, thanking someone, and then stupidly insisting on refusing all further help. "never mind, gentlemen--i can manage--thank you." there were two persons with him, charlie millar was one of them. "hush, harry. be quiet, man. are you mad? you will waken your sister." the light which someone held behind them, flushed for a moment on graeme's pale face. "oh! miss elliott," said charles, "i tried to keep him with me. he is mad, i think. be quiet, harry." harry quite incapable of walking straight, struggled to free himself and staggered toward his sister. "i knew you would sit up, graeme--though i told you not--and so i came home." "of course, you did right to come home. but hush, harry! you will waken will." "oh! yes! poor will!" he mumbled. "but graeme, what ails you, that you look at me with a face like that?" "miss elliott," entreated charlie, "leave him to us, you can do nothing with him to-night." she went up-stairs before them carrying the light, and held firmly the handle of will's door till they passed. she stood there in the darkness till they came out again and went down-stairs. poor harry lay muttering and mumbling, entreating graeme to come and see him before she went to bed. when she heard the door close she went down again, not into the parlour where a light still burned, but into the darkness of the room beyond. "oh harry! harry! harry!" she cried, as she sank on her knees and covered her face. it was a dark hour. her hope, her faith, her trust in god--all that had been her strength and song, from day to day was forgotten. the bitter waters of fear and grief passed over her, and she was well nigh overwhelmed. "oh papa! mamma! oh harry! oh! my little brothers." "miss elliott," said a voice that made her heart stand still, "graeme, you must let me help you now." she rose and turned toward him. "mr ruthven! i was not aware--" said she, moving toward the door through which light came from the parlour. "miss elliott, forgive me. i did not mean to intrude. i met your brother and mine by chance, and i came with them. you must not think that i--" "thank you, you are very kind." graeme was trembling greatly and sat down, but rose again immediately. "you are very kind," repeated she, scarcely knowing what she said. "graeme," said mr ruthven, "you must let me help you in this matter. tell me what you wish. must harry stay or go?" graeme sank down with a cry, wringing her hands. "oh! harry! harry!" mr ruthven made one step toward her. "miss elliott, i dare not say to you that you think too severely of harry's fault. but he is young, and i do not really fear for him. and you have more cause to be hopeful than i. think of your father, and your father's god. graeme, be sure harry will come back to you again." graeme sat still with her head bowed down. "graeme--miss elliott. tell me what you would have me do?" graeme rose. "you are very kind," she repeated. "i cannot think to-night. we must wait--till arthur comes home." he went up and down the room several times, and then came and stood by her side again. "graeme," said he, in a low voice, "let me hear you once say, that you believe me to be your true and faithful friend." "why should i not say it, allan. you are my true and faithful friend, as i am yours." her voice did not tremble, and for a moment she calmly met his eye. he turned and walked away, and when he came back again he held out his hand and said,-- "good-night." "good-night," said graeme. "and you will see about harry--what you wish for him?" "yes. good-bye." he raised the hand he held to his lips, and then said, "good-bye." chapter twenty six. the next few days were weary ones to all. will had reached that stage of convalescence in which it was not easy to resign himself to utter idleness, and yet he had not strength to be able to occupy himself long without fatigue; and in the effort to amuse and interest him, graeme's spirits flagged sadly. she looked so exhausted and ill one day when the doctor came in, that he declared that will must be left to the tender mercies of rose, while her sister went first for a walk in the keen morning air, and then to her room for the rest of the day. it is possible that solitude and her own thoughts did graeme less good than attendance on will would have done, but doctors cannot be supposed to know everything; and even had he known all there was to account for her hot hands and pale cheeks, it is doubtful whether his skill could have suggested anything more to the purpose than his random prescription was. at any rate, graeme was thankful for a few days' quiet, whether it was good for her or not; and in the mean time rose and will got on very well without her. and harry--poor, unhappy, repentant harry, trying under a mask of sullen indifference to hide the shame and misery he felt at the remembrance of that night--these were dreary days to him. graeme never spoke to him about that night. she had not the courage, even if she had felt hot that it would be better not to do so. the preparations for his departure went on slowly, though it was becoming doubtful, whether he should go west after all. he said little about it himself, but that little it was not pleasant for graeme to hear. much to the surprise of everyone, and to the extreme indignation of harry, mr ruthven had again left town, saying nothing of his destination or the length of his stay, only in very brief fashion, telling him to make no further arrangements for his departure until his return. "he does not trust me. he does not think me fit to take charge of his affairs," said harry to himself, with his vague remembrance of allan's share in the events of that miserable night, he could hardly wonder that it should be so, and in his shame and impatience he was twenty times on the point of breaking his connection with his employers, and going his own way. however, he forced himself to wait a little. "if i am sent west after all, well and good. if not i shall remain no longer. the change of arrangements will be sufficient excuse, at least i will make it so. i can't stay, and i won't. if he would but come back and put an end to it all." and harry was not the only one who was impatient under the unreasonable absence of mr ruthven. poor mr elphinstone, ill and irritable, suffered not an hour to pass without vexing himself and others, wondering at, and lamenting, his delay. lilias had much ado to keep him from saying angry and bitter things about his nephew, and exaggerated the few details she had gathered with regard to their recent losses, in order to account to him for allan's untimely devotion to business. poor girl, she looked sad and ill in these days, and grew irritable and unreasonable amid the preparations of mrs roxbury, in a way that shocked and alarmed that excellent and energetic lady. she considered it a very equivocal proof of lilias' love to her father, that she should be so averse to the carrying out of his express wishes. there had been nothing that is proper on such an occasion, and mrs roxbury seemed bent on fulfilling his wishes to the very letter. so, at last, lilias was fain for the sake of peace to grow patient and grateful, and stayed more and more closely in her father's room, and her aunt had her will in all things that concerned the wedding, that under such melancholy circumstances was drawing near. "graeme," said harry, one night, when they were sitting together after the rest had all gone up-stairs, "don't you think we have been uncomfortable long enough? don't you think you have given us enough of that miserable, hopeless face for one occasion? i think a change would be agreeable to all concerned. it would to me, at any rate." graeme was so startled at this speech, that for a little she could not say a word. then she said something about being tired and not very well--and about its being impossible always to help one's looks. "why don't you say at once that it is i who have made you so miserable that you have lost all faith in me--that i am going straight to ruin. that is what you mean to say--you know very well." "harry," said she, gently, "i did not mean to say anything unkind." harry left his seat, and threw himself on the sofa with a groan. "if you would only rate a fellow soundly, graeme! if you would only tell me at once, what a weak, pitiful wretch you think me! i could bear that; but your silence and that miserable face, i cannot bear." "i cannot say i think you weak or pitiful, harry. it would not be true. and i am afraid you would not like my rating better than my silence. i can only say, i have had less courage in thinking of your going away to fill an important and responsible situation, since that night." harry groaned. "oh! well; don't bother yourself about my going away, and my responsibilities. the chances are some one else will have to fill the important situation." "have you seen--has mr ruthven returned?" "mr ruthven has returned, and i have seen him, but i have not spoken with him. it was not his will and pleasure to say anything to-night about that which has been keeping me in such miserable suspense. he was engaged, forsooth, when a moment would have settled it. well, it does not matter. i shall take the decision into my own hands." "what do you mean, harry?" "i mean, i shall give up my situation if he does not send me west--if he hesitates a moment about sending me, i shall leave his employment." "but why, harry?" "because--because i am determined. ruthven does not think me fit to be entrusted with the management of his affairs, i suppose." "harry," said his sister, gravely, "is it surprising if he does not?" "well, if i am not to be trusted there, neither am i to be trusted here, and i leave. graeme, you don't know what you are talking about. it is quite absurd to suppose that what happened that night would make any difference to allan ruthven. you think him a saint, but trust me, he knows by experience how to make allowance for that sort of thing. if he has nothing worse than that against any one in his employment, he may think himself fortunate." "then, why do you say he does not trust you?" "i shall call it sufficient evidence that he does not, if he draws back in this. not that i care much. i would rather be in the employment of some one else. i shall not stay here." "harry," said graeme, coming quite close to the sofa on which he had thrown himself, "what has happened between you and allan ruthven." "happened! what should have happened? what an absurd question to ask, graeme." "harry, why are you so determined to leave him? it was not so a little while ago." "was it not? oh, well! i daresay not. but one wants a change. one gets tired of the same dull routine, always. now, graeme," added he, as she made an incredulous gesture, "don't begin to fancy any mystery. that would be too absurd, you know." graeme came and knelt close beside him. his face was turned away so that she could not see it. her own was very pale. "harry, speak to me. do you believe that allan ruthven is otherwise than an honourable and upright gentleman in business and--in other matters? tell me, harry." "oh, yes! as gentlemen go. no, graeme, that is not right. i believe him in all things to be upright and honourable. i think more highly of him than i did at first. it is not that." the colour came slowly back to graeme's face. it was evident that harry had no foolish thoughts of her and allan. in a little she said,-- "and you, harry--you have not--you are--" "i hope i am an honourable man, graeme," said harry, gravely. "there is nothing between mr ruthven and me. i mean, he does not wish me to leave him. but i must go, graeme. i cannot stay here." "harry, why? tell me." graeme laid her hand caressingly on his hair. "it is nothing that i can tell," said harry, huskily. "harry--even if i cannot help it, or remove it--it is better that i should know what is making you so unhappy. harry, is it--it is not lilias?" he did not answer her. "harry, harry! do not say that this great sorrow has fallen upon us, upon you, too." she drew back that he might not feel how she was trembling. in a little she said,-- "brother, speak to me. what shall i say to you, my poor harry?" but harry was not in a mood to be comforted. he rose and confronted her. "i think the most appropriate remark for the occasion would be that i am a fool, and deserve to suffer for my folly. you had better say that to me, graeme." but something in his sister's face stopped him. his lips trembled, and he said,-- "at any rate, it isn't worth your looking so miserable about." "hush, harry," whispered she, and he felt her tears dropping on his hands. "and lilias?" "graeme, i do not know. i never spoke to her, but i hoped--i believed till lately--." he laid his head down on his sister's shoulder. in a little he roused himself and said,-- "but it is all past now--all past; and it won't bear talking about, even with you, graeme, who are the dearest and best sister that ever unworthy brother had. it was only a dream, and it is past. but i cannot stay here--at least it would be very much better--" graeme sighed. "yes, i can understand how it should seem impossible to you, and yet-- but you are right. it won't bear talking about. i have nothing to say to comfort you, dear, except to wait, and the pain may grow less." no, there was nothing that graeme could say, even if harry would have listened to her. her own heart was too heavy to allow her to think of comfort for him; and so they sat in silence. it seemed to graeme that she had never been quite miserable until now. yesterday she had thought herself wretched, and now her burden of care for harry was pressing with tenfold weight. why had this new misery come upon her? she had been unhappy about him before, and now it was worse with him than all her fears. in her misery she forgot many things that might have comforted her with regard to her brother. she judged him by herself, forgetting the difference between the woman and the man--between the mature woman, who having loved vainly, could never hope to dream the sweet dream again, and the youth, hardly yet a man, sitting in the gloom of a first sorrow, with, it might well be, a long bright future stretching before him. sharp as the pain at her own heart was, she knew she should not die of it. she took no such consolation to herself as that. she knew she must live the old common life, hiding first the fresh wound and then the scar, only hoping that as the years went on the pain might grow less. she accepted the lot. she thought if the darkness of her life never cast a shadow on the lives of those she loved, she would strive, with god's help, to be contented. but harry--poor harry! hitherto so careless and light-hearted, how was he to bear the sorrow that had fallen upon him? perhaps it was as well that in her love and pity for her brother, graeme failed to see how different it might be with him. harry would hardly have borne to be told even by her that his sorrow would pass away. the commonplaces supposed to be appropriate about time and change and patience, would have been unwelcome and irritating, even from his sister's lips, and it was all the better that graeme should sit there, thinking her own dreary thoughts in silence. after the momentary pain and shame which the betrayal of his secret had caused him, there was a certain consolation in the knowledge that he had his sister's sympathy, and i am afraid, if the truth must be told, that graeme that night suffered more for harry than harry suffered for himself. if she looked back with bitter regret on the vanished dream of the last six months, it was that night at least less for her own sake than for his. if from the future that lay before them she shrank appalled, it was not because the dreariness that must henceforth be on her life, but because of something worse than dreariness that might be on the life of her brother, unsettled, almost reckless, as he seemed to be to-night. she could not but see the danger that awaited him, should he persist in leaving home, to cast himself among strangers. how gladly would she have borne his trouble for him. she felt that going away now, he would have no shield against the temptation that had of late proved too strong for him; and yet would it be really better for him, could she prevail upon him to stay at home? remembering her own impulse to be away--anywhere--to escape from the past and its associations, she could not wonder at his wish to go. that the bitterness of the pain would pass away, she hoped and believed, but would he wait with patience the coming of content. alas! her fears were stronger than her hopes. best give him into god's keeping and let him go, she thought. "but he must not leave mr ruthven. that will make him no better, but worse. he must not go from us, not knowing whither. oh, i wish i knew what to do!" the next day the decision was made. it would not be true to say that harry was quite calm and at his ease that morning, when he obeyed a summons into mr ruthven's private room. there was more need for charlie's "keep cool, old fellow," than charlie knew, for harry had that morning told graeme that before he saw her face again he would know whether he was to go or stay. in spite of himself he felt a little soft-hearted, as he thought of what might be the result of his interview, and he was glad that it was not his friend allan, but mr ruthven the merchant, brief and business-like in all he said, whom he found awaiting him. he was busy with some one else when harry entered, talking coolly and rapidly on business matters, and neither voice nor manner changed as he turned to him. there was a good deal said about matters that harry thought might very well have been kept till another time; there were notes compared and letters read and books examined. there were some allusions to past transactions, inquiries and directions, all in the fewest possible words, and in the quietest manner. harry, replied, assented and suggested, making all the time the strongest effort to appear as there was nothing, and could be nothing, beyond these dull details to interest him. there came a pause at last. mr ruthven did not say in words that he need not wait any longer, but his manner, as he looked up, and turned over a number of letters that had just been brought in, said it plainly. indeed, he turned quite away from him, and seemed absorbed in his occupation. harry waited till the lad that brought in the letters had mended the fire, and fidgeted about the room, and gone out again; then he said, in a voice that ought to have been quiet and firm, for he took a great deal of pains to make it so,-- "mr ruthven, may i trespass a moment on your valuable time _now_?" mr ruthven immediately laid his letters on the table, and turned round. harry thought, like a man who found it necessary to address himself, once for all, to the performance of an unpleasant duty. certainly, he had time to attend to anything of importance that mr elliott might have to say. "it is a matter of great importance to _me_, and i have been led to suppose that it is of some consequence to you. the western agency--" "you are right. it is of great consequence to the firm. there is, perhaps, no immediate necessity for deciding--" "i beg your pardon, sir, there is absolute necessity for my knowing at once, whether it is your pleasure that i should be employed in it." "will a single day make much difference to you?" said mr ruthven, looking gravely at the young man, who was certainly not so calm as he meant to be. "excuse me, sir, many days have passed since. but, mr ruthven, it is better i should spare you the pain of saying that you no longer consider me fit for the situation. allow me, then, to inform you that i wish-- that i no longer wish to remain in your employment." "harry," said mr ruthven, gravely, "does your brother--does your sister know of your desire to leave me? would they approve, if you were sent west?" "pardon me, mr ruthven, that question need not be discussed. i must be the best judge of the matter. as for them, they were at least reconciled to my going when you--drew back." mr ruthven was evidently uncomfortable. he took up his bundle of letters again, murmuring something about their not wishing it now. "i understand you, sir," said harry, with a very pale face. "allow me to say that as soon as you can supply my place--or at once, if you like--i must go." but mr ruthven was not listening to him. he had turned over his letters till a little note among them attracted his attention. he broke the seal, and read it while harry was speaking. it was very brief, only three words and one initial letter. "let harry go. g." he read it, and folded it, and laid it down with a sigh. then he turned to harry, just as he was laying his hand on the door. "what is it, harry? i did not hear what you were saying." "i merely said, sir," said harry, turning round and facing him, "that as soon as you can supply my place in the office, i shall consider myself at liberty to go." "but why should you wish to go?" "there are several reasons. one is, i shall never stay anywhere on sufferance. if i am not to be trusted at a distance, i shall certainly not stay to give my employers the trouble of keeping an eye upon me." his own eye flashed as he spoke. "but, harry, man, that is nonsense, you know." it was not his master, but his friend, that spoke, and harry was a little thrown off his guard by the change in his tone. "i do not think it is nonsense," said he. "harry, i have not been thinking of myself in all this, nor of the interests of the firm. let me say, once for all, that i should consider them perfectly safe in your hands, in all respects. harry, the world would look darker to me the day i could not trust your father's son." harry made no answer. "it is of you i have been thinking, in the hesitation that has seemed so unreasonable to you. harry, when i think of the home you have here, and of the wretched changed life that awaits you there, it seems selfish-- wrong to wish to send you away." harry made a gesture of dissent, and muttered something about the impossibility of staying always at home. "i know it, my lad, but the longer you can stay at home--such a home as yours--the better. when i think of my own life there, the first miserable years, and all the evil i have seen since--. well, there is no use in going over all that. but, harry, it would break your sister's heart, were you to change into a hard, selfish, worldly man, like the rest of us." there was nothing harry could say to this. "so many fail in the struggle--so many are changed or ruined. and, dear lad, you have one temptation that never was a temptation to me. don't be angry, harry," for harry started and grew red. "even if that is not to be feared for you, there is enough besides to make you hesitate. i have known and proved the world. what we call success in life, is not worth one approving smile from your sister's lips. and if you should fall, and be trodden down, how should i ever answer to her?" he walked up and down the room two or three times. "don't go, harry." for harry had risen as though he thought the interview was at on end. "you said, just now, that you must decide for yourself, and you shall do so. but, consider well, and consult your brother and sister. as for the interests of the firm, i have no fear." "i may consider it settled then," said harry, huskily. "arthur was always of opinion that i should go, and graeme is willing now. and the sooner the better, i suppose?" "the sooner the better for us. but there is time enough. do not be hasty in deciding." "i have decided already, i thank you, sir--" he hesitated, hardly knowing what to say more. "i hope it will prove that you will have good reason to thank me. remember, harry, whatever comes out of this, you left us with my full and entire confidence. i do not believe i shall have cause to regret it, or that you will fail me or disappoint me." harry grasped the hand held out to him without a word, but inwardly he vowed, that come what might, the confidence so generously expressed should never, for good cause, be withdrawn. and so the decision was made. after this the preparations did not occupy a long time. the second day found harry ready for departure. "graeme," said harry, "i cannot be content to take away with me such a melancholy remembrance of your face. i shall begin to think you are not willing that i should go after all." "you need not think so, harry. i am sure it is best since you are determined. but i cannot but look melancholy at the necessity. you would not have me look joyful, when i am going to lose my brother?" "no--if that were all. but you have often said how impossible it was that we should always keep together. it is only what we have been expecting, and we might have parted in much more trying circumstances. i shall be home often--once a year at the least; perhaps oftener." "yes, dear, i know." "well, then, i think there is no cause for grief in my going, even if i were worthy of it, which i very much doubt." graeme's face did not brighten. in a little while her tears were falling fast. "graeme, what is it? there is some other reason for your tears, besides my going away. you do not trust me, graeme, you are afraid." graeme made an effort to quiet herself. "yes, harry, i am a little afraid, since you give me the opportunity to say so. you have hardly been our own harry for a while, as you know, dear. and what will you be when you are far from us all? i am afraid to let you go from me, harry, far more afraid than i should be for will." harry rose and walked about a while, with an air that seemed to be indignant; but if he was angry, he thought better of it, and in a little he came and sat down beside his sister again. "i wish i could make you quite satisfied about me, graeme." "i wish you could, dear. i will try to be so. i daresay you think me unreasonable, harry. i know i am tired, and foolish, and all wrong," said she, trying in vain to keep back her tears. "you look at this moment as though you had very little hope in anything," said harry, with a touch of bitterness. "do i? well, i am all wrong, i know. there ought to be hope and comfort too, if i sought them right. i will try to leave you in god's keeping, harry, the keeping of our father's and our mother's god." harry threw himself on his knees beside her. "graeme, you are making yourself unhappy without cause. if you only knew! such things are thought nothing of. if i disgraced myself the other night, there are few young men of our acquaintance who are not disgraced." graeme put her hand upon his lips. "but, graeme, it is true. i must speak, i can't bear to have you fretting, when there is no cause. even allan ruthven thought nothing of it, at least, he--" "hush, harry, you do not need mr ruthven to be a conscience to you. and it is not of the past i am thinking, but the future! how can i bear to think of you going the way so many have gone, knowing the danger all the greater because you feel yourself so safe. i am afraid for you, harry." it was useless to speak, she knew that quite well. the words of another can never make danger real, to those who are assailed with poor harry's temptation. so she shut her lips close, as he rose from her side, and sat in silence; while he walked up and down the room. by and by he came back to her side, again. "graeme," said he, gravely. "indeed, you may trust me. the shame of that night shall never be renewed. you shall never have the same cause to be sorry for me, or ashamed of me again." she put her arms round his neck, and laid her head down on his shoulder, but she did not speak. it was not that she was altogether hopeless about her brother, but harry understood it so. "graeme, what shall i say to you? how shall i give you courage--faith to trust me? graeme, i promise, that till i see you again i shall not taste nor touch that which so degraded me in your eyes. i solemnly promise before god, graeme." "harry," said his sister, "it is a vow--an oath, that you have taken." "yes, and it shall be kept as such. do you trust me, graeme? give me that comfort before i go away." "i trust you, harry," was all she had voice to say. she clasped him and kissed him, and by and by she prayed god to bless him, in words such as his mother might have used. and harry vowed, with god's help, to be true to himself and her. he did not speak the words again, but none the less was the vow registered in heaven. that was the real farewell between the brother and sister. next morning there was little said by any one, and not a word by graeme, but the last glimpse harry had of home, showed his eldest sister's face smiling and hopeful, saying as plainly as her words had said before,-- "harry, i trust you quite." chapter twenty seven. the brilliant sunlight of a september morning was shining full into the little breakfast-room, where graeme sat at the head of the table, awaiting the coming of the rest. the morning paper was near her, but she was not reading; her hands were clasped and rested on the table, and she was looking straight before her, seeing, probably, further than the pale green wall, on which the sunshine fell so pleasantly. she was grave and quiet, but not in the least sad. indeed, more than once, as the voices of rose and arthur came sounding down-stairs, a smile of unmistakable cheerfulness overspread her face. presently, arthur entered, and graeme made a movement among her cups and saucers. "your trip has done you good, graeme," said arthur, as he sat down opposite to her. "yes, indeed. there is nothing like the sea-breezes, to freshen one. i hardly know myself for the tired, exhausted creature you sent away in june." graeme, rose, and will, had passed the summer at cacouna. nelly had gone with them as housekeeper, and arthur had shut the house, and taken lodgings a little out of town for the summer. "i am only afraid," added graeme, "that all our pleasure has been at the expense of some discomfort to you." "by no means, a change is agreeable. i have enjoyed the summer very much. i am glad to get home again, however." "yes, a change does one good. if i was only quite at ease about one thing, we might have gone to merleville, instead of cacouna, and that would have given janet and a good many others pleasure." "oh! i don't know," said arthur. "the good people there must have forgotten us by this time, i fancy. there are no sea-breezes there, and they were what you needed." "arthur! janet forgotten us! never, i am quite sure of that. but at the time it seemed impossible to go, to make the effort, i mean. i quite shrunk from the thought of merleville. indeed, if you had not been firm, i fear i should not have had the sea-breezes." "yes. you owe me thanks. you needed the change. what with will's illness, and harry's going away, and one thing and another; you were quite in need of a change." "i was not well, certainly," said graeme. "will has gone to the post, i suppose?" "yes," said rose, who entered at the moment. "i see him coming up the street." "as for rosie," said arthur, looking at her gravely, as she sat down. "she has utterly ruined her complexion. such freckles! such sunburning! and how stout she has grown!" rose laughed. "yes, i know i'm a fright. you must bring me something, arthur. toilette vinegar, or something." "oh! it would not signify. you are quite beyond all that." "here comes will, with a letter for each of us, i declare." arthur's letter was soon despatched, a mere business missive. graeme's was laid down beside her, while she poured will's coffee. rose read hers at once, and before she was well down the first page, she uttered a cry of delight. "listen all. no, i won't read it just yet. arthur, don't you remember a conversation that you and i had together, soon after sandy was here?" "conversation," repeated arthur. "we have talked, that is, you have talked, and i have listened, but as to conversation:--" "but arthur, don't you remember saying something about emily, and i did not agree with you?" "i have said a great many times, that i thought emily a very pretty little creature. if you don't agree, it shows bad taste." "i quite agree. i think her beautiful. she is not very little, however. she is nearly as tall as i am." "what is it, rose?" asked graeme, stretching out her hand for the letter. "you'll spoil your news, with your long preface," said will. "no, but i want arthur to confess that i am wisest." "oh! i can do that, of course, as regards matters in general; but i should like to hear of this particular case." "well, don't you remember saying that you did not think sandy and emily would ever fall in love?" "i remember no such assertion, on my part. on the contrary, i remember feeling pretty certain that the mischief was done already, as far as sandy was concerned, poor fellow; and i remember saying, much to your indignation, more's the pity." "yes; and i remember you said it would be just like a sentimental little blue, like emily, to slight the handsome, hearty young farmer, and marry some pale-faced yankee professor." "you put the case a little strongly, perhaps," said arthur, laughing. "but, on the whole, that is the way the matter stood. that was my opinion, i confess." "and they are going to be married!" exclaimed graeme and will in a breath. "how glad janet will be!" "emily does not say so, in so many words. it won't be for a long time yet, they are so young. but i am to be bridesmaid when the time comes." "well, if that is not saying it!" said will laughing. "what would you have, rosie?" graeme opened and read her letter, and laid it down beside her, looking a little pale and anxious. "what is it, graeme? nothing wrong, i hope." "no; i hope not. i don't know, i am sure. norman says he is going to be married." "married!" cried rose and will. "to hilda?" said arthur. "yes; but how could you have guessed?" said graeme, bewildered. "i did not guess. i saw it. why it was quite easy to be seen that events have been tending toward it all these years. it is all very fine, this brother and sister intercourse; but i have been quite sure about them since harry wrote about them." "well, norman seems surprised, if you are not. he says, `you will be very much astonished at all this; but you cannot be more astonished than i was myself. i did not think of such a thing; at least, i did not know that i was thinking of such a thing till young conway, my friend, asked permission to address my sister. i was very indignant, though, at first, i did not, in the least, know why. however, hilda helped me to find out all about it. at first i meant she should spend the winter with you all i want very much that you should know each other. but, on the whole, i think i can't spare her quite so long. expect to see us therefore in november--one flesh!'" there was much more. "well done, norman!" cried arthur. "but, graeme, i don't see what there is to look grave about. she seems to be a nice little thing, and norman ought to know his own mind by this time." "she's a great deal more than a nice little thing," said graeme earnestly. "if one can judge by her letters and by harry's description of her--to say nothing of norman's opinion--she must be a very superior person, and good and amiable besides. but it seems so strange, so sudden. why, it seems only the other day since norman was such a mere boy. i wish she could have passed the winter with us. i think, perhaps, i should write and say so." "yes, if you like. but norman must judge. i think it is the wisest thing for him. he will have a settled home." "i do believe it is," said graeme, earnestly. "i am very glad--or i shall be in a little. but, just at first, it seems a little as though norman would not be quite so much one of us--you know--and besides there really is something odd in the idea of norman's being married; now, is there not?" "i confess i fail to see it," said arthur, a little sharply. graeme had hardly time to notice his tone. an exclamation from will startled her. "what is it, will?" said rose: "another wedding?" "you'll never guess, rosie. never. you need not try." "is it harry this time?" said arthur, looking in from the hall with his hat on. "no. listen, arthur! harry says, `what is this that mr green has been telling me about arthur and little miss grove? i was greatly amused at the idea _their_ mutual admiration. mr green assures me that he has the best authority for saying that arthur is to carry off the heiress. charlie, too, has hinted something of the same kind. tell graeme, when that happens, i shall expect her to come and keep my house.'" "they said mr green was going to carry off the heiress himself!" exclaimed rose. "listen!" continued will. "`unless, indeed, graeme should make up her mind to smile on mr green and take possession of the "palatial residence," of which he has just laid the foundation near c---.'" "here is a bit for you, graeme. nobody is to be left out, it seems. it will be your turn next, rosie," said arthur, as he went away laughing. "but that is all nonsense about arthur and little miss grove?" said rose, half questioningly. "i should think so, indeed! fancy arthur coming to that fate," said graeme. "that would be too absurd." and yet the thought came uncalled several times that day, and her repetitions of "too absurd," became very energetic in her attempts to drive it quite away. the thought was unpleasantly recalled to her when, a day or two after, she saw her brother, standing beside the grove carriage, apparently so interested in his conversation with the pretty fanny that she and rose passed quite close to them unobserved. it was recalled more unpleasantly still, by the obliging care of mrs gridley, who was one of their first visitors after their return. the grove carriage passed as she sat with them, and, nodding significantly toward it, she said: "i don't know whether i ought to congratulate you or sympathise with you." graeme laughed, but she was very much afraid she changed colour, too, as she answered: "there is no haste. when you make up your mind as to which will be most appropriate, you will be in time." "ah! you are not to commit yourself, i see. well, you are quite right. she is a harmless little person, i believe, and may turn out very well if withdrawn from the influence of her stepmother." something in graeme's manner stopped the voluble lady more effectually than words could have done, and a rather abrupt turn was given to the conversation. but graeme could not forget it. not that she believed in the truth of what mrs gridley had hinted at, yet she could not help being annoyed at it. it was rather foolish, she thought, for arthur to give occasion for such gossip. it was so unlike him, too. and yet so little was enough to raise a rumour like that, especially with so kind a friend as mrs gridley to keep the ball rolling. very likely arthur knew nothing at all about this rumour, and, as the thought passed through her mind, graeme determined to tell him about it. but she did not; she could not do so--though why she could not was a mystery to herself. sometimes she fancied there was that in arthur's manner which prevented her from pursuing the subject, when an opportunity seemed to offer. when he was not there, she was quite sure it was only her own fancy, but no sooner was the name of grove mentioned; than the fancy returned, till the very sight of the grove carriage made her uncomfortable at last, especially if the lady of the mansion was in it. she never failed to lean forward and bow to them with the greatest interest and politeness; and more than once graeme was left standing looking in at a shop-window, while arthur obeyed the beckoning hand of the lady, and went to speak to her. sometimes the pretty fanny was there; sometimes she was not. but her absence did not set graeme's uncomfortable feelings at rest with regard to her brother. and yet, why should she be uncomfortable? she asked herself, a thousand times. what right had she to interfere, even in thought, with her brother's friendship? if he admired miss grove, if even he were attached to her, or engaged to her, it was nothing with which she could interfere--nothing to which she could even allude--until he should speak first. but then, of course, that was quite absurd! miss grove, though very pretty, and the daughter of a man who was reported to be rich, was no more worthy to be arthur's wife--than-- oh! of course it was all nonsense. no one had ever heard three words of common sense from those pretty lips. she had heard arthur say as much as that himself. miss grove could dance and flirt and sing a little; that was all that could be said for her, and to suppose that arthur would ever-- and yet graeme grew a little indignant standing there looking at, but scarcely seeing the beautiful things in savage's window, and she inwardly resolved that never again should she wait for the convenience of the free-and-easy occupant of the carriage standing a few doors down the street. she had time to go over the same thoughts a good many times, and the conclusion always was that it was exceedingly impertinent of mrs grove, and exceedingly foolish of arthur, and exceedingly disagreeable to herself, before she was recalled by her brother's voice from her enforced contemplation of the beautiful things before her. "mrs grove wanted to speak to you, graeme," said he, with a little embarrassment. "i could hardly be expected to know that by intuition," said graeme, coldly. "she beckoned. did you not see?" "she beckoned to you; she would hardly venture on such a liberty with me. there is not the slightest approach to intimacy between us, and never will be, unless i have greatly mistaken her character." "oh, well, you may very easily have done that, you know very little about her. she thinks very highly of you, i can assure you." "stuff!" pronounced graeme, with such emphasis that she startled herself, and provoked a hearty laugh from her brother. "i declare, graeme, i thought for the moment it was harry that spoke for mrs gridley in one of her least tolerant moods. it did not sound the least like you." graeme laughed, too. "well, i was thinking of harry at the minute, and as for mrs gridley--i didn't mean to be cross, arthur, but something disagreeable that she once said to me did come into my mind at the moment, i must confess." "well, i wish you a more pleasant subject for meditation on your way home," said arthur. "wait till i see if there are any letters. none, i believe. good-bye." mrs gridley did not occupy graeme's thoughts on her way home, yet they were not very pleasant. all the way along the sunny streets she was repeating to herself, "so absurd", "so foolish", "so impertinent of mrs grove", "so disagreeable to be made the subject of gossip," and so on, over and over again, till the sight of the obnoxious carriage gave her a fresh start again. the lady did not beckon this time, she only bowed and smiled most sweetly. but her smiles did not soothe graeme's ruffled temper, and she reached home at last quite ashamed of her folly. for, after all, it was far less disagreeable to call herself silly than to call arthur foolish, and mrs grove impertinent, and she would not think about it any more. so she said, and so she repeated, still thinking about it more than was either pleasant or needful. one night, charlie millar paid them a visit. he made no secret of his delight at their return home, declaring that he had not known what to do with himself in their absence, and that he had not been quite content or at his ease since he sat in graeme's arm-chair three months ago. "one would not think so from the visits you have made us since we came home," said graeme, smiling. "you have only looked in upon us. we were thinking you had forsaken us, or that you had found a more comfortable arm-chair, at a pleasanter fireside." "business, business," repeated charlie, gravely. "i assure you that harry out there, and i here, have had all that we have been able to attend to during the last three months. it is only to the unexpected delay of the steamer that i owe the leisure of this evening." "you expect us to believe all that, i suppose," said graeme, laughing. "indeed, you may believe me, miss elliott. it is quite true. i can't understand how it is that my wise brother can stay away so long just now. if he does not know how much he is needed it is not for want of telling, i assure you." "you hear often from him, i suppose?" "yes. i had a note from lilias the other day, in a letter i got from my mother. she sent `kind regards' to the misses elliott, which i take the present opportunity of delivering." "business having hitherto prevented," said rose. "you don't seem to have faith in my business engagements, miss rose; but i assure you that harry and i deserve great credit for having carried on the business so successfully for the last three months." "where is mr gilchrist?" asked arthur. "oh, he's here, there, and everywhere. but mr gilchrist is an `old fogey,' and he has not helped but hindered matters, now and then. it is not easy getting on with those slow-going, obstinate old gentlemen; i can't understand how allan used to manage him so well. however, he had unbounded confidence in allan's powers, and let him do as he pleased." "and the obstinate old gentleman has not unbounded confidence in the powers of you and harry?" said arthur, laughing. "upon the whole i think, in the absence of your brother, it is as well, that you two lads should have some check upon you, now and then." "not at all, i assure you," said charlie. "as for harry--miss elliott, i wish i could tell you half the kind things i hear about harry from our correspondents out there." graeme smiled brightly. she was permitting herself to rely entirely upon harry now. "but, charlie," said will from his corner, "what is this nonsense you have been telling harry about arthur and the beautiful miss grove?" charlie started and coloured, and so did graeme, and both glanced hastily at arthur, who neither started nor coloured, as graeme was very glad to perceive. "nonsense!" said charlie, with a great show of astonishment and indignation. "i don't understand you, will." "will," said rose, laughing, "you are mistaken. it was mr green who had been hinting to harry something you remember; you read it to us the other morning." "yes, but harry said that charlie had been saying something of the same kind," persisted simple will, who never dreamed of making any one feel uncomfortable. "hinting!" repeated charlie. "i never hint. i leave that to mrs gridley and her set. i think i must have told harry that i had seen arthur in the grove carriage one morning, and another day standing beside it talking to miss fanny, while her mamma was in ordering nice things at alexander's." graeme laughed, she could not help it. "oh, that terrible carriage!" said rose. "a very comfortable and convenient carriage i found it, many a time, when i was staying at mrs smith's," said arthur, coolly. "mrs grove was so polite as to invite me to take a seat in it more than once, and much obliged i was to her, some of those warm august mornings." "so you see, will," said charlie, triumphantly, "i was telling harry the simple truth, and he was mean to accuse me of hinting `nonsense,' as you call it." "i suppose that is what mrs gridley meant the other day when she nodded so significantly toward the grove carriage, and asked whether she was to congratulate us." rose spoke with a little hesitation. she was not sure that her brother would be quite pleased by mrs gridley's congratulations, and he was not. "oh! if we are to have mrs gridley's kind concern and interest in our affairs, we shall advance rapidly," said he, a little crossly. "it would of course be very desirable to discuss our affairs with that prudent and charitable lady." "but as i did not suppose there was on that occasion any matters to discuss there was no discussion," said graeme, by no means unwilling that her brother should see that she was not pleased by his manner and tone to rose. "oh! never mind, graeme," said rose, laughing, "we shall have another chance of being congratulated, and i only hope arthur may be here himself. mrs gridley was passing when the grove carriage stood at our door this morning. i saw her while i was coming up the street. she will be here in a day or two to offer again her congratulations or her sympathy." "was mrs grove here this morning?" enquired arthur. "she must have given you her own message then, i suppose." "she was at the door, but she did not get in. i was out, and graeme was busy, and sent her word that she was engaged." "yes," said graeme, "i was helping nelly, and i was in my old blue wrapper." "now, graeme," said will, "that is not the least like you. what about a wrapper?" "nothing, of course. but a call at that hour is not at all times convenient, unless from once intimate friends, and we are not intimate." "but perhaps she designs to honour you with her intimate friendship," said charlie. graeme laughed. "i am very much obliged to her. but i think we could each make a happier choice of friends." "she is a very clever woman, though, let me tell you," said arthur; "and she can make herself very agreeable, too, when she chooses." "well, i cannot imagine ever being charmed by her," said graeme, hastily. "there is something--a feeling that she is not sincere--that would spoil all her attempts at being agreeable, as far as i am concerned." "smooth and false," said charlie. "no, charlie. you are much too severe," said arthur. "graeme's idea of insincerity is better, though very severe for her. and, after all, i don't think that she is consciously insincere. i can scarcely tell what it is that makes the dear lady other than admirable. i think it must be her taste for management, as miss fanny calls it. she does not seem to be able to go straight to any point, but plans and arranges, and thinks herself very clever when she succeeds in making people do as she wishes, when in nine cases out of ten, she would have succeeded quite as well by simply expressing her desires. after all, her manoeuvring is very transparent, and therefore very harmless." "transparent! harmless!" repeated charlie. "you must excuse me if i say i think you do the lady's talents great injustice. not that i have any personal knowledge of the matter, however: and if i were to repeat the current reports, miss elliott would call them gossip and repudiate them, and me too, perhaps. she has the reputation of having the `wisdom of the serpent;' the slyness of the cat, i think." they all laughed, for charlie had warmed as he went on. "i am sure it must be very uncomfortable to have anything to do with such a person," said rose. "i should feel as though i must be always on the watch for something unexpected." "to be always on the watch for something unexpected, would be rather uncomfortable--`for a continuance,' as janet would say. but i don't see the necessity of that with mrs grove. i think it must be rather agreeable to have everything arranged for one, with no trouble. you should hear miss fanny, when in some difficult conjunction of circumstances--she resigns herself to superior guidance. `mamma will manage it.' certainly she does manage some difficult matters." there was the faintest echo of mimicry in arthur's tone, as he repeated miss fanny's words, which graeme was quite ashamed of being glad to hear. "it was very stupid of me, to be sure! such folly to suppose that arthur would fall into that shallow woman's snares. no; arthur's wife must be a very different woman from pretty little fanny grove. i wish i knew anyone good enough and lovely enough for him. but there is no haste about it. ah, me! changes will come soon enough, we need not seek to hasten them. and yet, we need not fear them whatever they may be. i am very sure of that. but i am very glad that there is no harm done." and yet, the harm that graeme so much dreaded, was done before three months were over. before that time she had it from arthur's own lips, that he had engaged himself to fanny grove; one who, to his sisters, seemed altogether unworthy of him. she never quite knew how to receive his announcement, but she was conscious at the time of feeling thankful; and she was ever afterwards thankful, that she had not heard it a day sooner, to mar the pleasure of the last few hours of norman's stay. for norman came with his bride even sooner than they had expected. graeme was not disappointed in her new sister, and that is saying much, for her expectations had been highly raised. she had expected to find her an intellectual and self-reliant woman, but she had not expected to see so charming and lovable a little lady. they all loved her dearly from the very first; and graeme satisfied norman by her unfeigned delight in her new sister, who was frank, and natural and childlike, and yet so amiable and wise as well. and graeme rejoiced over norman even more than over hilda. he was just what she had always hoped he might become. contact with the world had not spoiled him. he was the same norman; perhaps a little graver than he used to be in the old times, but in all things true, and frank, and earnest, as the merleville school-boy had been. how they lived over those old times! there was sadness in the pleasure, for norman had never seen the two graves in that quiet church-yard; and the names of the dead were spoken softly. but the bitterness of their grief had long been past, and they could speak cheerfully and hopefully now. there was a great deal of enjoyment crowded into the few weeks of their stay. "if harry were only here!" was said many times. but harry was well, and well content to be where he was, and his coming home was a pleasure which lay not very far before them. their visit came to an end too soon for them all; but norman was a busy man, and they were to go home by merleville, for norman declared he should not feel quite assured of the excellence of his wife till janet had pronounced upon her. graeme was strongly tempted to yield to their persuasions, and go to merleville with them; but her long absence during the summer, and the hope that they might go to emily's wedding soon, decided her to remain at home. yes; they had enjoyed a few weeks of great happiness; and the very day of their departure brought upon graeme the pain which she had almost ceased to fear. arthur told her of his engagement to miss grove. his story was very short, and it was told with more shamefacedness than was at all natural for a triumphant lover. it did not matter much, however, as there was no one to take note of the circumstances. from the first shock of astonishment and pain which his announcement gave her, graeme roused herself to hear her brother say eagerly, even a little impatiently-- "of course, this will make no difference with us at home? you will never _think_ of going away because of this, rose and you?" by a great effort graeme forced herself to speak-- "of course not, arthur. what difference could it make? where could we go?" when arthur spoke again, which he did not do for a moment, his tone showed how much he was relieved by his sister's words. it was very gentle and tender too, graeme noticed. "of course not. i was quite sure this would make no change. rather than my sisters should be made unhappy by my--by this affair--i would go no further in it. my engagement should be at an end." "hush, arthur! it is too late to say that now." "but i was quite sure you would see it in the right way. you always do, graeme. it was not my thought that you would do otherwise. and it will only be a new sister, another rosie to care for, and to love, graeme. i know you will be such a sister to my wife, as you have ever been to rose and to us all." graeme pressed the hand that arthur laid on hers, but she could not speak. "if it had been any one else but that pretty, vain child," thought she. she almost fancied she had spoken her thought aloud, when arthur said,-- "you must not be hard on her, graeme. you do not know her yet. she is not so wise as you are, perhaps, but she is a gentle, yielding little thing; and removed from her stepmother's influence and placed under yours, she will become in time all that you could desire." she would have given much to be able to respond heartily and cheerfully to his appeal, but she could not. her heart refused to dictate hopeful words, and her tongue could not have uttered them. she sat silent and grave while her brother was speaking, and when he ceased she hardly knew whether she were glad or not, to perceive that, absorbed in his own thoughts, he did not seem to notice her silence or miss her sympathy. that night graeme's head pressed a sleepless pillow, and among her many, many thoughts there were few that were not sad. her brother was her ideal of manly excellence and wisdom, and no exercise of charity on her part could make the bride that he had chosen seem other than weak, frivolous, vain. she shrank heartsick from the contemplation of the future, repeating rather in sorrow and wonder, than in anger, "how could he be so blind, so mad?" to her it was incomprehensible, that with his eyes open he could have placed his happiness in the keeping of one who had been brought up with no fear of god before her eyes--one whose highest wisdom did not go beyond a knowledge of the paltry fashions and fancies of the world. he might dream, of happiness now, but how sad would be the wakening. if there rose in her heart a feeling of anger or jealousy against her brother's choice, if ever there came a fear, that the love of years might come to seem of little worth beside the love of a day, it was not till afterwards. none of these mingled with the bitter sadness and compassion of that night. her brother's doubtful future, the mistake he had made, and the disappointment that must follow, the change that might be wrought in his character as they went on; all these came and went, chasing each other through her mind, till the power of thought was well nigh lost. it was a miserable night to her, but out of the chaos of doubts and fears and anxieties, she brought one clear intent, one firm determination. she repeated it to herself as she rose from her sister's side in the dawn of the dreary autumn morning, she repeated it as part of her tearful prayer, entreating for wisdom and strength to keep the vow she vowed, that whatever changes or disappointments or sorrows might darken her brother's future, he should find her love and trust unchanged for ever. chapter twenty eight. arthur elliott was a young man of good intellect and superior acquirements, and he had ever been supposed to possess an average amount of penetration, and of that invaluable quality not always found in connection with superior intellect--common sense. he remembered his mother, and worshipped her memory. she had been a wise and earnest-minded woman, and one of god's saints besides. living for years in daily intercourse with his sister graeme, he had learnt to admire in her the qualities that made her a daughter worthy of such a mother. yet in the choice of one who was to be "till death did them part" more than sister and mother in one, the qualities which in them were his pride and delight, were made of no account. flesh of his flesh, the keeper of his honour and his peace henceforth, the maker or marrer of his life's happiness, be it long or short, was this pretty unformed, wayward child. one who has made good use of long opportunity for observation, tells me that arthur elliott's is by no means a singular case. quite as often as otherwise, men of high intellectual and moral qualities link their lot with women who are far inferior to them in these respects; and not always unhappily. if, as sometimes happens, a woman lets her heart slip from her into the keeping of a man who is intellectually or morally her inferior, happiness is far more rarely the result. a woman, may, with such help as comes to her by chance, keep her _solitary_ way through life content. but if love and marriage, or the ties of blood, have given her an arm on which she has a right to lean, a soul on whose guidance she has a right to trust, it is sad indeed if these fail her. for then she has no right to walk alone, no power to do so happily. her intellectual and social life must grow together, or one must grow awry. what god has joined cannot be put asunder without suffering or loss. but it _is_ possible for a man to separate his intellectual life from the quiet routine of social duties and pleasures. it is not always necessary that he should have the sympathy of his housekeeper, or even of the mother of his children, in those higher pursuits and enjoyments, which is the true life. the rising doubt, whether the beloved one have eyes to see what is beautiful to him in nature and art, may come with a chill and a pang; the certain knowledge of her blindness must come with a shock of pain. but when the shudder of the chill and the shock of the pain are over, he finds himself in the place he used to occupy before a fair face smiled down on him from all high places, or a soft voice mingled with all harmonies to his entranced ear. he grows content in time with his old solitary place in the study, or with striving upward amid manly minds. when he returns to the quiet and comfort of his well-arranged home, the face that smiles opposite to him is none the less beautiful because it beams only for home pleasures and humble household successes. the voice that coos and murmurs to his baby in the cradle, that recounts as great events the little varieties of kitchen and parlour life, that tells of visits made and received, with items of harmless gossip gathered up and kept for his hearing, is none the less dear to him now that it can discourse of nothing beyond. the tender care that surrounds him with quiet and comfort in his hours of leisure, in a little while contents him quite, and he ceases to remember that he has cares and pains, aspirations and enjoyments, into which she can have no part. but this is a digression, and i daresay there are many who will not agree with all this. indeed, i am not sure that i quite agree with all my friend said on this subject, myself. there are many ways of looking at the same thing, and if all were said that might be said about it, it would appear that an incapacity on the part of the wife to share, or at least to sympathise with all the hopes, pursuits, and pleasures of her husband, causes bitter pain to both; certainly, he who cannot assure himself of the sympathy of the woman he loves, when he would pass beyond the daily routine of domestic duties and pleasures, fails of obtaining the highest kind of domestic happiness. charlie millar's private announcement to his friend harry of his brother arthur's engagement, was in these words: "the efforts of the maternal grove have been crowned with success. your brother is a captive soon to be chained--" charlie was right. his clear eye saw, that of which arthur himself remained in happy unconsciousness. and what charlie saw other people saw also, though why the wise lady should let slip through her expert fingers the wealthy mr green, the great western merchant, and close them so firmly on the comparatively poor and obscure young lawyer, was a circumstance that could not so easily be understood. had the interesting fact transpired, that the great elias had not so much slipped through her fingers, as, to use his own forcible and elegant language, "wriggled himself clear," it might have been satisfactory to the world in general. but mr green was far-away intent on more important matters, on the valuation and disposal of fabulous quantities of pork and wheat, and it is not to be supposed that so prudent a general as mrs grove would be in haste to proclaim her own defeat. she acted a wiser part; she took the best measures for covering it. when the pretty fanny showed an inclination to console herself for the defection of her wealthy admirer by making the most of the small attentions of the handsome young lawyer, her mamma graciously smiled approval. fanny might do better she thought, but then she might do worse. mr elliott was by no means mr green's equal in the great essentials of wealth won, and wealth in prospect, still he was a rising man as all might see; quite presentable, with no considerable connections,--except perhaps his sisters, who could easily be disposed of. and then fanny, though very pretty, was "a silly little thing," she said to herself with great candour. her beauty was not of a kind to increase with years, or even to continue long. the chances were, if she did not go off at once, she would stay too long. then there were her sisters growing up so fast, mamma's own darlings; charlotte twelve and victoria seven, were really quite tall and mature for their years, and at any rate, it would be a relief to have fanny well away. and so the unsuspecting youth enjoyed many a drive in the grove carriage, and ate many a dinner in the grove mansion, and roamed with the fair fanny by daylight and by moonlight among the flowers and fruits of the grove gardens, during the three months that his brother and sisters passed at the seaside. he made one of many a pleasant driving or riding party. there were picnics at which his presence was claimed in various places. not the cumbrous affairs which called into requisition all the baskets, and boxes, and available conveyances of the invited guests--parties of which the aim seems to be, to collect in one favoured spot in the country, all the luxuries, and airs, and graces of the town--but little impromptu efforts in the same direction in which mrs grove had all the trouble, and her guests all the pleasure. very charming little fetes her guests generally pronounced them to be. arthur enjoyed them vastly, and all the more that it never entered into his head, that he was in a measure the occasion of them all. he enjoyed the companionship of pleasant people, brought together in those pleasant circumstances. he enjoyed the sight of the green earth, and the blue water, the sound of the summer winds among the hills, the songs of birds amid rustling leaves and waving boughs, until he came to enjoy, at last the guardianship of the fair fanny, generally his on those occasions; and to associate her pretty face and light laughter with his enjoyment of all those pleasant things. everything went on naturally and quietly. there was no open throwing them together to excite speculation in the minds of beholders, or uncomfortable misgivings in the minds of those chiefly concerned. quite the contrary. if any watchful fairy had suggested to arthur the possibility of such a web, as the skillful mamma was weaving around him, he would have laughed at the idea as the suggestion of a very ill-natured, evil-minded sprite indeed. did not mamma keep watchful eyes on fanny always? had she not many and many a time, interrupted little confidences on the part of the young lady, at the recollection of which he was sometimes inclined to smile? had she not at all times, and in all places, acted the part of a prudent mamma to her pretty step-daughter, and of a considerate hostess to him, her unworthy guest? and if the fairy, in self-justification, had ventured further to insinuate, that there is more than one kind of prudence, and that the prudence of mrs grove was of another and higher kind, than a simple youth could be supposed to comprehend, his enlightenment might not yet have been accomplished. if it had been averred that mamma's faith, in her daughter's tact and conversational powers was not sufficient to permit her to allow them to be too severely tried, he might have paused to recall her little airs and gestures, and to weigh the airy nothings from those pretty lips, and he could not but have acknowledged that mamma's faithlessness was not surprising. as to the ultimate success of the sprite in opening his eyes, or in breaking the invisible meshes which were meant to hold the victim fast, that is quite another matter. but there was no fairy, good or bad, to mingle in their affairs, and they flowed smoothly on, to the content of all concerned, till graeme came home from cacouna, to play, in mrs grove's opinion, the part of a very bad fairy indeed. she was mistaken, however. graeme took no part in the matter, either to make or to mar. even had she been made aware of all the possibilities that might arise out of her brother's short intimacy with the groves, she never could have regarded the matter as one in which she had a right to interfere. so, if there came a pause in the lady's operations, if arthur was more seldom one of their party, even when special pains had been taken to secure him, it was owing to no efforts of graeme. if he began to settle down into the old quiet home life, it was because the life suited him; and graeme's influence was exerted and felt, only as it had ever been in a silent, sweet, sisterly fashion, with no reference to mrs grove, or her schemes. but that there came a pause in the effective operations of that clever lady, soon became evident to herself. she could not conceal from herself or miss fanny, that the beckonings from the carriage window were not so quickly seen, or so promptly responded to as of old. not that this defection on arthur's part was ever discussed between them. mrs grove had not sufficient confidence in her daughter to admit of this. fanny was not reliable, mamma felt. indeed, she was very soon taking consolation in the admiration excited by a pair of shining epaulets, which began about this time to gleam with considerable frequency in their neighbourhood. but mamma did not believe in officers, at least matrimonially speaking, and as to the consolation to be derived from a new flirtation, it was but doubtful and transitory at the best. besides she fancied that mr elliott's attentions had been observed, and she was quite sure that his defection would be so, too. two failures succeeding each other so rapidly, would lay her skill open to question, and "mar dear fanny's prospects." and so mrs grove concentrated all her forces to meet the emergency. another invitation was given, and it was accepted. in the single minute that preceded the entrance into the dining-room, the first of a series of decisive measures was carried into effect. with a voice that trembled, and eyes that glistened with grateful tears, the lady thanked her "dear friend" for the kind consideration, the manly delicacy that had induced him to withdraw himself from their society, as soon as he had become aware of the danger to her sweet, but too susceptible fanny. "fanny does not dream that her secret is suspected. but oh! mr elliott, when was a mother at fault when the happiness of her too sensitive child was concerned?" in vain arthur looked the astonishment he felt. in vain he attempted to assure her in the strongest terms, that he had had no intention of withdrawing from their society--that he did not understand--that she must be mistaken. the tender mother's volubility was too much for him. he could only listen in a very embarrassed silence as she went on. mr elliott was not to suppose that she blamed him for the unhappiness he had caused. she quite freed him from all intention of wrong. and after all, it might not be so bad. a mother's anxiety might exaggerate the danger; she would try and hope for the best. change of scene must be tried; in the meantime, her fear was, that pique, or wounded pride, or disappointed affection might induce the unhappy child to--in short mr elliott must understand--. and mrs grove glanced expressively toward the wearer of the shining epaulets, with whom arthur being unenlightened, might have fancied that the unhappy child was carrying on a pretty energetic and prosperous flirtation. but "pique and wounded pride!" he had never in all his life experienced a moment of such intense uncomfortableness as that in which he had the honour to hand the lady of the house to her own well-appointed table. indignation, vexation, disbelief of the whole matter spoiled his dinner effectually. mrs grove's exquisite soup might have been ditch-water for all he knew to the contrary. the motherly concern so freely expressed, looked to him dreadfully like something not so praiseworthy. how she could look her dear fanny in the face, and talk, so softly on indifferent subjects, after having so--so unnecessarily, to say the least, betrayed her secret, was more than he could understand. if, indeed, miss fanny had a secret. he wished very much not to believe it. secret or not, this was a very uncomfortable ending to a pleasant three months' acquaintance, and he felt very much annoyed, indeed. not till course after course had been removed, and the dessert had been placed on the table, did he summon resolution to withdraw his attention from the not very interesting conversation of his host, and turn his eyes to miss grove and the epaulets. the result of his momentary observation was the discovery that the young lady was looking very lovely, and not at all miserable. greatly relieved, he ventured an appropriate remark or two, on the subject under discussion. he was listened to with politeness, but not with miss fanny's usual amiability and interest, that was evident. by and by the gentlemen followed the ladies into the drawing-room, and here miss fanny was distant and dignified still. she gave brief answers to his remarks, and glanced now and then toward the epaulets, of whom mrs grove had taken possession, and to whom she was holding forth with great energy about something she had found in a book. arthur approached the centre-table, but mrs grove was too much occupied with captain starr to include him in the conversation. mr grove was asleep in the dining-room still, and arthur felt there was no help for him. miss fanny was left on his hands; and after another vain attempt at conversation, he murmured something about music, and begged to be permitted to hand her to the piano. miss grove consented, still with more than her usual dignity and distance, and proposed to sing a new song that captain starr had sent her. she did sing it, very prettily, too. she had practised it a great deal more than was necessary, her mamma thought, within the last few days. then she played a brilliant piece or two; then mrs grove, from the centre-table, proposed a sweet scottish air, a great favourite of hers, and, as it appeared, a great favourite of mr elliott's, also. then there were more scottish airs, and french airs, and then there was a duet with captain starr, and mamma withdrew mr elliott to the centre-table, and the book, and did not in the least resent the wandering of his eyes and his attention to the piano, where the captain's handsome head was at times in close proximity with that of the fair musician. then, when there had been enough of music, miss grove returned to her embroidery, and captain starr held her cotton and her scissors, and talked such nonsense to her, that arthur hearing him now and then in the pauses of the conversation, thought him a great simpleton; and firmly believed that miss fanny listened from "pique or wounded pride," or something else, not certainly because she liked it. not but that she seemed to like it. she smiled and responded as if she did, and was very kind and gracious to the handsome soldier, and scarcely vouchsafed to mr elliott a single glance. by and by mr grove came in and withdrew mr elliott to the discussion of the harbour question, and as arthur knew everything that could possibly be said on that subject, he had a better opportunity still of watching the pair on the other side of the table. it was very absurd of him, he said to himself, and he repeated it with emphasis, as the young lady suddenly looking up, coloured vividly as she met his eye. it was very absurd, but, somehow, it was very interesting, too. never, during the whole course of their acquaintance, had his mind been so much occupied with the pretty, silly little creature. it is very likely, the plan of piers and embankments, of canals and bridges, which miss fanny's working implements were made to represent, extending from an imaginary point saint charles, past an imaginary griffintown, might have been worthy of being laid before the town council, or the commissioner for public works. it is quite possible that mr grove's explanations and illustrations of his idea of the new harbour, by means of the same, might have set at rest the doubts and fears of the over-cautious, and proved beyond all controversy, that there was but one way of deciding the matter, and of securing the prosperity of mount royal city, and of canada. and if mr grove had that night settled the vexed question of the harbour to the satisfaction of all concerned, he would have deserved all the credit, at least his learned and talented legal adviser would have deserved none of it. it was very absurd of him, he said again, and yet the interest grew more absorbing every moment, till at last he received a soft relenting glance as he bowed over miss fanny's white hand when he said good-night. he had one uncomfortable moment. it was when mrs grove hoped aloud that they should see him often, and then added, for his hearing alone,-- "it would look so odd, you know, to forsake us quite." he was uncomfortable and indignant, too, when the captain, as they walked down the street together, commented in a free and easy manner on miss grove's "good points," and wondered "whether the old chap had tin enough to make it worth a fellow's pains to follow up the impression he seemed certain he had made." he was uncomfortable when he thought about it afterward. what if "pique, or wounded pride, or disappointed affection" should tempt the poor little girl to throw herself away on such an ass! it would be sad, indeed. and then he wondered if miss grove really cared for him in that way. surely her stepmother would not have spoken as she had done to him on a mere suspicion. as he kept on thinking about it, it began to seem more possible to him, and then more pleasant, and what with one thing, and what with another, miss fanny began to have a great many of his thoughts indeed. he visited grove house a good many times--not to seem odd--and saw a good deal of miss fanny. mamma was prudent still, and wise, and far-seeing, and how it came about i cannot tell, but the result of his visits, and the young lady's smiles, and the old lady's management was the engagement of these two; and the first intimation that graeme had of it was given by arthur on the night that norman went away. time passed on. the wedding day was set, but there were many things to be brought to pass before it should arrive. graeme had to finish the task she had set for herself on the night, when arthur had bespoken her love and care for a new sister. she had to reconcile herself fully to the thought of the marriage, and truly the task did not seem to her easier as time went on. there were moments when she thought herself content with the state of affairs, when, at least, the coming in among them of this stranger did not seem altogether like the end of their happy life, when miss grove seemed a sweet and lovable little thing, and graeme took hope for arthur. this was generally on those occasions when they were permitted to have fanny all to themselves, when she would come in of her own accord, in the early part of the day, dressed in her pretty morning attire, without her company manners or finery. at such times she was really very charming, and flitted about their little parlour, or sat on a footstool chattering with rose in a way that quite won her heart, and almost reconciled the elder sister to her brother's choice. but there were a great many chances against the pleasure lasting beyond the visit, or even to the end of it. on more than one occasion graeme had dispatched nelly as a messenger to arthur, to tell him that fanny was to lunch with them, though her magnanimity involved the necessity of her preparing the greater part of that pleasant meal with her own hands; but she was almost always sorry for it afterward. for fanny never appeared agreeable to her in arthur's presence; and what was worse to bear still, arthur never appeared to advantage, in his sister's eyes, in the presence of miss grove. the coquettish airs, and pretty tyrannical ways assumed by the young lady toward her lover, might have excited only a little uncomfortable amusement in the minds of the sisters, to see arthur yielding to all her whims and caprices, not as one yields in appearance, and for a time, to a pretty spoiled child, over whom one's authority is only delegated and subject to appeal, but _really_ as though her whims were wisdom, and her caprices the result of mature deliberation, was more than graeme could patiently endure. it was irritating to a degree that she could not always control or conceal. the lovers were usually too much occupied with each other to notice the discomfort of the sisters, but this indifference did not make the folly of it all less distasteful to them: and at such times graeme used to fear that it was vain to think of ever growing content with the future before them. and almost as disagreeable were the visits which fanny made with her stepmother. these became a great deal more frequent, during the last few months, than graeme thought at all necessary. they used to call on their way to pay visits, or on their return from shopping expeditions, and the very sight of their carriage of state, and their fine array, made graeme and rose uncomfortable. the little airs of superiority, with which miss fanny sometimes favoured them, were only assumed in the presence of mamma, and were generally called forth by some allusion made by her to the future, and they were none the less disagreeable on that account. how would it be when fanny's marriage should give her stepmother a sort of right to advise and direct in their household? at present, her delicate attempts at patronage, her hints, suggestive or corrective, were received in silence, though resented in private with sufficient energy by rose, and sometimes even by graeme. but it could not be so always, and she should never be able to tolerate the interference of that vain, meddlesome, superficial woman, she said to herself many a time. it must be confessed that graeme was a little unreasonable in her dread and dislike of fanny's clever stepmother. sometimes she was obliged to confess as much to herself. more than once, about this time, it was brought home to her conscience that she was unjust in her judgment of her, and her motives, and she was startled to discover the strength of her feelings of dislike. many times she found herself on the point of dissenting from opinions, or opposing plans proposed by mrs grove, with which she might have agreed had they come from any one else. it is true her opinions and plans were not generally of a nature to commend themselves to graeme's judgment, and there was rather apt to be more intended by them than at first met the eye and ear. as miss fanny said on one occasion, "one could never tell what mamma meant by what she said," and the consequence often was an uncomfortable state of expectation or doubt on the part of those who were included in any arrangement dependent on mamma. yet, her schemes were generally quite harmless. they were not so deep as to be dangerous. the little insincerities incident to their almost daily intercourse, the small deceits made use of in shopping, marketing, making visits, or sending invitations, were no such mighty matters as to jeopardise the happiness, or even the comfort of any one with eyes keen enough to detect, and with skill and will to circumvent them. so graeme said to herself many a time, and yet, saying it she could not help suffering herself to be made uncomfortable still. the respect and admiration which mrs grove professed for miss elliott might have failed to propitiate her, even had she given her credit for sincerity. they were too freely expressed to be agreeable under any circumstances. her joy that the elliotts were still to form one household, that her dear thoughtless fanny was to have the benefit of the elder sister's longer experience and superior wisdom, was great, and her surprise was great also, and so was her admiration. it was so dear in miss elliott to consent to it. another person might have resented the necessity of having to take the second place, where she had so long occupied the first in her brother's house. and then to be superceded by one so much younger than herself, one so much less wise, as all must acknowledge her dear fanny to be, was not, could not, be pleasant. miss elliott must be a person possessing extraordinary qualities, indeed. how could she ever be grateful enough that her wayward child was to have the advantage of a guardianship so gentle and so judicious as hers was sure to be! she only hoped that fanny might appreciate the privilege, and manifest a proper and amiable submission in the new circumstances in which she was to be placed. graeme might well be uncomfortable under all this, knowing as she did, that mamma's private admonitions to her "wayward daughter" tended rather to the encouragement of a "judicious resistance" than of "a proper and amiable submission" to the anticipated rule. but as a necessary abdication of all household power made no part of graeme's trouble, except as she might sometimes doubt the chances of a prosperous administration for her successor, she was able to restrain all outward evidence of discomfort and indignation. she was the better able to do this, as she saw that the clever lady's declaration of her sentiments on this subject, made arthur a little uncomfortable too. he had a vague idea that the plan as to their all continuing to live together, had not at first been so delightful to mrs grove. he had a remembrance that the doubts as to how his sisters might like the idea of his intended marriage, had been suggested by her, and that these doubts had been coupled with hints as to the proper means to be taken in order that the happiness of her dear daughter might be secured, he remembered very well; and that she had expected and desired no assistance from his sisters to this end, he was very well assured. "however, it is all right now," said arthur, congratulating himself. "graeme has too much sense to be put about by mamma's twaddle, and there is no fear as far as fanny and she are concerned." the extent to which "mamma's twaddle" and other matters "put graeme about" at this time she concealed quite, as far as arthur was concerned. the best was to be made of things now; and though she could not help wishing that his eyes might be more useful to him on some occasions, she knew that it would not have mended matters could he have been induced to make use of her clearer vision, and so her doubts and fears were kept to herself, and they did not grow fewer or less painful as time went on. but her feelings changed somewhat. she did not cease to grieve in secret over what she could not but call arthur's mistake in the choice he had made. but now, sometimes anger, and sometimes a little bitter amusement mingled with her sorrow. there seemed at times something ludicrous in bestowing her pity on one so content with the lot he had chosen. she was quite sure that arthur would have smiled at the little follies and inconsistencies of miss grove, had he seen them in any one else. she remembered that at their first acquaintance he had smiled at them in her. _now_ how blind he was! all her little defects of character, so painfully apparent to his sisters were quite invisible to him. she was very amiable and charming in his eyes. there were times when one might have supposed that he looked upon her as the wisest and most sensible of women; and he began to listen to her small views and assent to her small opinions, in a way, and to an extent that would have been amusing if it had not been painful and irritating to those looking on. graeme tried to believe that she was glad of all this--that it was better so. if it was so that these two were to pass their lives together, it was well that they should be blind to each other's faults. somehow married people seemed to get on together, even when their tastes, and talents, and tempers differed. if they loved one another that was enough, she supposed; there must be something about it that she did not understand. at any rate, there was no use vexing herself about arthur now. if he was content, why should not she be so? her brother's happiness might be safer than she feared, but whether or not, nothing could be changed now. but as her fears for her brother were put from her, the thought of what the future might bring to rose and her, came oftener, and with a sadder doubt. she called herself foolish and faithless--selfish even, and scolded herself vigorously many a time; but she could not drive away her fears, or make herself cheerful or hopeful in looking forward. when arthur should come quite to see with fanny's eyes, and hear with her ears, and rely upon her judgment, would they all live as happily together as they had hitherto done? fanny, kept to themselves, she thought she would not fear, but influenced by her stepmother, whose principles and practice were so different from all they had been taught to consider right, how might their lives be changed! and so the wedding-day was drawing nigh. as a part of her marriage-portion, mr grove was to present to his daughter one of the handsome new houses in the neighbourhood of columbus square, and there the young lady's married-life was to commence. the house was quite a little fortune in itself, mrs grove said, and she could neither understand nor approve of the manner in which her triumphant announcement of its destination was received by the elliotts. it is just possible that arthur's intimate knowledge of the state of his future father-in-law's affairs, might have had something to do with his gravity on the occasion. the troubles in the mercantile world, that had not left untouched the long-established house of elphinstone & company, had been felt more seriously still by mr grove, and a doubt as to whether he could, with justice to all concerned, withdraw so large an amount from his business, in order to invest it for his daughter's benefit, could not but suggest itself to arthur. he was not mercenary; it would not be true to say he had not felt a certain degree of satisfaction in knowing that his bride would not be altogether undowered. but the state of mr grove's affairs, was, to say the least, not such as to warrant a present withdrawal of capital from his business, and arthur might well look grave. not that he troubled himself about it, however. he had never felt so greatly elated at the prospect of marrying an heiress, as to feel much disappointed when the prospect became doubtful. he knew that miss grove had a right to something which she had inherited from her mother, but he said to himself that her right should be set aside, rather than that there should be any defilement of hands in the transfer. so, if to mrs grove's surprise and disgust, he remained silent when she made known the munificent intentions of fanny's father, it was not for a reason that he chose to discuss with her. his remarks were reserved for mr grove's private ear, and to him they were made with sufficient plainness. as for graeme, she could not but see that their anticipated change of residence might help to make certainties of all her doubts and fears for their future. if she had dreaded changes in their manner of life before, how much more were they to be dreaded now? they might have fallen back, after a time, into their old, quiet routine, when fanny had quite become one of them, had they been to remain still in the home where they had all been so happy together. but there seemed little hope of anything so pleasant as that now, for fanny's handsome house was in quite a fashionable neighbourhood, away from their old friends, and that would make a sad difference in many ways, she thought; and all this added much to her misgivings for the future. "fanny's house!" could it ever seem like home to them? her thoughts flew back to janet and merleville, and for a little, notwithstanding all the pain she knew the thought would give her brother, it seemed possible--nay best and wisest, for her and rose to go away. "however, we must wait a while; we must have patience. things may adjust themselves in a way that i cannot see just now." in the lesson, which with tears and prayers and a good-will graeme had set herself to learn, she had got no farther than this, "we must wait-- we must have patience." and she had more cause to be content with the progress she had made than she thought; for, amid all the cures for the ills of life, which wisdom remembers, and which folly forgets, what better, what more effectual than "patient waiting?" chapter twenty nine. "are you quite sure that you are glad, graeme." "i am very glad, will. why should you doubt it? you know i have not so heartsome a way of showing my delight as rosie has." "no. i don't know any such thing. i can't be quite glad myself, till i am sure that you are glad, too." "well, you may be quite sure, will. it is only my old perverse way of looking first at the dark side of things, and this matter has a dark side. it will seem less like home than ever when you are gone, will." "less like home than ever!" repeated will. "why, graeme, that sounds as if you were not quite contented with the state of affairs." "does it?" said graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly. "but, graeme, everything has turned out better than we expected. fanny is very nice, and--" "yes, indeed," said graeme, heartily. "everything has turned out much better than we used to fear. i remember the time when i was quite afraid of fanny and her fine house--my old perversity, you see." "i remember," said will, gravely. "i was quite morbid on the subject, at one time. mamma grove was a perfect night-mare to me. and really, she is well! she is not a very formidable person, after all." "well, on the whole, i think we could dispense with mamma grove," said will, with a shrug. "oh! that is because she is down upon you in the matter of master tom. you will have to take him, will." "of course. but then, i would do a great deal more than that for fanny's brother, without all this talk." "but then, without `all this talk,' as you call it, you might not have discovered that the favour is done you, nor that the letter to her english friend will more than compensate you, for going fifty miles out of your way for the boy." "oh! well, it is her way, and a very stupid way. let her rest." "yes, let her rest. and, will, you are not to think i am not glad that you are going home. i would choose no other lot for you, than the one that is before you, an opportunity to prepare yourself for usefulness, and a wide field to labour in. only i am afraid i would stipulate that the field should be a canadian one." "of course. canada is my home." "or merleville. deacon snow seems to think you are to be called to that field, when you are ready to be called." "but that is a long day hence. perhaps, the deacon may change his mind, when he hears that i am going home to learn from the `british.'" "there is no fear. sandy has completed the work which my father and janet began. mr snow is tolerant of the north british, at any rate. what a pleasant life our merleville life was. it seems strange that none of us, but norman, has been back there. it won't belong now, however." "i am afraid i cannot wait for emily's wedding. but i shall certainly go and see them all, before i go to scotland." "if you do, i shall go with you, and spend the summer there." "and leave rose here?" said will, in some surprise. "no. i wish to go for rose's sake, as much as for my own. it seems as though going to merleville and janet, would put us all right again." "i hope you may both be put right, without going so far," said will. "do you know, will, i sometimes wonder whether i can be the same person who came here with rose and you? circumstances do change people, whether they will or not. i think i should come back to my old self again, with janet to take me to task, in her old sharp, loving way." "i don't think i understand you, graeme." "don't you? well, that is evidence that i have changed; and that i have not improved. but i am not sure that i understand myself." "what is wrong with you, graeme." "i cannot tell you, will. i don't know whether the wrong is with me, or with matters and things in general. but there is no good in vexing you, unless you could tell me how to help it." "if i knew what is wrong i might try," said will, gravely. "then, tell me, what possible good i shall be able to do in the world, when i shall no longer have you to care for?" "if you do no good, you will fall far short of your duty." "i know it, will. but useless as my way of life is, i cannot change it. next year must be like this one, and except nursing you in your illness, and fanny in hers, i have done nothing worth naming as work." "that same nursing was not a little. and do you call the housekeeping nothing? it is all very well, fanny's jingling her keys, and playing lady of the house, but we all know who has the care and trouble. if last year has nothing to show for work, i think you may make the same complaint of all the years that went before. it is not that you are getting weary of the `woman's work, that is never done,' is it, dear?" "no, will. i hope not. i think not. but this last year has been very different from all former years. i used to have something definite to do, something that no one else could do as well. i cannot explain it. you would laugh at the trifles that make the difference." "i see one difference," said will. "you have the trouble, and fanny has the credit." "no, will. don't say that i don't think that troubles me. it ought not; but it is not good for fanny, to allow her to suppose she has the responsibility and care, when she has not really. and it is not fair to her. when the time comes that she must have them, she will feel the trouble all the more for her present delusion. and she is learning nothing. she is utterly careless about details, and complicates matters when she thinks she is doing most, though, i must say, nelly is very tolerant of the `whims' of her young mistress, and makes the best of everything. but will, all this must sound to you like finding fault with fanny, and indeed, i don't wish to do anything so disagreeable." "i am sure you do not, graeme. i think i can understand your troubles, but i am afraid i cannot tell you how to help them." "no, will. the kind of life we are living is not good for any of us. what i want for myself is some kind of real work to do. and i want it for rose." "but, graeme, you would never surely think of going away,--i mean, to stay always?" "why not? we are not needed here, rose and i. no, will, i don't think it is that i am growing tired of `woman's work.' it was very simple, humble work i used to do, trifles, odds and ends of the work of life; stitching and mending, sweeping and dusting, singing and playing, reading and talking, each a trifling matter, taken by itself. but of such trifles is made up the life's work of thousands of women, far wiser and better than i am; and i was content with it. it helped to make a happy home, and that was much." "you have forgotten something in your list of trifles, graeme,--your love and care for us all." "no, will. these are implied. it is the love and care that made all these trifles really `woman's work.' a poor dreary work it would be without these." "and, graeme, is there nothing still, to sanctify your daily labour, and make it work indeed?" said will. "there is, indeed, will. if i were only sure that it is my work. but, i am not sure. and it seems as though--somewhere in the world, there must be something better worth the name of work, for me to do." and letting her hands fall in her lap, she looked away over the numberless roofs of the city, to the grey line of the river beyond. "oh! will," she went on in a little, "you do not know. you who have your life's work laid out before you, can never understand how it is with me. you know the work before you is your work--given you by god himself. you need have no misgivings, you can make no mistake. and look at the difference. think of all the years i may have to spend, doing the forgotten ends of another's duty, filling up the time with trifles, visits, frivolous talk, or fancy work, or other things which do good to no one. and all the time not knowing whether i ought to stay in the old round, or break away from it all--never sure but that elsewhere, i might find wholesome work for god and man." very seldom did graeme allow herself to put her troubled thoughts into words, and she rose now and went about the room, as if she wished to put an end to their talk. but will said,-- "even if it were true and real, all you say, it may not be for long. some day, you don't know how soon, you may have legitimate `woman's work' to do,--love, and sympathy, and care, and all the rest, without encroaching on fanny's domain." he began gravely, but blushed and stammered; and glanced with laughing deprecation at his sister, as he ended. she did not laugh. "i have thought of that, too. it seems so natural and proper, and in the common course of things, that a woman should marry. and there have been times, during this last year, when, just to get away from it all, i have thought that any change would be for the better. but it would not be right, unless--" she hesitated. "no, unless it was the right person, and all that, but may we not reasonably hope that the right person may come?" "we won't talk about it, will. there must be some other way than that. many women find an appropriate work to do without marrying. i wish i could do as the merleville girls used to do, spin and weave, or keep a school." "but they don't spin and weave now, since the factories have been built. and as for school-keeping--" "it would be work, good wholesome work, in which, with god's help, i might try to do as our father and mother did, and leave the world better for my labour." "but you could not part from rose, and arthur could never be made to see it right that you should go away," said will. "rose should go with me. and arthur would not like it at first, nor fanny, but they would reconcile themselves to it in time. and as to the school, that is only one kind of work, though there are few kinds left for a woman to do, the more's the pity." "there is work enough of the best kind. it is the remuneration that is scant. and the remuneration could not be made a secondary consideration; if you left home." "in one sense, it ought to be secondary. but i think it must be delightful to feel that one is `making one's living,' as mr snow would say. i _should_ like to know how it feels to be quite independent, will, i must confess." "but graeme, there is no need; and it would make arthur quite unhappy, if he were to hear you speak in that way. even to me, it sounds a little like pride, or discontent." "does it, will. that is dreadful. it is quite possible that these evil elements enter into my vexed thoughts. we won't speak any more about it, will." "but, why should we not speak about it? you may be quite right. at any rate, you are not likely to set yourself right, by keeping your vexed thoughts to yourself." but, if graeme had been ever so willing, there was no more time just now. there was a knock at the door, and sarah, the housemaid, presented herself. "if you please, miss graeme, do you think i might go out as usual. it is wednesday, you know." wednesday was the night of the weekly lecture, in sarah's kirk. she was a good little girl, and a worshipper in a small way of a popular young preacher of the day. "if nelly thinks she can manage without you," said graeme. "it was nelly proposed it. she can do very well, unless mrs elliott brings home some one with her, which is unlikely so late." "well, go then, and don't be late. and be sure you come home with the shaws' sarah," said miss elliott. "they are late," said will. "i am afraid i cannot wait for dinner. i promised to be with doctor d at seven." they went down-stairs together. nelly remonstrated, with great earnestness against will's "putting himself off with bread and cheese, instead of dinner." "though you need care the less about it, that the dinner's spoiled already. the fowls werena much to begin with. it needs sense and discretion to market, as well as to do most things, and folk that winna come home at the right hour, must content themselves with things overdone, or else in the dead thraw." "i am very sorry will should lose his dinner," said graeme; "but they cannot be long in coming now." "there's no saying. they may meet in with folk that may keep them to suit their ain convenience. it has happened before." more than once, when fanny had been out with her mother, they had gone for arthur and dined at grove house, without giving due notice at home, and the rest, after long waiting, had eaten their dinner out of season. to have a success in her department rendered vain by careless or culpable delay, was a trial to nelly at any time. and if mrs grove had anything to do with causing it, the trial was all the greater. for nelly--to use her own words--had no patience with that "meddlesome person." any interference on her part in household matters, was considered by her a reflection on the housekeeping of her young ladies before mrs arthur came among them, and was resented accordingly. all hints, suggestions, recipes, or even direct instructions from her, were utterly ignored by nelly, when it could be done without positive disobedience to miss graeme or mrs elliott. if direct orders made it necessary for her to do violence to her feelings to the extent of availing herself of mrs grove's experience, it was done under protest, or with an open incredulousness as to results, at the same time irritating and amusing. she had no reason to suppose that mrs grove had anything to do with her vexation to-night, but she chose to assume it to be so, and following graeme into the dining-room, where will sat contentedly eating his bread and cheese, she said,-- "as there is no counting on the time of their home-coming, with other folks' convenience to consult, you had best let me bring up the dinner, miss graeme." "we will wait a few minutes longer. there is no haste," said graeme, quietly. graeme sat a long time looking out of the window before they came--so long that nelly came up-stairs again intending to expostulate still, but she did not; she went down again, quietly, muttering to herself as she went,-- "i'll no vex her. she has her ain troubles, i daresay, with her young brother going away, and many another thing that i ken nothing about. it would ill set me to add to her vexations. she is not at peace with herself, that's easy to be seen." chapter thirty. graeme was not at peace with herself and had not been so for a long time, and to-night she was angry with herself for having spoiled will's pleasure, by letting him see that she was ill at ease. "for there is no good vexing him. he cannot even advise me; and, indeed, i am afraid i have not the courage really to go away." but she continued to vex herself more than was wise, as she sat there waiting for the rest in the gathering darkness. they came at last, but not at all as they ought to have come, with the air of culprits, but chatting and laughing merrily, and quite at their leisure, accompanied--to nelly's indignant satisfaction--by mrs grove. graeme could hardly restrain an exclamation of amusement as she hastened toward the door. rose came first, and her sister's question as to their delay was stopped by a look at her radiant face. "graeme, i have something to tell you. what is the most delightful, and almost the most unlikely thing that could happen to us?" graeme shook her head. "i should have to consider a while first--i am not good at guessing. but won't it keep? nelly is out of all patience." but rose was too excited to heed her. "no; it won't keep. guess who is coming--janet!" graeme uttered an exclamation of surprise. "arthur got a letter from mr snow to-day. read it." graeme read, rose looking over her shoulder. "i am very glad. but, rosie, you must make haste. fanny will be down in a minute, and nelly is impatient." "no wonder! but i must tell her about mrs snow." and with her bonnet in her hand, she went dancing down the kitchen stairs. nelly would have been in an implacable humour, indeed, if the sight of her bright face had not softened her. regardless of the risk to muslins and ribbons, she sprang at once into the midst of the delayed preparations. "nelly! who do you think is coming? you will never guess. i may as well tell you. mrs snow!" "eh, me! that's news, indeed. take care of the gravy, miss rose, dear. and when is she coming?" there was not the faintest echo of rebuke in nelly's tone. there was no possibility of refusing to be thus included in the family joy, even in the presence of overdone fowls and ruined vegetables. besides, she had the greatest respect for the oldest friend of the family, and a great desire to see her. she looked upon her as a wonderful person, and aspired in a humble way to imitate her virtues, so she set the gravy-dish on the table to hear more. "and when will she be coming?" she asked. "some time in june. and, nelly, such preparations as we shall have! but it is a shame, we kept dinner waiting. we could not help it, indeed." "you dinna need to tell me that. i heard who came with you. carry you up the plates, and the dinner will be up directly." "and so your old nurse is coming?" said mrs grove, after they had been some time at the table. "how delightful! you look quite excited, rose. she is a very nice person, i believe, miss elliott." graeme smiled. mrs grove's generally descriptive term hardly indicated the manifold virtues of their friend; but, before she could say so, mrs grove continued. "we must think of some way of doing her honour. we must get up a little _fete_--a pic-nic or something. will she stay here or at mr birnie's. she is a friend of his, i suppose, as rose stopped him in the street to tell him she is coming. it is rather awkward having such people staying in the house. they are apt to fancy, you know; and really, one cannot devote all one's time--" rose sent her a glance of indignation; graeme only smiled. arthur had not heard her last remark, so he answered the first. "i doubt such things would hardly be in mrs snow's way. mrs grove could hardly make a lion of our janet, i fancy, graeme." "i fancy not," said graeme, quietly. "oh! i assure you, i shall be willing to take any trouble. i truly appreciate humble worth. we so seldom find among the lower classes anything like the faithfulness, and the gratitude manifested by this person to your family. you must tell me all about her some day, rose." rose was regarding her with eyes out of which all indignation had passed, to make room for astonishment. mrs grove went on. "didn't she leave her husband, or something, to come with you? certainly a lifetime of such devotion should be rewarded--" "by a pic-nic," said rose, as mrs grove hesitated. "rose, don't be satirical," said arthur, trying not to laugh. "i am sure you must be delighted, fanny--arthur's old nurse you know. it need not prevent you going to the seaside, however. it is not you she comes to see." "i am not so sure of that," said arthur, smiling across the table to his pretty wife. "i fancy fanny has as much to do with the visit as any of us. she will have to be on her good behaviour, and to look her prettiest, i can assure her." "and janet was not arthur's nurse," said rose. "graeme was baby when she came first." "and i fancy nursing was but a small part of janet's work in those days," said arthur. "she was nurse, and cook, and housemaid, all in one. eh, graeme?" "ay, and more than that--more than could be told in words," said graeme, with glistening eyes. "and i am sure you will like her," said rose, looking straight into mrs grove's face. "her husband is very rich. i think he must be almost the richest man in merleville." arthur did not reprove rose this time, though she well deserved it. she read her reproof in graeme's look, and blushed and hung her head. she did not look very much abashed, however. she knew arthur was enjoying the home thrust; but the subject was pursued no farther. "do you know, fanny," said mrs grove, in a little, "i saw mrs tilman this morning, and a very superior person she turns out to be. she has seen better days. it is sad to see a lady--for she seems to have been quite a lady--so reduced." "and who is mrs tilman?" asked arthur. fanny looked annoyed, but her mamma went on. "she is a person mrs gridley was speaking to fanny about--a very worthy person indeed." "she was speaking to you, you mean, mamma," said fanny. "was it to me? well, it is all the same. she is a widow. she lived in q---a while and then came here, and was a housekeeper in haughton place. i don't know why she left. some one married, i think. since then she has been a sick nurse, but it didn't agree with her, and lately she has been a cook in a small hotel." "she seems to have experienced vicissitudes," said arthur, for the sake of saying something. "has she not? and a very worthy person she is, i understand, and an admirable cook. she markets, too--or she did at haughton house--and that is such a relief. she must be an invaluable servant." "i should think so, indeed," said arthur, as nobody else seemed inclined to say anything. graeme and rose were speaking about janet and her expected visit, and fanny sat silent and embarrassed. but nelly, busy in taking away the things, lost nothing of what was said; and mrs grove, strange to say, was not altogether inattentive to the changing face of the energetic table maid. an uncomplimentary remark had escaped the lady, as to the state of the overdone fowls, and nelly "could put this and that together as well as another." the operation of removing the things could not be indefinitely prolonged, however, and as nelly shut the door mrs grove said,-- "she is out of place now, fanny, and would just suit you. but you must be prompt if you wish to engage her." "oh! there is no hurry about it, i suppose," said fanny, glancing uneasily at graeme. but graeme took no notice. mrs grove was rather in the habit of discussing domestic affairs at the table, and of leaving graeme out of the conversation. she was very willing to be left out. besides, she never thought of influencing fanny in the presence of her stepmother. "oh! but i assure you there is," said mrs grove. "there are several ladies wishing to have her. mrs ruthven, among the rest." "oh! it is such a trouble changing," said fanny, wearily, as if she had had a trying experience and spoke advisedly. "not at all. it is only changing for the worse that is so troublesome," said mrs grove, and she had a right to know. "i advise you not to let this opportunity pass." "but, after all, nelly does very well. she is stupid sometimes and cross, but they are all that, more or less, i suppose," said fanny. "you are quite right, fanny," said arthur, who saw that his wife was annoyed without very well knowing why. "i daresay nelly is a better servant--notwithstanding the unfortunate chickens of to-day, which was our own fault, you know--than the decayed gentlewoman. she will be a second janet, yet--an institution, an established fact in the history of the family. we couldn't do without nelly. eh, graeme?" graeme smiled, and said nothing. rose answered for her. "no, indeed i am so glad nelly will see mrs snow." "very well," said mrs grove. "since miss elliott seems to be satisfied with nelly, i suppose she must stay. it is a pity you had not known sooner, fanny, so as to save me the trouble of making an appointment for her. but she may as well come, and you can see her at any rate." her carriage being at the door, she went away, and a rather awkward silence followed her departure. "what is it all about! who is mrs tilman?" asked arthur. "some one mrs grove has seen," said graeme, evasively. "but what about nelly? surely you are not thinking of changing servants, graeme?" "oh! i hope not; but nelly has been out of sorts lately--grumbled a little--" "out of sorts, grumbled!" exclaimed fanny, vexed that mrs grove had introduced the subject, and more vexed still that arthur should have addressed his question to graeme. "she has been very disagreeable, indeed, not to say impertinent, and i shall not bear it any longer." poor little fanny could hardly keep back her tears. "impertinent to you, fanny," cried graeme and arthur in a breath. "well, to mamma--and she is not very respectful to me, sometimes, and mamma says nelly has been long enough here. servants always take liberties after a time; and, besides, she looks upon graeme as mistress rather than me. she quite treats me like a child," continued fanny, her indignation increasing as she proceeded. "and, besides," she added, after there had been a moment's uncomfortable silence, "nelly wishes to go." "is barkis willing at last?" said arthur, trying to laugh off the discomfort of the moment. rose laughed too. it had afforded them all much amusement to watch the slow courtship of the dignified mr stirling. nelly always denied that there was anything more in the gardener's attentions, than just the good-will and friendliness of a countryman, and he certainly was a long time in coming to the point they all acknowledged. "nonsense, arthur! that has nothing to do with it," said fanny. "then, she must be going to her sister--the lady with a fabulous number of cows and children. she has spoken about that every summer, more or less. her conscience pricks her, every new baby she hears of. but she will get over it. it is all nonsense about her leaving." "but it is not nonsense," said fanny, sharply. "of course graeme will not like her to go, but nelly is very obstinate and disagreeable, and mamma says i shall never be mistress in my own house while she stays. and i think we ought to take a good servant when we have the chance." "but how good a servant is she?" asked arthur. "didn't you hear what mamma said about her? and, of course, she has references and written characters, and all that sort of thing." "well, i think we may as well `sleep upon it,' as janet used to say. there will be time enough to decide after to-night," said arthur, taking up his newspaper, more annoyed than he was willing to confess. the rest sat silent. rose was indignant, and it needed a warning glance, from graeme to keep her indignation from overflowing. graeme was indignant, but not surprised. indeed, nelly had given warning that she was to leave; but she hoped and believed that she would think better of it, and said nothing. she was not indignant with fanny, but with her mother. she felt that there was some truth in fanny's declaration, that nelly looked upon her as a child. she had nelly's own word for that. she considered her young mistress a child to be humoured and "no' heeded" when any serious business was going on. but fanny would not have found this out if left to herself, at least she would not have resented it. the easiest and most natural thing for graeme, in the turn affairs had taken, would be to withdraw from all interference, and let things take their course; but just because this would be easiest and most agreeable, she hesitated. she felt that it would not be right to stand aside and let fanny punish herself and all the rest because of the meddlesome folly of mrs grove. besides, it would be so ungrateful to nelly, who had served them so faithfully all those years. and yet, as she looked at fanny's pouting lips and frowning brow, her doubts as to the propriety of interference grew stronger, and she could only say to herself, with a sigh,-- "we must have patience and wait." and the matter was settled without her interference, though not to her satisfaction. before a week, nelly was on her way to the country to make acquaintance of her sister's cows and children, and the estimable mrs tilman was installed in her place. it was an uncomfortable time for all. rose was indignant, and took no pains to hide it. graeme was annoyed and sorry, and, all the more, as nelly did not see fit to confine the stiffness and coldness of her leave-takings to mrs elliott as she ought to have done. if half as earnestly and frankly as she expressed her sorrow for her departure, graeme had expressed her vexation at its cause, nelly would have been content. but graeme would not compromise fanny, and she would not condescend to recognise the meddlesomeness of mrs grove in their affairs. and yet she could not bear that nelly should go away, after five years of loving service, with such angry gloom in her kind eyes. "will you stay with your sister, nelly, do you think? or will you come back to town and take another place? there are many of our friends who would be very glad to get you." "i'm no' sure, miss elliott. i have grown so fractious and contrary lately that maybe my sister winna care to have me. and as to another place--" nelly stopped suddenly. if she had said her say, it would have been that she could bear the thought of no other place. but she said nothing, and went away--ran away, indeed. for when she saw the sorrowful tears in graeme's eyes, and felt the warm pressure of her hand, she felt she must run or break out into tears; and so she ran, never stopping to answer when graeme said: "you'll let us hear from you, nelly. you'll surely let us hear from you soon?" there was very little said about the new order of affairs. the remonstrance which fanny expected from graeme never came. mrs grove continued to discuss domestic affairs, and to leave graeme out, and she was quite willing to be left out, and, after a little, things moved on smoothly. mrs tilman was a very respectable-looking person. a little stout, a little red in the face, perhaps. indeed, very stout and very red in the face; so stout that arthur suggested the propriety of having the kitchen staircase widened for her benefit; and so red in the face as to induce graeme to keep her eyes on the keys of the sideboard when fanny, as she was rather apt to do, left them lying about. she was a very good servant, if one might judge after a week's trial; and fanny might have triumphed openly if it had not been that she felt a little uncomfortable in finding herself, without a struggle, sole ruler in their domestic world. mrs tilman marketed, and purchased the groceries, and that in so dignified a manner that fanny almost wondered whether the looking over the grocer's book and the butcher's book might not be considered an impertinent interference on her part. her remarks and allusions were of so dignified a character as to impress her young mistress wonderfully. she was almost ashamed of their limited establishment, in view of mrs tilman's magnificent experiences. but the dignified cook, or housekeeper, as she preferred being called, had profited by the afflictive dispensations that seemed to have fallen upon her, and resigned herself to the occupancy of her present humble sphere in a most exemplary manner. to be sure, her marketing and her shopping, interfered a little with her less conspicuous duties, and a good deal more than her legitimate share of work was left to sarah. but fortunately for her and the household generally, graeme was as ready as ever to do the odds-and-ends of other people's duties, and to remember things forgotten, so that the domestic machinery moved on with wonderful smoothness. not that nelly's departure was no longer regretted; but in her heart graeme believed that they would soon have her in her place again, and she was determined that, in the meantime, all should be pleasant and peaceful in their family life. for graeme had set her heart on two things. first, that there should be no drawback to the pleasure of mrs snow's visit; and second, that mrs snow should admire and love arthur's wife. she had had serious doubts enough herself as to the wisdom of her brother's choice, but she tried to think herself quite contented with it now. at any rate, she could not bear to think that janet should not be quite content. not that she was very much afraid. for graeme's feelings toward fanny had changed very much since she had been one of them. she was not very wise or sensible, but she was very sweet-tempered and affectionate, and graeme had come to love her dearly, especially since the very severe illness from which fanny was not long recovered. her faults, at least many of them, were those of education, which she would outlive, graeme hoped, and any little disagreeable display which it had been their misfortune to witness during the year could, directly or indirectly, be traced to the influence or meddlesomeness of her stepmother, and so it could easily be overlooked. this influence would grow weaker in time, and fanny would improve in consequence. the vanity, and the carelessness of the feelings of others, which were, to graeme, her worst faults, were faults that would pass away with time and experience, she hoped. indeed, they were not half so apparent as they used to be, and whether the change was in fanny or herself she did not stop to inquire. but she was determined that her new sister should appear to the best advantage in the eyes of their dear old friend, and to this end the domestic sky must be kept clear of clouds. so mrs tilman's administration commenced under the most favourable circumstances, and the surprise which all felt at the quietness with which this great domestic revolution had been brought about was beginning to give place, on fanny's part, to a little triumphant self-congratulation which rose was inclined to resent. graeme did not resent it, and rose was ready to forgive fanny's triumph, since fanny was so ready to share her delight at the thought of mrs snow's visit. as for will, he saw nothing in the whole circle of events to disturb anybody's equanimity or to regret, except, perhaps, that the attraction of the mcintyre children and cows had proved irresistible to nelly at last. and arthur congratulated himself on the good sense and good management of his little wife, firmly believing in the wisdom of the deluded little creature, never doubting that her skill and will were equal to the triumphant encounter with any possible domestic emergency. chapter thirty one. they came at last. arthur and will met them on the other side of the river, and graeme and rose would fain have done the same, but because of falling rain, and because of other reasons, it was thought not best for them to go. it was a very quiet meeting--a little restrained and tearful just at first; but that wore away, and janet's eyes rested on the bairns from whom she had been so long separated with love and wonder and earnest scrutiny. they had all changed, she said. arthur was like his father; will was like both father and mother. as for rosie-- "miss graeme, my dear," said mrs snow, "i think rosie is nearly as bonny as her sister marian," and her eye rested on the girl's blushing face with a tender admiration that was quite as much for the dead as for the living. graeme had changed least of all, she said; and yet in a little she found herself wondering whether, after all, graeme had not changed more than any of them. as for fanny she found herself in danger of being overlooked in the general joy and excitement, and went about jingling her keys, and rather ostentatiously hastening the preparations for the refreshment of the travellers. she need not have been afraid. her time was coming. even now she encountered an odd glance or two from mr snow, who was walking off his excitement in the hall. that there was admiration mingled with the curiosity they expressed was evident, and fanny relented. what might soon have become a pout on her pretty lip changed to a smile. they were soon on very friendly terms with each other, and before janet had got through with her first tremulous recognition of her bairns, mr snow fancied he had made a just estimate of the qualities--good--and not so good--of the pretty little housekeeper. after dinner all were more at their ease. mr snow walked up and down the gallery, past the open window, and arthur sat there beside him. they were not so far withdrawn from the rest but that they could join in the conversation that went on within. fanny, tired of the dignity of housekeeping, brought a footstool and sat down beside graeme; and janet, seeing how naturally and lovingly the hand of the elder sister rested on the pretty bowed head, gave the little lady more of her attention than she had hitherto done, and grew rather silent in the scrutiny. graeme grew silent too. indeed she had been rather silent all the afternoon; partly because it pleased her best to listen, and partly because she was not always sure of her voice when she tried to speak. she was not allowed to be silent long, however, or to fall into recollections too tender to be shared by them all. rose's extraordinary restlessness prevented that. she seemed to have lost the power of sitting still, and flitted about from one to another; now exchanging a word with fanny or will, now joining in the conversation that was going on between mr snow and arthur outside. at one moment she was hanging over graeme's chair, at the next, kneeling at mrs snow's side; and all the time with a face so radiant that even will noticed it, and begged to be told the secret of her delight. the truth was, rose was having a little private jubilation of her own. she would not have confessed it to graeme, she was shy of confessing it to herself, but as the time of mrs snow's visit approached, she had not been quite free from misgivings. she had a very distinct recollection of their friend, and loved her dearly. but she found it quite impossible to recall the short active figure, the rather scant dress, the never-tiring hands, without a fear that the visit might be a little disappointing--not to themselves. janet would always be janet to them-- the dear friend of their childhood, with more real worth in her little finger than there was in ten such fine ladies as mrs grove. but rose, grew indignant beforehand, as she imagined the supercilious smiles and forced politeness of that lady, and perhaps of fanny too, when all this worth should appear in the form of a little, plain old woman, with no claim to consideration on account of externals. but that was all past now. and seeing her sitting there in her full brown travelling-dress, her snowy neckerchief and pretty quaint cap, looking as if her life might have been passed with folded hands in a velvet arm-chair, rose's misgivings gave place to triumphant self-congratulation, which was rather uncomfortable, because it could not well be shared. she had assisted at the arrangement of the contents of the travelling trunk in wardrobe and bureau, and this might have helped her a little. "a soft black silk, and a grey poplin, and such lovely neckerchiefs and handkerchiefs of lawn--is not little emily a darling to make her mother look so nice? and such a beauty of a shawl!--that's the one sandy brought." and so rose came down-stairs triumphant, without a single drawback to mar the pleasure with which she regarded janet as she sat in the arm-chair, letting her grave admiring glances fall alternately on graeme and the pretty creature at her feet. all rosie's admiration was for mrs snow. "is she not just like a picture sitting there?" she whispered to will, as she passed him. and indeed rosie's admiration was not surprising; she was the very janet of old times; but she sat there in fanny's handsome drawing-room, with as much appropriateness as she had ever sat in the manse kitchen long ago, and looked over the vases and elegant trifles on the centre-table to graeme with as much ease and self-possession as if she had been "used with" fine things all her life, and had never held anxious counsels with her over jackets and trowsers, and little half-worn stockings and shoes. and yet there was no real cause for surprise. for janet was one of those whose modest, yet firm self-respect, joined with a just appreciation of all worldly things, leaves to changing circumstances no power over their unchanging worth. that mr snow should spend the time devoted to their visit within four walls, was not to be thought of. the deacon, who, in the opinion of those who knew him best, "had the faculty of doing 'most anything," had certainly not the faculty of sitting still in a chair like other people. the hall or the gallery was his usual place of promenade, but when the interest of the conversation kept him with the rest, fanny suffered constant anxiety as to the fate of ottomans, vases and little tables. a judicious, re-arrangement of these soon gave him a clearer space for his perambulations; but a man accustomed to walk miles daily on his own land, could not be expected to content himself long within such narrow limits. so one bright morning he renewed the proposal, made long before, that will should show him canada. up to a comparatively recent period, all mr snow's ideas of the country had been got from the careful reading of an old "history of the french and indian war." of course, by this time he had got a little beyond the belief that the government was a military despotism, that the city of montreal was a cluster of wigwams, huddled together within a circular enclosure of palisades, or that the commerce of the country consisted in an exchange of beads, muskets, and bad whiskey for the furs of the aborigines. still his ideas were vague and indistinct, not to say disparaging, and he had already quite unconsciously excited the amusement of will and the indignation of rose, by indulging in remarks indicative of a low opinion of things in general in the queen's dominions. so when he proposed that will should show him canada, rose looked gravely up and asked,-- "where will you go first, will? to the red river or hudson's bay or to nova scotia? you must be back to lunch." they all laughed, and arthur said,-- "oh, fie, rosie! not to know these places are all beyond the limits of canada!--such ignorance!" "they are in the queen's dominions, though, and mr snow wants to see all that is worth seeing on british soil." "well, i guess we can make out a full day's work in canada, can't we? it is best to take it moderate," said mr snow, smiling benignly on rose. he was tolerant of the young lady's petulance, and not so ready to excite it as he used to be in the old times, and generally listened to her little sallies with a deprecating smile, amusing to see. he was changed in other respects as well. indeed, it must be confessed that just at first arthur was a little disappointed in him. he had only a slight personal acquaintance with him, but he had heard so much of him from the others that he had looked forward with interest to making the acquaintance of the "sharp yankee deacon." for harry had a good story about "uncle sampson" ready for all occasions, and there was no end to the shrewd remarks and scraps of worldly wisdom that he used to quote from his lips. but harry's acquaintance had been confined to the first years of their merleville life, and mr snow had changed much since then. he saw all things in a new light. wisdom and folly had changed their aspect to him. the charity which "believeth and hopeth all things," and which "thinketh no evil," lived within him now, and made him slow to see, and slower still to comment upon the faults and foibles of others with the sharpness that used to excite the mirth of the lads long ago. not that he had forgotten how to criticise, and that severely too, whatever he thought deserved it, or would be the better for it, as will had good reason to know before he had done much in the way of "showing him canada," but he far more frequently surprised them all by his gentle tolerance towards what might be displeasing to him, and by his quick appreciation of whatever was admirable in all he saw. the first few days of sightseeing were passed in the city and its environs. with the town itself he was greatly pleased. the great grey stone structures suited him well, suggesting, as they often do to the people accustomed to houses of brick or wood, ideas of strength and permanence. but as he was usually content with an outside view of the buildings, with such a view as could be obtained by a slow drive through the streets, the town itself did not occupy him long. then came the wharves and ships; then they visited the manufactories and workshops, lately become so numerous in the neighbourhood of the canal. all these pleased and interested him greatly, but he never failed, when opportunity offered, to point out various particulars, in which he considered the montrealers "a _leetle_ behind the times." on the whole, however, his appreciation of british energy and enterprise was admiring and sincere, and as warmly expressed as could be expected under the circumstances. "you've got a river, at any rate, that about comes up to one's ideas of what a river ought to be--broad and deep and full," he said to arthur one day. "it kind of satisfies one to stand and look at it, so grand and powerful, and still always rolling on to the sea." "yes, it is like your father of waters," said arthur, a little surprised at his tone and manner. "one wouldn't be apt to think of mills and engines and such things at the first glimpse of that. i didn't see it the day when i crossed it, for the mist and rain. to-day, as we stood looking down upon it, i couldn't but think how it had been rolling on and on there, ever since creation, i suppose, or ever since the time of adam and eve--if the date ain't the same, as some folks seem to think." "i always think how wonderful it must have seemed to jacques cartier and his men, as they sailed on and on, with the never-ending forest on either shore," said rose. "no wonder they thought it would never end, till it bore them to the china seas." "a wonderful highway of nations it is, though it disappointed them in that," said arthur. "the sad pity is, that it is not available for commerce for more than two-thirds of the year." "if ever the bridge they talk about should be built, it will do something towards making this a place of importance in this part of the world, though the long winter is against, too." "oh! the bridge will be built, i suppose, and the benefit will not be confined to us. the western trade will be benefited as well. what do you think of your massachusetts men, getting their cotton round this way? this communication with the more northern cotton growing states is more direct by this than any other way." "well, i ain't prepared to say much about it. some folks wouldn't think much of that. but i suppose you are bound to go ahead, anyhow." but to the experienced eye of the farmer, nothing gave so much pleasure as the cultivated country lying around the city, and beyond the mountain, as far as the eye could reach. of the mountain itself, he was a little contemptuous in its character of mountain. "a mountain with smooth fields, and even orchards, reaching almost to the top of it! why, our sheep pasture at merleville is a deal more like a mountain than that. it is only a hill, and moderate at that. you must have been dreadful hard up for mountains, to call _that_ one. you've forgotten all about merleville, rosie, to be content with that for a mountain." while, he admired the farms, he did not hesitate to comment severely on the want of enterprise shown by the farmers, who seemed to be content "to putter along" as their fathers had done, with little desire to avail themselves of the many inventions and discoveries which modern science and art had placed at the disposal of the farmer. in merleville, every man who owned ten, or even five acres of level land, had an interest in sowing and mowing machines, to say nothing of other improvements, that could be made available on hill or meadow. if the strength and patience so freely expended among the stony new england hills, could but be applied to the fertile valley of the saint lawrence, what a garden it might become! and the yankee farmer grew a little contemptuous of the contented acquiescence of canadians to the order of affairs established by their fathers. one afternoon he and will went together to the top of the mountain toward the western end. they had a fair day for a fair sight, and when mr snow looked down on the scene, bounded by the blue hills beyond both rivers, all other thoughts gave place to feelings of wondering admiration. above was a sky, whose tender blue was made more lovely by the snowy clouds that sailed now and then majestically across it, to break into flakes of silver near the far horizon. beneath lay the valley, clothed in the numberless shades of verdure with which june loves to deck the earth in this northern climate. there were no waste places, no wilderness, no arid stretches of sand or stone. far as the eye could reach, extended fields, and groves, and gardens, scattered through with clusters of cottages, or solitary farm-houses. up through the stillness of the summer air, came stealing the faint sound of a distant bell, seeming to deepen the silence round them. "i suppose the land that moses saw from pisgah, must have been like this," said mr snow, as he gazed. "yes, the promised land was a land of hills, and valleys, and brooks of water," said will softly, never moving his eyes from the wonderful picture. could they ever gaze enough? could they ever weary themselves of the sight? the shadows grew long; the clouds, that had made the beauty of the summer sky, followed each other toward the west, and rose in pinnacles of gold, and amber, and amethyst; and then they rose to go. "i wouldn't have missed _that_ now, for considerable," said mr snow, coming back with an effort to the realisation of the fact that this was part of the sightseeing that he had set himself. "no, i wouldn't have missed it for considerable more than that miserable team'll cost," added he, as he came in sight of the carriage, on whose uncomfortable seat the drowsy driver had been slumbering all the afternoon. will smiled, and made no answer. he was not a vain lad, but it is just possible that there passed through his mind a doubt whether the enjoyment of his friend had been as real, as high, or as intense, as his had been all the afternoon. to will's imagination, the valley lay in the gloom of its primeval forests, peopled by heroes of a race now passed away. he was one of them. he fought in their battles, triumphed in their victories, panted in the eagerness of the chase. in imagination, he saw the forest fall under the peaceful weapons of the pale face; then wondered westward to die the dreary death of the last of a stricken race. then his thoughts come down to the present, and on into the future, in a vague dream, which was half a prayer, for the hastening of the time when the lovely valley should smile in moral and spiritual beauty too. and coming back to actual life, with an effort--a sense of pain, he said to himself, that the enjoyment of his friend had been not so high and pure as his. but will was mistaken. in the thoughts of his friend, that summer afternoon, patent machines, remunerative labour, plans of supply and demand, of profit and loss, found no place. he passed the pleasant hour on that green hill-side, seeing in that lovely valley, stretched out before them, a very land of beulah. looking over the blue line of the ottawa, as over the river of death, into a land visible and clear to the eye of faith, he saw sights, and heard sounds, and enjoyed communion, which, as yet, lay far in the future, as to the experience of the lad by his side; and coming back to actual life, gave no sign of the divine companionship, save that which afterward, was to be seen in a life, growing liker every day to the divine exemplar. will thought, as they went home together, that a new light beamed, now and then, over the keen but kindly face, and that the grave eyes of his friend had the look of one who saw something beyond the beauty of the pleasant fields, growing dim now in the gathering darkness; and the lad's heart grew full and tender as it dawned upon him, how this was a token of the shining of god's face upon his servant, and he longed for a glimpse of that which his friend's eyes saw. a word might have won for him a glimpse of the happiness; but will was shy, and the word was not spoken; and, all unconscious of his longing, his friend sat with the smile on his lips, and the light in his eye, no thought further from him than that any experience of his should be of value to another. and so they fell quite into silence, till they neared the streets where the lighted lamps were burning dim in the fading daylight. that night, in the course of his wanderings up and down, mr snow, paused, as he often did, before a portrait of the minister. it was a portrait taken when the minister had been a much younger man than mr snow had ever known him. it had belonged to a friend in scotland, and had been sent to arthur, at his death, about a year ago. the likeness had been striking, and to janet, the sight of it had been a great pleasure and surprise. she was never weary of looking at it, and even mr snow, who had never known the minister but as a grey-haired man, was strangely fascinated by the beauty of the grave smile that he remembered so well on his face. that night he stood leaning on the back of a chair, and gazing at it, while the conversation flowed on as usual around him. in a little, rose came and stood beside him. "do you think it is very like him?" asked she. "well," said mr snow, meditatively, "it's like him and it ain't like him. i love to look at it, anyhow." "at first it puzzled me," said rose. "it seemed like the picture of some one i had seen in a dream; and when i shut my eyes, and tried to bring back my father's face as it used to be in merleville, it would not come--the face of the dream came between." "well, there is something in that," said mr snow, and he paused a moment, and shut his eyes, as if to call back the face of his friend. "no, it won't do that for me. it would take something i hain't thought of yet, to make me forget his face." "it does not trouble me now," said rose. "i can shut my eyes, and see him, oh! so plainly, in the church, and at home in the study, and out under the trees, and as he lay in his coffin--" she was smiling still, but the tears were ready to gush over her eyes. mr snow turned, and laying his hand on her bright head, said softly,-- "yes, dear, and so can i, if we didn't know that it must be right, we might wonder why he was taken from us. but i shall never forget him-- never. he did too much for me, for that. he was the best friend i ever had, by all odds--the very best." rose smiled through her tears. "he brought you mrs snow," said she, softly. "yes, dear. that was much, but he did more than that. it was through him that i made the acquaintance of a better and dearer friend than even _she_ is--and that is saying considerable," added he, turning his eyes toward the tranquil figure knitting in the arm-chair. "were you speaking?" said mrs snow, looking up at the sound of his voice. "yes, i was speaking to rosie, here. how do you suppose we can ever persuade her to go back to merleville with us?" "she is going with us, or she will soon follow us. what would emily say, if she didna come?" "yes, i know. but i meant to stay for good and all. graeme, won't you give us this little girl?" graeme smiled. "yes. on one condition--if you will take me too." mr snow shook his head. "i am afraid that would bring us no nearer the end. we should have other conditions to add to that one." "yes," said arthur, laughing. "you would have to take fanny and me, as well, in that case. i don't object to your having one of them at a time, now and then, but both of them--that would never do." "but it must be both or neither," said graeme, eagerly, "i couldna' trust rosie away from me. i havena these sixteen years--her whole life, have i, janet? if you want rosie, you must have me, too." she spoke lightly, but earnestly; she meant what she said. indeed, so earnest was she, that she quite flushed up, and the tears were not far away. the others saw it, and were silent, but fanny who was not quick at seeing things, said,-- "but what could we do without you both? that would not be fair--" "oh! you would have arthur, and arthur would have you. at any rate, rosie is mine, and i am not going to give her to any one who won't have me, too. she is all i shall have left when will goes away." "graeme would not trust rosie with arthur and me," said fanny, a little pettishly. "there are so many things that graeme don't approve of. she thinks we would spoil rose." janet's hand touched hers, whether by accident or design graeme did not know, but it had the effect of checking the response that rose to her lips, and she only said, laughingly,-- "mrs snow thinks that you and arthur are spoiling us both, fanny." janet smiled fondly and gravely at the sisters, as she said, stroking graeme's bowed head,-- "i dare say you are no' past spoiling, either of you, but i have seen worse bairns." after this, mr snow and will began the survey of canada in earnest. first they went to quebec, where they lingered several days. then they went farther down the river, and up the saguenay, into the very heart of the wilderness. this part of the trip will enjoyed more than his friend, but mr snow showed no sign of impatience, and prolonged their stay for his sake. then they went up the country, visiting the chief towns and places of interest. they did not confine themselves, however, to the usual route of travellers, but went here and there in wagons and stages, through a farming country, in which, though mr snow saw much to criticise, he saw more to admire. they shared the hospitality of many a quiet farm-house, as freely as it was offered, and enjoyed many a pleasant conversation with the farmers and their families, seated on door-steps, or by the kitchen-fire. though the hospitality of the country people was, as a general thing, fully and freely offered, it was sometimes, it must be confessed, not without a certain reserve. that a "live yankee," cute, and able-bodied, should be going about in these out-of-the-way parts, for the sole purpose of satisfying himself as to the features, resources, and inhabitants of the country, was a circumstance so rare, so unheard of, indeed, in these parts, that the shrewd country people did not like to commit themselves at the first glance. will's frank, handsome face, and simple, kindly manners, won him speedily enough the confidence of all, and mr snow's kindly advances were seldom long withstood. but there sometimes lingered an uneasy feeling, not to say suspicion, that when he had succeeded in winning their confidence, he would turn round and make some startling demand on their faith or their purses in behalf of some patent medicine or new invention--perhaps one of those wonderful labour-saving machines, of which he had so much to say. as for himself, if he ever observed their reserve or its cause, he never resented it, or commented upon it, but entered at once into the discussion of all possible subjects with the zest of a man determined to make the most of the pleasant circumstances in which he found himself. if he did not always agree with the opinions expressed, or approve of the modes of farming pursued, he at least found that the sturdy farmers of glengarry and the country beyond had more to say for their opinions and practice than "so had their fathers said and done before them," and their discussions ended, quite as frequently as otherwise, in the american frankly confessing himself convinced that all the agricultural wisdom on the continent did not lie on the south side of the line forty-five. will was greatly amused and interested by all this. he was, to a certain extent, able to look at the ideas, opinions, and prejudices of each from the other's point of view, and so to enjoy with double zest the discussion of subjects which could not fail to present such dissimilar aspects to minds so differently constituted, and developed under circumstances and influences so different. this power helped him to make the opinions of each more clear to the other, presenting to both juster notions of each other's theory and practice than their own explanations could have done. by this means, too, he won for himself a reputation for wisdom, about matters and things in general, which surprised no one so much as himself. they would have liked to linger far longer, over this part of their trip, than they had time to do, for the days were hastening. before returning home, they visited niagara, that wonderful work of god, too great and grand, as mr snow told rosie, to be the pride of one nation exclusively, and so it had been placed on the borders of the two greatest nations in the world. this part of the trip was for will's sake. mr snow had visited them on his way west many years ago. indeed, there were other parts of the trip made for will's benefit, but those were not the parts which mr snow enjoyed least, as he said to his wife afterwards. "it paid well. i had my own share of the pleasure, and will's, too. if ever a lad enjoyed a holiday he enjoyed his. it was worth going, just to see his pleasure." when the time allotted to their visit was drawing to a close, it was proposed that a few days should be passed in that most beautiful part of canada, known as the eastern townships. arthur went with them there. it was but a glimpse they could give it. passing in through missisquoi county to the head of the lovely lake memphremagog, they spent a few days on it, and along its shores. their return was by a circuitous course across the country through the county of stanstead, in the midst of beautiful scenery, and what mr snow declared to be "as fine a farming country as anybody need wish to see." this "seeing canada" was a more serious matter than he had at first supposed, mr snow acknowledged to the delighted rose. it could not be done justice to in a few days, he said; but he would try and reconcile himself to the hastiness of his trip, by taking it for granted that the parts he had not seen were pretty much like those he had gone through, and a very fine country it was. "canada will be heard from yet, i expect," said he, one night when they had returned home. "by the time that you get some things done that you mean to now, you'll be ready to go ahead. i don't see but you have as good a chance as ever we had--better, even. you have got the same elements of prosperity and success. you have got the bible and a free press, and a fair proportion of good soil, and any amount of water-power. then for inhabitants, you've got the scotchman, cautious and far-seeing; the irishman, a little hot and heady, perhaps, but earnest; you've got the englishman, who'll never fail of his aim for want of self-confidence, anyhow; you've got frenchmen, germans, and a sprinkling of the dark element out west; and you've got what we didn't have to begin with, you've got the yankee element, and that is considerable more than you seem to think it is, rosie." rose laughed and shook her head. she was not going to allow herself to be drawn into a discussion of nationalities that night. "yes," continued he, "the real live yankee is about as complete a man as you'll generally meet anywhere. he has the caution of the scot, to temper the fire of the irishman, and he has about as good an opinion of himself as the englishman has. he'll keep things going among you. he'll bring you up to the times, and then he won't be likely to let you fall back again. yes; if ever canada is heard from, the yankee will have something to do with it, and no mistake." chapter thirty two. in the mean time very quiet and pleasant days were passing over those who were at home. fanny jingled her keys, and triumphed a little at the continued success of affairs in mrs tilman's department. graeme took no notice of her triumph, but worked away at odds and ends, remembering things forgotten, smoothing difficulties, removing obstacles, and making, more than she or any one knew, the happiness of them all. rose sung and danced about the house as usual, and devoted some of her superfluous energy to the embellishment of a cobweb fabric, which was, under her skillful fingers, destined to assume, by and by, the form of a wedding pocket handkerchief for emily. and through all, mrs snow was calmly and silently pursuing the object of her visit to canada. through the pleasant hours of work and leisure, in all their talk of old times, and of the present time, in all moods, grave and gay, she had but one thought, one desire, to assure herself by some unfailing token that her bairns were as good and happy as they ought to be. the years that had passed since the bairns had been parted from her had made janet older than they ought to have done, graeme thought. it was because she was not so strong as she used to be, she said herself; but it was more than sickness, and more than the passing years that had changed her. the dreadful shock and disappointment of her mother's death, followed so soon by the loss of marian and the minister, had been too much for janet. it might not have been, her strong patient nature might have withstood it, if the breaking up of the beloved family circle, the utter vanishing of her bairns from her sight, had not followed so close upon it. for weeks she had been utterly prostrate. the letters, which told the bairns, in their canadian home, that their dear friend was ill, and "wearying" for them, told them little of the terrible suffering of that time. the misery that had darkened her first winter in merleville came upon her again with two-fold power. worse than the home-sickness of that sad time, was the never-ceasing pain, made up of sorrow for the dead, and inappeasable longing for the presence of the living. that she should have forsaken her darlings, to cast in her lot with others--that between her and them should lie miles and miles of mountain and forest, and barriers, harder to be passed than these, it sickened her heart to know. she knew it never could be otherwise now; from the sentence she had passed upon herself she knew there could be no appeal. she knew that unless some great sorrow should fall upon them, they could never have one home again; and that peace and happiness could ever come to her, being separated from them, she neither believed nor desired. oh! the misery of that time! the fields and hills, and pleasant places she had learnt to love, shrouded themselves in gloom. the very light grew hateful to her. her prayer, as she lay still, while the bitter waters rolled over her, was less the prayer of faith, than of despair. and, through all the misery of that time, her husband waited and watched her with a tender patience, beautiful to see; never, by word or deed, giving token of aught but sympathy, and loving pity for the poor, sick, struggling heart. often and often, during that dreary time, did she wake to hear, in the stillness of the night, or of the early morning, his whispered prayer of strong entreaty rising to heaven, that the void might be filled, that in god's good time and way, peace, and healing, and content, might come back to the sick and sorrowful heart. and this came after long waiting. slowly the bitter waters rolled away, never to return. faith, that had seemed dead, looked up once more. the sick heart thrilled beneath the touch of the healer. again the light grew pleasant to her eyes, and janet came back to her old household ways, seeing in the life before her god-given work, that might not be left undone. but she was never quite the same. there was never quite the old sharp ring in her kindly voice. she was not less cheerful, perhaps, in time, but her cheerfulness was of a far quieter kind, and her chidings were rare, and of the mildest, now. indeed, she had none to chide but the motherless emily, who needed little chiding, and much love. and much love did janet give her, who had been dear to all the bairns, and the especial friend of marian, now in heaven. and so god's peace fell on the deacon's quiet household, and the gloom passed away from the fields and hills of merleville, and its pleasant nooks and corners smiled once more with a look of home to janet, as she grew content in the knowledge that her darlings were well and happy, though she might never make them her daily care again. but she never forgot them. her remembrance of them never grew less loving, and tender, and true. and so, as the years passed, the old longing came back, and, day by day, grew stronger in her heart the wish to know assuredly that the children of her love were as good and happy as they ought to be. had her love been less deep and yearning she might have been more easily content with the tokens of an innocent and happy life visible in their home. if happiness had been, in her estimation, but the enjoyment of genial days and restful nights, with no cares to harass, and only pleasant duties to perform; if the interchange of kindly offices, the little acts of self-denial, the giving up of trifles, the taking cheerfully of the little disappointments, which even their pleasant life was subject to--if these had been to her sufficient tests of goodness, she might have been satisfied with all she saw. but she was not satisfied, for she knew that there are few hearts so shallow as to be filled full with all that such a life of ease could give. she knew that the goodness, that might seem to suffice through these tranquil and pleasant days, could be no defence against the strong temptations that might beset them amid the cares of life. "for," said she to herself, "the burn runs smoothly on over the pebbles in its bed without a break or eddy, till the pebbles change to rocks and stones, and then it brawls, and murmurs, and dashes itself to foam among them-- and no help." she was content with no such evidence of happiness or goodness as lay on the surface of their pleasant life, so she waited, and watched, seeing without seeming to see, many things that less loving eyes might have overlooked. she saw the unquiet light that gleamed at times in graeme's eyes, and the shadow of the cloud that now and then rested on her brow, even in their most mirthful moments. she smiled, as they all did, at the lively sallies, and pretty wilfulness of rose, but she knew full well, that that which made mirth in the loving home circle, might make sorrow for the household darling, when the charm of love was no longer round her. and so she watched them all, seeing in trifles, in chance words and unconscious deeds, signs and tokens for good or for evil, that would never have revealed themselves to one who loved them less. for will she had no fear. he was his father's own son, with his father's work awaiting him. all would be well with will. and for arthur, too, the kind and thoughtful elder brother--the father and brother of the little household, both in one, her hopes were stronger than her doubts or fears. it would have given her a sore heart, indeed, to believe him far from the way in which his father walked. "he has a leaven of worldliness in him, i'll no deny," said she to her husband one night, when they were alone in the privacy of their own apartment. "and there is more desire for wealth in his heart, and for the honour that comes from man, than he himself kens. he'll maybe get them, and maybe no'. but if he gets them, they'll no' satisfy him, and if he gets them not, he'll get something better. i have small fear for the lad. he minds his father's ways and walk too well to be long content with his own halting pace. it's a fine life just now, with folk looking up to him, and patting trust in him, but he'll weary of it. there is nothing in it to fill, for long, the heart of his father's son." and in her quiet waiting and watching, janet grew assured for them all at last. not that they were very wise or good, but her faith that they were kept of god grew stronger every day; and to be ever in god's keeping, meant to this humble, trustful, christian woman, to have all that even her yearning love could crave for her darlings. it left her nothing to fear for them, nothing to wish in their behalf; so she came to be at peace about them all; and gently checked the wilful words and ways of rose, and waited patiently till graeme, of her own accord, should show her the cloud in the shadow of which she sometimes sat. as to fanny, the new claimant for her love and interest, she was for from being overlooked all this time, and the pretty little creature proved a far greater mystery to the shrewd, right-judging friend of the family than seemed at all reasonable. there were times when, had she seen her elsewhere, she would not have hesitated to pronounce her frivolous, vain, overbearing. even now, seeing her loved and cared for, in the midst of the bairns, there were moments when she found herself saying it in her heart. a duller sense, and weaker penetration could not have failed to say the same. but fanny was arthur's wife, and arthur was neither frivolous, nor vain, nor overbearing, but on the contrary, wise, and strong, and gentle, possessing all the virtues that ever had made his father a model in janet's admiring eyes, and it seemed a bold thing, indeed, to think lightly of his wife. so she mused, and pondered, and watched, and put fanny's beautiful face and winning manners, and pretty, affectionate ways, against her very evident defects, and said to herself, though arthur's wife was not like arthur's mother, nor even like his sisters, yet there were varieties of excellence, and surely the young man was better able to be trusted in the choice of a life-long friend than on old woman like her could be; and still she waited and pondered, and, as usual, the results of her musings were given to her attentive husband, and this time with a little impatient sigh. "i needna wonder at it. love is blind, they say, and goes where it is sent, and it is sent far more rarely to wisdom and worth, and humble goodness, than to qualities that are far less deserving of the happiness it brings; and mr arthur is no' above making a mistake. though how he should--minding his mother as he does--amazes me. but he's well pleased, there can be no doubt of that, as yet, and miss graeme is no' ill-pleased, and love wouldna blind her. still i canna but wonder after all is said." and she still wondered. there were in her vocabulary no gentler names for the pretty fanny's defects, than just frivolity and vanity, and even after a glimpse or two of her stepmother, janet's candid, straightforward nature could hardly make for those defects all the allowance that was to be made. she could not realise how impossible it was, that a fashionable education, under such a teacher as mrs grove should have made her daughter other than she was, and so not realising that her worst faults were those of education, which time, and experience, and the circumstances of her life must correct, she had, at times, little hope of fanny's future worth or wisdom. that is, she would have had little hope but for one thing--graeme had faith in fanny, that was clear. love might blind arthur's eyes to her faults, or enlighten them to see virtues invisible to other eyes, but it would not do that for graeme; and graeme was tolerant of fanny, even at times when her little airs and exactions made her not quite agreeable to her husband. she was patient and forbearing towards her faults, and smiled at the little housekeeping airs and assumptions, which rose openly, and even in arthur's presence, never failed to resent. indeed, graeme refused to see fanny's faults, or she refused to acknowledge that she saw them, and treated her always with the respect due to her brother's wife, and the mistress of the house, as, well as with the love and forbearance due to a younger sister. and that fanny, with all her faults and follies, loved and trusted graeme was very evident. there was confidence between them, to a certain extent at any rate, and seeing these things, janet took courage to hope that there was more in the "bonny vain creature" than it was given her to see, and to hope also that arthur might not one day find himself disappointed in his wife. her doubts and hopes on the matter were all silent, or shared only with the worthy deacon, in the solitude of their chamber. she was slow to commit herself to graeme, and graeme was in no haste to ask her friend's opinion of her brother's wife. they had plenty of other subjects to discuss. all their merleville life was gone over and over during these quiet summer days. the talk was not always gay; sometimes it was grave enough, even sad, but it was happy, too, in a way; at any rate they never grew weary of it. and mrs snow had much to tell them about the present state of their old home; how the old people were passing away, and the young people were growing up; how well the minister was remembered there still, and how glad all would be to see the minister's bairns among them again; and then sandy and emily, and the approaching wedding made an endless subject of talk. rose and fanny never wearied of that, and mrs snow was as pleased to tell, as they were to hear. and when rose and fanny were away, as they often were, and graeme was left alone with her friend, there were graver things discussed between them. graeme told her more of their family life, and of their first experiences than she had ever heard before. she told her of her illness, and home-sickness, and of the many misgivings she had had as to whether it had been wise for them all to come to burden arthur. she told her of harry, and her old terrors on his account, and how all these had given place to hope, that was almost certainty now, that she need never fear for him for the same cause more. they rejoiced together over hilda, and norman, and recalled to one another their old pride in the lad when he had saved the little german girl from the terrible fate that had overtaken her family, and smiled at the misgivings they had had when he refused to let her go with the friends who would have taken her. this was all to be rejoiced over now. no doubt the care and pains which norman had needed to bestow on his little adopted sister, had done much to correct the native thoughtlessness of his character, and no doubt her love and care would henceforth make the happiness of his life. so they said to one another with smiles, and not without grateful tears, in view of the overruling love and care visible in all they had to remember of one and all. and will, who seemed to be graeme's own more than either of the other brothers, because she had cared for him, and taught him, and watched over him from the very first, she permitted herself to triumph a little over him, in private with her friend, and janet was nothing loth to hear and triumph too, for in the lad his father lived again to her, and she was not slow to believe in his sister's loving prophecy as to his future. graeme could not conceal, indeed she did not try to conceal, from her friend, how much she feared the parting from him, and though janet chid her for the tears that fell so fast, it was with a gentle tenderness that only quickened their flow. and now and then, in these long talks and frequent silence, janet fancied that she caught a glimpse of the cloud that had cast a shadow over graeme's life, but she was never sure. it was not to be spoken about, however, nothing could be clearer than that. "for a cloud that can be blown away by a friend's word, will lift of itself without help in a while. and if it is no' a cloud of that kind, the fewer words the better. and time heals many a wound that the touch of the kindest hand would hurt sorely. and god is good." but all this was said in janet's secret prayer. not even her husband shared her thoughts about graeme. "what a dismal day it is!" said fanny, as she stood at the window, listening to the wind and watching the fall of the never-ceasing rain. it was dismal. it must have been a dismal day even in the country, where the rain was falling on beautiful green things to their refreshment; and in the city street, out upon which fanny looked, it was worse. now and then a milk cart, or a carriage with the curtains closely drawn, went past; and now and then a foot passenger, doing battle with the wind for the possession of his umbrella; but these did not brighten the scene any. it was dismal within doors, too, fanny thought. it was during the time of mr snow and will's first trip, and arthur had gone away on business, and was not expected home for a day or two, at least. a household of women is not necessarily a dismal affair, even on a rainy day, but a household suddenly deprived of the male element, is apt to become so in those circumstances, unless some domestic business supposed to be most successfully accomplished at such a time is being carried on; and no wonder that fanny wandered from room to room, in an uncomfortable state of mind. graeme and rose were not uncomfortable. rose had a way of putting aside difficult music to be practised on rainy days, and she was apt to become so engrossed in her pleasant occupation, as to take little heed of what was going on about her, and all fanny's exclamations of discontent were lost on her. graeme was writing letters in the back parlour, and mrs snow was supposed to be taking her after-dinner's rest, up-stairs, but she came into the room in time to hear fanny exclaim petulantly,-- "and we were very foolish to have an early dinner. that would have been something to look forward to. and no one can possibly call. even mr green would be better than nobody--or even charlie millar." "these gentlemen would be highly flattered if they heard you," said rose, laughing, as she rose to draw forward the arm-chair, to mrs snow. "are you not tired playing rose," said fanny, fretfully. "by no means. i hope my playing does not disturb you. i think this march is charming. come and try it." "no, i thank you. if the music does not disturb mrs snow, _i_ don't mind it." "i like it," said mrs snow. "the music is cheerful this dull day. though i would like a song better." "by and by you shall have a song. i would just like to go over this two or three times more." "two or three times! two or three hundred times, you mean," said fanny. "there's no end to rose's playing when she begins." then she wandered into the back parlour again. "are you going to write all day, graeme?" "not all day. has mrs snow come down?" asked she, coming forward. "i have been neglecting harry lately, and i have so much to tell him, but i'll soon be done now." "my dear," said mrs snow, "dinna heed me; i have my knitting, and i enjoy the music." "oh! dear! i wish it didn't rain," said fanny. "my dear, the earth was needing it," said mrs snow, by way of saying something, "and it will be beautiful when the rain is over." "i believe graeme likes a rainy day," said fanny. "it is very stupid, i think." "yes, i sometimes like a rainy day. it brings a little leisure, which is agreeable." fanny shrugged her shoulders. "it is rather dismal to-day, however," said graeme. "you look cold with that light dress on, fanny, why don't you go and change it?" "what is the use? i wish arthur were coming home. he might have come, i'm sure." "you may be sure he will not stay longer than he can help," said graeme; turning to her letter again. "and my dear, might you no' take a seam? it would pass the time, if it did nothing else," said mrs snow. but the suggestion was not noticed, and partly because she did not wish to interfere, and partly because she had some curiosity to see how the little lady would get out of her discomfort, mrs snow knitted on in silence. "make something nice for tea," suggested rose, glancing over her shoulder. "that is not necessary _now_," said fanny, shortly. "oh! i only suggested it for your sake--to pass the time," said rose. it lasted a good while longer. it lasted till graeme, catching mrs snow's look, became suddenly aware that their old friend was thinking her own thoughts about "mrs arthur." she rose at once, and shutting her desk, and going to the window where fanny was standing, said with a shiver:-- "it _is_ dismal, indeed. fanny, look at that melancholy cat. she wants to come in, but she is afraid to leave her present shelter. poor wee pussy." "graeme, don't you wish arthur were coming home," said fanny, hanging about her as she had a fashion of doing now and then. "yes, indeed. but we must not tell him so. it would make him vain if he knew how much we missed him. go and change your dress, dear, and we'll have a fire, and an early tea, and a nice little gossip in the firelight, and then we won't miss him so much." "fire!" repeated rose, looking disconsolately at the pretty ornaments of the grate with which she had taken so much pains. "who ever heard of a fire in a grate at this time of the year?" but rose was overruled. they had a fire and an early tea, and then, sitting in the firelight, they had a gossip, too; about many different things. janet told them more than she had ever told them before, of how she had "wearied for them" when they first left merleville, and by and by rose said,-- "but that was all over when sandy came." "it was over before that, for his coming was long delayed, as you'll mind yourselves. i was quite content before that time, but of course it was a great thing to me, the coming of my sandy." "oh! how glad you must have been!" said rose. "i wish i had been there to see. tell us what you said to him, and what he said to you." "i dinna mind what i said to him, or if i said anything at all. and he just said, `well, mother!' with his heartsome smile, and the shine of tears in his bonny blue e'en," said janet, with a laugh that might very easily have changed to a sob; "and oh! bairns, if ever i carried a thankful heart to a throne of grace, i did that night." "and would you have known him?" asked rose, gently. "oh! ay, would i. no' but what he was much changed. i wouldna have _minded_ him, but i would have kenned him anywhere." janet sat silent with a moved face for a little, and then she went on. "i had had many a thought about his coming, and i grew afraid as the time drew near. either, i thought, he winna like my husband, or they winna agree, or he will have forgotten me altogether, and winna find it easy to call me his mother, or he'll disappoint me in some way, i thought. you see i had so set my heart on seeing him, that i was afraid of myself, and it seemed to be more than i could hope that he should be to me all that i desired. but when he came, my fears were set at rest. he is an honest, god fearing lad, my sandy, and i need say nae mair about him." "and so clever, and handsome! and what did mr snow say?" "oh! his heart was carried captive, from the very first, with sandy's heartsome, kindly ways. it made me laugh to myself, many a time, to see them together, and it made me greet whiles, as well. all my fears were rebuked, and it is the burden of my prayers from day to day, that i may have a thankful heart." "and how did sandy like merleville, and all the people?" "oh, he liked them well, you may be sure. it would have been very ungrateful if he had not, they made so much of him--mr and mrs greenleaf, especially, and the merles, and plenty besides. he made himself very useful to mr greenleaf, in many ways, for he is a clever lad, my sandy. it's on his business that he's west now. but he'll soon be home again." "and emily! tell us just what they said to each other at first, and what they thought of each other." "i canna do that, for i wasna there to hear. emily saw my sandy before i saw him myself, as you'll mind i told you before." "and was it love at first sight?" asked fanny. "and did the course of true love for once run smooth," said rose. mrs snow smiled at their eagerness. "as for the love at first sight--it came very soon to my sandy. i am no' sure about emily. as for its running smooth, there was a wee while it was hindered. they had their doubts and fears, as was natural, and their misunderstandings. but, oh! bairns, it was just wonderful to sit by and look at them. i saw their happy troubles coming on before they saw it themselves, i think. it was like a story out of a book, to watch them; or like one of the songs folk used to sing when i was young--the sweet old scottish songs, that are passing out of mind now, i fear. i never saw the two together in our garden, but i thought of the song that begins,--" "ae simmer nicht when blobs o' dew, garred ilka thing look bonny--" "ah! well, god has been good to them, and to us all." "and mr snow was well pleased, of course," said fanny. "pleased is hardly the word for it. he had just set his heart on it from the very first, and i had, whiles, much ado to keep him from seeming to see things and to keep him from putting his hand to help them a wee, which never does, you ken. folk must find out such things for themselves, and the canniest hand may hinder, rather than help, with the very best will. oh ay, he was well pleased." "and it is so nice that they are to be so close beside you. i daresay we shall hardly know our old home, it will be so much improved." "it is improved, but no' beyond your knowledge of it. it was ay a bonny place, you'll mind. and it _is_ improved, doubtless, for her father thinks there is nothing too good for emily." "and oh! bairns, we have a reason to be thankful. if we trust our affairs in god's hand, he'll `bring it to pass,' as he has said. and if we are his, there is no' fear but the very best thing for us will happen in the end." chapter thirty three. "who is is mr green, anyhow?" the question was addressed by mr snow to the company generally, as he paused in his leisurely walk up and down the gallery, and stood leaning his elbow on the window, looking in upon them. his manner might have suggested the idea of some mystery in connection with the name he had mentioned, so slowly and gravely did his eyes travel from one face to another turned toward him. as his question had been addressed to no one in particular, no one answered for a minute. "who is mr green, that i hear tell so much about?" he repeated impressively, fixing will with his eye. "mr green? oh! he is an american merchant from the west," said the literal will, not without a vague idea that the answer, though true and comprehensive, would fail to convey to the inquiring mind of the deacon all the information desired. "he is a green mountain boy. he is the most perfect specimen of a real live yankee ever encountered in these parts,--cool, sharp, far-seeing,--" charlie millar was the speaker, and he was brought up rather suddenly in the midst of his descriptive eloquence by a sudden merry twinkle in the eye of his principal listener; and his confusion was increased by a touch from rose's little hand, intended to remind him that real live yankees were not to be indiscreetly meddled with in the present company. "is that all you can say for your real live yankee, charlie, man?" said arthur, whose seat on the gallery permitted him to hear, but not to see, all that was going on in the room. "why don't you add, he speculates, he whittles, he chews tobacco, he is six feet two in his stockings, he knows the market value of every article and object, animate and inanimate, on the face of the earth, and is a living illustration of the truth of the proverb, that the cents being cared for, no apprehension need be entertained as to the safety of the dollars." "and a living contradiction of all the stale old sayings about the vanity of riches, and their inability to give even a transitory content," said charlie, with laughing defiance at rose. "quite true, charlie," said arthur; "if mr green has ever had any doubts about the almighty dollar being the `ultimate end,' he has nursed or combated his doubts in secret. nothing has transpired to indicate any such wavering of faith." "yes; it is his only standard of worth in all things material and moral," said charlie. "when he enters a room, you can see by his look that he is putting a price on all things in it--the carpet and curtains--the books and pretty things--even the ladies--" "yes," continued arthur; "if he were to come in here just now, it would be--mrs snow worth so much--naming the sum; miss elliott so much more, because she has on a silk gown; mrs elliott more still, because she is somehow or other very spicy, indeed, to-night; he would appreciate details that go beyond me! as for rosie, she would be the most valuable of all, according to his estimate, because of the extraordinary shining things on her head." "the possibility of their being only imitations, might suggest itself," interposed charlie. "yes, to be sure. and imitation or not, they would indicate all the same the young lady's love of finery, and suggest to his acute mind the idea of danger to the purse of her future possessor. no, rosie wouldn't have a chance with him. you needn't frown, rosie, you haven't. whether it is the shining things on your head, or the new watch and chain, or the general weakness in the matter of bonnets that has been developing in your character lately, i can't say, but nothing can be plainer, than the fact that hitherto you have failed to make the smallest impression on him." "a circumstance which cannot fail to give strength to the general impression that he is made of cast iron," said charlie. "arthur, i am shocked and astonished at you," said rose, as soon as she was permitted to speak. "you have forgotten, charlie, how kindly he cared for your brother when he was sick, long ago. and harry says that his hardness and selfishness is more in appearance, than real. he has a very kind heart." "oh! if you come to his heart, miss rose, i can't speak for that. i have never had an opportunity of satisfying myself as to that particular. i didn't know he had one, indeed, and should doubt it now, if we had not harry's authority and yours." "you see, rosie, when it comes to the discussion of hearts, charlie gets beyond his depth. he has nothing to say." "especially tender hearts," said charlie; "i have had a little experience of a flinty article or two of that sort." "charlie, i won't have you two quarrelling," said graeme, laughing. "rose is right. there is just a grain or two of truth in what they have been saying," she added, turning to mr snow. "mr green is a real live yankee, with many valuable and excellent qualities. a little hard perhaps, a little worldly. but you should hear him speak of his mother. you would sympathise with him then, charlie. he told me all about his mother, one evening that i met him at grove house, i think. he told me about the old homestead, and his father's saw-mill, and the log school-house; and his manner of speaking quite raised him, in my opinion. arthur is wrong in saying he cares for nothing but money." "but, who is he?" asked mr snow, with the air of one much interested; his question was this time addressed to fanny, who had seated herself on the window seat close by her husband, and she replied eagerly,-- "oh, he is a rich merchant--ever so rich. he is going to give up business, and travel in europe." "for the improvement of his mind," said arthur. "i don't know what he goes for, but he is very rich, and may do what he likes. he has built the handsomest house in the state, miss smith tells me. oh! he is ever so rich, and he is a bachelor." "i want to know?" said mr snow, accepting fanny's triumphant climax, as she gave it, with great gravity. "he is a great friend of mine, and a great admirer of miss elliott," said mrs grove, with her lips intending that her face should say much more. "do tell?" said mr snow. "a singular and eccentric person you see he must be," said will. "a paradoxical specimen of a live yankee. don't frown, miss rose. mrs grove's statement proves my assertion," said charlie. "if you would like to meet him, mr snow, dine with us on friday," said mrs grove. "i am quite sure you will like and admire each other. i see many points of resemblance between you. well, then, i shall expect you _all_. miss elliott, you will not disappoint me, i hope." "but so large a party! mrs grove, consider how many there are of us," said graeme, who knew as well as though she were speaking aloud, that the lady was saying that same thing to herself, and that she was speculating as to the necessity of enlarging the table. "pray, don't mention it. we are to have no one else. quite a family party. i shall be quite disappointed if i don't see you all. the garden is looking beautifully now." "and one more wouldn't make a bit of difference. miss rose, can't you speak a good word for me," whispered charlie. "thank you," said graeme, in answer to mrs grove. "i have been longing to show mrs snow your garden. i hope the roses are not quite over." "oh, no!" said arthur. "there are any number left; and charlie, man, be sure and bring your flute to waken the echoes of the grove. it will be delightful by moonlight, won't it, rosie?" mrs grove gave a little start of surprise at the liberty taken by arthur. "so unlike him," she thought. mr millar's coming would make the enlargement of the table absolutely necessary. however, she might ask one or two other people whom she ought to have asked before, "and have it over," as she said. so she smiled sweetly, and said,-- "pray do, mr millar. we shall expect you with the rest." charlie would be delighted, and said so. "but the flute," added he to rose. "well, for that agreeable fiction your brother is responsible. and a family party will be indeed charming." dining at grove house was not to any of them the pleasantest of affairs, on those occasions when it was mrs grove's intention to distinguish herself, and astonish other people, by what she called a state dinner. graeme, who was not apt to shirk unpleasant duties, made no secret of her dislike to them, and caught at any excuse to absent herself with an eagerness which fanny declared to be anything but polite. but, sitting at table in full dress, among dull people, for an indefinite length of time, for no good purpose that she had been able to discover, was a sacrifice which neither graeme nor any of the others felt inclined to make often. a dinner _en famille_, however, with the dining-room windows open, and the prospect of a pleasant evening in the garden, was a very different matter. it was not merely endurable, it was delightful. so rose arrayed herself in her pretty pink muslin, and then went to superintend the toilette of mrs snow--that is, she went to arrange the folds of her best black silk, and to insist on her wearing her prettiest cap--in a state of pleasurable excitement that was infectious, and the whole party set off in fine spirits. graeme and rose exchanged doubtful glances as they passed the dining-room windows. there was an ominous display of silver on the sideboard, and the enlargement of the table had been on an extensive scale. "if she has spoiled janet's evening in the garden, by inviting a lot of stupids, it will be too bad," whispered rose. it was not so bad as that, however. of the guests whose visits were to be "put over," on this occasion, only mr proudfute, a very pleasant, harmless gentleman, and fanny's old admirer, captain starr, came. as to making it a state affair, and sitting two or three hours at table, such a thing was not to be thought of. mr snow could eat his dinner even in the most unfavourable circumstances, in a tenth part of that time, and so could mr green, for that matter; so within a reasonable period, the ladies found themselves, not in the drawing-room, but on the lawn, and the gentlemen soon followed. it was the perfection of a summer evening, with neither dust nor insects to be a drawback, with just wind enough to make tremulous the shadows on the lawn, and to waft, from the garden above the house, the odours of a thousand flowers. the garden itself did not surpass, or even equal, in beauty of arrangement, many of the gardens of the neighbourhood; but it was very beautiful in the unaccustomed eyes of mr and mrs snow, and it was with their eyes that graeme looked at it to-night. they left the others on the lawn, the gentlemen--some of them at least--smoking in the shade of the great cedar, and rose and fanny making wreaths of the roses the children were gathering for them. the garden proper was behind the house, and thither they bent their steps, graeme inwardly congratulating herself that she and will were to have the pointing out of its beauties to the friends all to themselves. they did not need to be pointed out to the keen, admiring eyes of mr snow. nothing escaped him, as he walked slowly before them, looking over his shoulder now and then, to remark on something that particularly interested him. mrs snow's gentle exclamations alone broke the silence for some time. she lingered with an interest, which to graeme was quite pathetic, over flowers familiar in her childhood, but strangers to her for many a year. "it minds me of the ebba gardens," said she, after a little. "not that it is like them, except for the flowers. the ebba gardens were on a level, not in terraces like this. you winna mind the ebba gardens, miss graeme." they had reached by this time a summer-house, which commanded a view of the whole garden, and of a beautiful stretch of country beyond, and here they sat down to wait the coming of the others, whose voices they heard below. "no," said graeme, "i was not at the ebba often. but i remember the avenue, and the glimpse of the lake that comes so unexpectedly after the first turning from the gate. i am not sure whether i remember it, or whether it is only fancy; but it must have been very beautiful." "it is only fancy to you, i doubt, for we turned many a time after going in at the gate, before the lake came in sight." "perhaps so. but i don't think it can all be fancy. i am sure i mind the lake, with the swans sailing, on it, and the wee green islets, and the branches of the birch trees drooping down into the water. don't you mind?" "yes, i mind well. it was a bonny place," said janet, with a sigh. "but, what a tiny lake it must have been! i remember we could quite well see the flowers on the other side. it could not have been half so large as merleville pond." "it wasn't hardly worth while calling it a lake, was it?" said mr snow. "it did for want of a bigger, you know," said graeme, laughing. "it made up in beauty what it wanted in size." "it was a bonny spot," said mrs snow. "and the birds! whenever i want to imagine bird music in perfection, i shut my eyes, and think of the birches drooping over the water. i wonder what birds they were that sang there? i have never heard such singing of birds since then." "no, there are no such singing birds here," said mrs snow. "i used to miss the lark's song in the morning, and the evening voices of the cushat and the blackbird. there are no birds like them here." "ain't it just possible that the music may be fancy, too, miss graeme," said mr snow, who did not like to hear the regretful echo in his wife's voice when she spoke of "home." graeme laughed, and mrs snow smiled, for they both understood his feeling very well, and mrs snow said,-- "no, the music of the birds is no fancy, as you might know from sandy. there are no birds like them here; but i have learnt to distinguish many a pleasant note among the american birds--not like our own linties at home, but very sweet and cheerful notwithstanding." "the birds were real birds, and the music was real music. oh! i wonder if i ever shall hear it again!" said graeme, with a sigh. "you will hear it, will, and see the dear old place. oh! how i wish you could take me too." will smiled. "i shall be glad to hear the birds and see the places again. but i don't remember the ebba, or, indeed, any of the old places, except our own house and garden, and your mother's cottage, mrs snow. i mind the last time we were there well." "i mind it, too," said mrs snow, gravely. "and yet, i should be almost sorry to go back again, lest i should have my ideas disturbed by finding places and people different from what i have been fancying them all this time. all those old scenes are so many lovely pictures to me, and it would be sad to go and find them less lovely than they seem to me now. i have read of such things," said graeme. "i wouldna fear anything of that kind," said mrs snow; "i mind them all so well." "do you ever think you would like to go back again?" said will. "would not you like to see the old faces and the old places once more?" "no, lad," said mrs snow, emphatically. "i have no wish ever to go back." "you are afraid of the sea? but the steamers are very different from the old `steadfast'." "i was not thinking of the sea, though i would dread that too. but why should i wish to go back? there are two or three places i would like to see the glen where my mother's cottage stood, and two or three graves. and when i shut my eyes i can see them here. no, i have no wish to go back." there was a moment's silence, and then mrs snow, turning her clear, kind eyes on her husband, over whose face a wistful, expostulating look was stealing, said,-- "i like to think about the dear faces, and the old places, sometimes, and to speak about them with the bairns; it is both sad and pleasant now and then. but i am quite content with all things as they are. i wouldna go back, and i wouldna change my lot if i might. i am quite content." mr snow smiled and nodded in his own peculiar fashion for reply. there could be no doubt of _his_ content, or mrs snow's either, graeme acknowledged, and then her thoughts went back to the time when janet's lot had been so different. she thought of the husband of her youth, and how long the grave had closed over him; she remembered her long years of patient labour in the manse; the bitter home-sickness of the first months in merleville, and all the changes that had come since then. and yet, janet was not changed. she was the very same. the qualities that had made her invaluable to them all those years, made the happiness of her husband and her home still, and after all the changes that life had brought she was content. no one could doubt that. and graeme asked herself, would it ever be so with her? would she ever cease to regret the irrevocable past and learn to grow happy in a new way? she prayed that it might be so. she longed for the tranquil content of those old days before her heart was startled from its girlhood's quiet. how long it seemed since she had been quite at peace with herself! would she ever be so again? it did not seem possible. she tried in vain to fancy herself among other scenes, with other hopes, and friends, and interests. and yet, here was janet, not of a light or changeful nature; how she had loved, and lost, and suffered! and yet she had grown content? "what are you thinking about, graeme?" said will, who, as well as mr snow, had been watching her troubled face, graeme started. "oh! of a great many things. i don't know why it should have come to my mind just now, but i was thinking of a day in merleville, long ago--an indian-summer day. i remember walking about among the fallen leaves, and looking over the pond to the hills beyond, wondering foolishly, i suppose, about what the future might bring to us all. how lovely it was that day!" "and then you came and stood within the gate, and hardly gave me a look as i passed out. i mind it, very well," said mr snow. "i was not friends with you that day. but how should you remember it? how should you know it was that day, of which i was thinking?" "i saw, by your face, you were thinking of old times, and of all the changes that had come to you and yours; and it was on that day you first heard of one of them. that is how i came to think of it." "and then you came into the house, and called me from the foot of the stairs. you werena well pleased with me, either, that day," said mrs snow. "oh! i was afraid; and you spoke to me of aunt marian, and of our own menie, and how there might be sadder changes than even your going away. ah, me! i don't think i have been quite at peace with myself since that night." "miss graeme! my dear," expostulated mrs snow. "no, i have ay been afraid to find myself at peace. but i am glad of one thing, though i did not think that day it would ever make me glad. uncle sampson, did i ever tell you--i am afraid i never did--how glad i am now, that you were stronger than i was, and prevailed--in taking janet from us, i mean?" she was standing behind him, so that he did not see her face. he did not turn round, or try to see it. he looked towards his wife, with a grave smile. "i don't think you ever told me in words." "no, because it is only a little while that i have been really glad; it is only since your coming has made me sure she is happier--far happier with you and emily and sandy, than ever we could make her now; almost as happy as she deserves to be." "i reckon, the happiness ain't all on one side of the house, by a great deal," said mr snow, gravely. "no, i know that--i am sure of that. and i am glad--so glad, that it reconciles me to the knowledge that we can never be quite the same to her as we used to be, and that is saying much." "ain't you most afraid that it might hurt her to hear you say so?" said mr snow, his eyes never leaving his wife's face. they were quite alone by this time. will had obeyed the call of the children, and was gone away. "no, i am not afraid. she knows i would not hurt her willingly, by word or deed, so you must let me say how very glad i am we lost her, for her sake. and when i remember all that she has lived through--all the sorrow she has seen; knowing her steadfast, loving, heart, and how little she is given to change, yet seeing her happy, and with power to make others happy, it gives me courage to look into the future; it makes me less afraid." his eyes left his wife's face now, and turned, with a look of wonder, to graeme. "what is it, dear?" he asked. "is there anything i may not know?" "no. only i am glad for janet's sake, and for yours, and for mine, too, because--" it would not have been easy to say more, and, besides, the others were coming up the walk, and, partly because there were tears in her eyes, and partly because she shrunk nervously from the excessive friendliness with which it seemed to be mrs grove's intention on the occasion to distinguish her, she turned, hoping to escape. she did not succeed, however, and stood still at the door, knowing very well what would be mrs grove's first remark. "ah! i see you have an eye for the beautiful." she had heard her say it just as many times as she had stood with her on that very beautiful spot; and she never expected to stand there without hearing it, certainly not if, as on the present occasion, there were strangers there too. it was varied a little, this time. "you see, mr green, miss elliott has an eye for the beautiful. i knew we should find her here, with her friends." the rest was as usual. "observe how entirely different this is, from all the other views about the place. there is not a glimpse of the river, or of the mountains, except that blue line of hills, very distant indeed. the scene is quite a pastoral one, you see. can you imagine anything more tranquil? it seems the very domain of silence and repose." the last remark was not so effective as usual, because of the noise made by charlie millar and will, and the young groves, as they ran along the broad walk full in sight. "it is a bonny, quiet place," said mrs snow. "the garden is not seen at its best now," continued mrs grove. "the beauty of the spring flowers is over, and except the roses, we have not many summer flowers; we make a better show later in the season." "it looks first-rate," said mr snow. "it costs a great deal of trouble and expense to keep it up as it ought to be kept," continued mrs grove. "i sometimes think it is not right to spend so much time and money for what is a mere gratification to the eye." mrs grove was bent on being agreeable, to all present, and she thought "the economical dodge" was as good as any, considering her audience. "there is something in that," said mr snow, meditatively; "but a place like this ought to be a great deal more than that, i think." "oh! i expect it pays," said mr green. "to people who are fond of such things, i expect there is more pleasure to be got for the same money from a garden than from 'most any other thing." "to say nothing of the pleasure given to other folk--to one's friends," suggested mrs snow. "i was calculating that, too," said mr green. "the pleasure one's friends get tells on one's own comfort; you feel better yourself, if the folks about you feel well, especially if you have the doing of it. _that_ pays." "if we are travelling in the right road, the more we see of the beautiful things god has made, the better and the happier we will be," said mr snow. "it will pay in that way, i guess." he turned an inquiring look on mr green, as he spoke, but that gentleman, probably not being prepared to speak advisedly on the subject, neither agreed nor dissented, and his eyes travelled on till they rested on the face of his wife. "yes," said, she, softly, "the more we see of god's love and wisdom in the beautiful things he has made, the more we shall love him, and in loving him we shall grow like him." mr snow nodded. mr green looked curiously from one to the other as they spoke. "i suppose we may expect something wonderful in the way of gardens and pleasure-grounds, when you have completed your place, mr green," said mrs grove, who did not care that the conversation should take a serious turn on this occasion. she flattered herself that she had already won the confidence and admiration of mr and mrs snow, by her warmly-expressed sympathy with their "rather peculiar" views and opinions. whether mr green would be so fortunate was questionable, so she went on quickly,-- "miss elliott, mr green has been telling me about his place as we come up the garden. it must be very lovely, standing, as it does, on the borders of one of those vast prairies that we all admire." thus appealed to, it was unpardonable in graeme that she should respond to the lady's admiring enthusiasm with only the doubtful assent implied in a hesitating "indeed;" but her enthusiasm was not to be damped. "there must be something grand and elevating in the constant view of a prairie. it must tend to enlarge one's ideas, and satisfy one; don't you think so, miss elliott?" "i don't know," said graeme, hesitatingly. "for a place of residence, i should suppose it might be a little dull, and unvaried." "of course, if there was nothing besides the prairie; but, with such a residence as mr green's--i forget what style of architecture it is." but mr green was not learned on the subject of architecture, and said nothing about it. he only knew that people called his house a very handsome one, and that it had cost him a deal of money, and he said so, emphatically, adding his serious doubts whether the investment would "pay." "oh! you cannot tell yet," said mrs grove. "that will depend altogether on circumstances. it is quite time that you were settling down into a quiet family man. you have been roaming about the world quite long enough. i don't at all approve of the european trip, unless, indeed--" she paused, and looked so exceedingly arch and wise, that mr green looked a little puzzled and foolish by contrast, perhaps. "miss elliott," continued mrs grove, bent on carrying out her laudable intention of drawing graeme into the conversation, "have you quite decided on not accompanying your brother?" "accompanying will? oh! i have never for a moment thought of such a thing. the expense would put it quite out of the question, even if there were no other reasons against it." "indeed, then i must have misunderstood you when i fancied i heard you say how much you would like to go. i thought you longed for a chance to see scotland again." "i daresay you heard me say something of the kind. i should like to visit scotland very much, and other countries, too. and i intend to do so when i have made my fortune," added she, laughing. "or, when some one has made it for you; that would do as well, would it not?" asked mrs grove. "oh, yes! a great deal better. when some one makes my fortune for me, i shall visit europe. i think i may promise that." "have you ever been west, yet, miss elliott? you spoke of going at one time, i remember," said mr green. "never yet. all my travelling has been done at the fireside. i have very much wished to visit my brother norman. i daresay rose and i will find ourselves there some day," added she, turning to mr snow. "unless we keep you in merleville," said he, smiling. "oh! well, i am very willing to be kept there on certain conditions you know." "how do you suppose fanny could ever do without you?" asked mrs grove, reproachfully. "oh! she would miss us, i daresay. but i don't think we are absolutely necessary to her happiness." "of course, she will have to lose you one of these days. we cannot expect that you will devote yourself to your brothers always, i know." "especially as they don't stand in particular need of my devotion," said graeme stiffly, as she offered her arm to mrs snow. "let us walk, again. what can will and the children be doing? something extraordinary, if one may judge by the noise." mrs grove rose to go with them, but lingered a moment behind to remark to mr snow on the exceeding loveliness of miss elliott's disposition and character, her great superiority to young ladies in general, and especially on the devotion so apparent in all her intercourse with her old friend. "and with you, too," she added; "i scarcely can say which she honours most, or on which she most relies for counsel." "there," said she to herself, as she followed the others down the walk, "i have given him an opening, if he only has the sense to use it. one can see what _he_ wants easily enough, and if he knows what is for his advantage he will get the good word of his countryman, and he ought to thank me for the chance." chapter thirty four. why mrs grove thought mr green might need an opening for anything he had to say to mr snow did not appear, as he did not avail himself of it. it was mr snow who spoke first, after a short silence. "going to give up business and settle down. eh?" "i have thought of it. i don't believe i should enjoy life half as well if i did, however." "how much do you enjoy it now?" inquired mr snow. "well, not a great deal, that is a fact; but as well as folks generally do, i reckon. but, after all, i do believe to keep hard to work is about as good a way as any to take comfort in the world." mr green took a many-bladed knife from his pocket, and plucking a twig from the root of a young cedar, began fashioning it into an instrument slender and smooth. "that is about the conclusion i have come to," repeated he; "and i expect i will have to keep to work if i mean to get the good of life." "there are a good many kinds of work to be done in the world," suggested mr snow. mr green gave him a glance curious and inquiring. "well, i suppose there are a good many ways of working in the world, but it all comes to the same thing pretty much, i guess. folks work to get a living, and then to accumulate property. some do it in a large way, and some in a small way, but the end is the same." "suppose you should go to work to spend your money now?" suggested mr snow, again. "well, i've done a little in that way, too, and i have about come to the conclusion that that don't pay as well as the making of it, as far as the comfort it gives. i ain't a very rich man, not near so rich as folks think; but i had got a kind of sick of doing the same thing all the time, and so i thought i would try something else a spell. so i rather drew up, though i ain't out of business yet, by a great deal. i thought i would try and see if i could make a home, so i built. but a house ain't a home--not by a great sight. i have got as handsome a place as anybody need wish to have, but i would rather live in a hotel any day than have the bother of it. i don't more than half believe i shall ever live there long at a time." he paused, and whittled with great earnestness. "it seems a kind of aggravating, now, don't it, when a man has worked hard half his life and more to make property, that he shouldn't be able to enjoy it when he has got it." "what do you suppose is the reason?" asked mr snow, gravely, but with rather a preoccupied air. he was wondering how it was that mr green should have been betrayed into giving his dreary confidences to a comparative stranger. "well, i don't know," replied mr green, meditatively. "i suppose, for one thing, i have been so long in the mill that i can't get out of the old jog easily. i should have begun sooner, or have taken work and pleasure by turns as i went along. i don't take much comfort in what seems to please most folks." there was a pause; mr snow had nothing to say in reply, however, and in a little mr green went on: "i haven't any very near relations; cousins and cousin's children are the nearest. i have helped them some, and would rather do it than not, and they are willing enough to be helped, but they don't seem very near to me. i enjoy well enough going to see them once in a while, but it don't amount to much all they care about me; and, to tell the truth, it ain't much i care about them. if i had a family of my own, it would be different. women folks and young folk enjoy spending money, and i suppose i would have enjoyed seeing them do it. but i have about come to the conclusion that i should have seen to that long ago." without moving or turning his head, he gave his new friend a look out of the corner of his eyes that it might have surprised him a little to see; but mr snow saw nothing at the moment. to wonder as to why this new acquaintance should bestow his confidence on him, was succeeding a feeling of pity for him--a desire to help him--and he was considering the propriety of improving the opportunity given to drop a "word in season" for his benefit. not that he had much confidence in his own skill at this sort of thing. it is to be feared the deacon looked on this way of witnessing for the truth as a cross to be borne rather than as a privilege to be enjoyed. he was readier with good deeds than with good words, and while he hesitated, mr green went on: "how folks can hang round with nothing particular to do is what i can't understand. i never should get used to it, i know. i've made considerable property, and i expect i have enjoyed the making more than i ever shall enjoy the spending of it." "i shouldn't wonder if you had," said mr snow, gravely. "i _have_ thought of going right slap into political life. i might have got into the legislature, time and again; and i don't doubt but i might find my way to congress by spending something handsome. that might be as good a way to let off the steam as any. when a man gets into politics, he don't seem to mind much else. he has got to drive right through. i don't know how well it pays." "in the way of comfort, i'm afraid it _don't_ pay," said mr snow. "i expect not. i don't more than half think it would pay _me_. politics have got to be considerably mixed up in our country. i don't believe i should ever get to see my way clear to go all lengths; and i don't believe it would amount to anything if i could. besides, if a man expects to get very far along in _that_ road, he has got to take a fair start in good season. i learnt to read and cypher in the old log school-house at home, and my mother taught me the catechism on sunday afternoons, and that is about all the book-learning i ever got. i shouldn't hardly have an even chance with some of those college-bred chaps, though there are _some_ things i know as well as the best of them, i reckon. have you ever been out west?" "i was there once a good many years ago. i had a great notion of going to settle there when i was a young man. i am glad i didn't, though." "money ain't to be made there anything like as fast as it used to be," said mr green. "but there is chance enough, if a man has a head for it. i have seen some cool business done there at one time and another." the chances in favour of mr snow's "word in season" were becoming fewer, he saw plainly, as mr green wandered off from his dissatisfaction to the varied remembrances of his business-life; so, with a great effort, he said: "ain't it just possible that your property and the spending of it don't satisfy you because it is not in the nature of such things to give satisfaction?" mr green turned and looked earnestly at him. "well, i have heard so, but i never believed it any more for hearing it said. the folks that say it oftenest don't act as if they believed it themselves. they try as hard for it as any one else, if they are to be judged by their actions. it is all right to say they believe it, i suppose, because it is in the bible, or something like it is." "and you believe it, not because it is in the bible, but because you are learning, by your own experience, every day you live." mr green whistled. "come, now; ain't that going it a little too strong? i never said i didn't expect to enjoy my property. i enjoy it now, after a fashion. if a man ain't going to enjoy his property, what is he to enjoy?" "all that some people enjoy is the making of it. you have done that, you say. there is less pleasure to be got from wealth, even in the most favourable circumstances, than those who haven't got it believe. they who have it find that out, as you are doing. "but i can fancy myself getting all the pleasure i want out of my property, if only some things were different--if i had something else to go with it. other folks seem to take the comfort out of theirs as they go along." "they seem to; but how can you be sure as to the enjoyment they really have? how many of your friends, do you suppose, suspect that you don't get all the satisfaction out of yours that you seem to? do you suppose the lady who was saying so much in praise of your fine place just now, has any idea that it is only a weariness to you?" "i was telling her so as we came along. she says the reason i don't enjoy it is because there is something else that i haven't got, that ought to go along with it and i agreed with her there." again a furtive glance was sent towards mr snow's thoughtful face. he smiled and shook his head. "yes, it is something else you want. it is always something else, and ever will be till the end comes. that something else, if it is ever yours, will bring disappointment with it. it will come as you don't expect it or want it, or it will come too late. there is no good talking. there is nothing in the world that it will do to make a portion of." mr green looked up at him with some curiosity and surprise. this sounded very much like what he used to hear in conference meeting long ago, but he had an idea that such remarks were inappropriate out of meeting, and he wondered a little what could be mr snow's motive for speaking in that way just then. "as to making a portion of it, i don't know about that; but i do know that there is considerable to be got out of money. what can't it get? or rather, i should say, what can be got without it? i don't say that they who have the most of it are always best off, because other things come in to worry them, maybe; but the chances are in favour of the man that has all he wants to spend. you'll never deny that." "that ain't just the way i would put it," said mr snow. "i would say that the man who expects his property to make him happy, will be disappointed. the amount he has got don't matter. it ain't in it to give happiness. i know, partly because i have tried, and it has failed me, and partly because i am told that `a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things that he possesseth.' "well, now, if that is so, will you tell me why there ain't one man in ten thousand who believes it, or at least who acts as if he believed it? why is all the world chasing after wealth, as if it were the one thing for body and soul? if money ain't worth having, why hasn't somebody found it out, and set the world right about it before now?" "as to money not being worth the having, i never said that. what i say is, that god never meant that mere wealth should make a man happy. that has been found out times without number; but as to setting the world right about it, i expect that is one of the things that each man must learn by experience. most folks do learn it after a while, in one way or other." "well," said mr green, gravely, "you look as if you believed what you say, and you look as if you enjoyed life pretty well too. if it ain't your property that makes you happy, what is it?" "it ain't my property, _sartain_," said mr snow, with emphasis. "i know i shouldn't be any happier if i had twice as much. and i am sure i shouldn't be less happy if i hadn't half as much; my happiness rests on a surer foundation than anything i have got." he paused, casting about in his thoughts for just the right word to say--something that might be as "a fire and a hammer" to the softening and breaking of that world-hardened heart. "he _does_ look as if he believed what he was saying," mr green was thinking to himself. "it is just possible he might give me a hint. he don't look like a man who don't practise as he preaches." aloud, he said,-- "come, now, go ahead. what has cured one, may help another, you know. give us your idea as to what is a sure foundation for a man's happiness." mr snow looked gravely into his face and said, "blessed is the man who feareth the lord." "blessed is the man whose trust the lord is." "blessed is the man whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered." "blessed is the man to whom the lord imputeth not iniquity, in whose spirit there is no guile." mr green's eye fell before his earnest gaze. it came into his mind that if there was happiness to be found in the world, this man had found it. but it seemed a happiness very far-away from him--quite beyond his reach--something that it would be impossible for him ever to find now. the sound of his mother's voice, softly breaking the stillness of a sabbath afternoon, with some such words as these, came back to him, and just for a moment he realised their unchangeable truth, and for that moment he knew that his life had been a failure. a pang of regret, a longing for another chance, and a sense of the vanity of such a wish, smote on his heart for an instant and then passed away. he rose from his seat, and moved a few paces down the walk, and when he came back he did not sit down again. his cedar twig was smoothed down at both ends to the finest possible point, and after balancing it for a minute on his forefingers, he tossed it over his shoulder, and shutting his knife with a click, put it in his pocket before he spoke. "well, i don't know as i am much better off for that," said he, discontentedly. "i suppose you mean that i ought to get religion. that is no new idea. i have heard _that_ every time i have gone to meeting for the last thirty years, which hasn't been as often as it might have been, but it has been often enough for all the good it has done me." he looked at mr snow as if he expected him to make some sort of a reply, but he was silent. he was thinking how vain any words of his would be to convince him, or to show him a more excellent way. he was thinking of the old time, and of the talk wasted on him by the good people who would fain have helped him. at last he said, gravely: "it wouldn't amount to much, all i could say to you, even if i was good at talking, which i ain't. i can only tell you that i never knew what it was to be satisfied till i got religion, and i have never been discontented since, and i don't believe i ever shall again, let what will happen to me." he paused a moment, and added,-- "i don't suppose anything i could say would help you to see things as i wish you did, if i were to talk all night. talk always falls short of the mark, unless the heart is prepared for it, and then the simplest word is enough. there are none better than the words i gave you a minute ago; and when everything in the world seems to be failing you, just you try what trust in the lord will do." nothing more was said. the sound of approaching footsteps warned them that they were no longer alone, and in a little mrs elliott and rose were seen coming up the walk, followed by arthur and captain starr. they were discussing something that interested them greatly, and their merry voices fell pleasantly on the ear. very pretty both young ladies looked, crowned with the roses they had been weaving into wreaths. the grave look which had settled on mr green's face, passed away as he watched their approach. "pretty creatures, both of them," remarked he. "mrs elliott appears well, don't she? i never saw any one improve so much as she has done in the last two years. i used to think her--well not very superior." "she is a pretty little thing, and good tempered, i think," said mr snow, smiling. "i shouldn't wonder if our folks made something of her, after all. she is in better keeping than she used to be, i guess." "she used to be--well, a little of a flirt, and i don't believe she has forgot all about it yet," said mr green, nodding in the direction of captain starr, with a knowing look. the possibility of a married woman's amusing herself in that way was not among the subjects to which mr snow had given his attention, so he had nothing to say in reply. "and the other one--she understands a little of it, too, i guess." "what, rosie? she is a child. graeme will teach her better than that. she despises such things," said mr snow, warmly. "she don't flirt any herself, does she?" asked mr green, coolly. "miss elliott, i mean." mr snow turned on him astonished eyes. "i don't know as i understand what you mean by flirting. i always supposed it was something wrong, or, at least, something unbecoming in any woman, married or single. graeme ain't one of that sort." mr green shrugged his shoulders incredulously. "oh! as to its being wrong, and so forth, i don't know. they all do it, i guess, in one way or other. i don't suppose miss graeme would go it so strong as that little woman, but i guess she knows how." the voice of rose prevented mr snow's indignant reply. "but, arthur, you are not a disinterested judge. of course you would admire fanny's most, and as for captain starr, he is--" "he is like the ass between two bundles of hay." "nonsense, arthur. fanny, let us ask mr snow," said rose, springing forward, and slightly bending her head. "now, uncle sampson, which is prettiest? i'll leave the decision to you." "uncle sampson" was a very pleasant sound in mr snow's ears, and never more so, than when it came from the lips of rose, and it was with a loving as well as an admiring look that he answered-- "well i can't say which is the prettiest. you are both as pretty as you need to be. if you were as good as you are pretty!" rose pouted, impatient of the laughter which this speech excited. "i mean our wreaths. look, mine is made of these dear little scotch roses, with here and there a moss-rose bud. fanny's, you see, are all open roses, white and damask. now, which is the prettiest?" she took her wreath from her head in her eagerness, and held it up, admiringly. "yours ain't half so pretty as it was a minute ago. i think, now, i should admire mrs elliott's most," said mr green, gravely. they both curtseyed to him. "you see, rosie, mr green has decided in my favour," said fanny, triumphantly. "yes, but not in favour of your wreath. the others thought the same, but i don't mind about that. it is our wreaths i want to know about. let us ask graeme." but graeme did not come alone. the little groves came with her, and will and charlie followed, a rather noisy party. the little girls were delighted, and danced about, exclaiming at the beauty of the flowery crowns; and in a little, miss victoria was wearing that of rose, and imitating the airs and graces of her elder sister in a way that must have encouraged her mother's hopes as to her ultimate success in life. the other begged piteously for fanny's, but she was too well aware of its charming effect on her own head to yield at once to her entreaties, and, in the midst of the laughing confusion that accompanied the carrying of the child's point, graeme and mrs snow, who confessed herself a little tired after her walk, entered the summer-house again. mrs grove and mr proudfute entered with them, and the others disposed, themselves in groups about the door. mr green stood leaning on the door-post looking in upon them. "miss elliott," said mr proudfute, presently, "what has become of you for a long time? i have hardly seen you for years--for a year at least--and we used to meet so often." graeme laughed. "i have seen you a great many times within a year. i am afraid my society doesn't make the impression on you it ought. have you forgotten your new year's visit, and a visit or two besides, to say nothing of chance meetings in the street and in the market?" "oh, but excuse me. i mean we have not met in society. you have been making a hermit of yourself, which is not very kind or very complimentary to your friends, i assure you." "i am very glad to hear you say so," exclaimed mrs grove. "that is a subject on which miss elliott and i never agree--i mean the claims society has upon her. if she makes a hermit of herself, i assure you she is not permitted to do so without remonstrance." "your ideas of a hermit's life differ from those generally held," said graeme, vexed at the personal turn of the conversation, and more vexed still with mrs grove's interference. "what does the ballad say? "`a scrip with fruits and herbs well stored, and water from the spring.' "i am afraid a hermit's life would not suit me." "oh! of course, we are speaking of comparative seclusion," said mrs grove. "still, as ladies are supposed to have a fancy for going to extremes, miss elliott's taste for quietness is the most desirable extreme of the two." the remark was addressed to mr green, who was an interested listener, but mr proudfute answered it. "i am by no means sure of that, my dear madam. i can understand how those who have an opportunity of daily or frequent intercourse with miss elliott should be content to think so; but that she should withdraw herself altogether from society, should not be permitted. what charming parties, i remember, we used to enjoy." "mr proudfute," said graeme, gravely, "look at mrs snow's face. you are conveying to her the idea that, at one time, i was quite given up to the pursuit of pleasure, and she is shocked, and no wonder. now, my own impression is, that i was never very fond of going into society, as you call it. i certainly never met you more than two or three times--at large parties, i mean." mr proudfute bowed low. "well, that shows how profound was the impression which your society made on me, for on looking back i uniformly associate you with all the pleasant assemblies of the season. you went with us to beloeil, did you not?" graeme shook her head. "well, no wonder i forget, it is so long ago, now. you were at mrs roxbury's great affair, were you not? it happened not long before mr elphinstone's death. yes, i remember you were there." "yes, i remember you were kind enough to point out to me the beauties of that wonderful picture, in the little room up-stairs," said graeme, smiling. "yes, you were ill, or slightly unwell, i should say, for you recovered immediately. you were there, mr green, i remember. it was a great affair, given in honour of miss elphinstone and your friend ruthven. by-the-by, miss elliott, they lay themselves open to censure, as well as you. they rarely go out now, i hear." "i am to be censured in good company, it seems," said graeme, laughing. "i suppose you see them often," continued he. "you used to be quite intimate with my pretty cousin--i call her cousin, though we are only distantly connected. she is a very nice little woman." "yes. i believe you used to be very intimate with them both," said mrs grove, "and there has hardly been any intercourse since fanny's marriage. i have often wondered at and regretted it." "have you?" said graeme, coldly. "we have had little intercourse with many old friends since then." "oh! yes, i daresay, but the ruthvens are very different from most of your old friends, and worth the keeping. i must speak to fanny about it." "we saw miss elphinstone often during the first winter after her return. that was the winter that mr proudfute remembers as so gay," said graeme. "did i ever tell you about the beginning of rosie's acquaintance with her, long before that, when she wandered into the garden and saw the gowans?" "yes, dear, you told me about it in a letter," said mrs snow. "i never shall forget the first glimpse i got of that bunch of flowers," said graeme, rather hurriedly. "rose has it yet among her treasures. she must show it you." but mrs grove did not care to hear about rosie's flowers just then, and rather perversely, as graeme thought, reverted to the falling away of their old intimacy with the ruthvens, and to wonder at its cause; and there was something in her tone that made mrs snow turn grave, astonished eyes upon her, and helped graeme to answer very quietly and coldly to her remark: "i can easily see how marriage would do something towards estranging such warm friends, when only one of the parties are interested; but you were very intimate with mr ruthven, as well, were you not?" "oh! yes; more so than with miss elphinstone. mr ruthven is a very old friend of ours. we came over in the same ship together." "i mind him well," interposed mrs snow; "a kindly, well-intentioned lad he seemed to be. miss rose, my dear, i doubt you shouldna be sitting there, on the grass, with the dew falling, nor mrs arthur, either." a movement was made to return to the house. "oh! janet," whispered graeme, "i am afraid you are tired, mind as well as body, after all this foolish talk." "by no means, my dear. it wouldna be very edifying for a continuance, but once in a way it is enjoyable enough. he seems a decent, harmless body, that mr proudfute. i wonder if he is any friend of dr proudfute, of knockie?" "i don't know, indeed," said graeme, laughing; "but if he is a great man, or connected with great folk, i will ask him. it will be an easy way of giving him pleasure." they did not make a long evening of it. mr green was presented by mrs grove with a book of plates, and graeme was beguiled to a side-table to admire them with him. mr proudfute divided his attention between them and the piano, to which rose and fanny had betaken themselves, till at the suggestion of mrs grove, arthur challenged him to a game of chess, which lasted all the evening. mrs grove devoted herself to mrs snow, and surprised her by the significant glances she sent now and then in the direction of graeme and mr green; while mr grove got mr snow into a corner, and enjoyed the satisfaction of pouring out his heart on the harbour question to a new and interested auditor. "rose," said fanny, as they sat together the next day after dinner, "what do you think mamma said to me this morning? shall i tell you?" "if it is anything particularly interesting you may," said rose, in a tone that implied a doubt. "it was about you," said fanny, nodding significantly. "well, the subject is interesting," said rose, "whatever the remark might be." "what is it, fanny?" said arthur. "rose is really very anxious to know, though she pretends to be so indifferent. i daresay it was some appropriate remark's on her flirtation with the gallant captain, last night." "mamma didn't mention captain starr, but she said she had never noticed before that rose was so fond of admiration, and a little inclined to flirt." rose reddened and bit her lips. "i am much obliged to mrs grove, for her good opinion. were there any other appropriate remarks?" "oh! yes; plenty more," said fanny, laughing. "i told mamma it was all nonsense. she used to say the same of me, and i reminded her of it. i told her we all looked upon rose as a child, and that she had no idea of flirting--and such things." "i hope you did not do violence to your conscience when you said it," said arthur, gravely. "of course not. but still when i began to think about it, i could not be quite sure." "set a thief to catch a thief," said her husband. fanny shook her finger at him. "but it wasn't captain starr nor charlie millar mamma meant. it was mr green." the cloud vanished from rosie's face. she laughed and clapped her hands. her brothers laughed, too. "well done, rosie," said arthur. "but from some manoeuvring i observed last night, i was led to believe that mrs grove had other views for the gentleman." "so she had," said fanny, eagerly. "and she says rose may spoil all if she divides his attention. it is just what a man of his years is likely to do, mamma says, to fall in love with a young girl like rosie, and graeme is so much more suitable. but i told mamma graeme would never have him." "allow me to say, fanny, that i think you might find some more suitable subject for discussion with mrs grove," said rose, indignantly. arthur laughed. "you ought to be very thankful for the kind interest taken in your welfare, and for graeme's, too. i am sure mr green would be highly flattered if he could be aware of the sensation he is creating among us." "mr green admires graeme very much, he told mamma; and mamma says he would have proposed to her, when he was here before, if it had not been for mr ruthven. you know he was very intimate here then, and everybody said he and graeme were engaged. mamma says it was a great pity he did not. it would have prevented the remarks of ill-natured people when mr ruthven was married--about graeme, i mean." "it is be hoped no one will be ill-natured enough to repeat anything of that sort in graeme's hearing," said arthur, very much annoyed. "oh! don't be alarmed. graeme is too well accustomed by this time, to mrs grove's impertinences, to allow anything she says to trouble her," said rose, with flashing eyes. mrs snow's hand was laid softly on that of the young girl, who had risen in her indignation. "sit down, my dear," she whispered. "nonsense, rosie," said her brother; "there is nothing to be vexed about. how can you be so foolish?" "indeed," said fanny, a little frightened at the excitement she had raised, "mamma didn't mean anything that you wouldn't like. she only thought--" "we had better say nothing more about it," said arthur, interrupting her. "i dare say graeme can manage her own affairs without help from other people. but there is nothing to be vexed about, rosie. don't put on a face like that about it, you foolish lassie." "what is the matter here, good people?" said graeme, entering at the moment. "what are you quarrelling about? what ails rosie?" "oh! mrs grove has been giving her some good advice, which she don't receive so meekly as she might," said arthur. "that is very ungrateful of you, rosie," said her sister. mrs grove's interference didn't seem a sufficient matter to frown about. "how is she now, my dear?" inquired mrs snow, by way of changing the subject. _she_ was mrs tilman, who had of late become subject to sudden attacks of illness, "not dangerous, but severe," as she herself declared. they had become rather frequent, but as they generally came on at night, and were over before morning, so that they did not specially interfere with her work, they were not alarming to the rest of the household. indeed, they seldom heard of them till they were over; for the considerate mrs tilman was wont to insist to sarah, that the ladies should not be disturbed on her account. but sarah had become a little uncomfortable, and had confessed as much to graeme, and graeme desired to be told the next time she was ill, and so it happened that she was not present when a subject so interesting to herself was discussed. "is mrs tilman ill again?" asked fanny. "how annoying! she is not very ill, i hope." "no," said graeme, quietly; "she will be better to-morrow." that night, in the retirement of their chamber, mr and mrs snow were in no haste to begin, as was their custom, the comparing of notes over the events of the day. this was usually the way when anything not very pleasant had occurred, or when anything had had been said that it was not agreeable to recall. it was mr snow who began the conversation. "well, what do you think of all that talk?" asked he, when his wife sat down, after a rather protracted putting away of various articles in boxes and drawers. "oh! i think little of it--just what i have ay thought--that yon is a meddlesome, short-sighted woman. it is a pity her daughter hasna the sense to see it." "oh! i don't think the little thing meant any harm. but rosie flared right up, didn't she?" "i shouldna wonder but her conscience told her there was some truth in the accusation--about her love of admiration, i mean. but mrs arthur is not the one that should throw stones at her for that, i'm thinking." "but about graeme! she will never marry that man, will she?" "he'll never ask her," said mrs snow, shortly. "at least i think he never will." "well, i don't know. it looked a little like it, last night and come to think of it, he talked a little like it, too." "he is no' the man to ask any woman, till he is sure he will not ask in vain. he may, but i dinna think it." "well, perhaps not. of course, i could see last night, that it was all fixed, their being together. but i thought she stood it pretty well, better than she would if she hadn't liked it." "hoot, man! she thought nothing about it. her thoughts were far enough from him, and his likes, and dislikes," said mrs snow, with a sigh. "as a general thing, girls are quick enough to find out when a man cares for them, and he showed it plainly to me. i guess she mistrusts." "no, a woman kens when a man his lost his heart to her. he lets her see it in many ways, when he has no thought of doing so. but a woman is not likely to know it, when a man without love wishes to marry her, till he tells her in words. and what heart has twenty years cheat'ry of his fellow men left to yon man, that my bairn should waste a thought on a worldling like him?" mr snow was silent. his wife's tone betrayed to him that something was troubling her, or he would have ventured a word in his new friend's defence. not that he was inclined to plead mr green's cause with graeme, but he could not help feeling a little compassion for him, and he said: "well, i suppose i feel inclined to take his part, because he makes me think of what i was myself once, and that not so long ago." the look that mrs snow turned upon her husband was one of indignant astonishment. "like you! you dry stick!" "well, ain't he? you used to think me a pretty hard case. now, didn't you?" "i'm no' going to tell you to-night what i used to think of you," said his wife, more mildly. "i never saw you on the day when you didna think more of other folks' comfort than you thought of your own, and that couldna be said of him, this many a year and day. he is not a fit mate for my bairn." "well--no, he ain't. he ain't a christian, and that is the first thing she would consider. but he ain't satisfied with himself, and if anybody in the world could bring him to be what he ought to be, she is the one." and he repeated the conversation that had taken place when they were left alone in the summer-house. "but being dissatisfied with himself, is very far from being a changed man, and that work must be done by a greater than graeme. and besides, if he were a changed man to-night, he is no' the man to win miss graeme's heart, and he'll no ask her. he is far more like to ask rosie; for i doubt she is not beyond leading him on for her own amusement." "oh! come now, ain't you a little too hard on rosie," said mr snow, expostulatingly. he could not bear that his pet should be found fault with. "i call _that_ as cruel a thing as a woman can do, and rosie would never do it, i hope." "not with a conscious desire to give pain. but she is a bonny creature, and she is learning her own power, as they all do sooner or later; and few make so good a use of such power as they might do;" and mrs snow sighed. "you don't think there is anything in what mrs grove said about graeme and her friend i have heard so much about?" asked mr snow, after a pause. "i dinna ken. i would believe it none the readier that yon foolish woman said it." "she seems kind of down, though, these days, don't she? she's graver and quieter than she used to be," said mr snow, with some hesitation. he was not sure how his remark would be taken. "oh! well, maybe. she's older for one thing," said his wife, gravely. "and she has her cares; some of them i see plainly enough, and some of them, i daresay, she keeps out of sight. but as for allan ruthven, it's not for one woman to say of another that, she has given her heart unsought. and i am sure of her, that whatever befalls her, she is one of those that need fear no evil." chapter thirty five. "it is a wonder to me, miss graeme," said mrs snow, after one of their long talks about old times--"it is a wonder to me, that minding merleville and all your friends there as well as you do, you should never have thought it worth your while to come back and see us." "worth our while!" repeated graeme. "it was not indifference that hindered us, you may be sure of that. i wonder, myself, how it is we have never gone back again. when we first came here, how will, and rosie, and i, used to plan and dream about it! i may confess, now, how very homesick we all were--how we longed for you. but, at first, the expense would have been something to consider, you know; and afterwards, other things happened to prevent us. we were very near going once or twice." "and when was that?" asked mrs snow, seemingly intent on her knitting, but all the time aware that the old shadow was hovering over graeme. she did not answer immediately. "once was with norman and hilda. oh! i did so long to go with them! i had almost made up my mind to go, and leave rosie at home. i was glad i didn't, afterward." "and why did you not?" demanded her friend. "for one thing, we had been away a long time in the summer, and i did not like to leave home again; arthur did not encourage me to go. it was on the very night that norman went away that arthur told me of his engagement." "i daresay you did right to bide at home, then." "yes, i knew it was best, but that did not prevent me wishing very much to go. i had the greatest desire to go to you. i had no one to speak to. i daresay it would not have seemed half so bad, if i could have told you all about it." "my dear, you had your sister." "yes, but rosie was as bad as i was. it seemed like the breaking up of all things. i know now, how wrong and foolish i was, but i could not help being wretched then." "it was a great change, certainly, and i dinna wonder that the prospect startled you." mrs snow spoke very quietly; she was anxious to hear more; and forgetting her prudence in the pleasure it gave her to unburden her heart to her friend, graeme went on rapidly,-- "if it only had been any one else, i thought. we didn't know fanny very well, then--hardly at all, indeed, and she seemed such a vain, frivolous little thing, so different from what i thought arthur's wife should be; and i disliked her stepmother so much more than i ever disliked any one, i think, except perhaps mrs page, when we first came to merleville. do you mind her first visit with mrs merle, janet?" "i mind it well," said mrs snow, smiling. "she was no favourite of mine. i daresay i was too hard on her sometimes." graeme laughed at the remembrance of the "downsettings" which "the smith's wife" had experienced at janet's hands in those early days. the pause gave her time to think, and she hastened to turn the conversation from arthur and his marriage to merleville and the old times. janet did not try to hinder it, and answered her questions, and volunteered some new items on the theme, but when there came a pause, she asked quietly,-- "and when was the other time you thought of coming to see us all?" "oh! that was before, in the spring. arthur proposed that we should go to merleville, but we went to the seaside, you know. it was on my account; i was ill, and the doctor said the sea-breeze was what i needed." "the breezes among our hills would have been as good for you, i daresay. i wonder you didn't come then." "oh! i could not bear the thought of going then. i was ill, and good for nothing. it would have been no pleasure for any one to see me then. i think i should hardly have cared to go away anywhere, if arthur had not insisted, and the doctor too." unconsciously graeme yielded to the impulse to say to her friend just what was in her heart. "but what ailed you?" asked mrs snow, looking up with astonished eyes, that reminded graeme there were some things that could not be told even to her friend. "what ailed you?" repeated mrs snow. "i can't tell you. an attack of the nerves, nelly called it, and she was partly right. i was tired. it was just after will's long illness, and harry's going away, and other things." "i daresay you were weary and sorrowful, too, and no wonder," said mrs snow, tenderly. "yes, about harry. i was very anxious. there were some doubts about his going, for a while. mr ruthven hesitated, and harry chafed and vexed himself and me, too, poor laddie; but we got through that time at last," added graeme, with a great sigh. "did mr ruthven ken of harry's temptation? was it for that he hesitated?" asked mrs snow. "i cannot say. oh! yes, he knew, or he suspected. but i don't think he hesitated altogether because of that. as soon as he knew that we were quite willing--arthur and i--he decided at once. mr ruthven was very kind and considerate through it all." "miss graeme, my dear," said mrs snow, with some hesitation, "did you ever think there was anything between your brother harry and his master's daughter--the young lady that allan ruthven married--or was it only sandy's fancy?" graeme's face grew white as she turned her startled eyes on her friend. "sandy! did he see it? i did not think about it at the time; but afterward i knew it, and, oh! janet, you cannot think how it added to my wretchedness about harry." "my bairn! there have been some rough bits on the road you have been travelling. no wonder your feet get weary, whiles." graeme rose, and, without speaking, came and laid her head upon her friend's lap. in a little she said,-- "how i longed for this place! i had no one to speak to. i used to think you might have helped and comforted me a little." she did not try to hide her tears; but they did not flow long. janet's kind hand had not lost its old soothing power, and by and by graeme raised herself up, and, wiping away her tears, said, with a faint smile,-- "and so sandy saw poor harry's secret? i did not, at first. i suppose little emily had sharpened his eyes to see such things, even then." "yes, sandy saw it, and it was a great surprise to us all when there came word of her marriage. sandy never thought of allan ruthven and his cousin coming together." graeme rose and took her work again. it was growing dark, and she carried it to the window and bent over it. "was it for her money--or why was it?" "oh! no. i never could think so. she was a very sweet and lovely creature; we loved her dearly, rose and i. they had been engaged a long time, i believe, though the marriage was sudden at last. that was because of her father's illness. he died soon after, you remember." "yes, i remember. well, i didna think that allan ruthven was one to let the world get a firm grip of him. but folk change. i didna ken." "oh! no, it was not that," said graeme, eagerly. "indeed, at that time mr elphinstone's affairs were rather involved. he had met with great losses, harry says, and arthur thought that nothing but mr ruthven's high character and great business talents could have saved the firm from ruin. oh! no; it was not for money." "well, my dear, i am glad to hear you say it. i am glad that allan ruthven hasna changed. i think you said he hasna changed?" "at first i thought him changed, but afterwards i thought him just the same." "maybe it was her that wanted the money? if her father was in trouble--" "no, oh! no! you could never have such a thought if you had ever seen her face. i don't know how it happened. as all marriages happen, i suppose. it was very natural; but we won't speak about it." "they seem to have forgotten their friends. i think you said you seldom see them now." "we don't see them often. they have been out of town a good deal, and we have fallen a little out of acquaintance. but we have done that with many others; we have made so many new acquaintances since arthur's marriage--friends of fanny's, you know; and, somehow, nothing seems quite the same as it used to do. if mr ruthven knew you were in town, i am sure he would have been to see you before now." "i am no' wearying to see him," said mrs snow, coldly. "but, my dear, is your work of more value than your eyes, that you are keeping at it in the dark?" graeme laughed and laid it down, but did not leave the window, and soon it grew so dark that she had no excuse for looking out. so she began to move about the room, busying herself with putting away her work, and the books and papers that were scattered about. janet watched her silently. the shadow was dark on her face, and her movements, as she displaced and arranged and re-arranged the trifles on the table were quick and restless. when there seemed nothing more for her to do, she stood still with an uneasy look on her face, as though she thought her friend were watching her, and then moved to the other end of the room. "my dear," said mrs snow, in a little, "how old are you now?" graeme laughed, and came and took her old seat. "oh! janet, you must not ask. i have come to the point when ladies don't like to answer that question, as you might very well know, if you would stop to consider a minute." "and what point may that be, if i may ask?" "oh! it is not to be told. do you know fanny begins to shake her head over me, and to call me an old maid." "ay! that is ay the way with these young wives," said janet, scornfully. "there must be near ten years between you and rose." "yes, quite ten years, and she is almost a woman--past sixteen. i _am_ growing old." "what a wee white rose she was, when she first fell to your care, dear. who would have thought then that she would ever have grown to be the bonny creature she is to-day?" "is she not lovely? and not vain or spoiled, though it would be no wonder if she were, she is so much admired. do you mind what a cankered wee fairy she used to be?" "i mind well the patience that never wearied of her, even at the worst of times," said mrs snow, laying her hand tenderly on graeme's bowed head. "i was weary and impatient often. what a long time it is since those days, and yet it seems like yesterday." and graeme sighed. "were you sighing because so many of your years lie behind you, my bairn?" said mrs snow, softly. "no, rather because so many of them lie before me," said graeme, slowly. "unless, indeed, they may have more to show than the years that are past." "we may all say that, dear," said mrs snow, gravely. "none of us have done all that we might have done. but, my bairn, such dreary words are not natural from young lips, and the years before you may be few. you may not have time to grow weary of them." "that is true," said graeme. "and i ought not to grow weary, be they many or few." there was a long pause, broken at last by graeme. "janet," said she, "do you think i could keep a school?" "a school," repeated mrs snow. "oh, ay, i daresay you could, if you put your mind to it. what would binder you? it would depend some on what kind of a school it was, too, i daresay." "you know, teaching is almost the only thing a woman can do to earn a livelihood. it is the only thing i could do. i don't mean that i could take charge of a school; i am afraid i am hardly fit for that. but i could teach classes. i know french well, and music, and german a little." "my dear," said mrs snow, gravely, "what has put such a thought in your head? have you spoken to your brother about it? what does he say?" "to arthur? no, i haven't spoken to him. he wouldn't like the idea at first, i suppose; but if it were best, he would reconcile himself to it in time." "you speak about getting your livelihood. is there any need for it? i mean, is there more need than there has been? is not your brother able, and willing--" "oh! yes, it is not that i don't know. our expenses are greater than they used to be--double, indeed. but there is enough, i suppose. it is not that--at least it is not that only, or chiefly." "what is it then, dear child?" asked her friend. but graeme could not answer at the moment. there were many reasons why she should not continue to live her present unsatisfying life, and yet she did not know how to tell her friend. they were all plain enough to her, but some of them she could not put in words for the hearing of janet, even. she had been saying to herself, all along, that it was natural, and not wrong for her to grow tired of her useless, aimless life, and to long for earnest, bracing work, such as many a woman she could name was toiling bravely at. but with janet's kind hand on her head, and her calm, clear eyes looking down upon her face, she was constrained to acknowledge that, but for one thing, this restless discontent might never have found her. to herself she was willing to confess it. long ago she had looked her sorrow in the face, and said, "with god's help i can bear it." she declared to herself that it was well to be roused from sloth, even by a great sorrow, so that she could find work to do. but, that janet should look upon her with pitying or reproving eyes, she could not bear to think; so she sat at her feet, having no power to open her lips, never thinking that by her silence, and by the unquiet light in her downcast eyes, more was revealed to her faithful old friend than spoken words could have told. "what is it my dear?" said mrs snow. "is it pride or discontent, or is it something worse?" graeme laughed a little bitterly. "can anything be worse than these?" "is it that your brother is wearying of you?" "no, no! i could not do him the wrong to think that. it would grieve him to lose us, i know. even when he thought it was for my happiness to go away, the thought of parting gave him pain." "and you have more sense than to let the airs and nonsense of his bairn-wife vex you?" graeme was silent a moment. she did not care to enter upon the subject of arthur's wife just at this time. "i don't think you quite understand fanny, janet," said she, hesitating. "weel, dear, maybe no. the bairns that i have had to deal with have not been of her kind. i have had no experience of the like of her." "but what i mean is that her faults are such as every one can see at a glance, and she has many sweet and lovable qualities. i love her dearly. and, janet, i don't think it is quite kind in you to think that i grudge fanny her proper place in her own house. i only wish that--" "you only wish that she were as able to fill it with credit, as you are willing to let her. i wish that, too. and i am very far from thinking that you grudge her anything that she ought to have." "oh! janet," said graeme, with a sigh, "i shall never be able to make you understand." "you might try, however. you havena tried yet," said janet, gently. "it is not that you are growing too proud to eat bread of your brother's winning, is it?" "i don't think it is pride. i know that arthur considers that what belongs to him belongs to us all. but, even when that is true, it may be better, for many reasons, that i should eat bread of my own winning than of his. everybody has something to do in the world. even rich ladies have their houses to keep, and their families to care for, and the claims of society to satisfy, and all that. an idle life like mine is not natural nor right. no wonder that i weary of it. i ought not to be idle." "idle! i should lay that imputation at the door of anybody in the house rather than at yours. you used to be over fond of idle dreaming, but i see none of it now. you are ay busy at something." "yes, busy about something," repeated graeme, a little scornfully. "but about things that might as well be left undone, or that another might do as well." "and i daresay some one could be found to do the work of the best and the busiest of us, if we werena able to do it. but that is no' to say but we may be working to some purpose in the world for all that. but it is no' agreeable to do other folks' work, and let them get the wages, i'll allow." "will said something like that to me once, and it is possible that i may have some despicable feeling of that sort, since you and he seem to think it," said graeme, and her voice took a grieved and desponding tone. "my dear, i am bringing no such accusation against you. i am only saying that the like of that is not agreeable, and it is not profitable to anybody concerned. i daresay mrs arthur fancies that it is her, and no' you that keeps the house in a state of perfection that it is a pleasure to see. she persuades her husband of it, at any rate." "fanny does not mean--she does not know much about it. but that is one more reason why i ought to go. she ought to have the responsibility, as well as to fancy that she has it; and they would get used to being without us in time." "miss graeme, my dear, i think i must have told you what your father said to me after his first attack of illness, when he thought, maybe, the end wasna far-away." "about our all staying together while we could. yes, you told me." "yes, love, and how he trusted in you, that you would always be, to your brothers and rose, all that your mother would have been if she had been spared; and how sure he was that you would ever think less of yourself than of them. my dear, it should not be a light thing that would make you give up the trust your father left to you." "but, janet, it is so different now. when we first came here, the thought that my father wished us to keep together made me willing and glad to stay, even when arthur had to struggle hard to make the ends meet. i knew it was better for him and for harry, as well as for us. but it is different now. arthur has no need of us, and would soon content himself without us, though he may think he would not; and it may be years before this can be will's home again. it may never be his home, nor harry's either." "my dear, it will be harry's home, and will's, too, while it is yours. their hearts will ay turn to it as home, and they wouldna do so if you were only coming and going. and as for mr arthur, miss graeme, i put it to yourself, if he were left alone with that bonny, wee wife of his, would his home be to him what it is now? would the companionship of yon bairn suffice for his happiness?" "it ought to do so. a man's wife ought to be to him more than all the rest of the world, when it is written, `a man shall leave all, and cleave to his wife.' married people ought to suffice for one another." "well, it may be. and if you were leaving your brother's house for a house of your own, or if you were coming with us, as my husband seems to have set his heart on, i would think it different. not that i am sure of it myself, much as it would delight me to have you. for your brother needs you, and your bonny new sister needs you. have patience with her, and with yourself, and you will make something of her in time. she loves you dearly, though she is not at all times very considerate of you." graeme was silent. what could she say after this, to prove that she could not stay, that she must go away. where could she turn now? she rose with a sigh. "it is growing dark. i will get a light. but, janet, you must let me say one thing. you are not to think it is because of fanny that i want to go away. at first, i was unhappy--i may say so, now that it is all over. it was less for myself and rose than for arthur. i didn't think fanny good enough for him. and then, everything was so different, for a while it seemed impossible for me to stay. fanny was not so considerate as she might have been, about our old friends, and about household affairs, and about nelly, and all that. arthur saw nothing, and rosie got vexed sometimes. will preached patience to us both; you know, gentlemen cannot understand many things that may be vexatious to us; and we were very uncomfortable for a while. i don't think fanny was so much to blame; but her mother seemed to fancy that the new mistress of the house was not to be allowed to have her place without a struggle. arthur saw nothing wrong. it was laughable, and irritating, too, sometimes, to see how blind he was. but it was far better he did not. i can see that now." "well, we went on in this way a while. i daresay a good deal of it was my fault. i think i was patient and forbearing, and i am quite sure i gave fanny her own place from the very first. but i was not cheerful, partly because of the changes, and all these little things, and partly for other reasons. and i am not demonstrative in my friendliness, like rosie, you know. fanny soon came to be quite frank and nice with rosie, and, by and by, with me too. and now, everything goes on just as it ought with us. there is no coldness between us, and you must not think there is, or that it is because of fanny i must go away." she paused, and began to arrange the lamp. "never mind the light, dear, unless your work canna be left," said mrs snow; and in a little graeme came and sat down again. "and about fanny's not being good enough for arthur," she went on. "if people really love one another, other things don't seem to make so much difference. arthur is contented. and janet, i don't think i am altogether selfish in my wish to go away. it is not entirely for my own sake. i think it would be better, for them both to be left to each other for a little while. if fanny has faults, it is better that arthur should know them for the sake of both--that he may learn to have patience with them, and that she may learn to correct them. it is partly for them, as well as for rose and me. for myself, i must have a change." "you didna use to weary for changes. what is the reason now? you may tell me, dear, surely. there can be no reason that i may not know?" janet spoke softly, and laid her hand lovingly on that of graeme. "oh! i don't know: i cannot tell you," she cried, with a sudden movement away from her friend. "the very spirit of unrest seems to have gotten possession of me. i am tired doing nothing, i suppose. i want real earnest work to do, and have it i will." she rose hastily, but sat down again. "and so you think you would like to keep a school?" said mrs snow, quietly. "oh! i don't know. i only said that, because i did not know what else i could do. it would be work." "ay. school-keeping is said to be hard work, and thankless, often. and i daresay it is no better than it is called. but, my dear, if it is the work you want, and not the wages, surely among the thousands of this great town, you might find something to do, some work for the lord, and for his people. have you never thought about working in that way, dear?" graeme had thought of it many a time. often had she grieved over the neglected little ones, looking out upon her from narrow lanes and alleys, with pale faces, and great hungry eyes. often had the fainting hearts of toilers in the wretched places of the city been sustained and comforted by her kind words and her alms-deeds. there were many humble dwellings within sight of her home, where her face came like sunlight, and her voice like music. but these were the pleasures of her life, enjoyed in secret. this was not the work that was to make her life worthy, the work for god and man that was to fill the void in her life, and still the pain in her heart. so she only said, quietly,-- "it is not much that one can do. and, indeed, i have little time that is not occupied with something that cannot be neglected, though it can hardly be called work. i cannot tell you, but what with the little things to be cared for at home, the visits to be made, and engagements of one kind or other, little time is left. i don't know how i could make it otherwise. my time is not at my own disposal." mrs snow assented, and graeme went on. "i suppose i might do more of that sort of work--caring for poor people, i mean, by joining societies, and getting myself put on committees, and all that sort of thing, but i don't think i am suited for it, and there are plenty who like it. however, i daresay, that is a mere excuse. don't you mind, janet, how mrs page used to labour with me about the sewing meetings." "yes, i mind," said mrs snow, with the air of one who was thinking of something else. in a little she said, hesitatingly: "miss graeme, my dear, you speak as though there were nothing between living in your brother's house, and keeping a school. have you never glanced at the possibility that sometime you may have a house of your own to keep." graeme laughed. "will said that to me once. yes, i have thought about it. but the possibility is such a slight one, that it is hardly worth while to take it into account in making plans for the future." "and wherefore not?" demanded mrs snow. "wherefore not?" echoed graeme. "i can only say, that here i am at six and twenty; and the probabilities as to marriage don't usually increase with the years, after that. fanny's fears on my account have some foundation. janet, do you mind the song foolish jean used to sing? "`the lads that cast a glance at me i dinna care to see, and the lads that i would look at winna look at me.' "well, dear, you mustna be angry though i say it, but you may be ower ill to please. i told you that before, you'll mind." "oh! yes, i mind. but i convinced you of your error. indeed, i look upon myself as an object for commiseration rather than blame; so you mustna look cross, and you mustna look too pitiful either, for i am going to prove to you and fanny and all the rest that an old maid is, by no means, an object of pity. quite the contrary." "but, my dear, it seems strange-like, and not quite right for you to be setting your face against what is plainly ordained as woman's lot. it is no' ay an easy or a pleasant one, as many a poor woman kens to her sorrow; but--" "but, janet, you are mistaken. i am not setting my face against anything; but why should you blame me for what i canna help? and, besides, it is not ordained that every woman should marry. they say married-life is happier, and all that; but a woman may be happy and useful, too, in a single life, even if the higher happiness be denied her." "but, my dear, what ailed you at him you sent away the other week--him that rosie was telling me of?" "rosie had little to do telling you anything of the kind. nothing particular ailed me at him. i liked him very well till--. but we won't speak of it." "was he not good enough? he was a christian man, and well off, and well-looking. what said your brother to your refusal?" persisted janet. "oh! he said nothing. what could he say? he would have known nothing about it if i had had my will. a woman must decide these things for herself. i did what i thought right. i could not have done otherwise." "but, my love, you should consider--" "janet, i did consider. i considered so long that i came very near doing a wrong thing. because he was arthur's friend, and because it seems to be woman's lot, and in the common course of things, and because i was restless and discontented, and not at peace with myself, and nothing seemed to matter to me, i was very near saying `yes,' and going with him, though i cared no more for him than for half a dozen others whom you have seen here. what do you think of that for consideration?" "that would have been a great wrong both to him and to yourself. i canna think you would ever be so sinful as to give the hand where the heart is withheld. but, my dear, you might mistake. there are more kinds of love than one; at least there are many manifestations of true love; and, at your age, you are no' to expect to have your heart and fancy taken utterly captive by any man. you have too much sense for the like of that." "have i?" said graeme. "i ought to have at my age." it was growing quite dark--too dark for mrs snow to see graeme's troubled face; but she knew that it was troubled by the sound of her voice, by the weary posture into which she drooped, and by many another token. "my dear," said her friend, earnestly, "the wild carrying away of the fancy, that it is growing the fashion to call love, is not to be desired at any age. i am not denying that it comes in youth with great power and sweetness, as it came to your father and mother, as i mind well, and as you have heard yourself. but it doesna always bring happiness. the lord is kind, and cares for those who rush blindly to their fate; but to many a one such wild captivity of heart is but the forerunner of bitter pain, for which there is no help but just to `thole it,' as they say." she paused a moment, but graeme did not, by the movement of a finger, indicate that she had anything to say in reply. "mutual respect, and the quiet esteem that one friend gives to another who is worthy, is a far surer foundation for a lifetime of happiness to those who have the fear of god before their eyes, and it is just possible, my dear, that you may have been mistaken." "it is just possible, and it is too late now, you see, janet. but i'll keep all you have been saying in mind, and it may stand me in stead for another time, you ken." she spoke lightly, but there was in her voice an echo of bitterness and pain that her friend could not bear to hear; and when she raised herself up to go away, as though there were nothing more to be said, janet laid her hand lightly but firmly on her shoulder, and said,-- "my dear, you are not to be vexed with what i have said. do you think i can have any wish but to see you useful and happy? you surely dinna doubt me, dear?" "i am not vexed, janet," said she. "and who could i trust if i doubted you?" "and you are not to think that i am meaning any disrespect to your new sister, if i say it is no wonder that i dinna find you quite content here. and when i think of the home that your mother made so happy, i canna but wish to see you in a home of your own." "but happiness is not the only thing to be desired in this world," graeme forced herself to say. "no, love, nor the chief thing--that is true," said mrs snow. "and even if it were," continued graeme, "there is more than one way to look for happiness. it seems to me the chances of happiness are not so unequal in single and married-life as is generally supposed." "you mayna be the best judge of that," said mrs snow, gravely. "no, i suppose not," said graeme, with a laugh. "but i have no patience with the nonsense that is talked about old maids. why! it seems to be thought if a woman reaches thirty, still single, she has failed in life, she has missed the end of her creation, as it were; and by and by people begin to look upon her as an object of pity, not to say of contempt. in this very room i have heard shallow men and women speak in that way of some who are doing a worthy work for god and man in the world." "my dear, it is the way with shallow men and women to put things in the wrong places. why should you be surprised at that?" "but, janet, more do it than these people. don't you mind, the other day, when mrs grove was repeating that absurd story about miss lester, and i said to her that i did not believe miss lester would marry the best man on the face of the earth, you said in a way that turned the laugh against me, that you doubted the best man on the face of the earth wasna in her offer." "but, miss graeme, i meant no reflection on your friend, though i said that. i saw by the shining of your eyes, and the colour on your cheek, that you were in earnest, and i thought it a pity to waste good earnest words on yon shallow woman." "well," said graeme, with a long breath, "you left the impression on her mind that you thought her right and me wrong." "that is but a small matter. and, my dear, i am no' sure, and you canna be sure either, that mrs grove was altogether wrong. if, in her youth, some good man--not to say the best man on the face of the earth--had offered love to your friend, are you sure she would have refused him?" "there!--that is just what i dislike so much. that is just what mrs grove was hinting with regard to miss lester. if a woman lives single, it is from necessity--according to the judgment of a discriminating and charitable world. i _know_ that is not the case with regard to miss lester. but even if it were, if no man had ever graciously signified his approbation of her--if she were an old maid from dire necessity-- does it follow that she has lost her chance in life?--that life has been to her a failure? "if she has failed in life; so do god's angels. janet, if i could only tell you half that she has done! i am not intimate with her, but i have many ways of knowing about her. if you could know all that she has done for her family! she was the eldest daughter, and her mother was a very delicate, nervous woman, and the charge of the younger children fell to her when she was quite a girl. then when her father failed, she opened a school and the whole family depended on her. she helped her sisters till they married, and liberally educated her younger brothers, and now she is bringing up the four children of one of them who died young. her father was bedridden for several years before he died, and he lived in her home, and she watched over him, and cared for him, though she had her school. and she has prepared many a young girl for a life of usefulness, who but for her might have been neglected or lost. half of the good she has done in this way will never be known on earth. and to hear women who are not worthy to tie her shoe, passing their patronising or their disparaging remarks upon her! it incenses me!" "my dear, i thought you were past being incensed at anything yon shallow woman can say." "but she is not the only one. even arthur sometimes provokes me. because she has by her laborious profession made herself independent, he jestingly talks about her bank stock, and about her being a good speculation for some needy old gentleman. and because that beautiful, soft grey hair of hers will curl about her pale face, it is hinted that she makes the most of her remaining attractions, and would be nothing loth. it is despicable." "but, my dear, it would be no discredit to her if it were proved that she would marry. she has a young face yet, though her hair is grey, and she may have many years before her. why should she not marry?" "don't speak of it," said graeme, with great impatience; "and yet, as you say, why should she not? but that is not the question. what i declare is, that her single life has been an honourable and an honoured one--and a happy one too. who can doubt it? there is no married woman of my acquaintance whose life will compare with here. and the high place she will get in heaven, will be for no work she will do as mrs dale, though she were to marry the reverend doctor to-night, but for the blessed success that god has given her in her work as a single woman." "i believe you, dear," said mrs snow, warmly. "and she is not the only one i could name," continued graeme. "she is my favourite example, because her position and talents, her earnest nature and her piety, make her work a wonderful one. but i know many, and have heard of more, who in a quiet, unobtrusive way are doing a work, not so great as to results, but as true and holy. some of them are doing it as aunts or maiden sisters; some as teachers; some are only humble needlewomen; some are servants in other people's kitchens or nurseries--women who would be spoken of by the pitying or slighting name of `old maid,' who are yet more worthy of respect for the work they are doing, and for the influence they are exerting, than many a married woman in her sphere. why should such a woman be pitied or despised, i wonder?" "miss graeme, you look as though you thought i was among the pitiers and despisers of such women, and you are wrong. every word you say in their praise and honour is truth, and canna be gainsaid. but that doesna prove what you began with, that the chances of happiness in married and single life are equal." "it goes far to prove it--the chances of usefulness, at any rate." "no, my dear, because i dare say, on the other hand, many could be told of who fail to do their work in single life, and who fail to get happiness in it as well. put the one class over against the other, and then consider the many, many women who marry for no other reason than from the fear of living single, it will go far to account for the many unhappy marriages that we see, and far to prove that marriage is the natural and proper expectation of woman, and that in a sense she _does_ fail in life, who falls short of that. in a certain sense, i say." "but it does not follow from that that she is thenceforth to be an object of pity or derision, a spectacle to men and angels!" "whist, my dear; no, that doesna follow of necessity. that depends on herself somewhat, though not altogether, and there are too many single women who make spectacles of themselves in one way or other. but, my dear, what i say is this: as the world is, it is no easy thing for a woman to warstle through it alone, and the help she needs she can get better from her husband than from any other friend. and though it is a single woman's duty to take her lot and make the best of it, with god's help, it is no' to be denied, that it is not the lot a woman would choose. my saying it doesna make it true, but ask you the women to whom you justly give so high a place, how it was with them. was it their own free choice that put them where they are? if they speak the truth, they will say `no.' either no man asked them--though that is rare--or else in youth they have had their work laid ready to their hands. they had a father and mother, or brothers and sisters, that they could not forsake for a stranger. or they gave their love unsought, and had none to give when it was asked. or they fell out with their lovers, or another wiled them away, or death divided them. sometimes a woman's life passes quietly and busily away, with no thoughts of the future, till one day she wakes up with a great start of surprise and pain, to the knowledge that her youth is past--that she is an `old maid.' and if a chance offer comes then, ten to one but she shuts her eyes, and lays hold on the hand that is held out to her--so feared is she of the solitary life before her." "and," said graeme, in a low voice, "god is good to her if she has not a sadder wakening soon." "it is possible, my dear, but it proves the truth of what i was saying, all the same; that it is seldom by a woman's free choice that she finds herself alone in life. sometimes, but not often, a woman sits down and counts the cost, and chooses a solitary path. it is not every wise man that can discern a strong and beautiful spirit, if it has its home in an unlovely form, and many such are passed by with a slighting look, or are never seen at all. it is possible that such a woman may have the sense to see, that a solitary life is happiness compared with the pain and shame a true woman must feel in having to look down upon her husband; and so when the wise and the worthy pass by, she turns her eyes from all others, and says to herself and to the world, with what heart she may, that she has no need of help. but does that end the pain? does it make her strong to say it? may not the slight implied in being overlooked rankle in her heart till it is changed and hardened? i am afraid the many single women we see and hear of, who live to themselves, giving no sympathy and seeking none, proves it past all denying. my dear, folk may say what they like about woman's sphere and woman's mission--and great nonsense they have spoken of late--but every true woman kens well that her right sphere is a home of her own, and that her mission is to find her happiness in the happiness of her husband and children. there are exceptional cases, no doubt, but that is the law of nature. though why i should be saying all this to you, miss graeme, my dear, is mair than i ken." there was a long silence after this. mrs snow knew well that graeme sat without reply because she would not have the conversation come back to her, or to home affairs, again. but her friend had something more to say, and though her heart ached for the pain she might give, she could not leave it unsaid. "we were speaking about your friend and the work she has been honoured to do. it is a great work, and she is a noble woman. god bless her! and, dear, though i dinna like the thought of your leaving your brother's house, it is not because i dinna think that you might put your hand to the same work with the same success. i am sure you could do, in that way, a good work for god and man. it is partly that i am shy of new schemes, and partly because i am sure the restlessness that is urging you to it will pass away; but it is chiefly because i think you have good and holy work laid to your hand already. whatever you may think now, dear, they are far better and happier here at home, and will be all their lives, because of you. "i'm no' saying but you might go away for a wee while. the change would do you good. you will come with us, or you will follow after, if you like it better; and then you might take your sister, and go and see your brother norman, and your wee nephew, as we spoke of the other day. but this is your home, love, and here lies your work, believe me. and, my bairn, the restless fever of your heart will pass away; not so soon, maybe, as if it had come upon you earlier in life, or as if you were of a lighter nature. but it will pass. whist! my darling," for graeme had risen with a gesture of entreaty or denial. "whist, love; i am not asking about its coming or its causes. i am only bidding you have patience till it pass away." graeme sat down again without a word. they sat a long time quite silent, and when graeme spoke, it was to wonder that arthur and the others were not come home. "they must have gone to the lecture, after all, but that must be over by this time. they will be as hungry as hawks. i must go and speak to sarah." and she went away, saying sadly and a little bitterly to herself, that the friend on whose kindness and counsel she had relied, had failed her in her time of need. "but i must go all the same. i cannot stay to die by slow degrees, of sloth, or weariness, or discontent, whichever it may be. oh me! and i thought the worst was past, and janet says it will never be quite past, till i am grown old." and janet sat with reverent, half-averted eyes, seeing the sorrow, that in trying to hide, the child of her love had so plainly revealed. she knew that words are powerless to help the soreness of such wounds, and yet she chid herself that she had so failed to comfort her. she knew that graeme had come to her in the vague hope for help and counsel, and that she was saying now to herself that her friend had failed her. "for, what could i say? i couldna bid her go. what good would that do, when she carries her care with her? and it is not for the like of her to vex her heart out with bairns, keeping at a school. i ken her better than she kens herself. oh! but it is sad to think that the best comfort i can give her, is to look the other way, and not seem to see. well, there is one she winna seek to hide her trouble from, and he can comfort her." chapter thirty six. the only event of importance that occurred before mrs snow went away, was the return of nelly. she came in upon them one morning, as they sat together in the breakfast-room, with more shamefacedness than could be easily accounted for at the first moment. and then she told them she was married. her sudden departure had been the means of bringing mr stirling to a knowledge of his own mind on the matter of wedlock, and he had followed her to her sister's, and "married her out of hand." of course, she was properly congratulated by them all, but rose was inclined to be indignant. "you promised that i was to be bridesmaid, and i think it is quite too bad that you should disappoint me," said she. "yes, i know i promised, but it was with a long prospect of waiting. i thought your own turn might come first, miss rose, he didna seem in a hurry about it. but his leisure was over when i was fairly away out of reach. so he came after me to my sister's, and nothing would do, but back i must go with him. he couldna see what difference a month or two could make in a thing that was to be for a lifetime; and my sister and the rest up there--they sided with him. and there was reason in it, i couldna deny; so we just went down to the manse one morning, and had it over, and me with this very gown on, not my best by two or three. he made small count of any preparations; so you see, miss rose, i couldna well help myself; and i hope it will all be for the best." they all hoped that, and, indeed, it was not to be doubted. but, though congratulating mrs stirling heartily, graeme was greatly disappointed for themselves. she had been looking forward to the time when, mrs tilman's temporary service over, they should have nelly back in her old place again; but the best must be made of it now, and nelly's pleasure must not be marred by a suspicion of her discontent. so she entered, with almost as much eagerness as rose, into a discussion of the plans of the newly married pair. "and is the market garden secured?" asked she. "or is that to come later?" "it will not be for a while yet. he is to stay where he is for the present. you will have heard that mr ruthven and his family are going home for a while, and we are to stay in the house. i am to have the charge. it will be something coming in through my own hands, which will be agreeable to me," added the prudent and independent nelly. the meeting of mrs snow and mrs stirling was a great pleasure to them both. they had much to say to one another before the time of mrs snow's departure came, and she heard many things about the young people, their way of life, their love to each other, and their forbearance with fanny and her friends, which she would never have heard from them. she came to have a great respect for mrs stirling's sense and judgment, as well as for her devotion to the interests of the young people. one of the few expeditions undertaken by her was to choose a wedding present for the bride, and rose had the satisfaction of helping her to decide upon a set of spoons, useful and beautiful at the same time; and "good property to have," as mr snow justly remarked, whether they used them or not. the day of departure came at last. will, graeme, and rose went with them over the river, and fanny would have liked to go, too, but she had an engagement with mrs grove, and was obliged to stay at home. arthur was to be at the boat to see them on, if it could be managed, but that was doubtful, so he bade them good-bye in the morning before he went away. there was a crowd, as usual, on the boat, and graeme made haste to get a seat with mrs snow, in a quiet corner out of the way. "look, graeme," said rose. "there is mr proudfute, and there are the roxburys, and ever so many more people. and there is mr ruthven. i wonder if they are going away to-day." "i don't know. don't let us get into the crowd," said graeme, rather hurriedly. "we shall lose the good of the last minutes. stay here a moment, will, and see whether arthur comes. i will find a seat for mrs snow. let us get out of the crowd." it was not easy to do, however, and they were obliged to pass quite close by the party towards which rose had been looking, and which graeme had intended to avoid. "who is that pretty creature with the child on her lap?" asked mrs snow, with much interest. "you bowed to her, i think." "yes. that is mrs ruthven. i suppose they are going away to-day. i should like to say good-bye to her, but there are so many people with her, and i am not sure that she knew me, though she bowed. ah! she has seen rosie. they are coming over here." she rose and went to meet them as they came near. "you have never seen my baby," said mrs ruthven, eagerly. "and i want to see mrs snow." graeme took the little creature in her arms. "no, we were unfortunate in finding you out when we called, more than once--and now you are going away." "yes, we are going away for a little while. i am so glad we have met to-day. i only heard the other day that mrs snow had come, and i have not been quite strong, and they would not let me move about, i am so very glad to see you," added she, as she took janet's hand. "i have heard your name so often, that i seem to know you well." mrs snow looked with great interest on the lovely, delicate face, that smiled so sweetly up into hers. "i have heard about you, too," said she, gravely. "and i am very glad that we chanced to meet to-day. and you are going home to scotland?" "yes, for a little while. i have not been quite well, and the doctor advises the voyage, but we shall be home again before winter, i hope, or at the latest, in the spring." there was not time for many words. arthur came at the last minute, and with him charlie millar. he held out his arms for the baby, but she would not look at him, and clung to graeme, who clasped her softly. "she has discrimination, you see," said charlie. "she knows who is best and wisest." "she is very like what rosie was at her age," said mrs snow. "don't you mind, miss graeme?" "do you hear that, baby!" said charlie. "take heart. the wee white lily may be a blooming rose, yet--who knows?" "you have changed," said mrs snow, as mr ruthven came up to her with will. "yes, i have changed; and not for the better, i fear," said he, gravely. "i do not say that--though the world and it's ways do not often change a man for the better. keep it out of your heart." there was only time for a word or two, and graeme would not lose the last minutes with their friend. so she drew her away, and turned her face from them all. "oh, janet! must you go? oh! if we only could go with you! but that is not what i meant to say. i am so glad you have been here. if you only knew how much good you have done me!" "have i? well, i am glad if i have. and my dear, you are soon to follow us, you ken; and it will do you good to get back for a little while to the old place, and the old ways. god has been very good to you all." "yes, and janet, you are not to think me altogether unthankful. forget all the discontented foolish things i have said. god _has_ been very good to us all." "yes, love, and you must take heart, and trust him. and you must watch over your sister, your sisters, i should say. and rose, dear, you are never to go against your sister's judgment in anything. and my bairns, dinna let the pleasant life you are living make you forget another life. god be with you." mr snow and will made a screen between them and the crowd, and janet kissed and blessed them with a full heart. there were only a few confused moments after that, and then the girls stood on the platform, smiling and waving their hands to their friends, as the train moved off. and then graeme caught a glimpse of the lovely pale face of lilias ruthven, as she smiled, and bowed, and held up her baby in her arms; and she felt as if that farewell was more for her, than any of the many friends who were watching them as they went away. and then they turned to go home. there was a crowd in the boat still, in the midst of which the rest sat and amused themselves, during the few minutes sail to the other side. but graeme stood looking away from them all, and from the city and crowded wharf to which they were drawing near. her eyes were turned to the far horizon toward which the great river flowed, and she was saying to herself,-- "i _will_ take heart and trust him, as janet said. he _has_ been good to us all i will not be afraid even of the days that look so dull and profitless to me. god will accept the little i can do, and i _will_ be content." will and charlie millar left them, after they had passed through a street or two. "we might just as well have gone to merleville with them, for all the difference in the time," said rose. "but then our preparations would have interfered with our enjoyment of janet's visit, and with her enjoyment, too. it was a much better way for us to wait." "yes. and for some things it will be better to be there after the wedding, rather than before. but i don't at all like going back to an empty house. i don't like people going away." "but people must go away, dear, if they come; and a quiet time will be good for us both, before we go away," said graeme. but the quiet was not for that day. on that day, two unexpected events occurred. that is, one of them was unexpected to graeme, and the other was unexpected to all the rest. mr green proposed that miss elliott should accompany him on his contemplated european tour; and mrs tilman's time of service came to a sudden end. as graeme and rose turned the corner of the street on their way home, they saw the grove carriage standing at their door. "_that_ does not look much like quiet," said rose. "however, it is not quite such a bugbear as it used to be; don't you remember, graeme?" rose's fears were justified. they found fanny in a state of utter consternation, and even mrs grove not quite able to conceal how much she was put about. mrs tilman had been taken suddenly ill again, and even the undiscerning fanny could not fail to understand the nature of her illness, when she found her unable to speak, with a black bottle lying on the bed beside her. mrs grove was inclined to make light of the matter, saying that the best of people might be overtaken in a fault, on occasion; but graeme put her very charitable suggestions to silence, by telling the secret of the housekeeper's former illnesses. this was not the first fault of the kind, by many. there were a good many words spoken on this occasion, more than it would be wise to record. mrs grove professed indignation that the "mistress of the house" should have been kept in ignorance of the state of affairs, and resented the idea of fanny's being treated as a child. but fanny said nothing; and then her mother assured her, that in future she would leave her to the management of her own household affairs; and graeme surprised them all, by saying, very decidedly, that in doing this, she would be quite safe and right. of course, after all this, fanny could not think of going out to pass the afternoon, and graeme had little quiet that day. there were strangers at dinner, and arthur was busy with them for some time after; and when, being at liberty at last, he called to graeme that he wanted to see her for a minute, it must be confessed that she answered with impatience. "oh! arthur, i am very tired. won't it keep till morning? do let mrs tilman and domestic affairs wait." "mrs tilman! what can you mean, graeme? i suppose mrs grove has been favouring the household with some advice, has she?" "has not fanny told you about it?" asked graeme. "no. i saw fanny was in tribulation of some kind. i shall hear it all in good time. it is something that concerns only you that i wish to speak about. how would you like to visit europe, graeme?" "in certain circumstances i might like it." "mr green wished me to ask the question--or another--" "arthur, don't say it," said graeme, sitting down and turning pale. "tell me that you did not expect this." "i cannot say that i was altogether taken by surprise. he meant to speak to you himself, but his courage failed him. he is very much in earnest, graeme, and very much afraid." "arthur," said his sister, earnestly, "you do not think this is my fault? if i had known it should never have come to this." "he must have an answer now." "yes, you will know what to say to him. i am sorry." "but, graeme, you should take time to think. in the eyes of the world this would be a good match for you." graeme rose impatiently. "what has the world to do with it? tell me, arthur, that you do not think me to blame for this." "i do not think you intended to give mr green encouragement. but i cannot understand why you should be so surprised. i am not." "you have not been seeing with your own eyes, and the encouragement has not been from _me_. it cannot be helped now. you will know what to say. and, arthur, pray let this be quite between you and me." "then, there is nothing more to be said?" "nothing. good-night." arthur was not surprised. he knew quite well that mr green was not good enough for graeme. but, then, who was? mr green was very rich, and it would have been a splendid settlement for her, and she was not very young now. if she was ever to marry, it was surely time. and why should she not? he had intended to say something like this to her, but somehow he had not found it easy to do. well, she was old enough and wise enough to know her own mind, and to decide for herself; and, taken without the help of his position and his great wealth, mr green was certainly not a very interesting person; and probably graeme had done well to refuse him. he pondered a long time on this question, and on others; but when he went up-stairs, fanny was waiting for him, wide awake and eager. "well, what did graeme say? has she gone to bed?" arthur was rather taken aback. he was by no means sure that it would be a wise thing to discuss his sister's affairs with his wife. fanny would never be able to keep his news to herself. "you ought to be in bed," said he. "yes, i know i ought. but is she not a wretch?" "graeme, a wretch!" "nonsense, arthur! i mean mrs tilman. you know very well." "mrs tilman! what has she to do with it?" "what! did not graeme tell you?" and then the whole story burst forth--all, and a good deal more than has been told, for fanny and rose had been discussing the matter in private with sarah, and she had relieved her mind of all that had been kept quiet so long. "the wretch!" said arthur. "she might have burned us in our beds." "just what i said," exclaimed fanny, triumphantly. "but then, sarah was there to watch her, and graeme knew about it and watched too. it was very good of her, i think." "but why, in the name of common sense, did they think it necessary to wait and watch, as you call it? why was she not sent about her business? why was not i told?" "sarah told us, it was because miss elliott would not have mrs snow's visit spoiled; and _rose_ says she wanted everything to go smoothly, so that she should think i was wise and discreet, and a good housekeeper. i am very much afraid i am not." arthur laughed, and kissed her. "live and learn," said he. "yes, and i shall too, i am determined. but, arthur, was it not very nice of graeme to say nothing, but make the best of it? especially when mamma had got nelly away and all." "it was very nice of her," said arthur. "and mamma was very angry to-day, and graeme said--no, it was mamma who said she would let me manage my own affairs after this, and graeme said that would be much the best way." "i quite agree," said her husband, laughing. "but, arthur, i am afraid if it had not been for graeme, things would have gone terribly wrong all this time. i am afraid, dear, i _am_ rather foolish." "i am sure graeme does not say so," said arthur. "no. she does not say so. but i am afraid it is true all the same. but, arthur, i do mean to try and learn. i think rose is right when she says there is no one like graeme." her husband agreed with her here, too, and he thought about these things much more than he said to his wife. it would be a different home to them all. without his sister, he acknowledged, and he said to himself, that he ought to be the last to regret graeme's decision with regard to mr green and his european tour. in the meantime, graeme, not caring to share her thoughts with her sister just then, had stolen down-stairs again, and sat looking, with troubled eyes, out into the night. that was at first, while her conversation with her brother remained in her mind. she was annoyed that mr green had been permitted to speak, but she could not blame herself for it. now, as she was looking back, she said she might have seen it coming; and so she might, if she had been thinking at all of mr green and his hopes. she saw now, that from various causes, with which she had had nothing at all to do, they had met more frequently, and fallen into more familiar acquaintanceship than she had been aware of while the time was passing, and she could see where he might have taken encouragement where none was meant, and she was grieved that it had been so. but she could not blame herself, and she could not bring herself to pity him very much. "he will not break his heart, if he has one; and there are others far better fitted to please him, and to enjoy what he has to bestow, than i could ever have done; and, so that arthur says nothing about it, there is no harm done." so she put the subject from her as something quite past and done with. and there was something else quite past and done with. "i am afraid i have been very foolish and wrong," she said, letting her thoughts go farther back into the day. she said it over and over again, and it was true. she had been foolish, and perhaps a little wrong. never once, since that miserable night, now more than two years ago, when he had brought harry home, had graeme touched the hand or met the eye of allan ruthven. she had frequently seen lilias, and she had not consciously avoided him, but it had so happened that they had never met. in those old times she had come to the knowledge that, unasked, she had given him more than friendship, and she had shrunk, with such pain and shame, from the thought that she might still do so, that she had grown morbid over the fear. to-day she had seen him. she had clasped his hand, and met his look, and listened to his friendly words, and she knew it was well with her. they were friends whom time, and absence, and perhaps suffering, had tried, and they would be friends always. she did not acknowledge, in words, either her fear or her relief; but she was glad with a sense of the old pleasure in the friendship of allan and lilias; and she was saying to herself that she had been foolish and wrong to let it slip out of her life so utterly as she had done. she told herself that true friendship, like theirs, was too sweet and rare a blessing to be suffered to die out, and that when they came home again the old glad time would come back. "i am glad that i have seen them again, very glad. and i am glad in their happiness. i know that i am glad now." it was very late, and she was tired after the long day, but she lingered still, thinking of many things, and of all that the past had brought, of all that the future might bring. her thoughts were hopeful ones, and as she went slowly up the stairs to her room, she was repeating janet's words, and making them her own. "i will take heart and trust. if the work i have here is god-given, he will accept it, and make me content in it, be it great or little, and i will take heart and trust." chapter thirty seven. if, on the night of the day when janet went away, graeme could have had a glimpse of her outward life for the next two years, she might have shrunk, dismayed, from the way that lay before her. and yet when two years and more had passed, over the cares, and fears, and disappointments, over the change and separation which the time had brought, she could look with calm content, nay, with grateful gladness. they had not been eventful years--that is, they had been unmarked by any of the especial tokens of change, of which the eye of the world is wont to take note, the sadden and evident coming into their lives of good or evil fortune. but graeme had only to recall the troubled days that had been before the time when she had sought help and comfort from her old friend, to realise that these years had brought to her, and to some of those she loved, a change real, deep, and blessed, and she daily thanked god, for contentment and a quiet heart. that which outwardly characterised the time to graeme, that to which she could not have looked forward hopefully or patiently, but upon which she could look back without regret, was her separation from her sister. at first all things had happened as had been planned. they made their preparations for their long talked of visit to merleville; they enjoyed the journey, the welcome, the wedding. will went away, and then they had a few quiet, restful days with janet; and then there came from home sad tidings of fanny's illness--an illness that brought her in a single night very near to the gates of death, and graeme did not need her brother's agonised entreaties to make her hasten to her side. the summons came during a brief absence of rose from merleville, and was too imperative to admit of graeme's waiting for her return, so she was left behind. afterwards, when fanny's danger was over, she was permitted to remain longer, and when sudden business brought their brother norman east, his determination to take her home with him, and her inclination to go, prevailed over graeme's unwillingness to consent, and the sisters, for the first time in their lives, had separate homes. the hope of being able to follow her in the spring, had at first reconciled graeme to the thought, but when spring came, fanny was not well enough to be left, nor would norman consent to the return of rose; and so for one reason or other, more than two years passed before the sisters met again. they were not unhappy years to graeme. many anxious hours came in the course of them, to her and to them all; but out of the cares and troubles of the time came peace, and more than peace at last. the winter that followed her return from merleville, was rather a dreary one. the restraints and self-denials, which the delicate state of her health necessarily imposed upon her, were very irksome to fanny; and graeme's courage and cheerfulness, sometimes during these first months, were hardly sufficient to answer the demands made upon her. but all this changed as the hour of fanny's trial approached--the hour that was to make her a proud and happy mother; or to quench her hope, perhaps, her life, in darkness. all this was changed. out of the entire trust which fanny had come to place in her sister graeme, grew the knowledge of a higher and better trust. the love and care which, during those days of sickness and suffering, and before those days, were made precious and assured, were made the means of revealing to her a love which can never fail to do otherwise than the very best for its object-- a care more than sufficient for all the emergencies of life, and beyond life. and so, as the days went on, the possibilities of the future ceased to terrify her. loving life, and bound to it by ties that grew stronger and closer every day, she was yet not afraid to know, that death might be before her; and she grew gentle and quiet with a peace so sweet and deep, that it sometimes startled graeme with a sadden dread, that the end might, indeed, be drawing near. graeme was set at rest about one thing. if there had lingered in her heart any fear lest her brother's happiness was not secure in fanny's keeping, or that his love for her would not stand the wear and tear of common life, when the first charms of her youth and beauty, and her graceful, winning ways were gone, that fear did not outlast this time. through the weariness and fretfulness of the first months of her illness, he tended her, and hung about her, and listened to her complaints with a patience that never tired; and when her fretful time was over, and the days came when she lay hushed and peaceful, yet a little awed and anxious, looking forward to she knew not what, he soothed and encouraged her with a gentle cheerfulness, which was, to graeme, pathetic, in contrast with the restless misery that seemed to take possession of him when he was not by her side. one does not need to be very good, or very wise, or even beautiful to win true love; and fanny was safe in the love of her husband, and to her sister's mind, growing worthier of it every day. graeme would have hardly acknowledged, even to herself, how much arthur needed the discipline of this time, but afterwards she saw it plainly. life had been going very smoothly with him, and he had been becoming content with its routine of business and pleasure. the small successes of his profession, and the consideration they won for him, were in danger of being prized at more than their value, and of making him forget things better worth remembering, and this pause in his life was needed. these hours in his wife's sick-room, apparently so full of rest and peace, but really so anxious and troubled, helped him to a truer estimate of the value of that which the world can bestow, and forced him to compare them with those things over which the world has no power! fanny's eager, sometimes anxious questionings, helped to the same end. the confidence with which she brought her doubts and difficulties to him for solution, her evident belief in his superior wisdom and goodness, her perfect trust in his power and skill to put her right about matters of which until now she had never thought, were a reproach to him often. listening to her, and pondering on the questions which her words suggested, he saw how far he had wandered from the paths which his father had trod, how far he had fallen short of the standard at which he had aimed, and the true object of life grew clearer to him during those days. they helped each other to the finding of the better way; she helped him most, and graeme helped them both. these were anxious days to her, but happy days, as well. in caring for these two, so dear to her in seeking for them the highest happiness, in striving, earnestly, that this time might not be suffered to pass, without leaving a blessing behind, she forgot herself and her own fears and cares and in seeking their happiness found her own. this quiet time came to an end. the little life so longed for, so precious, lingered with them but a day, and passed away. fanny hovered for a time on the brink of the grave, but was restored again, to a new life, better loved and more worthy of love than ever she had been before. that summer they went south, to the seaside, and afterwards before they returned home, to merleville, where arthur joined them. it was a time of much pleasure and profit to them all. it did arthur good to stand with his sister beside the two graves. they spoke there more fully and freely than they had ever spoken to each other before, of the old times, of their father and mother, and of the work they had been honoured to do in the world; and out of the memories thus awakened, came earnest thoughts and high resolves to both. viewed in the light which shone from his father's life and work, his own could not but seem to arthur mean and worthless. truths seen dimly, and accepted with reserve, amid the bustle of business, and the influence of the world, presented themselves clearly and fully here, and bowed both his heart and his reason, and though he said little to his sister, she knew that life, with its responsibilities and duties, would henceforth have a deeper and holier meaning to him. janet never spoke to graeme of her old troubled thoughts. "it is all coming right with my bairn," she said, softly, to herself, the very first glimpse she got of her face, and seeing her and watching her during these few happy days, she knew that she had grown content with her life, and its work, and that the fever of her heart was healed. and as the days went on, and she saw arthur more and more like his father, in the new earnestness of his thoughts and hopes, and watched fanny gentle, and loving, mindful of others, clinging to graeme, and trusting and honouring her entirely,--a fanny as different as could well be imagined from the vain, exacting little housekeeper, who had so often excited her indignation, a year ago, she repeated again and again. "it is coming right with them all." another year passed, bringing new cares, and new pleasures, and, to arthur and fanny, the fulfilment of new hopes in the birth of a son. to graeme, it brought many longings for the sight of her sister's face, many half formed plans for going to her, or for bringing her home, but arthur's boy was three months old before she saw her sister. will was still in scotland, to stay for another year, at least harry had been at home several times since his first sorrowful departure, and now there was a prospect that he would be at home always. a great change had taken place in his affairs. the firm of elphinstone and company no longer existed. it was succeeded by one, which bade fair to be as prosperous, and in time, as highly honoured as it had been, the firm of elliott, millar and company. mr ruthven was still in the business, that is, he had left in it the capital necessary to its establishment on a firm basis, but he took no part in the management of its affairs. he lived in scotland now, and had done so ever since the death of his wife, which, had taken place soon after they had reached that country. he had since succeeded, on the death of his uncle, his father's brother, to the inheritance of a small estate near his native place, and there, with his mother and his little daughter, he resided. either, it was said, his uncle had made his residence on the place a condition of possession, or he had grown tired of a life of business, but he, evidently, did not intend to return to canada at present; even his half-brother, who deeply regretted his early withdrawal from active life, and earnestly remonstrated with him concerning it, knew little about his motives, except that his health was not so firm as it used to be, and that he had determined not to engage in business again. harry had changed much, during the years of his absence. up to the time of his leaving home, he had retained his boyish frankness and love of fun, more than is usual in one really devoted to business, and successful in it. when he came back, he seemed older than those years ought to have made him. he was no longer the merry, impulsive lad, ready on the shortest notice, to take part in anything that promised amusement for the moment, whatever the next might bring. he was quiet and observant now; hardly doing his part in general conversation, holding his own views and opinions with sufficient tenacity when they were assailed, but rather indifferent as to what might be the views and opinions of others; as unlike as possible to the harry who had been so ready on all occasions, either in earnest or in sport, to throw himself into the discussion of all manner of questions, with all kind of people. even in their own circle, he liked better to listen than to speak, but he fell quite naturally and happily into his place at home, though it was not just the old place. graeme thought him wonderfully improved, and made no secret of her pride and delight in him. arthur thought him improved too, but he shocked his sister dreadfully, by professing to see in him indications of character, that suggested a future resemblance to their respected friend, mr elias green, in more than in success. "he is rather too devoted to business, too indifferent to the claims of society, and to the pursuits of the young swells of the day, to be natural, i am afraid. but it will pay. in the course of fifteen or twenty years, we shall have him building a `palatial residence', and boring himself and other people, like our respected friend. you seem to be a little discontented with the prospect, graeme." "discontented!" echoed graeme. "it is with you, that i am discontented. how can you speak of anything so horrible? you don't know harry." "i know what the result of such entire devotion to business must be, joined to such talents as harry's. success, of course, and a measure of satisfaction with it, more or less, as the case maybe. no, you need not look at harry's friend and partner. he is `tarred with the same stick,' as mrs snow would say." harry's friend and partner, laughed. "mrs snow would never say that about mr millar," said graeme indignantly, "nor about harry either; and neither of them will come to a fate like that." "they may fail, or they may marry. i was only speaking of the natural consequences of the present state of affairs, should nothing intervene to prevent such a conclusion." "harry will never grow to be like mr green," said fanny, gravely. "graeme will not let him." "there is something in that," said arthur. "there is a great deal in that," said mr millar. "there are a great many to keep harry from a fate like that, besides me," said graeme, "even if there was any danger to one of his loving and generous nature." she was more in earnest than the occasion seemed to call for. "graeme," said fanny, eagerly, "you don't suppose arthur is in earnest. he thinks there is no one like harry." arthur laughed. "i don't think there are many like him, certainly, but he is not beyond spoiling, and graeme, and you, too, make a great deal too much of him, i am afraid." "if that would spoil one, you would have been spoiled long ago," said graeme, laughing. "oh! that is quite another matter; but as to harry, it is a good thing that rose is coming home, to divert the attention of you two from him a while," added he, as his brother came into the room. "and you will do your best to spoil her, too, if some of the rest of us don't counteract your influence." "what is it all about?" said harry. "are you spoiling your son, fanny? is that the matter under discussion?" "no. it is you that we are spoiling, graeme and i. we admire you quite too much, arthur says, and he is afraid we shall do the same for rose." "as for rose, i am afraid the spoiling process must have commenced already, if admiration will do it," said harry. "if one is to believe what norman says, she has been turning a good many heads out there." "so that her own head is safe, the rest cannot be helped," said graeme, with a little vexation. it was not harry's words, so much as his tone, that she disliked. he shrugged his shoulders. "oh! as to that, i am not sure. i don't think she tried to help it. why should she? it is her natural and proper sphere of labour--her vocation. i think she enjoyed it, rather." "harry, don't! i can't bear to hear you speak of rose in that way." "oh! my speaking of it can't make any difference, you know; and if you don't believe me, you can ask charlie. he is my authority for the last bit of news of rosie." charlie looked up astonished and indignant, and reddened as he met graeme's eye. "i don't understand you, harry--the least in the world," said he. "do you mean to say you have forgotten the postscript i saw in rowland's letter about mr green and his hopes and intentions? come, now, charlie, that is a little too much." "mr green!" repeated arthur and fanny, in a breath. "are we never to have done with that unhappy man?" said graeme, indignantly. "the idea of rose ever looking at him!" said fanny. "oh! she might look at him without doing herself any harm," said harry. "she might even indulge in a little innocent flirtation--" "harry," said fanny, solemnly, "if there is a word in the english language that graeme hates it is that. don't say it again, i beg." harry shrugged his shoulders. graeme looked vexed and anxious. "miss elliott," said charlie, rising, in some embarrassment, "i hope you don't think me capable of discussing--or permitting--. i mean, in the letter to which harry refers, your sister's name was not mentioned. you have received a wrong impression. i am the last person in the world that would be likely to offend in that way." "charlie, man! you are making much ado about nothing; and, graeme, you are as bad. of course, rosie's name was not mentioned; but i know quite well, and so do you, who `la belle canadienne' was. but no harm was meant, and none was done." "it would be rather a good joke if rosie were to rule in the `palatial residence' after all, wouldn't it?" said arthur, laughing. "arthur, don't! it is not nice to have the child's name coupled with-- with any one," said graeme. "it may not be nice, but it cannot be helped," said harry. "it is the penalty that very pretty girls, like rose, have to pay for their beauty--especially when they are aware of it--as rose has good right to be by this time. small blame to her." "and i don't see that there is really anything to be annoyed about, graeme," said arthur. "a great deal more than the coupling of names might happen without rosie being to blame, as no one should know better than you." "of course. we are not speaking of blame, and we will say no more about it," said graeme, rising; and nothing more was said. by and by harry and his friend and partner rose to go. they lived together, now, in the house behind the willow trees, which rose had taken such pleasure in watching. it was a very agreeable place of residence still, though a less fashionable locality than it used to be; and they were fortunate enough to have the efficient and kindly nelly as housekeeper, and general caretaker still, and she magnified her office. harry had some last words to exchange with arthur, and then mr millar approached graeme and said, with a smile that was rather forced and uncertain,-- "i ought to apologise for coming back to the subject again. i don't think you believe me likely to speak of your sister in a way that would displease you. won't you just say so to me?" "charlie! i know you could not. you are one of ourselves." charlie's face brightened. of late it had been "mr millar," mostly-- not that graeme liked him less than she used to do; but she saw him less frequently, and he was no longer a boy, even to her. but this time it was, "charlie," and he was very much pleased. "you have been quite a stronger, lately," she went on; "but now that mrs elliott is better and rose coming home, we shall be livelier and better worth visiting. we cannot bring the old times quite back, even with harry and rose, but we shall always be glad to see you." she spoke cordially, as she felt, and he tried to answer in the same way; but he was grave, and did not use many words. "i hope there is nothing wrong," said graeme, observing his changing look. "nothing for which there is any help," said he. "no there is nothing wrong." "i am ready, charlie," said harry, coming forward. "and graeme, you are not to trouble yourself about rose's conquests. when she goes to her own house--`palatial' or otherwise--and the sooner the better for all concerned--you are coming to take care of charlie and me." "there may be two or three words to be said on that subject," said arthur, laughing. "i am sure neither you nor fanny will venture to object; you have had graeme all your life--at least for the last seven years. i should like to hear you, just. i am not joking, graeme." graeme laughed. "there is no hurry about it, is there? i have heard of people changing their minds; and i won't set my heart on it, in case i should be disappointed." chapter thirty eight. so rose came home at last. not just the rose who had left them, now more than two years ago, even in the eyes of her sister. her brothers thought her greatly changed and improved. she was more womanly, and dignified, and self-reliant, they said, and graeme assented, wondering and pleased; though it had been the desire of her heart that her sister should come back to her just what she was when she went away. she would probably have changed quite as much during those two years, had they been passed at home, though they might not have seen it so plainly. but arthur declared that she had become americanised to an astonishing degree, not making it quite clear whether he thought that an improvement, indeed not being very clear about it himself. harry agreed with him, without the reservation; for harry admired the american ladies, and took in good part rose's hints and congratulations with regard to a certain miss cora snider, an heiress and a beauty of c---. "a trifle older than harry," explained she, laughing, aside to graeme; "but that, of course, is a small matter, comparatively, other things `being agreeable.'" "of course," said harry, with a shrug that set graeme's fancy at rest about miss cora snider. in less time than graeme at first supposed possible, they fell back into their old ways again. rose's dignity and self-reliance were for her brothers and her friends generally. with graeme she was, in a day or two, just what she had been before she went away--a dear child and sister, to be checked and chided, now and then; to be caressed and cared for always; growing, day by day, dearer and fairer to her sister's loving eyes. she was glad to be at home again. she was very fond of norman and hilda and their boys, and she had been very happy with them; but there was no one like graeme, and there was no place like home. so she fell into her old place and ways, and was so exactly the rosie of old times, that graeme smiled in secret over the idea of her child having been in danger of being spoiled by admiration or by a love of it. it was quite impossible to believe that a love of pleasure would let her be so content with their quiet life, their household occupations, their unvaried round of social duties and pleasures. admired she might have been, but it had not harmed her; she had come back to them quite unspoiled, heart-free and fancy-free, graeme said to herself, with a sense of relief and thankfulness, that grew more assured as the time went on. "it amuses me very much to hear arthur say i am changed," said rose, one day, when the sisters were sitting together. "why, if i had come home a strong-minded woman and the president of a convention, it would have been nothing to the change that has taken place in fanny, which i daresay he does not see at all, as a change; he always was rather blind where she was concerned. but what have you being doing to fanny, graeme?" "rose, my dear," said graeme, gravely, "fanny has had a great deal of sickness and suffering, and her change is for the better, i am sure; and, besides, are you not speaking a little foolishly?" "well, perhaps so, but not unkindly, as far as fanny is concerned. for the better! i should think so. but then i fancied that fanny was just the one to grow peevish in sickness, and ill to do with, as janet would say; and i confess, when i heard of the arrival of young arthur, i was afraid, remembering old times, and her little airs, that she might not be easier to live with." "now, rosie, that is not quite kind." "but it is quite true. that is just what i thought first, and what i said to norman. i know you said how nice she was, and how sweet, and all that, but i thought that was just your way of seeing things; you never would see fanny's faults, you know, even at the very first." graeme shook her head. "i think you must have forgotten about the very first. we were both foolish and faithless, then. it has all come right; arthur is very happy in his wife, though i never thought it could be in those days." there was a long pause after that, and then rose said,-- "you must have had a very anxious time, and a great deal to do, when she was so long ill that first winter. i ought to have been here to help you, and i should have been, if i had known." "i wished for you often, but i did not have too much to do, or to endure. i am none the worse for it all." "no," said rose, and she came over and kissed her sister, and then sat down again. graeme looked very much pleased, and a little surprised. rose took up her work, and said, with a laugh that veiled something,-- "i think you have changed--improved--almost as much as fanny, though there was not so much need." graeme laughed, too. "there was more need for improvement than you know or can imagine. i am glad you see any." "i am anxious about one thing, however, and so is fanny, i am sure," said rose, as fanny came into the room, with her baby in her arms. "i think i see an intention on your part to become stout. i don't object to a certain roundness, but it may be too decided." "graeme too stout! how can you say such things, rosie?" said fanny, indignantly. "she is not so slender as when i went away." "no, but she was too slender then. arthur thinks she is growing handsomer, and so do i." "well, perhaps," said rose, moving believe to examine graeme critically; "still i must warn her against future possibilities as to stoutness--and other things." "it is not the stoutness that displeases her, fanny," said graeme, laughing; "it is the middle-aged look that is settling down upon me, that she is discontented with." "fanny," said rose, "don't contradict her. she says that on purpose to be contradicted. a middle-aged look, is it? i dare say it is!" "a look of contentment with things as they are," said graeme. "there is a look of expectation on most _young_ faces, you know, a hopeful look, which too often changes to an anxious look, or look of disappointment, as youth passes away. i mean, of course, with single women. i suppose it is that with me; or, do i look as if i were settling down content with things as they are?" "graeme," said her sister, "if some people were to speak like that in my hearing, i should say it sounded a little like affectation." "i hope it is not politeness, alone, which prevents you from saying it to me?" "but it is all nonsense, graeme dear," said fanny. "how old are you, graeme?" said rose. "middle-aged, indeed!" "rosie, does not ten years seem a long time, to look forward to? shall you not begin to think yourself middle-aged ten years hence?" "certainly not; by no means; i have no such intention, unless, indeed--. but we won't speak about such unpleasant things. fanny, shan't i take the baby while you do that?" "if you would like to take him," said fanny, with some hesitation. baby was a subject on which rose and fanny had not quite come to a mutual understanding. rose was not so impressed with the wonderful attractions of her son as fanny thought she ought to be. even graeme had been surprised at her indifference to the charms of her nephew, and expostulated with her on the subject. but rose had had a surfeit of baby sweetness, and, after hilda's strong, beautiful boys, fanny's little, delicate three months' baby was a disappointment to her, and she made no secret of her amusement at the devotion of graeme, and the raptures of his mother over him. but now, as she took him in her arms, she astonished them with such eloquence of baby-talk as baby had never heard before. fanny was delighted. happily graeme prevented the question that trembled on her lips as to the comparative merits of her nephews, by saying,-- "well done, rosie! if only harry could hear you!" "i have often wished that hilda could see and hear you both over this little mortal. you should see hilda. does not she preserve her equanimity? fancy her walking the room for hours with any of her boys, as you did the other night with this one. not she, indeed, nor any one else, with her permission." "i thought--i am sure you have always spoken about hilda as a model mother," said fanny, doubtfully. "and a fond mother," said graeme. "she _is_ a model mother; she is fond, but she is wise," said rose, nodding her head. "i say no more." "fanny dear, we shall have to learn of rose. we are very inexperienced people, i fear," said graeme, smiling. "well, i daresay even i might teach you something. but you should see hilda and her babies. her eldest son is three years old, and her second will soon be two, and her daughter is four months. suppose she had begun by walking all night with each of them, and by humouring every whim?" and then rose began her talk with the baby again, saying all sorts of things about the fond foolishness of his little mamma and his aunt graeme, that it would not have been at all pretty, she acknowledged, to say to themselves. graeme listened, smiling, but fanny looked anxious. "rose," said she, "tell me about hilda's way. i want to have the very best way with baby. i know i am not very wise, but i do wish to learn and to do right!" her words and her manner reminded rose so forcibly, by contrast, of the fanny whose vanity and self-assertion had been such a vexation so often, that, in thinking of those old times, she forgot to answer her, and sat playing with the child's clasping fingers. "she thinks i will never be like hilda," said fanny, dolefully, to graeme. rose shook her head. "there are not many like hilda; but i don't see any reason why you should not be as good a mother as she is, and have as obedient children. you have as good a teacher. no, don't look at graeme. i know what you mean. she has taught you all the good that is in you. there are more of us who could say the same--except for making her vain. it is this young gentleman, i mean, who is to teach you." and she began her extraordinary confidences to the child, till graeme and fanny were both laughing heartily at her nonsense. "i'll tell you what, fanny," said she, looking up in a little. "it is the mother-love that makes one wise, and solomon has something to do with it. you must take him into your confidence. but, dear me! think of my venturing to give you good advice, i might be janet herself." "but, rosie, dear," said graeme, still laughing, "solomon has nothing to say about such infants as this one." "has he not? well, that is hilda's mistake, then. she is responsible for my opinions. i know nothing. the wisdom i am dispensing so freely is entirely hers. you must go and see hilda and her babies, and you will understand all about it." "i mean to go and see her, not entirely for the sake of her wisdom, however, though it must be wonderful to have impressed you so deeply." "yes, it _is_ wonderful. but you will be in no hurry about going, will you? two or three years hence will be time enough, i should think. i mean to content myself here for that time, and you are not going there, or anywhere, without me. that is quite decided, whatever arrangements norman may have made." "i don't think he will object to your going with me, if arthur doesn't, and fanny," said graeme, smiling. "possibly not. but i am not going yet. and no plan that is meant to separate you and me shall prosper," said rose, with more heat than the occasion seemed to call for, as though the subject had been previously discussed in a manner not to her liking. graeme looked grave and was silent a moment, then she said,-- "i remember saying almost these very words before we went to merleville, to emily's wedding. but you know how differently it turned out for you and me. we will keep together while we can, dear, but we must not set our hearts upon it, or upon any other earthly good, as though we knew best what is for our own happiness." "well, i suppose that is the right way to look at it. but i am to be your first consideration this winter, you must remember, and you are to be mine." "graeme," said fanny, earnestly, "i don't think rose is spoiled in the least." fanny made malapropos speeches sometimes still, but they were never unkindly meant now, and she looked with very loving eyes from one sister to the other. "i hope you did not think hilda was going to spoil me. did you?" said rose, laughing. "no, not hilda; and it was not i who thought so, nor graeme. but harry said you were admired more than was good for you, perhaps, and--" rose shrugged her shoulders. "oh! harry is too wise for anything. i had a word or two with him on that subject myself, the last time he was out at norman's. you must not mind what harry says about me, fanny, dear." "but, rose, you are not to think that harry said anything that was not nice. it was one night when mr millar was here, and there was something said about mr green. and he thought--one of them thought that you--that he--i have forgotten what was said. what was it, graeme? you were here as well as i." "i am very sure there was nothing said that was not nice," said graeme. "i don't quite remember about it. there was nothing worth remembering or repeating." "i daresay harry told you i was a flirt. he told me so, myself, once," said rose, tossing her head in a way graeme did not like to see. "hush, dear. he said nothing unkind, you may be sure." "and, now i remember, it was not harry but mr millar who spoke about mr green," said fanny, "and about the `palatial residence,' and how rose, if she liked, might--" rose moved about impatiently. "i must say i cannot admire the taste that would permit the discussion of anything of that sort with a stranger," said she, angrily. "my dear, you are speaking foolishly. there was no such discussion. and if you say anything more on the subject, i shall think that harry was right when he said you were fond of admiration, and that your conscience is troubling you about something. here comes nurse for baby. i suppose it is time for his bath, is it mamma?" fanny left the room with the child, and, after a few minutes' silence, rose said, with an effort,-- "now, graeme, please tell me what all this is about." "dear, there is nothing to tell. i fancy harry used to think that i was too anxious and eager about your coming home, and wanted to remind me that you were no longer a child, but a woman, who was admired, and who might, by and by, learn to care for some one else, more than for your sister and brothers. but he did not seriously say anything that you need care about. it would have been as well, perhaps, not to have said anything in mr millar's presence, since we seem to have fallen a little out of acquaintance with him lately. but harry has not, and he did not consider, and, indeed, there was nothing said that he might not very well hear." "it seems it was he who had most to say." "no. you are mistaken. fanny did not remember correctly. it was either arthur or harry who had something to say about mr green. i don't think charlie had anything to say about it. i am sure he would be the last one willingly to displease me or you. and, really, i don't see why you should be angry about it, dear rosie." "i am not angry. why should i be angry?" but she reddened as she met graeme's eye. graeme looked at her in some surprise. "harry is--is unbearable sometimes," said rose. "fancy his taking me to task about--about his friend--oh! there is no use talking about it. graeme, are you going out?" "yes, if you like. but, rose, i think you are hard upon harry. there must be some misunderstanding. why! he is as fond and as proud of you as possible. you must not be vain when i say so." "that does not prevent his being very unreasonable, all the same. however, he seems to have got over it, or forgotten it. don't let us speak any more about it, graeme, or think about it either." but graeme did think about it, and at first had thoughts of questioning harry with regard to rose's cause of quarrel with him, but she thought better of it and did not. nor did she ever speak about it again to rose; but it came into her mind often when she saw the two together, and once, when she heard harry say something to rose about her distance and dignity, and how uncalled for all that sort of thing was, she would have liked to know to what he was referring to, but she did not ask, for, notwithstanding little disagreements of this kind, they were evidently excellent friends. how exactly like the old time before arthur's marriage, and before will or harry went away, some of the days were, that followed the coming home of rose. they seemed like the days even longer ago, graeme felt, with a sense of rest and peace at her heart unspeakable. for the old content, nay, something better and more abiding had come back to her. the peace that comes after a time of trouble, the content that grows out of sorrow sanctified, are best. remembering what has gone before, we know how to estimate the depth, and strength, and sweetness--the sharpness of past pain being a measure for the present joy. and, besides, the content that comes to us from god, out of disappointment and sorrow, is ours beyond loss, because it is god-given, and we need fear no evil. so these were truly peaceful days to graeme, untroubled by regret for the past, or by anxious fears for the future. they were busy days, too, filled with the occupations that naturally sprung out of happy home life, and agreeable social relations. rose had been honoured, beyond her deserts, she said, by visits since she came home. these had to be returned, and graeme, who had fallen off from the performance of such duties, during rose's absence, and fanny's illness, took pleasure in going with her. she took real pleasure in many of these visits, sometimes because of the renewal of friendly interest, sometimes for other reasons. the new way in which the character and manner of rose came out never failed to amuse her. at home, and especially in her intercourse with her, rose was just what she had been as a child, except the difference that a few added years must make. but it was by no means so in her intercourse with the rest of the world. she had ideas and opinions of her own, and she had her own way of making them known, or of defending them when attacked. there was not much opportunity for seeing this during brief formal visits, but now and then graeme got a glimpse that greatly amused her. the quiet self-possession with which she met condescending advances, and accepted or declined compliments, the serene air with which she ignored or rebuked the little polite impertinences, not yet out of fashion in fine drawing-rooms, it was something to see. and her perfect unconsciousness of her sister's amusement or its cause was best of all to graeme. arthur amused himself with this change in her, also, and had a better opportunity to do so. for graeme seldom went to large parties, and it was under the chaperonage of mrs arthur that rose, as a general thing, made her appearance in their large and agreeable circle, on occasions of more than usual ceremony. not that there were very many of these. fanny was perfectly well now, and enjoyed these gay gatherings in moderation, but they were not so necessary to her happiness as they used to be, and rose, though she made no secret of the pleasure she took in them, was not unreasonable in her devotion to society. so the winter was rather quiet than otherwise, and graeme and rose found themselves with a good deal of leisure time at their disposal. for true to her first idea of what was for the happiness of her brother's household, graeme, as fanny grew stronger, gradually withdrew from the bearing of responsibility where household matters were concerned, and suffered it to fall, as she felt it to be right, on arthur's wife. not that she refused to be helpful; either in word or in deed, but it was as much as possible at the bidding of the mistress of the house. it was not always very easy to do, often not by any means so easy as it would have been to go on in the old way, but she was very much in earnest about this thing. it was right that it should be so, for many reasons. the responsibilities, as well as the honour, due to the mistress of the house, were fanny's. these could not, she being in health and able to bear them, be assumed by her sister without mutual injury. the honour and responsibility could not be separated without danger and loss. all this graeme tried to make fanny see without using many words, and she had a more docile pupil than she would have had during the first year of her married-life. for fanny had now entire confidence in the wisdom and love of her sister, and did her best to profit by her teaching: it was the same where the child was concerned. while she watched over both with loving care, she hesitated to interfere or to give advice, even in small matters, lest she should lessen in the least degree the young mother's sense of responsibility, knowing this to be the best and surest guide to the wise and faithful performance of a mother's duties. and every day she was growing happier in the assurance that all was coming right with her sister, that she was learning the best of all wisdom, the wisdom of gentleness and self-forgetfulness, and of devotion to the welfare of others, and that all this was bearing fruit in the greater happiness of the household. and besides this, or rather as a result of this, she bade fair to be a notable little house-mother also; a little over-anxious, perhaps, and not very patient with her own failures, or with the failures of others, but still in earnest to attain success, and to be in all things what in the old times, she had only cared to seem. though harry did not now form one of the household, he was with them very often. mr millar did not quite fall into the place which harry's friend charlie had occupied, but though he said less about his enjoyment of the friendship of their circle, it was evident that it was not because he enjoyed it less than in the old times. he had only changed since then by growing quieter and graver, as they all had done. his brother's determination not to return to canada had been a great disappointment to him at the time, and he still regretted it very much, but he said little about it, less than was quite natural, perhaps, considering that they had once been such friends. circumstances had made the brothers strangers during the boyhood of the younger, and it was hard that circumstances should separate them again, just as they had been beginning to know and to value each other. charlie had hoped for a long time that allan might come back after a year or two; for his estate was by no means a large one, and he believed that he would soon weary of a life of inactivity, and return to business again. he was still young, and might, with his knowledge and experience, do anything he liked in the way of making money, charlie thought, and he could not be satisfied with his decision. but will, who had visited allan lately, assured charlie that his brother was settling down to the enjoyment of a quiet country life, and that though he might visit canada, there was little chance of his ever making that country his home again. "i should think not, indeed," said arthur, one night, as they were discussing the matter in connection with will's last letter. "you don't display your usual good judgment, charlie, man, where your brother is concerned. why should he return? he is enjoying now, a comparatively young man, all that you and harry expect to enjoy after some twenty or thirty years of hard labour--a competency in society congenial to him. why should he wait for this longer than he need?" "twenty or thirty years!" said harry. "not if i know it. you are thinking of old times. but i must say i agree with charlie. it is strange that mr ruthven should be content to sit down in comparative idleness, for, of course, the idea of farming his own land is absurd. and to tell you the truth, i never thought him one to be satisfied with a mere competency. i thought him at one time ambitious to become a rich, man--a great merchant." "it would not be safe or wise to disparage the life and aims of a great merchant in your presence, harry," said rose, "but one would think the life of a country gentleman preferable in some respects." "i don't think allan aspires to the position of a country gentleman--in the dignified sense in which the term is used where he is. his place is very beautiful, but it is not large enough to entitle him to the position of one of the great landed proprietors." "oh! as to that, the extent makes little difference. it is the land that his fathers have held for generations, and that is a thing to be proud of, and to give position, rose thinks," said arthur. "his father never owned it, and his grandfather did not hold it long. it was lost to the name many years ago, and bought back again by allan's uncle within ten years." "yes, with the good money of a good merchant," said harry. "and did he make it a condition that he should live on it?" said arthur. "no, i think not. allan never has said any such thing as that to me, or to my mother." "still he may think it his duty to live there." "i don't know. it is not as though it were a large estate, with many tenants, to whom he owed duty and care and all that. i think the life suits him. my mother always thought it was a great disappointment to him to be obliged to leave home when he did to enter upon a life of business. he did not object decidedly. there seemed at the time nothing else for him to do. so he came to canada." "i daresay his present life is just the very life he could enjoy most. i wonder that you are so vexed about his staying at home, charlie." "i daresay it is selfishness in me. and yet i don't think it is so altogether. i know, at least i am almost sure, that it would be better for him to come here, at least for a time. he might always have the going home to look forward to." "i cannot imagine how he can content himself there, after the active life he lived on this side of the water; he will degenerate into an old fogey, vegetating there," said harry. "but i think you are hard on yourself, mr millar, calling it selfishness in you to wish your brother to be near you," said graeme, smiling. "i could find a much nicer name for it than that." "i would like him to come for his own sake," said charlie. "as for me, i was just beginning to know him--to know how superior he is to most men, and then i lost him." he paused a moment-- "i mean, of course, we can see little of each other now, and we shall find it much easier to forget one another than if we had lived together and loved and quarrelled with each other as boys. i shall see him if i go home next summer, and i don't despair of seeing him here for a visit, at least." "will says he means to come some time. perhaps he will come back with you, or with will himself, when he comes," said rose. "oh! the voyage is nothing; a matter of ten days or less," said arthur. "it is like living next door neighbours, in comparison to what it was when we came over. of course he may come any month. i don't understand your desolation, charlie." charlie laughed. "when is will coming?" "it does not seem to be decided yet," said graeme. "he may come in the spring, but if he decides to travel first, as he seems to have an opportunity to do, he will not be here till next autumn, at the soonest. it seems a long time to put it off; but we ought not to grudge the delay, especially as he may never get another chance to go so easily and pleasantly." "what if will should think like mr ruthven, that a life at home is to be desired? how would you like that, girls?" said harry. "oh! but he never could have the same reason for thinking so. there is no family estate in his case," said rose, laughing. "who knows?" said arthur. "there may be a little dim kirk and a low-roofed manse waiting him somewhere. that would seem to be the most appropriate inheritance for his father's youngest son. what would you say to that graeme?" "i would rather say nothing--think nothing about it," said graeme, hastily. "it is not likely that could ever happen. it will all be arranged for us, doubtless." "it was very stupid of you, harry, to say anything of that sort to graeme," said rose. "now, she will vex herself about her boy, as though it were possible that he could stay there. he never will, i know." "i shall not vex myself, indeed, rosie--at least i shall not until i have some better reason for doing so, than harry's foolish speeches. mr millar, you said you might go home next summer. is that something new? or is it only new to us?" "it is possible that i may go. indeed, it is very likely. i shall know soon." "it depends on circumstances over which he has no control," said harry, impressively. "he has my best wishes, and he would have yours, graeme, i think, if you knew about it." "he has them, though i don't know about it," said graeme. "i have confidence in him that he deserves success." "yes, it is safe to wish him success--if not in one thing, in another. i am not sure that he quite knows what he wants yet, but i think i know what is good for him." "rosie," said fanny, suddenly, "mr millar can set us right now. i am glad i thought of it. mr millar, is mrs roxbury your aunt, or only your brother's?" "i am afraid it is only allan who can claim so close a relationship as that. i don't think i can claim any relationship at all. i should have to consider, before i could make it clear even to myself, how we are connected." "it is much better not to consider the subject, then," said arthur, "as they are rather desirable people to have for relations; call them cousins, and let it go." "but at any rate she is not your aunt, and amy roxbury is not your cousin, as some one was insisting over rose and me the other day. i told you so, rosie." "did you?" said rose, languidly. "i don't remember." "it was mrs gridley, i think, and she said--no, it must have been some one else--she said you were not cousins, but that it was a very convenient relationship, and very pleasant in certain circumstances." "very true, too, eh, charlie," said arthur, laughing. "i should scarcely venture to call miss roxbury cousin," said charlie. "she is very nice, indeed," pursued fanny. "rose fell in love with her at first sight, and the admiration was mutual, i think." rose shrugged her shoulders. "that is, perhaps, a little strong, fanny, dear. she is very charming, i have no doubt, but i am not so apt to fall into sudden admirations as i used to be." "but you admired her very much. and you said she was very like lily elphinstone, when you first saw her. i am sure you thought her very lovely, and so did graeme." "did i?" said rose. "she is very like her," said mr millar. "i did not notice it till her mother mentioned it. she is like her in other respects, too; but livelier and more energetic. she is stronger than lily used to be, and perhaps a little more like the modern young lady." "fast, a little, perhaps," said arthur. "oh! no; not like one in the unpleasant sense that the word has. she is self-reliant. she has her own ideas of men and things, and they are not always the same as her mamma's. but she is a dutiful daughter, and she is charming with her little brothers and sisters. such a number there are of them, too." charlie spoke eagerly, looking at graeme. "you seem deeply interested in her," said arthur, laughing. harry rose impatiently. "we should have mrs gridley here. i never think a free discussion of our neighbours and their affairs can be conducted on proper principles without her valuable assistance. your _cousin_ would be charmed to know that you made her the subject of conversation among your acquaintance, i have no doubt, charlie." "but she is not his cousin," said fanny. "and harry, dear, you are unkind to speak of us as mere acquaintances of mr millar. of course, he would not speak of her everywhere; and you must permit me to say you are a little unreasonable, not to say cross." and rose smiled very sweetly on him as she spoke. harry did look cross, and charlie looked astonished. graeme did not understand it. "was that young roxbury i saw you driving with the other day?" asked arthur. "he is going into business, i hear." "it was he," said charlie. "as to his going into business, i cannot say. he is quite young yet. he is not of age. are you going, harry? it is not very late yet." they did not go immediately, but they did not have much pleasure after that. he was very lively and amusing, and tried to propitiate harry, graeme thought, but she was not quite sure; there were a good many allusions to events and places and persons that she did not understand, and nothing could be plainer than that she did not succeed. then they had some music. rose sat at the piano till they went away, playing pieces long, loud, and intricate; and, after they went away, she sat down again, and played on still. "what put harry out of sorts to-night?" asked arthur. "was he out of sorts?" asked graeme, a little anxiously. rose laughed. "i shall have to give harry some good advice," said she; and that was the last word she said, till she said "good-night." "there is something wrong," said graeme to herself, "though i am sure i cannot tell what it is. in old times, rosie would have burst forth with it all, as soon as we came up-stairs. but it is nothing that can trouble her, i am sure. i hope it is nothing that will trouble her. i will not fret about it beforehand. we do not know our troubles from our blessings at first sight. it ought not to be less easy to trust for my darling than for myself. but, oh! rosie, i am afraid i have been at my old folly, dreaming idle dreams again." chapter thirty nine. graeme had rejoiced over her sister's return, "heart-free and fancy-free," rather more than was reasonable, seeing that the danger to her freedom of heart and fancy was as great at home as elsewhere, and, indeed, inevitable anywhere, and, under certain circumstances, desirable, as well. a very little thing had disturbed her sense of security before many weeks were over, and then, amid the mingling of anxiety and hope which followed, she could not but feel how vain and foolish her feeling of security had been. it was the look that had come into charlie millar's face one day, as his eye fell suddenly on the face of rose. graeme's heart gave a sudden throb of pain and doubt, as she saw it, for it told her that a change was coming over their quiet life, and her own experience made it seem to her a change to be dreaded. there had been a great snow-shoe race going on that day, in which they were all supposed to be much interested, because master albert grove was one of the runners, and had good hope of winning a silver medal which was to be the prize of the foremost in the race. graeme and rose had come with his little sisters to look, on, and rose had grown as eager and delighted as the children, and stood there quite unconscious of the admiration in charlie's eyes, and of the shock of pain that thrilled at her sister's heart. it was more than admiration that graeme saw in his eyes, but the look passed, and he made no movement through the crowd toward them, and everything was just as it had been before, except that the thought had come into graeme's mind, and could not quite be forgotten again. after that the time still went quietly on, and charlie came and went, and was welcomed as before; but graeme looking on him now with enlightened eyes, saw, or thought she saw, more and more clearly every day, the secret that he did not seem in haste to utter. and every day she saw it with less pain, and waited, at last, glad and wondering, for the time when the lover's word should change her sister's shy and somewhat stately courtesy into a frank acceptance of what could not but be precious, graeme thought, though still unknown or unacknowledged. and then the mention of amy roxbury's name, and the talk that followed, startled her into the knowledge that she had been dreaming. "rose," said she, after they had been up-stairs for some time, and were about to separate for the night, "what was the matter with harry this evening?" "what, indeed?" said rose, laughing. "he was quite out of sorts about something." "i did not think he knew the roxburys. he certainly has not known them long," said graeme. "no, not very long--at least, not miss amy, who has only just returned home, you know. but i think she was not at the root of his trouble; at least, not directly. i think he has found out a slight mistake of his, with regard to `his friend and partner.' that is what vexed him," said rose. "i don't know what you mean?" said graeme, gravely. "i should think harry could hardly be seriously mistaken in his friend by this time, and certainly i should not feel inclined to laugh at him." "oh! no. not _seriously_ mistaken; and i don't think he was so much vexed at the mistake, as that i should know it." "i don't understand you," said graeme. "it does not matter, graeme. it will all come out right, i daresay. harry was vexed because he saw that i was laughing at him, and it is just as well that he should be teased a little." "rose, don't go yet. what is there between you and harry that i don't know about? you would not willingly make me unhappy, rose, i am sure. tell me how you have vexed each other, dear. i noticed it to-night, and i have several times noticed it before. tell me all about it, rose." "there is nothing to tell, graeme, indeed. i was very much vexed with harry once, but i daresay there was no need for it. graeme, it is silly to repeat it," added rose, reddening. "there is no one to hear but me, dear." "it was all nonsense. harry took it into his head that i had not treated his friend well, when he was out west, at norman's, i mean. of course, we could not fall into home ways during his short visit there; everything was so different. but i was not `high and mighty' with him, as harry declared afterwards. he took me to task, sharply, and accused me of flirting, and i don't know what all, as though that would help his friend's cause, even if his friend had cared about it, which he did not. it was very absurd. i cannot talk about it, graeme. it was all harry's fancy. and to-night, when mr millar spoke so admiringly of amy roxbury, harry wasn't pleased, because he knew i remembered what he had said, and he knew i was laughing at him. and i fancy he admires the pretty little thing, himself. it would be great fun to see the dear friends turn out rivals, would it not?" said rose, laughing. "but that is all nonsense, rose." "of course, it is all nonsense, from beginning to end. that is just what i think, and what i have been saying to you. so don't let us say or think anything more about it. good-night." "good-night. it will all come right, i daresay;" and graeme put it out of her thoughts, as rose had bidden her do. after this, harry was away for a while, and they saw less of mr millar, because of his absence, graeme thought. he must have more to do, as the busy time of the coming and going of the ships was at hand. so their days passed very quietly, with only common pleasures to mark them, but they were happy days for all that; and graeme, seeing her sister's half-veiled pleasure when charlie came, and only half conscious impatience when he stayed away, smiled to herself as she repeated, "it will all come right." it was a fair april day; a little colder than april days are generally supposed to be, but bright and still--just the day for a long walk, all agreed; and rose went up-stairs to prepare to go out, singing out of a light heart as she went. graeme hastened to finish something that she had in her hand, that she might follow, and then a visitor came, and before rose came down with her hat on, another came; and the one that came last, and stayed longest, was their old friend, and harry's aversion, mrs gridley. rose had reconciled herself to the loss of her walk, by this time, and listened amused to the various subjects discussed, laying up an item now and then, for harry's special benefit. there was variety, for this was her first visit for a long time. after a good many interesting excursions among the affairs of their friends and neighbours, she brought them back in her pleasant way to their own. "by the by, is it true that young roxbury is going into business with mr millar and your brother?" "we have not bees informed of any such design," said rose. "your brother is away just now, is he not? will he return? young men who have done business elsewhere, are rather in the habit of calling our city slow. i hope your brother harry does not. is young roxbury to take his place in the firm, or are all three to be together?" "harry does not make his business arrangements the subject of conversation very often," said graeme, gravely. "he is quite right," said mrs gridley. "and i daresay, young roxbury would not be a great acquisition to the firm, though his father's money might. however, some of _that_ may be got in a more agreeable way. mr millar is doing his best, they say. but, amy roxbury is little more than a child. still some very foolish marriages seem to turn out very well. am i not to see mrs elliott, to-day? she is a very devoted mother, it seems." "she would have been happy to see you, if she had been at home." "and she is quite well again? what a relief it must be to you," said mrs gridley, amiably. "and you are all quite happy together! i thought you were going to stay at the west, rose?" "i could not be spared any longer; they could not do without me." "and are you going to keep house for harry, at elphinstone house, or is mr millar to have that?" and so on, till she was tired, at last, and went away. "what nonsense that woman talks, to be sure!" said rose. "worse than nonsense, i am afraid, sometimes," said graeme. "really, harry's terror of her is not surprising. nobody seems safe from her tongue." "but don't let us lose our walk, altogether. we have time to go round the square, at any rate. it is not late," said rose. they went out, leaving, or seeming to leave, all thought of mrs gridley and her news behind them. they met fanny returning home, before they had gone far down the street. "come with us, fanny. baby is all right. are you tired?" said rose. "no, i am not tired. but is it not almost dinner time? suppose we go and meet arthur." "well--only there is a chance of missing him; and it is much nicer up toward s street. however, we can go home that way. there will be time enough. how delightful the fresh air is, after a whole day in the house!" "and after mrs gridley," said graeme, laughing. "have you had mrs gridley?" said fanny. "yes, and columns of news, but it will keep. is it not nice to be out? i would like to borrow that child's skipping rope, and go up the street as she does." fanny laughed. "wouldn't all the people be amazed? tell me what news mrs gridley gave you." rose went over a great many items, very fast, and very merrily. "all that, and more besides, which graeme will give you, if you are not satisfied. there is your husband. i hope he may be glad to see us all." "if he is not, he can go home by himself." arthur professed himself delighted, but suggested the propriety of their coming one at a time, after that, so that the pleasure might last longer. "very well, one at a time be it," said rose. "come, fanny, he thinks it possible to have too much of a good thing. let him have graeme, to-night, and we will take care of ourselves." they went away together, and arthur and graeme followed, and so it happened that graeme had lost sight of her sister; when she saw something that brought some of mrs gridley's words unpleasantly to her mind. they had turned into s street, which was gay with carriages, and with people riding and walking, and the others were at a distance before them under the trees, when arthur spoke to some one, and looking up, she saw miss roxbury, on horseback, and at her side rode mr millar. she was startled, so startled that she quite forgot to return miss roxbury's bow and smile, and had gone a good way down the street before she noticed that her brother was speaking to her. he was saying something about the possible admission of young roxbury into the new firm, apropos of the encounter of mr millar and amy. "harry is very close about his affairs," said graeme, with a little vexation. "mrs gridley gave us that among other pieces of news, to-day. i am not sure that i did not deny it, decidedly. it is rather awkward when all the town knows of our affairs, before we know them ourselves." "awkward, indeed!" said arthur, laughing. "but then this partnership is hardly our affair, and mrs gridley is not all the town, though she is not to be lightlified, where the spreading of news is concerned; and she tells things before they happen, it seems, for this is not settled, yet, and may never be. it would do well for some things." but graeme could not listen to this, or to anything else, just then. she was wondering whether rose had seen charles millar and miss roxbury, and hoping she had not. and then she considered a moment whether she might not ask arthur to say nothing about meeting them; but she could not do it without making it seem to herself that she was betraying her sister. and yet, how foolish such a thought was; for rose had nothing to betray, she said, a little anxiously, to herself. she repeated it more firmly, however, when they came to the corner of the street where fanny and rose were waiting for them, and laughing and talking merrily together. if rose felt any vexation, she hid it well. "i will ask fanny whom they met. no, i will not," said graeme, to herself, again. "why should rose care. it is only i who have been foolish. they have known each other so long, it would have happened long ago, if it had been to happen. it would have been very nice for some things. and it might have been, if rose had cared for him. he cared for her, i am quite sure. who would not? but she does not care for him. i hope she does not care for him. oh! i could not go through all that again! oh, my darling, my darling!" it was growing dark, happily, or her face might have betrayed what graeme was thinking. she started a little when her sister said,-- "graeme, do you think it would be extravagant in me to wish for a new velvet jacket?" "not very extravagant just to wish for one," said graeme, dubiously. rose laughed. "i might as well wish for a gown, too, while i am wishing, i suppose, you think. no, but i do admire those little jackets so much. i might cut over my winter one, but it would be a waste of material, and something lighter and less expensive would do. it wouldn't take much, they are worn so small. what do you think about it, graeme?" "if you can afford it. they are very pretty, certainly." "yes, are they not? but, after all, i daresay i am foolish to wish for one." "why, as to that, if you have set your heart on one, i daresay we can manage it between us." "oh! as to setting my heart on it, i can't quite say that. it is not wise to set one's heart on what one is not sure of getting--or on things that perish with the using--which is emphatically true of jackets. this one has faded a great deal more than it ought to have done, considering the cost," added she, looking gravely down at her sleeve. there was no time for more. "here we are," said fanny, as they all came up to the door. "how pleasant it has been, and how much longer the days are getting. we will all come to meet you again, dear. i only hope baby has been good." "she did not see them," said graeme, to herself, "or she does not care. if she had seen them she would have said so, of course, unless--. i will watch her. i shall see if there is any difference. but she cannot hide it from me, if she is vexed or troubled. i am quite sure of that." if there was one among them that night more silent than usual, or less cheerful, it certainly was not rose. she was just what she always was. she was not lively and talkative, as though she had anything to hide; nor did she go to the piano, and play on constantly and noisily, as she sometimes did when she was vexed or impatient. she was just as usual. she came into graeme's room and sat down for a few minutes of quiet, just as she usually did. she did not stay very long, but she did not hurry away as though she wished to be alone, and her mind was full of the velvet jacket still, it seemed, though she did not speak quite so eagerly about it as she had done at first. still it was an important matter, beyond all other matters for the time, and when she went away she laughingly confessed that she ought to be ashamed to care so much about so small a matter, and begged her sister not to think her altogether vain and foolish. and then graeme said to herself, again, that rose did not care, she was quite sure, and very glad and thankful. glad and thankful! yet, graeme watched her sister next day, and for many days, with eyes which even fanny could see were wistful and anxious. rose did not see it, or she did not say so. she was not sad in the least degree, yet not too cheerful. she was just as usual, graeme assured herself many times, when anxious thoughts would come; and so she was, as far as any one could see. when mr millar called the first time after the night when graeme had met him with miss roxbury, rose was not at home. he had seen her going into the house next door, as he was coming up the street, he told mrs elliott, when she wondered what had become of her. she did not come in till late. she had been beguiled into playing and singing any number of duets and trios with the young gilberts, she said, and she had got a new song that would just suit fanny's voice, and fanny must come and try it. and then, she appealed to arthur, whether it was a proper thing for his wife to give up all her music except nursery rhymes, and carried her in triumph to the piano, where they amused themselves till baby wanted mamma. she was just as friendly as usual with mr millar during the short time he stayed after that--rather more so, perhaps, for she reminded him of a book which he had promised to bring and had forgotten. he brought it the very next night, but rose, unhappily, had toothache, and could not come down. she was not "making believe," graeme assured herself when she went up-stairs, for her face was flushed, and her hands were hot, and she paid a visit to the dentist next morning. in a day or two harry came home, and mr millar came and went with him as usual, and was very quiet and grave, as had come to be his way of late, and to all appearance everything went on as before. "graeme," said fanny, confidentially, one night when all but rose were sitting together, "i saw the _prettiest_ velvet jacket to-day! it was trimmed in quite a new style, quite simply, too. i asked the price." "and were astonished at its cheapness," said harry. "for baby, i suppose?" said arthur. "for baby! a velvet jacket! what are you thinking of, arthur?" said fanny, answering her husband first. "no, harry, i was not astonished at the cheapness. but it was a beauty, and not very dear, considering." "and it is for baby's mamma, then," said arthur, making believe to take out his pocket book. fanny shook her head. "i have any number of jackets," said she. "but, then, you have worn them any number of times," said harry. "they are as good as new, but old-fashioned? eh, fanny?" said her husband. "three weeks behind the latest style," said harry. "nonsense, arthur! what do you know about jackets, harry? but, graeme, rosie ought to have it. you know, she wants one so much." "she spoke about it, i know; but i don't think she really cares for one. at any rate, she has made up her mind to do without one." "of course, it would be foolish to care about what she could not get," said fanny, wisely. "but she would like it, all the same, i am sure." the velvet jacket had been discussed between these two with much interest; but rose had given up all thought of it with great apparent reluctance, and nothing had been said about it for some days. judging from what her own feelings would have been in similar circumstances, fanny doubted the sincerity of rose's resignation. "i believe it is that which has been vexing her lately, though she says nothing," continued she. "vexing her," repeated graeme. "what do you mean, fanny? what have you seen?" "oh! i have seen nothing that you have not seen as well. but i know i should be vexed if i wanted a velvet jacket, and could not get it; at least i should have been when i was a young girl like rose," added fanny, with the gentle tolerance of a young matron, who has seen the folly of girlish wishes, but does not care to be hard on them. the others laughed. "and even later than that--till baby came to bring you wisdom," said her husband. "and it would be nice if rosie could have it before the convocation," continued fanny, not heeding him. "it would just be the thing with her new hat and grey poplin." "yes," said graeme, "but i don't think rosie would enjoy it unless she felt that she could quite well afford it. i don't really think she cares about it much." "i know what you mean, graeme. she would not like me to interfere about it, you think. but if arthur or harry would have the sense to make her a present of it, just because it is pretty and fashionable, and not because she is supposed to want it, and without any hint from you or me, that would be nice." "upon my word, fanny, you are growing as wise as your mamma," said harry. "a regular manager." fanny pouted a little for she knew that her mamma's wisdom and management were not admired. graeme hastened to interfere. "it is very nice of you to care so much about it, fanny. you know rose is very determined to make her means cover her expenses; but still if, as you say, harry should suddenly be smitten with admiration for the jacket, and present it to her, perhaps it might do. i am not sure, however. i have my misgivings." and not without reason. rose had an allowance, liberal enough, but not too liberal; not so liberal but that taste, and skill, and care were needed, to enable her to look as nice as she liked to look. but more than once she had failed to express, or to feel gratitude to fanny, in her attempts to make it easier for her, either by an appeal to her brothers, or by drawing on her own means. even from graeme, she would only accept temporary assistance, and rather prided herself on the little shifts and contrivances by which she made her own means go to the utmost limit. but there was no difficulty this time. it all happened naturally enough, and rose thanked harry with more warmth than was necessary, in his opinion, or, indeed, in the opinion of graeme. "i saw one on miss roxbury," said harry, "or, i ought to say, i saw miss roxbury wearing one; and i thought it looked very well, and so did charlie." "oh!" said rose, with a long breath. "but then you know, harry dear, that i cannot pretend to such style as miss roxbury. i am afraid you will be disappointed in my jacket." "you want me to compliment you, rosie. you know you are a great deal prettier than little amy roxbury. but she is very sweet and good, if you would only take pains to know her. you would win her heart directly, if you were to try." "but then i should not know what to do with it, if i were to win it, unless i were to give it away. and hearts are of no value when given by a third person, as nobody should know better than you, harry, dear. but i shall do honour to your taste all the same; and twenty more good brothers shall present jackets to grateful sisters, seeing how well i look in mine. it is very nice, and i thank you very much." but she did not look as though she enjoyed it very much, graeme could not help thinking. "of course, she did not really care much to have it. she does not need to make herself fine. i daresay she will enjoy wearing it, however. it is well she can enjoy something else besides finery." they all went to the convocation, and rose wore her new jacket, and her grey poplin, and looked beautiful, the rest thought. the ladies went early with arthur, but he was called away, and it was a little tedious waiting, or it would have been, only it was very amusing to see so many people coming in, all dressed in their new spring attire. fanny enjoyed this part of the affair very much, and rose said she enjoyed it, too, quite as much as any part of the affair; and, by and by, fanny whispered that there was harry, with miss roxbury. "i thought harry was not coming," said she. "i suppose, he was able to get away after all," said graeme, and she looked round for mr millar. he was not to be seen, but by and by harry came round to them, to say that there were several seats much better than theirs, that had been reserved for the roxbury party, because mr roxbury had something to do with the college, and mrs roxbury wanted them to come round and take them, before they were filled. "oh! how charming!" said rose. "if we only could. we should be quite among the great people, then, which is what i delight in." "i thought you were not coming, harry," said graeme. "i was afraid i could not get away, but i made out to do so. no, not at charlie's expense. there he is now, speaking to mrs roxbury, and looking about for us, i daresay." "well, fanny, you go on with harry, and graeme and i will follow," said rose. "it would not do to separate, i suppose? are you sure there is room for all, harry?" "quite sure. no fear; we will make room." so harry gave his arm to fanny, and graeme rose to follow them, though she would much rather have stayed where she was. when she reached the other end of the long hall, she turned to look for her sister, but rose had not moved. she could not catch her eye, for her attention was occupied by some one who had taken the seat beside her, and graeme could not linger without losing sight of harry and fanny, for the people were crowding up, now, and only the seats set apart for the students were left vacant. so she was obliged to hasten on. "i will send harry back for her," said graeme, to herself. "or, perhaps, when arthur returns, she will cross the hall with him. we have made a very foolish move for all concerned, i think. but rosie seemed to like the idea, and i did not care. i only hope we are not separated for the whole affair." but separated for the whole affair they were. arthur returned, but it was not easy for him to get through the crowd to the place where he had left his wife and sisters, and when he reached it, he saw that it would not be easy to get away again. so as he could see and hear very well where he was, and as rose seemed quite satisfied with her place, and with the companionship of her little friend, miss etta goldsmith, he contented himself where he was. miss goldsmith had come to town to see her brother take his diploma as doctor of medicine, and she was in a fever of anxiety till "dear dick," had got his precious bit of parchment in his hands. and after that, till he had performed his duty as orator of his class, and had bidden farewell to each and all, in english so flowing and flowery, that she was amazed, as well as delighted, and very grateful to his classmates for the applause, which they did not spare. rose sat beside the eager little girl, so grave and pale, by contrast, perhaps, that arthur leaned over, and asked her if she were ill, or only very tired of it all. then she brightened. "there is great deal more of it, is there not? i must not be tired yet. why don't you find your way over to fanny and graeme?" "where are they? ah! yes, i see them over there among the great folks-- and harry, too, no less, and his friend and partner. and that bonny little amy is not far-away, i'll venture to say. no. i shall stay where i am for the present." miss goldsmith did not feel bound to be specially interested in anybody or anything, except her big brother and his bit of parchment. and so, when he had given her a nod and a smile, as he came down from the dais, crumpling his papers in his big hands, she was ready to look about and enjoy herself. and to the unaccustomed eyes of the country girl, there was a great deal worth seeing. "how beautifully the ladies are dressed! how pretty the spring fashions are! i feel like an old dowdy! who is that lady in blue? what a love of a hat! and your jacket! it is a beauty!" it was through such a running fire of questions and exclamations that rose listened to all that was going on. there was a good deal more to be said, for the law students were addressed by a gentleman, whose boast it seemed to be, that he had once been a law student himself. then they had some latin muttered over them, and their heads tapped by the principal, and some one else gave them their bits of parchment, and then their orator spoke their farewell in flowing and flowery english. and "will it ever be done?" thought rose, with a sigh. it was not "just the thing," all this discussion of hats and fashions; but little miss goldsmith spoke very softly, and disturbed no one, breathed her questions almost, and rose answered as silently, with a nod, or a smile, or a turn of the eye; and, at any rate, they were not the only people who were thus taking refuge from the dullness of the dean, and the prosing of the chancellor, rose thought to herself; as she glanced about. arthur whispered that the chancellor surpassed himself on the occasion, and that even the dean was not very prosy, and rose did not dissent, but she looked as if it was all a weariness to her? she brightened a little when it was all over, and they rose to go. "go and find fanny and graeme," said she to her brother. "dr goldsmith will take care of his sister and me." dr goldsmith was nothing loth, and rose was so engaged in offering her congratulations, and in listening to his replies, and in responding to the greetings of her many friends as she came down into the hall, that she did not notice that graeme and mr millar were waiting for her at the head of the stairs. there was a little delay at the outer door, where there were many carriages waiting. the roxbury carriage was among the rest, and miss roxbury was sitting in it, though rose could not help thinking she looked as though she would much rather have walked on with the rest, as harry was so bold as to propose. they were waiting for mr roxbury, it seemed, and our party lingered over their last words. "i will walk on with the goldsmiths. i have something to say to etta," said rose, and before graeme could expostulate, or, indeed, answer at all, she was gone. the carriage passed them, and miss roxbury leaned forward and bowed and smiled, and charmed miss goldsmith with her pretty manner and perfect hat. in a little, harry overtook them. rose presented him to miss goldsmith, and walked on with the doctor. at the gate of the college grounds, their ways separated. "mr elliott," said miss goldsmith, "your sister has almost promised to come and visit us when i go home. i do so want papa and mamma to see her. brother dick goes home to-morrow, but i am going to stay a day or two, and then i want rose to go with me. do try and persuade miss elliott to let her go." harry promised, with more politeness than sincerity, saying he had no doubt graeme would be happy to give rose the pleasure, and then they got away. "papa, and mamma, and brother dick. i declare it looks serious. what are you meditating, now, rosie, if i may ask?" "my dear harry, if you think by chaff to escape the scolding you know you deserve, you will find yourself mistaken. the idea of your taking graeme and fanny away, and leaving me there by myself! i don't know what i should have done if arthur had not come back. to be sure i had etta goldsmith, who is a dear little thing. i don't think her big brother is so very ugly if he hadn't red hair. and he must be clever, or he would not have been permitted to make that speech. his papa and mamma must be delighted. but it was very shabby of you, harry, to go and leave me alone; was it not, arthur?" "but, you might have come, too," said fanny. "i thought you were following us." "and so did i," said graeme. "well, dear little etta goldsmith pounced upon me the moment you left, and then it was too late. i did not feel sufficiently strong-minded to elbow my way through the crowd alone, or i might have followed you." "i did not miss you at first," said harry, "and then i wanted charlie to go for you, but--" "he very properly refused. don't excuse yourself, harry. and i had set my heart on comparing jackets with miss roxbury, too." "why did you not stay and speak to her at the door, then?" said harry, who had rather lost his presence of mind under his sister's reproaches. he had hurried after her, fully intending to take her to task for being so stiff and distant, and he was not prepared to defend himself,-- "why didn't you wait and speak to her at the door?" "oh! you know, i could not have seen it well then, as she was in the carriage. it is very awkward looking up to carriage people, don't you think? and, besides, it would not have been quite polite to the goldsmiths," added she, severely. "you know they befriended me when i was left alone." "befriended you, indeed. i expected every minute to see your feather take fire as he bent his red head down over it. i felt like giving him a beating," said harry, savagely. rose laughed merrily. "my dear harry! you couldn't do it. he is so much bigger than you. at least, he has greater weight, as the fighting people say." "but it is all nonsense, rose. i don't like it. it looked to me, and to other people, too, very much like a flirtation on your part, to leave the rest, and go away with that big--big--" "doctor," suggested rose. "and we shall have all the town, and mrs gridley, telling us next, that you--" "harry, dear, i always know when i hear you mention mrs gridley's name, that you are becoming incoherent. _i_ leave _you_. quite the contrary. and please don't use that naughty word in connection with my name again, or i may be driven to defend myself in a way that might not be agreeable to you. dear me, i thought you were growing to be reasonable by this time. don't let graeme see us quarrelling." "you look tired, dear," said graeme, as they went up-stairs together. "well, it was a little tedious, was it not? of course, it wouldn't do to say so, you know. however, i got through it pretty well, with little etta's help. did you enjoy the roxbury party much?" "i kept wishing we had not separated," said graeme. "oh! yes, i enjoyed it. they asked us there to-night to meet some nice people, they said. it is not to be a party. harry is to dine here, and go with us, and so is mr millar." "it will be very nice, i daresay, only i am so very tired. however, we need not decide till after dinner," said rose. after dinner she declared herself too sleepy for anything but bed, and she had a headache, besides. "i noticed you looked quite pale this afternoon," said arthur. "don't go if you are tired. graeme, what is the use of her going if she does not want to?" "certainly, she ought not to go if she is not well. but i think you would enjoy this much, better than a regular party? and we might come home early." "oh! i enjoy regular parties only too well. i will go if you wish it, graeme, only i am afraid i shall not shine with my usual brilliancy-- that is all!" "i hope you are really ill," said harry. "i mean, i hope you are not just making believe to get rid of it." "my dear harry! why, in all the world, should i make believe not well `to get rid of it,' as you so elegantly express it? such great folks, too!" "harry, don't be cross," said fanny. "i am sure i heard you say, a day or two since, that rose was looking thin." "harry, dear!" said rose, with effusion, "give me your hand. i forgive you all the rest, for that special compliment. i have had horrible fears lately that i was getting stout--middle-aged looking, as graeme says. are you quite sincere in saying that, or are you only making believe?" "i didn't intend it as a compliment, i assure you. i didn't think you were looking very well." "did you not? what would you advise? should i go to the country; or should i put myself under the doctor's care? not our big friend, whom you were going to beat," said rose, laughing. "i think you are a very silly girl," said harry, with dignity. "you told me that once before, don't you remember? and i don't think you are at all polite,--do you, fanny? come up-stairs, graeme, and i will do your hair. it would not be proper to let harry go alone. he is in a dreadful temper, is he not?" and rose made a pretence of being afraid to go past him. "mr millar, cannot you do or say something to soothe your friend and partner?" harry might understand all this, but graeme could not, and she did not like this mood of rose at all. however, she was very quiet; as she dressed her sister's hair, and spoke of the people they had seen in the afternoon, and of the exercises at the college, in her usual merry way. but she did not wish to go out; she was tired, and had a headache, listening to two or three things at one time, she said, and if graeme could only go this once without her, she would be so glad. graeme did not try to persuade her, but said she must go to bed, and to sleep at once, if she were left at home, and then she went away. she did not go very cheerfully. she had had two or three glimpses of her sister's face, after she had gone to the other side of the hall with harry, before miss goldsmith had commenced her whispered confidences to rose, and she had seen there a look which brought back her old misgivings that there was something troubling her darling. she was not able to put it away again. the foolish, light talk between rose and harry did not tend to re-assure her, and when she bade her sister good-night, it was all that she could do not to show her anxiety by her words. but she only said, "good-night, and go to sleep," and then went down-stairs with a heavy heart. she wanted to speak with harry about the sharp words that had more than once passed between him and rose of late; but mr millar walked with them, and she could not do so, and it was with an anxious and preoccupied mind that she entered mr roxbury's house. the drawing-room was very handsome, of course, with very little to distinguish it from the many fine rooms of her friends. yet when graeme stood for a moment near the folding-doors, exchanging greetings with the lady of the house, the remembrance of one time, when she had stood there before, came sharply back to her, and, for a moment, her heart grew hot with the angry pain and shame that had throbbed in it then. it was only for a moment, and it was not for herself. the pain was crossed by a thrill of gladness, for the more certain knowledge that came to her that for herself she was content, that she wished nothing changed in her own life, that she had outlived all that was to be regretted of that troubled time. she had known this before, and the knowledge came home to her joyfully as she stood there, but it did not lighten her burden of dread of what might lie in the future for her sister. it did not leave her all the evening. she watched the pretty, gentle amy, flitting about among her father's guests, with a feeling which, but for the guileless sweetness of the girl's face, the innocent unconsciousness of every look and movement, might have grown to bitterness at last. she watched her ways and words with mr millar, wishing, in her look or manner, to see some demand for his admiration and attention, that might excuse the wandering of his fancy from rose. but she watched in vain. amy was sweet and modest with him as with others, more friendly and unreserved than with most, perhaps, but sweet and modest, and unconscious, still. "she is very like lily elphinstone, is she not?" said her brother harry in her ear. she started at his voice; but she did not turn toward him, or remove her eyes from the young girl's face. "she is very like lily--in all things," said graeme; and to herself she added, "and she will steal the treasure from my darling's life, as lily stole it from mine--innocently and unconsciously, but inevitably still-- and from harry's, too, it may be." and, with a new pang, she turned to look at her brother's face; but harry was no longer at her side. mr millar was there, and his eyes had been following hers, as harry's had been. "she is very sweet and lovely--very like lily, is she not?" he whispered. "very like her," repeated graeme, her eyes closing with a momentary feeling of sickness. "you are very tired of all this, i am afraid," said he. "very tired! if harry only would take me home!" "shall i take you home? at least, let me take you out of the crowd. have you seen the new picture they are all talking about? shall i take you up-stairs for a little while." graeme rose and laid her hand on his arm, and went up-stairs in a dream. it was all so like what had been before--the lights, and the music, and the hum of voices, and the sick pain at her heart; only the pain was now for rose, and so much worse to bear. still in a dream, she went from picture to picture, listening and replying to she knew not what; and she sat down, with her eyes fixed on one beautiful, sad face, and prayed with all her heart, for it was rosie's face that looked down at her from the canvas; it was rosie's sorrow that she saw in those sweet, appealing eyes. "anything but this great sorrow," she was saying in her heart, forgetting all else in the agony of her entreaty; and her companion, seeing her so moved, went softly away. not very far, however. at the first sound of approaching footsteps he was at her side again. "that is a very sad picture, i think," she said, coming back with an effort to the present. "i have seen it once before." charlie did not look at the picture, but at her changing face. an impulse of sympathy, of admiration, of respect moved him. scarce knowing what he did, he took her hand, and, before he placed it within his arm, he raised it to his lips. "miss elliott," murmured he, "_you_ will never take your friendship from me, whatever may happen?" she was too startled to answer for a moment, and then they were in the crowd again. what was he thinking of! of allan and the past, or of rose and amy and the future? a momentary indignation moved her, but she did not speak, and then little amy was looking up in her face, rather anxiously and wistfully, graeme thought. "you are not going away, miss elliott, are you?" said she. "i am very tired," said graeme. "oh! here is my brother. i am very sorry to take you away, harry, but if you don't mind much, i should like to go home. will you make my adieux to your mother, miss roxbury?--no, please do not come up-stairs. i would much rather you did not. good-night." "you might at least have been civil to the little thing," growled harry, as she took his arm when they reached the street. graeme laughed. "civil!" she repeated and laughed again, a little bitterly. "oh! harry, dear! there are so many things that you cannot be supposed to know. but, indeed, i did not mean to be uncivil to the child." "then you were uncivil without meaning it," said harry, sharply. graeme was silent a moment. "i do not choose to answer a charge like that," said she. "i beg your pardon, graeme, but--" "harry, hush! i will not listen to you." they did not speak again till they reached home. then graeme said,-- "i must say something to you, harry. let us walk on a little. it is not late. harry, what is the trouble between you and rose?" "trouble!" repeated harry, in amazement. "do you mean because she fancied herself left alone this afternoon?" "of course i do not mean that. but more than once lately you have spoken to each other as though you were alluding to something of which i am ignorant--something that must have happened when you were away from home--at the west, i mean--something which i have not been told." "graeme, i don't understand what you mean. what could possibly have happened which has been concealed from you? why don't you ask rose?" "because i have not hitherto thought it necessary to ask any one, and now i prefer to ask you. harry, dear, i don't think it is anything very serious. don't be impatient with me." "has rose been saying anything to you?" "nothing that i have not heard you say yourself. you accused her once in my hearing of being too fond of admiration, of--of flirting, in short--" "my dear graeme! i don't think i ever made any such assertion--at least in a way that you or rose need to resent--or complain of." "rose does not complain of it, she laughs at it. harry, dear, what is it? don't you remember one night when something was said about mrs gridley--no, don't be impatient. you were annoyed with rose, then, and it was not about anything that was said at the time, at least i thought not. i don't wish to seem prying or inquisitive, but what concerns rose is a great matter to me. she is more to me than any one." "graeme," said harry, gravely, "you don't suppose that i love rose less than you do. i think i know what you mean, however. i annoyed her once by something i said about charlie, but it was only for the moment. i am sure she does not care about that now." "about charlie!" repeated graeme. "yes; you did not know it, i suppose, but it was a serious matter to charlie when you and rose went away that time. he was like a man lost. and i do believe she cared for him, too--and i told him so--only she was such a child." "you told him so!" repeated graeme, in astonishment. "i could not help it, graeme. the poor fellow was in such a way, so--so miserable; and when he went west last winter, it was more to see rose than for anything else. but he came back quite downhearted. she was so much run after, he said, and she was very distant with him. not that he said very much about it. but when i went out there afterwards, i took her to task sharply about it." "harry! how could you?" "very easily. it is a serious thing when a girl plays fast and loose with a man's heart, and such a man as charlie. and i told her so roundly." "and how did she take it?" asked graeme, in a maze between astonishment and vexation. "oh! she was as high and mighty as possible, called my interference rudeness and impertinence, and walked out of the room like an offended princess--and i rather think i had the worst of it," added harry, laughing at the remembrance. "but i don't bear malice, and i don't think rose does." "of course, she does not. but harry, dear, though i should not call your interference impertinent in any bad sense, i must say it was not a very wise thing to take her to task, as you call it. i don't believe mr millar ever said a word to her about--about his feelings, and you don't suppose she was going to confess, or allow you to scold her about--any one." "now; graeme, don't be missish! `never said a word!'--why, a blind man might have seen it all along. i know we all looked upon her as a child, but a woman soon knows when a man cares for her." "no wise woman will acknowledge it to another till she has been told so in words; at least she ought not," said graeme, gravely. "oh, well!--there is no use talking. perhaps i was foolish; but i love charlie, dearly. i daresay rose thinks herself too good for him, because he does not pretend to be so wonderfully intellectual as some of her admirers do, and you may agree with her. but i tell you, graeme, charlie is pure gold. i don't know another that will compare with him, for everything pure and good and high-minded--unless it is our own will; and it is so long since we have seen him, we don't know how he may be changed by this time. but i can swear for charlie." "you don't need to swear to me, harry. you know well i have always liked charlie." "well, it can't be helped now. charlie has got over it. men _do_ get over these things, though it doesn't seem possible to them at the time," added harry, meditatively. "i was rather afraid of rosie's coming home, and i wanted charlie to go to scotland, then, but he is all right now. of course you are not to suppose that i blame rose. such things will happen, and it is well it is no worse. it is the way with those girls not to know or value true worth because they see it every day." "poor charlie!" said graeme, softly. "oh, don't fret about charlie. he is all right now. he is not the man to lose the good of his life because a silly girl doesn't know her own mind. `there's as good fish in the sea,' you know. if you are going to be sorry for any one, let it be for rosie. she has lost a rare chance for happiness in the love of a good man." "but it may not be lost," murmured graeme. "i am afraid it is," said harry, gravely. "it is not in rose to do justice to charlie. even you don't do it, graeme. because he lives just a commonplace life, and buys and sells, and comes and goes, like other men, you women have not the discrimination to see that he is one of a thousand. as for rose, with her romance, and her nonsense, she is looking for a hero and a paladin, and does not know a true heart when it is laid at her feet. i only hope she won't wait for the `hats till the blue-bonnets go by,' as janet used to say." "as i have done, you would like to add," said graeme, laughing, for her heart was growing light. "and harry, dear, rosie never had anybody's heart laid at her feet. it is you who are growing foolish and romantic, in your love for your friend." "oh! well. it doesn't matter. she will never have it now. charlie is all right by this time. her high and mighty airs have cured him, and her flippancy and her love of admiration. fancy her walking off to-day with that red-headed fool and quite ignoring mrs roxbury and her daughter, when they--miss roxbury, at least--wanted to see her to engage her for this evening." "he is not a fool, and he cannot help his red hair," said graeme, laughing, though there was both sadness and vexation in her heart. "the goldsmiths might have called her `high and mighty' if she had left them and gone quite out of her way, as she must have done, to speak to those `fine carriage people.' she could only choose between the two parties, and i think politeness and kindness suggested the propriety of going on with her friends, not a love of admiration, as you seem determined to suppose." "she need not have been rude to the roxburys, however. charlie noticed it as well as i." "i think you are speaking very foolishly, harry," said graeme. "what do the roxburys care for any of us? do you suppose mrs roxbury would notice a slight from a young girl like rose. and she was not rude." "no, perhaps not; but she was polite in a way so distant and dignified, so condescending, even, that i was amazed, and so was charlie, i know, though he did not say so." "nonsense, harry! rose knows them, but very slightly. and what has mr millar to do with it?" "mr millar!" exclaimed harry. "do be reasonable, graeme. is it not of mr millar that we have been speaking all this time? he has everything to do with it. and as for not knowing them. i am sure rose was at first delighted with miss roxbury. and amy was as delighted with her, and wanted to be intimate, i know. but rose is such a flighty, flippant little thing, that--" "that will do, harry. such remarks may be reserved for mr millar's hearing. i do not choose to listen to them. you are very unjust to rose." "it is you who are unjust, graeme, and unreasonable, and a little out of temper, which does not often happen with you. i am sure i don't understand it." graeme laughed. "well, perhaps i am a little out of temper, harry. i know i am dreadfully tired. we won't say anything more about it to-night, except that i don't like to have rose misunderstood." "i was, perhaps, a little hard on rosie, once, but i don't think i misunderstand her," said harry, wisely. "she is just like other girls, i suppose; only, graeme, you have got me into the way of thinking that my sisters should not be just like other girls, but a great deal better in every way. and i shan't be hard on her any more, now that it is all right with charlie." but was it all right with charlie? graeme's talk with harry had not enlightened her much. had pretty, gentle amy roxbury helped charlie "to get over it;" as harry's manner of speaking seemed to imply? or did charlie still care for rose? and had rose ever cared for him "in that way?" was rose foolish, and flippant, and fond of admiration, as harry declared; and was she growing dissatisfied with their quiet, uneventful life? was it this that had brought over her the change which could not be talked about or noticed, which, at most times, could not be believed in, but which, now and then, made itself evident as very real and very sad? or was it something else that was bringing a cloud and a shadow over the life of her young sister? even in her thoughts, graeme shrunk from admitting that rose might be coming to the knowledge of her own heart too late for her happiness. "i will not believe that she has all that to pass through. it cannot be so bad as that. i will have patience and trust. i cannot speak to her. it would do no good. i will wait and trust." graeme sat long that night listening to the quiet breathing of her sleeping sister; but all the anxious thoughts that passed through her mind, could only end in this: "i will wait and trust." chapter forty. graeme awoke in the morning to wonder at all the doubts and anxieties that had filled her mind in the darkness; for she was aroused by baby kisses on her lips, and opened her eyes to see her sister rose, with her nephew in her arms, and her face as bright as the may morning, smiling down upon her. rose disappointed and sad! rose hiding in her heart hopes that were never to be realised! she listened to her voice, ringing through the house, like the voice of the morning lark, and wondered at her own folly. she laughed, as rose babbled to the child in the wonderful baby language in which she so excelled; but tears of thankfulness rose to her eyes as she remembered the fears of the night, and set them face to face with the joy of the morning. "i could not have borne it," she said to herself. "i am afraid i never could have borne to see my darling drooping, as she must have done. i am content with my own lot. i think i would not care to change anything the years have brought to me. but rosie--. ah! well, i might have known! i know i ought to trust for rosie, too, even if trouble were to come. but oh! i am very glad and thankful for her sake." she was late in the breakfast-room, and she found harry there. "`the early bird,' you know, graeme," said he. "i have been telling rosie what a scolding you were giving me last night on our way home." "but he won't tell me what it was all about," said rose. "i cannot. i don't know myself. i have an idea that you had something to do with it, rosie. but i can give no detailed account of the circumstances, as the newspapers say." "it is not absolutely necessary that you should," said graeme, smiling. "i hope you are in a much better humour this morning, graeme." "i think i am in a pretty good humour. not that i confess to being very cross last night, however." "it was he who was cross, i daresay," said rose. "you brought him away before supper! no wonder he was cross. are you going to stay very long, harry?" "why? have you any commands for me to execute?" "no; but i am going to introduce a subject that will try your temper, judging from our conduct yesterday. i am afraid you will be threatening to beat some one." harry shrugged his shoulders. "now, graeme, don't you call that flippant? is it anything about the big doctor, rosie?" "you won't beat him, will you harry? no. it is only about his sister. graeme, fanny has given me leave to invite her here for a few days, if you have no objection. she cannot be enjoying herself very much where she is staying, and it will be a real holiday to the little thing to come here for a while. she is very easily amused. she makes pleasure out of everything. mayn't she come?" "certainly, if you would like her to come; i should like to know her very much." "and is the big brother to come, too?" asked arthur. "no. he leaves town to-day. will you go with me, harry, to fetch her here?" "but what about `papa and mamma,' to whom you were to be shown? the cunning, little thing has some design upon you, rosie, or, perhaps, on some of the rest of us." rose laughed. "don't be frightened, harry. you are safe, as you are not domesticated with us. and i intend to show myself to `papa and mamma' later, if you don't object." "there! look at graeme. she thinks you and i are quarrelling, rosie. she is as grave as a judge." "tell us about the party, harry," said fanny. "it was very pleasant. i don't think graeme enjoyed it much, however. i wonder, too, that she did not, for there were more nice people there than we usually see at parties. it was more than usually agreeable, i thought." "you are degenerating, harry," said his brother. "i thought you were beyond all that sort of thing. i should have thought you would have found it slow, to say the least." "and then to make him lose the supper! it was too bad of you, graeme," said rose. "oh! she didn't. i went back again." they all exclaimed. only harry laughed. "can i do anything for you and your friend, rosie?" asked he. "yes, indeed you can. i intend to make a real holiday for the little thing. we are open to any proposal in the way of pleasure, riding, driving, boating, picnicking, one and all." "it is very kind of you, harry, to offer," said graeme. "hem! not at all. i shall be most happy," said harry. "oh! we shall not be exacting. we are easily amused, little etta and i." miss goldsmith's visit was a success. she was a very nice little girl, whose life had been passed in the country--not in a village even, but quite away from neighbours, on a farm, in which her father had rather unfortunately invested the greater part of his means. it might not prove to be unfortunate in the end, etta explained to them, because the land was valuable, only in the meantime it seemed to take all the income just to keep things going. but by and by she hoped farming would pay, and the place was beautiful, and they lived very happily there, if they only had a little more money, etta added gravely. dick was the hero who was to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the family, etta thought. he was her only own brother. all the rest of the children were only her half-brothers and sisters. but notwithstanding the hard times to which etta confessed, they were a very happy family, it seemed. everything was made pleasure by this little girl. it was pleasure just to drive through the streets, to see the well-dressed people, to look in at the shop-windows. shopping was pleasure, though she had little to spend. an hour in a bookseller's, or in a fancy shop, was pleasure. the churches, old and new, were wonderful to her, some for one reason, some for another. rose and she became independent and strong-minded, and went everywhere without an escort. they spent a day in wandering about the shady walks of the new cemetery, and an afternoon gazing down on the city from the cathedral towers. they paid visits and received them; and, on rainy days, worked and read together with great delight, if not with much profit. rose, with both heart and hands, helped her friend to make the most of her small allowance for dress; and contrived, out of odds and ends, to make pretty, inexpensive ornaments for her, and presents for her little brothers and sisters at home. she taught her new patterns in crochet, and new stitches in berlin wool. she even gave her a music lesson, now and then, and insisted on her practising, daily, that she might get back what she had lost since she left school, and so be able the better to teach her little sisters when she went home. in short, she contrived to fill up the time with amusement, or with work of some sort. not a moment but was occupied in some way. of course, graeme was sometimes included in their plans for the day, and so were fanny and baby, but for the most part the young girls were occupied with each other; and the visit, which was to have been for a few days, lengthened out beyond the month, and might have been longer than that, even, only rose had a slight, feverish attack which confined her to her room for a day or two, and then etta could no longer hide from herself that she ought to go home. "i hope i shall not find that this pleasant time has spoiled me. i think papa and mamma are somewhat afraid. i mean to be good, and contented, and helpful; but i know i am only a silly little thing. oh! rosie! if you were only going home with me for a little while!" "i should like it very much, indeed," said rose. "of course, everything is very different at our house, but you wouldn't mind that. miss elliott, don't you think you could spare rose to me for a few days?" graeme shook her head. "i think i have spared her to you a good many days. i have seen very little of her for a long time, i think." miss goldsmith looked grieved and penitent. "nonsense, etta," said rose; "she is only laughing at you. she has had you and me, too. and i should like very much to go with you. this is the nicest time of the year to be in the country, i think. what do you say, graeme?" little etta clasped her hands, and looked at graeme so entreatingly, that rose laughed heartily. but graeme said nothing encouraging. however, the very hottest days of the summer came that season among the first june days, and, because of the heat, graeme thought rose did not recover from her illness so quickly as she ought to have done. she is languid and pale, though pretty busy still, and cheerful, and graeme proposed that she should go with her friend for a few days, at least. etta was enchanted. "i am afraid my resolutions about being good, and helping mamma, and teaching the little ones, would have fallen through, for i know i am a foolish girl. but with rose to help me, just at first, i shall succeed i know." "don't be silly, etta," said rose. "you are a great deal wiser and better, and of a great deal more use in the world, than ever i was, or am like to be. all my wisdom is lip-wisdom, and my goodness lip-goodness. if they will help you, you shall have the benefit of them; but pray don't make me blush before graeme and fanny, who know me so well." no time had to be lost in preparations. the decision was made one day, and they were to leave the next. harry, with his friend and partner, came up one night to bid miss goldsmith good-bye, and heard for the first time of rose's intention to go with her. harry did not hear it with pleasure, indeed; he made no secret of his vexation. there was a little bantering talk between them, in the style that graeme disliked so much, and then rose went away for a few minutes. "graeme," said harry, "what is all this about? it seems to me rose ought to have had enough of her little friend by this time. what freak is this she has taken about the country, and a change of air, and nonsense?" "if it is a freak, it is mine," said graeme, quietly. "rose needs a change. she is not ill, but still she is not quite well, and i am very glad she is to go with miss goldsmith." "a change," repeated harry. "why could she not go with fanny to the seaside, if she needs a change?" "but fanny is not going for several weeks yet. rose will be home before that time. she will not be away more than a fortnight, i hope." "a fortnight, indeed! what has the time to do with it? it is the going at all that is so foolish: you astonish me, graeme." "you astonish me, harry! really i cannot understand why you should care so much about it." "well, well! if you are pleased, and she is pleased, i need not trouble myself about it," said harry, sulkily. "what has happened to you, harry?" said fanny. "you are not like yourself, to-night." "he is a great deal more like the harry of old times," said graeme. "like the harry you used to know long ago, mr millar, than like the reasonable, dignified person we have had among us lately." "i was just thinking so," said mr millar. "why should not rosie go?" persisted fanny. "i think it must be a very stupid place, from all that etta says; still, if rose wishes it, why should she not go?" "i believe it is the big brother harry is afraid of," said arthur, laughing. graeme and fanny laughed, too. "i don't think it is a laughing matter," growled harry. "how would you like it if she were to throw herself away on that red-headed giant?" arthur and fanny laughed, still, but graeme looked grave. "it would be just like a silly girl like rose," continued harry, gloomily. "harry," said graeme, "i think you are forgetting what is due to your sister. you should be the last person to couple rose's name with that of any gentleman." "of course, it is only among ourselves; and, i tell you, graeme, you are spoiling rosie--" "harry! be quiet. i don't choose to listen to you on that subject." "i declare, harry, you are getting morbid on the subject of rosie's conquests. it is the greatest folly imaginable," said arthur. "well, it may be so. at any rate, i shall say no more. are you coming, charlie? i must go." he went to the foot of the stairs, and called: "rose, are you coming down again? i must go." rose came flying down. "must you go, harry? i am just done with what i needed to do. don't be cross with me, harry." and greatly to his surprise, as she put her arms around his neck, he felt her tears upon his cheek. "why, rosie, what ails you? i didn't mean to be cross, rosie, my darling." but, in a minute, rose was smiling through her tears. "rosie, dear," whispered her brother, "you are a very silly little girl. i think you are the very silliest girl i know. i wish--" rose wiped her eyes. "don't go yet, harry. i will come in immediately; and please don't tell graeme that i am so silly. she wouldn't like it at all." "graeme is as silly as you are," growled harry. rose laughed, and ran up-stairs, but came down in a minute with miss goldsmith. harry had brought a great paper of sweets for the little sisters at home, for which etta thanked him very prettily, and then she said: "i hope you are not afraid to trust rose with us? we will take great care of her, i assure you." "since i am too silly to take care of myself," said rose. they had a pleasant evening enough, all things considered, and it was some time before harry and his friend went away. "i must say good-bye for a long time, miss rose," said mr millar. "i shall have sailed before you are home again, i suppose." "you go in the first steamer, then?" "i don't know, i am not quite sure yet. i have not quite decided." "of course, he goes by the first steamer," said harry. "he should have gone long ago. there is no use dwelling longer over so simple a matter." rose opened her eyes very wide. "is that the way you speak to your friend and partner?" said fanny. "really, harry, i am afraid your fine temper is being spoiled," said rose. "i think mr millar is very good not to mind you." "i understand harry," said his friend. "you don't understand yourself, nor what is good for you. good-bye, dear, silly, little rose." "good-bye, harry. don't be cross." "rose," said graeme, when they were up-stairs alone for the night, "i think it is the big brother that put harry out of temper to-night." rose laughed. "he seems quite afraid of him," continued graeme. "and you are a little bit afraid of him, too, graeme, or you never would have told me about harry." "no. but i am just a little afraid for him." "you need not be. harry thinks my desire for admiration insatiable, i know, but it is too bad of you, graeme, to intimate as much. i have a great mind to tell you a secret, graeme. but you must promise not to tell it again; at least, not yet." "well," said graeme. "if i should stay away longer than i mean to do at present, and harry should get very unhappy about me, perhaps you might tell him. harry thinks i cannot manage my own affairs," added rose, a vivid colour rising on her cheeks. "and he has a mind to help me. he has not helped me much, yet. ah! well, there is no use going over all that." "what is the secret you are going to tell me?" asked graeme. "i don't know whether i ought to tell. but it will be safe with you. graeme, the big doctor is engaged." "well," said graeme. "it is not all smooth sailing, yet. i am afraid it may interfere somewhat with his success in retrieving the fortunes of the family, as etta has always been hoping he might do. but she is quite pleased for all that, poor dear little thing. see that you don't tell harry." "well, is that all you have to say on the subject?" asked her sister. "graeme! i do believe you are as bad as harry. do you fancy that it is i to whom dr goldsmith is engaged? by no means. i am afraid it is a foolish affair; but it may fall through yet. she is a young widow, and has two children, and a little money. no. it is very foolish of harry to fancy things. he is very stupid, i think. but you are not to tell him, because, really, the secret is not mine, and besides, i have another reason. good-night, dear." and so they went away in the morning. rose's visit to the country was quite as agreeable as had been miss goldsmith's to the town, judging from the time she stayed there, and from the letters she sent home. the country was lovely, and she wondered any one would live in the city who could leave it. she kept a journal for graeme, and it was filled with accounts of rides, and drives, and sails; with, now and then, hints of work done, books read, of children's lessons, and torn frocks, of hay-making, and butter-making; and if graeme had any misgiving as to the perfect enjoyment of her sister, it could not have been her letters that had anything to do with it. at last there came word of an expedition to be undertaken to a lake far-away in the woods, where there were pond-lilies and lake trout in abundance. they were to carry a tent, and be out one night, perhaps two, and mr and mrs goldsmith were going with them, and all the children as well. this was the last letter. rose herself came soon after, to find a very quiet house, indeed. fanny and her son had gone to the seaside, whither graeme and rose, perhaps, might go, later. mr millar had gone, too, not by the first steamer, nor by the second, however. if rose had been home two days sooner, she might have seen him before he went, harry told her; and rose said, "what a pity! if i had only known, i could so easily have come!" that was all. how quiet the house was during those long summer days! it was like the coming again of the old time, when they and nelly used to have the house in the garden to themselves, with only will coming and going, till night brought the brothers home. "what happy, happy days they were!" said rose, with a sigh. "they _were_ happy days," said graeme. "very happy days." she did not seem to hear the regretful echo in her sister's voice, nor did she take her to task for the idle hands that lay folded on her lap, nor disturb by word or look the times of silent musing, that grew longer and more frequent as those uneventful days passed on. what was to be said? the doubts and fears that had made her unhappy in the spring, and even before the spring, were coming back again. rose was not at peace with herself, nothing was easier to be seen than that; but whether the struggle was with pride, or anger, or disappointment, or whether all these and something more had to do with it, she could only wait till time, or chance, or rose of her own free will, should tell. for graeme could not bring herself to speak of the trouble which her sister, sad and preoccupied, in so many nameless ways betrayed. she would not even seem to see it, and so strove to make it appear that it was her own industry, her occupation with book, or pen, or needle, that made the silence between them, on those days when rose sat listless or brooding, heedless of books, or work, or of whatever the day might bring. and when the fit of gloom wore over, or when, startled by some sudden fear of being observed, she roused herself, and came back with an effort to the things about her, graeme was always ready, yet not too eager, to make the most of excuses. either the heat made her languid, or the rain made her dull, or the yesterday's walk had been exhausting; and graeme would assent, and warn or reprove, as the case seemed to require, never intimating, by word or look, how clearly she saw through it all, and how she grieved and suffered with her. and, when seized upon by restlessness or impatience, she grew irritable and exacting, and "ill to do with," as janet would have said, graeme stood between her and the wonder and indignation, of her brothers, and, which was harder to do, shielded her from her own anger and self-contempt, when she came to herself again. she went out with her for long walks, and did what was kinder still, she let her go by herself, to rest her mind by tiring out her body, at times when the fever fit was on her, making her fret and chafe at trifles that would have made her laugh if all had been well with her. it was an anxious time to graeme. when their brothers were with them, rose was little different from the rose of old, as far as they could see; and, at such times, even graeme would be beguiled into a momentary belief that she had been letting her fears speak, when there was little cause. but another day would come, bringing the old listlessness or restlessness, and graeme could only watch and wait for the moment when a cheerful word, or a chiding one, might be spoken for her sister's good, or a movement of some kind made to beguile her into occupation or pleasure for a little while. but, through all her watching, and waiting, and anxiety, graeme spoke no word that might betray to her sister her knowledge that something was amiss with her. for, indeed, what could she say? even in her secret thoughts she had shrunk from looking too closely on the cloud of trouble that had fallen on the life of her young sister. was it misunderstanding, or wounded pride, or disappointment? or was it something which time and change might not so easily or so surely dispel? there were no words to be spoken, however it might be. that was plain enough, graeme said to herself, remembering some years of her own experience, and the silent life she had lived unsuspected among them all. not that any such trouble as had befallen her, had come upon rose. that was never for a moment to be believed. nothing that had happened to rose, or was like to happen, could so change life to her as hers had been changed. rose was wiser and stronger than she had been, and she was younger, too, and, perhaps, as janet had said, "of a lighter nature." graeme comforted herself thus, saying to herself that the cloud would pass away; and she waited and watched, and cared for her, and soothed or chided, or shielded her still. she did all this sorrowfully enough at times, yet hopefully, too, for she knew that whatever the trouble might be that, for the present, made the summer days a weariness to the desponding girl, it would pass away; and so she waited, and had patience, and prayed that, out of it all, she might come wiser and stronger, and more fitted for the work that was awaiting her somewhere in the world. "graeme," said her sister, one day when they had been sitting for a long time silent together, "suppose we were to go and see norman and hilda this fall, instead of in the spring, as they propose." "would you like it?" asked graeme, a little surprised. "yes. for some things i would like it;" and graeme fancied there was suppressed eagerness in her manner. "it is a better season to go, for one thing--a better season for health, i mean. one bears the change of climate better, they say." "but you have been here so short a time. what would arthur say, and fanny? it would look as if you only thought yourself a visitor here--as if your home was with norman." rose shrugged her shoulders. "well! neither arthur nor fanny would be inconsolable. the chances are it may be my home. it is worth taking into consideration. indeed, i have been considering the matter for some time past." "nonsense! don't talk foolishly, rose. it is not long since you wished me to promise that we should always remain together, and i have no thought of going west to stay very long." "and why not? i am sure norman has a right to grumble at our being here so long." "not at you, rosie." "no. not at me. and, besides, i was not thinking of norman, altogether. i was thinking of making a home for myself out there. why not?" graeme looked up, a little startled. "i don't understand you, rose." rose laughed. "no, you don't. but you think you do. of course, there is only one way in which a woman can have a home according, to the generally received opinion. it must be made for her. but one might fancy you should be beyond that by this time, graeme," added rose, a little scornfully. graeme said nothing, and rose went on. "it would not be easy here, i know; but out there you and i could make a home to ourselves, and be independent, and have a life of our own. it is so different there. you ought to go there just to understand how very different it is." "if we needed a home," said graeme. "but, rose, i am content with the home we have." "content!" repeated rose, impatiently. "there is surely something better than content to be looked for in the world;" and she rose and walked about the room. "content is a very good thing to have," said graeme, quietly. "yes, if one could have it. but now, graeme, do tell me what is the good of such a life as we are living now?--as i am living, i ought to say. your life and work are worth a great deal to the rest of us; though you must let me say i often wonder it contents you. think of it, graeme! what does it all amount to, as far as i am concerned, i mean? a little working, and reading, and music; a little visiting and housekeeping, if fanny be propitious--coming, and going, and smiling, and making believe enjoy it, when one feels ready to fly. i am sick of the thought of it all." graeme did not answer her. she was thinking of the time when she had been as impatient of her daily life as this, and of how powerless words, better than she could hope to speak, had been to help her; and though she smiled and shook her head at the young girl's impetuous protest against the uselessness of her life, her eyes, quite unconsciously, met her sister's with a look of wistful pity, that rose, in her youthful impatience and jealousy, was quick to resent. "of course, the rest would make an outcry and raise obstacles--that is, if they were to be consulted at all," she went on. "but _you_ ought to know better, graeme," added she, in a voice that she made sharp, so that her sister need not know that it was very near being tearful. "but, rose, you have not told me yet what it is you would do, if you could have your own way. and what do you mean by having a life of your own, and being independent? have you any plan?" rose sat down, with a little sigh of impatience. "there is surely something that we could do, you and i together. i can have no plan, you know quite well; but you might help me, instead of--" instead of laughing at me, she was going to say, but she stopped, for though graeme's lips were smiling, her eyes had a shadow in them that looked like coming tears; and the gaze, that seemed resting on the picture on the wall, went farther, rose knew; but whether into the past or the future, or whether it was searching into the reason of this new eagerness of hers to be away and at work, she could not tell. however it might be, it vexed and fretted her, and she showed it by sudden impatient movements, which recalled her sister's thoughts. "what is it, rose? i am afraid i was thinking about something else. i don't think i quite understand what you were saying last," said graeme, taking up her work as a safe thing on which to fix her eyes. "for i must not let her see that i know there must be a cause for this sudden wish for a new life," said she to herself. if she had done what she longed to do, she would have taken the impatient, troubled child in her arms, and whispered, as janet had whispered to her that night, so long ago, that the restless fever of her heart would pass away; she would have soothed and comforted her, with tender words, as janet had not dared to do. she would have bidden her wait, and have patience with herself and her life, till this cloud passed by--this light cloud of her summer morning, that was only mist to make the rising day more beautiful, and not the sign of storm and loss, as it looked to her young, affrighted eyes. but this she could not do. even with certain knowledge of the troubles which she only guessed, she knew it would be vain to come to her with tender, pitying words, and worse than vain to try to prove that nothing had happened to her, or was like to happen, that could make the breaking up of her old life, and the beginning of a new one, a thing to be thought of by herself or those who loved her. so, after a few stitches carefully taken, for all her sister could see, she said,-- "and, then, there are so few things that a woman can do." the words brought back so vividly that night in the dark, when she had said them out of a sore heart to her friend, that her work fell on her lap again, and she met her sister's eye with a look that rose could not understand. "you are not thinking of what i have been saying. why do you look at me in that strange way?" said she, pettishly. "i am thinking of it, indeed. and i did not know that i was looking any other than my usual way. i was saying to myself, `has the poor child got to go through all that for herself, as i have done?' oh! rosie, dear! if i could only give you the benefit of all my vexed thoughts on that very subject!" "well, why not? that is just what i want. only, don't begin in that discouraging way, about there being so few things a woman can do. i know all that, already." "we might go to norman for a while together, at any rate," said graeme, feeling how impossible it would be to satisfy one another by what might be said, since all could not be spoken between them. "yes. that is just what i said, at first. and we could see about it there. we could much more easily make our plans, and carry them out there, than here. and, in the meantime, we could find plenty to do in hilda's house with the children and all the rest. i wish we could go soon." and then she went over what she had often gone over before, the way of life in their brother norman's house--hilda's housekeeping, and her way with her children, and in society, and so on, graeme asking questions, and making remarks, in the hope that the conversation might not, for this time, come back to the vexed question, of what women may do in the world. it grew dark in the meantime, but they were waiting for harry and letters, and made no movement; and, by and by, rose said, suddenly: "i am sure you used to think about all this, graeme--about woman's work, and how stupid it is to live on in this way, `waiting at the pool,' as hannah lovejoy used to say. i declare it is undignified, and puts thoughts into people's heads, as though--. it would be different, if we were living in our father's house, or, even, if we had money of our own. you used to think so, yourself, graeme. why should arthur and harry do everything for us?" "yes, i remember. when fanny first came, i think i had as many thoughts about all this as you have now. i was very restless, and discontented, and determined to go away. i talked to janet about it one night." "and she convinced you that you were all wrong, i suppose," said rose. "and you were content ever after." "no. i don't think she helped me much, at the time. but her great doctrine of patience and quiet waiting, and circumstances together, convinced me, afterward, that i did not need to go in search of my work, as seemed to me then the thing to do. i found it ready at my hand, though i could not see it then. her wisdom was higher than mine. she said that out of it all would come content, and so it has." "that was not saying much!" said rose. "no. it did not seem to me, much, when she said it. but she was right, all the same, and i was wrong. and it has all happened much better than if i had got my own way." "but, graeme, all that would not apply in the case of women, generally. that is begging the question, as harry would say." "but i am not speaking of women in general; i am speaking about myself, and my own work; and i say janet was wise, though i was far from thinking it that night, as i mind well." there was a pause, and then rose said, in a low voice. "it may have been right for you to stay at home then, and care for the rest of us, but it would be quite different now, with me, and i think with you, too. and how many women have to go and make a way of life for themselves. and it is right that it should be so; and graeme, we might try." instead of answering her directly, graeme said, after a little while,-- "did i ever tell you rose, dear, about that night, and all that janet said to me? i told her how i wished to get out of my useless, unsatisfactory life, just as you have been telling me. did i ever tell you all she said to me? i don't think i ever did. i felt then, just as you do now. i think i can understand your feeling, better than you suppose; and i opened my heart to janet--i mean, i told her how sick i was of it all, and how good-for-nothing i felt myself to be, and how it all might be changed, if only i could find real work to do--" and graeme went on to tell much that had been said between them that night, about woman's work, and about old maids, and a little about the propriety of not setting one's face against the manifest lot of woman; and when she came to this part of it, she spoke with an attempt at playfulness, meant to cover, a little, the earnestness of all that went before. but neither in this nor in the rest, did she speak as though she meant rose to take the lesson to herself, or as though it meant very much to either of them now; but rather implied by her words and manner, and by many a pathetic touch here and there, that she was dwelling on it as a pleasant reminiscence of the dear old friend, whose quaint sayings were household words among them, because of their wisdom, and because of the honour and the love they gave her. her earnestness increased, as, by and by, she saw the impatience pass out of her sister's face and manner; and it never came into her mind that she was turning back a page in her own experience, over which rose had long ago pondered with wonder and sadness. "i could not make janet see the necessity that seemed so clear to me," she went on. "i could not make her understand, or, at least, i thought she could not understand, for she spoke as though she thought that fanny's coming, and those old vexations, made me wish to get away, and it was not easy to answer her when she said that my impatience and restlessness would all pass away, and that i must fulfil papa's last wish, and stay with the rest. i thought the time had come when the necessity for that was over, and that another way would be better for _me_, certainly; and i thought for arthur and fanny, too, and for you, rosie. but, oh! how much wiser janet was than i, that night. but i did not think so at the time. i was wild to be set free from the present, and to have my own will and go away. it was well that circumstances were too strong for me. it has come true, as janet said. i think it is better for us all that i have been at home all those years. fanny and i have done each other good. it has been better for us all." she paused a moment, and then added,-- "of course, if it had been necessary that i should go out into the world, and make my own way, i might have done as others have done, and won, at least, a measure of success. and so we might still, you and i together, rose, if it were necessary, but that makes all the difference. there is no question of necessity for us, dear, at present, and as for god's work, and work for our fellow creatures, we can find that at home. without separating from the others, i mean." but rose's face clouded again. "there need be no question of separating from the others, graeme. norman is out there, and there are hundreds of women who have their own place and work in the world, who have not been driven by necessity to look for them--the necessity of making a living, i mean. there are other necessities that a woman must feel--some more than others, i suppose. it is an idle, foolish, vain life that i am living. i know that i have not enough to fill my life, graeme. i know it, though i don't suppose i can make you understand it. i am past the age now to care for being petted, and amused, and made much of by the rest of you. i mean, i am too old now to feel that enough for my satisfaction. it is different with you, who really are good for something, and who have done so much, for arthur and fanny, and us all. and, besides, as you say, you are content; but as for me--oh! i know there is no use talking. i could never make you understand--there, i don't want to be naughty, and vex you--and we will say no more to-night. shall i get a light?" she stooped over her sister, and kissed her, and graeme, putting her arms round her, said softly,-- "only one word more, rosie. i think i can understand you better than you believe, as janet understood me that night, though i did not see it then, and you must just let me say one thing. my darling, i believe all that is troubling you, now, will pass away; but, if i am wrong, and if it be best that you have your own way about this work of yours--i mean, if it is right--circumstances will arrange themselves to that end, and it will all come easy for you, and me, too. we shall keep together, at any rate, and i am not afraid. and, love, a year or two does make a difference in people's feelings about things, though there is no good in my saying it to you, now, i know. but we will wait till will comes home. we must be here to welcome him, even if his coming should be delayed longer than we hope now. i don't like to think of any plan for you and me, out of which will must be left. and so many things may happen before a year is over. i remember how restless and troubled i was at that time. i don't like to think of it even now--and it is all past--quite past. and we will stay together, whatever happens, if we can, and, darling, you must have patience." all this was said with many a caressing pause between, and then rose said,-- "well--yes--i suppose we must wait for will." but she did not say it cheerfully, and graeme went on, after a little: "and, dear, i have noticed more than once in my life that when a quiet time like this has come, it has come as a time of preparation for work of some sort; for the doing, or the bearing of god's will in some peculiar way; and we must not lose the good of these quiet days by being anxious about the future, or regretful over the past. it will all come right, love, you may be sure of that." the last words were spoken hastily, for harry's voice was heard, and rose went softly out at one door, as he came in at the other; and when, in a little, he called from the foot of the stairs, as he always did, when he did not find her in her parlour, she came down, affecting surprise. "so you are here at last, harry? are there any letters to-night?" yes, there were letters. harry had read his, and gave them the news with a little grumbling, while the gas was being lighted. his friend and partner seemed intent on making the most of his long delayed holiday, and was going to lengthen it a little, by taking a run to paris, perhaps even to rome. "with whom do you think, graeme?" added he, his face clearing up suddenly. "with his brother allan, and our will. won't they help one another to have a good time? charlie takes it quite coolly, however, i must say. it was an even chance, at one time, whether he would go at all, and now, there is no telling when he will be back again. that is always the way. i wonder when i shall have my holiday? `the willing horse,' you know, rosie." "it is very hard on you, harry, dear. but i fancied you had a little trip yourself, lately, and enjoyed it, too. was that in the interest of your friend?" "hem! yes--indirectly. i did enjoy it. fanny says she has had a very pleasant summer; and, if you are going down at all, rosie, it is time you were going. they seem to have a very nice set of people there. i think if you were to go at once, i would take a run down with you--next week, perhaps. i think you would enjoy it." "i thank you, harry, dear. but, you know, fanny's taste and mine are different. i don't always fancy _her_ pleasant people. and i should not think of taking you away on my account." "not at all. i shall go, at any rate. but i want you to go, rosie, for a reason i have. and i promise you won't regret it. i wish graeme would go, too." "it would be charming if we could all go together," said rose. "but it would be hardly worth while, we could make so short a stay, now." "i enjoyed it very much," said harry. "one gets to know people so much better in such a place, and i am sure you would like the roxburys, rosie, if you would only take pains to know them." "my dear harry! think what you are saying! would they take pains to know me? they are fanny's nice people, are they? yes, i suppose so. however, i don't believe graeme will care to go." graeme uttered an exclamation over her letter. "it is from. mr snow," said she, with a pale face. "bad news?" asked harry. it was bad news, indeed. it told, in mr snow's brief way, that, within a few days, the illness, from which his wife had been suffering for some time, had taken a dangerous turn, rendering an operation necessary; and the letter was sent to prepare them for a possible fatal result. "it gives her a chance, and that is all the doctors will say. _she_ says it will be all right whichever way it turns. god bless you all. emily will tell you more." "harry," said graeme, as he laid down the letter. "i must go to janet." "it would be a comfort to her if you could," said harry, gravely. "and to me," said graeme. "i shall go early to-morrow." there was not much more said about it. there was a little discussion about the trains, and the best way to take, and then harry went away. rose had not spoken a word while he was there, but the moment the door closed after him, she said, softly,-- "harry does not think that i am going; but, dear, you promised that, whatever happened, we should keep together. and, graeme, the quiet time has been to prepare you for this; and we are sure it will all be right, as janet says. you will let me go with you, graeme?" she pleaded; "you will never go and leave me here?" so whatever harry thought, graeme could do nothing but yield; and the next morning the sisters were speeding southward, with fear in their hearts, but with peace and hope in them, also; for they knew, and they said to one another many times that day, that the words of their dear old friend would come true, and that in whatever way the trouble that had fallen on her might end, it would be for her all well. chapter forty one. september was nearly over; there were tokens of the coming autumn on the hills and valleys of merleville, but the day was like a day in the prime of summer, and the air that came in through the open windows of the south room fell on mrs snow's pale cheeks as mild and balmy as a breeze of june. the wood-covered hills were unfaded still, and beautiful, though here and there a crimson banner waved, or a pillar of gold rose up amid the greenness. over among the valleys, were sudden, shifting sparkles from half-hidden brooks, and the pond gleamed in the sunshine without a cloud to dim its brightness. in the broken fields that sloped towards it, and in the narrow meadows that skirted that part of the merle river which could be seen, there were tokens of life and busy labour--dark stretches of newly-turned mould alternating with the green of the pastures, or the bleached stubble of the recent harvest. there were glimpses of the white houses of the village through the trees, and, now and then, a traveller passed slowly along the winding road, but there was nothing far or near to disturb the sweet quiet of the scene now so familiar and so dear, and mrs snow gazed out upon it with a sense of peace and rest at her heart which showed in her quiet face and in her folded hands. it showed in mr snow's face, too, as he glanced now and then over the edge of the newspaper he was holding in his hand. he was reading, and she was supposed to be listening, to one of the excellent articles which weekly enriched the columns of _the puritan_, but the look that was coming and going on his wife's face was not just the look with which she was wont to listen to the doings of the county association of ministers, mr snow thought, and, in a little, he let the paper drop from his hand. "well, and how did they come on with their discussions?" said mrs snow, her attention recalled by the silence. mr snow smiled. "oh! pretty much so. their discussions will keep a spell, i guess," said he, taking off his spectacles, and changing his seat so as to look out of the window. "it is a bonny day," said mrs snow, softly. "yes, it is kind of pleasant." there was nothing more said for a long time. many words were not needed between these two by this time. they had been passing through weeks of sore trial; the shadow of death had seemed to be darkening over them, and, worse to bear even than the prospect of death, had been the suffering which had brought it near. worse for her, for she had drawn very near to the unseen world--so near that the glory had been visible, and it had cost her a struggle to be willing to come back again; and worse for him, too, whose heart had grown sick at the sight of the slow, wearing pain, growing sharper every day. but that was past now. very slowly, but still surely, health was coming back to the invalid, and the rest from long pain, and the consciousness of returning strength, were making the bright day and the fair scene more beautiful to her. as for him, he could only look at her with thankful joy. "i never saw this bonny place bonnier than it is to-day, and so sweet, and quiet, and homelike. we live in a fair world, and, on a day like this, one is ready to forget that there is sin or trouble in it." "it is good to see you sitting there," said mr snow, for answer. "well, i am content to be sitting here. i doubt i shall do little else for the rest of my life. i must be a useless body, i'm afraid," added she, with a sigh. mr snow smiled. "you know better than that," said he. "i don't suppose it seems much to you to get back again; but it is a great deal for the rest of us to have you, if it is only to look at." "i am content to bide my time, useless or useful, as god wills," said his wife, gravely: "i was willing you should go--yes, i do think i was willing you should go. it was the seeing you suffer that seemed to take the strength out of me," said he, with a shudder. "it makes me kind of sick to think about it," added he, rising and moving about. "i believe i was willing, but i am dreadful glad to see you sitting there." "i am glad to be here, since it is god's will. it is a wonderful thing to stand on the very brink of the river of death, and then to turn back again. i think the world can never look quite the same to eyes that have looked beyond it to the other side. but i am content to be here, and to serve him, whether it be by working or by waiting." "on the very brink," repeated mr snow, musingly. "well, it _did_ look like that, one while. i wonder if i was really willing to have you go. it don't seem now as if i could have been--being so glad as i am that you did not go, and so thankful." "i don't think the gladness contradicts the willingness; and knowing you as i do, and myself as well, i wonder less at the willingness than at the gladness." this needed further consideration, it seemed, for mr snow did not answer, but sat musing, with his eyes fixed on the distant hills, till mrs snow spoke again. "i thought at first, when the worst was over, it was only a respite from pain before the end; but, to-day, i feel as if my life was really coming back to me, and i am more glad to live than i have been any day yet." mr snow cleared his throat, and nodded his head a great many times. it was not easy for him to speak at the moment. "if it were only may, now, instead of september! you always did find our winters hard; and it is pretty tough being hived up so many months of the year. i do dread the winter for you." "maybe it winna be so hard on me. we must make the best of it anyway. i am thankful for ease from pain. that is much." "yes," said mr snow, with the shudder that always came with the remembrance of his wife's sufferings, "thank god for that. i ain't a going to fret nor worry about the winter, if i can help it. i am going to live, if i can, from hour to hour, and from day to day, by the grace that is given me; but if i _could_ fix it so that graeme would see it best to stop here a spell longer, i should find it considerable easier, i expect." "but she has said nothing about going away yet," said mrs snow, smiling at his way of putting it. "you must take the grace of her presence, day by day, as you do the rest, at least till she shows signs of departure." "we never can tell how things are going to turn," said mr snow, musingly. "there is that good come out of your sickness. they are both here, and, as far as i see, they are content to be here. if we could prevail on will to see it his duty to look toward this field of labour, now, i don't doubt but we could fix it so that they should make their home, here always--right here in this house, i mean--only it would be 'most too good a thing to have in this world, i'm afraid." "we must wait for the leadings of providence," said his wife. "this field, as you call it, is no' at will's taking yet. what would your friend, mr perry, think if he heard you? and as for the others, we must not be over-anxious to keep them beyond what their brothers would like. but, as you say, they seem content; and it is a pleasure to have them here, greater than i can put in words; and i know you are as pleased as i am, and that doubles the pleasure to me," added mrs snow, looking gratefully toward her husband. "it might have been so different." "oh! come, now. it ain't worth while, to put it in that way at this time of day. i don't know as you'd allow it exactly; but i do think they are about as nigh to me as they are to you. i really do." "that's saying much, but i'll no' gainsay it," said mrs snow, smiling. "they are good bairns, and a blessing wherever they may go. but i doubt we canna hope to keep them very long with us." "it is amazing to me. i can't seem to understand it, or reconcile it to--." mr snow paused and looked at his wife in the deprecating manner he was wont to assume when he was not quite sure whether or not she would like what he was going to say, and then added: "however, she don't worry about it. she is just as contented as can be, and no mistake; and i rather seem to remember that you used to worry a little about her when they were here last." "about miss graeme, was it?" said mrs snow, with a smile; "maybe i did. i was as good at that as at most things. yes, she is content with life, now. god's peace is in her heart, and in her life, too. i need not have been afraid." "rosie's sobered down some, don't you think?" said mr snow, with some hesitation. "she used to be as lively as a cricket. maybe it is only my notion, but she seems different." "she's older and wiser, and she'll be none the worse to take a soberer view of life than she used to do," said mrs snow. "i have seen nothing beyond what was to be looked for in the circumstances. but i have been so full of myself, and my own troubles of late, i may not have taken notice. her sister is not anxious about her; i would have seen that. the bairn is gathering sense--that is all, i think." "well! yes. it will be all right. i don't suppose it will be more than a passing cloud, and i might have known better than to vex you with it." "indeed, you have not vexed me, and i am not going to vex myself with any such thought. it will all come right, as you say. i have seen her sister in deeper water than any that can be about her, and she is on dry land now. `and hath set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings,'" added mrs snow, softly. "that is the way with my bairn, i believe. thank god. and they'll both be the better for this quiet time, and we'll take the good of it without wishing for more than is wise, or setting our hearts on what may fail. see, they are coming down the brae together. it is good to see them." the first weeks of their stay in merleville had been weeks of great anxiety. long after a very difficult and painful operation had been successfully performed, mrs snow remained in great danger, and the two girls gave themselves up to the duty of nursing and caring for her, to the exclusion of all other thoughts and interests. to mr snow it seemed that his wife had been won back to life by their devotion, and janet herself, when her long swoon of exhaustion and weakness was over, remembered that, even at the worst time of all, a dim consciousness of the presence of her darlings had been with her, and a wish to stay, for their sakes, had held her here, when her soul seemed floating away to unseen worlds. by a change, so gradual as scarcely to be perceptible, from day to day, she came back to a knowledge of their loving care, and took up the burden of her life again. not joyfully, perhaps, having been so near to the attaining of heavenly joy, but still with patience and content, willing to abide god's time. after that the days followed one another quietly and happily, with little to break the pleasant monotony beyond the occasional visits of the neighbours from the village, or the coming of letters from home. to graeme it was a very peaceful time. watching her from day to day, her old friend could not but see that she was content with her life and its work, now; that whatever the shadow had been which had fallen on her earlier days, it had passed away, leaving around her, not the brightness of her youth, but a milder and more enduring radiance. graeme was, in janet's eyes, just what the daughter of her father and mother ought to be. if she could have wished anything changed, it would have been in her circumstances, not in herself. she was not satisfied that to her should be denied the higher happiness of being in a home of her own--the first and dearest to some one worthy of her love. "and yet who knows?" said she to herself. "one can never tell in which road true happiness lies; and it is not for me, who can see only a little way, to wish for anything that god has not given her. `a contented mind is a continual feast,' says the book. she has that. and `blessed are the meek, and the merciful, and the pure in heart.' what would i have? i'll make no plans, and i'll make no wishes. it is all in good hands, and there is nothing to fear for her, i am sure of that. as for her sister--. well, i suppose there will ay be something in the lot of those we love, to make us mindful that they need better help than ours. and it is too far on in the day for me to doubt that good guidance will come to her as to the rest." still, after her husband's words, mrs snow regarded rose's movements with an earnestness that she was not quite willing to acknowledge even to herself. it was rather unreasonable of him, she thought at first, to be otherwise than content with the young girl in her new sedateness. she was not quite so merry and idle as during her last visit; but that was not surprising, seeing she was older and wiser, and more sensible of the responsibilities that life brings to all. it was natural that it should be so, and well that it should be so. it was matter for thankfulness that the years were bringing her wisdom, and that, looking on life with serious eyes, she would not expect too much from it, nor be so bitterly disappointed at its inevitable failures. she was quieter and graver, but surely no fault was to be found with that, seeing there had been sickness and anxiety in the house. she was cheerful and busy too, mrs snow saw, accomplishing wonderful things in the way of learning to do housework, and dairy work, under the direction of hannah, and comporting herself generally in a way that was winning the good opinion of that experienced and rather exacting housekeeper. she took great interest in out-of-door affairs, going daily with the deacon to the high sheep pasture, or to the clearing beyond the swamp, or wherever else his oversight of farming matters led him, which ought to have contented mr snow, his wife thought, and which might have done so if he had been quite sure that her heart was in it all. by and by mrs snow wearied a little for the mirthfulness and laughter that had sometimes needed to be gently checked during her former visit. more than once, too, she fancied she saw a wistful look in graeme's eyes as they followed her sister's movements, and she had much ado to keep from troubling herself about them both. they were sitting one day together in the south room which looked out over the garden and the orchard and the pond beyond. rose was in the garden, walking listlessly up and down the long paths between the flower-beds, and mrs snow, as she watched her, wondered within herself whether this would be a good time to speak to graeme about her sister. before she had time to decide, however, they were startled by hannah's voice coming round the corner-- "rose," it said, "hadn't you just as leives do your walking right straight ahead? 'cause, if you had, you might take a pitcher and go over to emily's and borrow some yeast. i don't calculate, as a general thing, to get out of yeast, or any thing else, but the cat's been and keeled the jug right down, and spilled the last drop, and i want a little to set some more to rising." "hannah," said rose, with a penitent face, "i am afraid it was my fault. i left the jug on the corner of the shelf, instead of putting it away as i ought. i am very sorry." "well, i thought pretty likely it might be you, seeing it wasn't me," said hannah, grimly. "that jug has held the yeast in this house since grandma snow's time, and now it's broke to forty pieces." "oh, i am so sorry!" said rose. "well, i guess it don't matter a great sight. nobody will worry about it, if i don't, and it's no use crying over spilt milk. but i guess you'd better tell emily how it happened. i'd a little rather what borrowing there is between the two houses should be on t'other side. i wouldn't have asked you, only i thought you'd rather go than not. that walking up and down is about as shiftless a business as ever you undertook. but don't you go if you don't want to." rose shrugged her shoulders. "oh! i'll go, and i'll tell mrs nasmyth how it happened, and that it was my fault and the cat's. mrs snow," said she, presenting herself at the window, "did you hear what hannah has been saying? i have broken grandma snow's yeast jug into forty pieces, and i am to go and confess to emily, and get some yeast." "i thought it was the cat that did it; though, doubtless, it was your fault not putting it in its place. however, there is no great harm done, so that you get more yeast to hannah." "and let emily know that it is my fault and not hannah's that more yeast is needed. graeme, will you come and have a walk this bonny day?" "you can go and do hannah's errand, now, and i will stay with mrs snow, and we will walk together later," said graeme. "and you might bring wee rosie home with you, if her mother will spare her, and if she wants to come. but there is no doubt of her wishing to come with you." "is anything the matter with your sister, that you follow her with such troubled e'en?" asked mrs snow, after a moment's silence. "troubled e'en!" repeated graeme. "no, i don't think there is anything the matter with her. do you? why should you think there is anything the matter with her, janet?" "my dear, i was only asking you; and it was because of the look that you sent after her--a look that contradicts your words--a thing that doesna often happen with you, be it said." "did i look troubled? i don't think there is any reason for it on rosie's account--any that can be told. i mean i can only guess at any cause of trouble she may have. just for a minute, now and then, i have felt a little anxious, perhaps; but it is not at all because i think there is anything seriously wrong with rosie, or indeed anything that will not do her good rather than harm. but oh, janet! it is sad that we cannot keep all trouble away from those we love." "i canna agree with you, my dear. it would be ill done to keep anything from her that will do her good and not evil, as you say yourself. but well or ill, you canna do it, and it is foolish and wrong of you to vex yourself more than is needful." "but i do not, indeed. just now it was her restless, aimless walking up and down that vexed me. i am foolish, i suppose, but it always does." "i daresay it may tell of an uneasy mind, whiles," said mrs snow, gravely. "i mind you used to be given to it yourself in the old times, when you werena at ease with yourself. but if you don't like it in your sister, you should encourage her to employ herself in a purpose-like manner." "hannah has done it for me this time--i am not sure, however." for rosie was standing still at the gate looking away down the hill towards the village, "thinking her own thoughts, doubtless," graeme said to herself. "she's waiting for some one, maybe. i daresay sandy has sent some one down to the village for the papers, as this is the day they mostly come." "miss graeme, my dear," continued mrs snow, in a little, "it is time you were thinking of overtaking all the visiting you'll be expected to do, now that i am better. it will be a while, before you'll get over all the places where they will expect to see you, for nobody will like to be overlooked." "oh, i don't know!" said graeme. "it is not just like last time, when we were strangers and new to the people. and we have seen almost everybody already. and i like this quiet time much best." "but, my dear, it is too late to begin to think first of your own likes and dislikes now. and it will be good for rosie, and you mustna tell me that you are losing interest in your merleville friends, dear! that would be ungrateful, when they all have so warm an interest in you." "no, indeed! i have not lost interest in my merleville friends. there will never be any place just like merleville to me. our old life here always comes back to me like a happy, happy dream. i can hardly remember any troubles that came to us all those seven years, janet--till the very end." "my dear, you had your troubles, plenty of them, or you thought you had; but the golden gleam of youth lies on your thoughts of that time, now. there was the going away of the lads, for one thing. i mind well you thought those partings hard to bear." "yes, i remember," said graeme, gravely, "but even then we hoped to meet again, and life lay before us all; and nothing had happened to make us afraid." "my dear, nothing has happened yet that need make you afraid. if you mean for rosie, she must have her share of the small tribulations that fall to the lot of most women, at one time or other of their lives; but she is of a cheerful nature, and not easily daunted; and dear, _you_ have come safely over rougher bits of road than any that are like to lie before her, and she ay will have you to guide her. and looking at you, love, and knowing that the `great peace,' the book speaks about, is in your heart and in your life, i have no fear for your sister, after all that has come and gone to you." graeme leaned back in her chair, silent for a moment, then she said, gently,-- "i am not afraid. i cannot think what i have said, janet, to make you think i am afraid for rosie." "my dear, you have said nothing. it was the wistful look in your e'en that made me speak to you about her. and besides, i have noticed rosie myself. she is not so light of heart as she used to be. it may be the anxious time you have had with me, or it may be the added years, or it may be something that it may be wiser for you and me not to seem to see. but whatever it is, i am not afraid for rose. i am only afraid that you may vex yourself about her, when there is no need. there can be no good in that, you know well." "but i am not vexing myself, janet, indeed. i will tell you what i know about it. do you mind that restless fit that was on me long ago, when you came to see us, and how it seemed to me that i must go away? well, rose has come to the same place in her life, and she would like to have work, real work, to do in the world, and she has got impatient of her useless life, as she calls it. it has come on her sooner than it came on me, but that is because the circumstances are different, i suppose, and i hope it may pass away. for, oh! janet, i shrink from the struggle, and the going away from them all; and i have got to that time when one grows content with just the little things that come to one's hand to do, seeing they are sent by god, as well as nobler work. but it is not so with rose, and even if this wears over, as it did with me, there are weary days before her; and no wonder, janet, that i follow her with anxious eyes." there was no more said for a moment. they were both watching rose, who still stood at the gate, shading her eyes, and looking down the hill. "she doesna look like one that has much the matter with her," said mrs snow. "miss graeme, my dear, do you ken what ails your sister? why has this feverish wish to be away and at work come upon her so suddenly, if it is a question that i ought to ask?" "janet, i cannot tell you. i do not know. i can but guess at it myself, and i may be all wrong. and i think, perhaps, the best help we can give her, is not to seem to see, as you said a little ago. sometimes i have thought it might all be set right, if rose would only speak; but one can never be sure, and i think, janet, we can only wait and see. i don't believe there is much cause for fear, if only rose will have patience." "then, wherefore should you look so troubled? nothing but wrong-doing on your sister's part should make you look like that." for there were tears in graeme's eyes as she watched her sister, and she looked both anxious and afraid. "wrong-doing," repeated she, with a start. then she rose impatiently, but sat down again in a moment. was it "wrong-doing" in a woman to let her heart slip unawares and unasked from her own keeping? if this was indeed the thing that had happened to rose? or was it "wrong-doing" to come to the knowledge of one's heart too late, as harry had once hinted might be the end of rosie's foolish love of admiration? "wrong-doing," she repeated again, with a sudden stir of indignation at her heart. "no, that must never be said of rose. it must be one of the small tribulations that sooner or later fall to the lot of most women, as you said yourself janet, a little ago. and it won't do to discuss it, anyway. see, rose has opened the gate for some one. who is coming in?" "my dear," said mrs snow, gravely, "it was far from my thought to wish to know about anything that i should not. it is sandy she is opening the gate for, and wee rosie. he has been down for the papers, it seems, and he may have gotten letters as well." "but, janet," said graeme, eagerly, "you know i could not mean that i could not tell you if i were ever so willing. i do not know. i can only guess; but as for `wrong-doing'--" "my dear, you needna tell me that. sandy, man, it must seem a strange-like thing to the folk in the village to see you carrying the child that way on your horse before you--you that have wagons of one kind or another, and plenty of them, at your disposal. is it safe for the bairn, think you? do you like that way of riding, my wee rosie?" "yes, gamma, i 'ike it," lisped the two years old rosie, smiling brightly. "it is safe enough, mother, you may be sure of that. and as for what the village folk may think, that's a new thing for you to ask. it is the best and pleasantest way in the world for both rosie and me." and looking at the proud, young father and the happy child sitting before him, it was not to be for a moment doubted. "it must be delightful," said rose, laughing. "i should like a ride myself, wee rosie." "and why not?" said mrs snow. "sandy, man, it is a wonder to me that you havena thought about it before. have you your habit here, my dear? why should you no' bring young major or dandy over, saddled for miss rose? it would do her all the good in the world to get a gallop in a day like this." "there is no reason in the world why i should not, if miss rose, would like it." "i would like it very much. not that i need the good of it especially, but i shall enjoy the pleasure of it. and will you let wee rosie come with me." "if grandma has no objections," said sandy, laughing. "but it must be _old_ major, if you take her." "did ever anybody hear such nonsense?" said mrs snow, impatiently. "but you'll need to haste, sandy, man, or we shall be having visitors, and then she winna get away." "yes, i should not wonder. i saw mr perry coming up the way with a book in his hand. but i could bring young major and dandy too, and miss rose needn't be kept at home then." rose laughed merrily. "who? the minister? oh! fie, sandy man, you shouldna speak such nonsense. wee rosie, are you no' going to stay the day with miss graeme and me?" said mrs snow. graeme held up her arms for the little girl, but she did not offer to move. "will you bide with grannie, wee rosie?" asked her father, pulling back her sun-bonnet, and letting a mass of tangled, yellow curls fall over her rosy face. "tum adain grannie," said the little girl, gravely. she was too well pleased with her place to wish to leave it. her father laughed. "she shall come when i bring over dandy for miss rose. in the meantime, i have something for some one here." "letters," said graeme and rose, in a breath. "one a piece. good news, i hope. i shall soon be back again, miss rose, with dandy." graeme's letter was from will, written after having heard of his sisters being in merleville, before he had heard of mrs snow's recovery. he had thought once of coming home with mr millar, he said, but had changed his plans, partly because he wished to accept an invitation he had received from his uncle in the north, and partly for other reasons. he was staying at present with mrs millar, who was "one of a thousand," wrote will, with enthusiasm, "and, indeed, so is, her son, mr ruthven, but you know allan, of old." and then he went on to other things. graeme read the letter first herself, and then to mrs snow and rose. in the midst of it mr snow came in. rose had read hers, but held it in her hand still, even after they had ceased to discuss will's. "it is from fanny," said she, at last. "you can read it to mrs snow, if you like, graeme. it is all about baby and his perfections; or nearly all. i will go and put on my habit for my ride. uncle sampson come with me, won't you? have you anything particular to do to-day?" "to ride?" said mr snow. "i'd as lieve go as not, and a little rather--if you'll promise to take it moderate. i should like the chaise full better than the saddle, i guess, though." rose laughed. "i will promise to let _you_ take it moderate. i am not afraid to go alone, if you don't want to ride. but i shouldn't fancy the chaise to-day. a good gallop is just what i want, i think." she went to prepare for her ride, and graeme read fanny's letter. it was, as rose had said, a record of her darling's pretty sayings and doings, and gentle regrets that his aunts could not have the happiness of being at home to watch his daily growth in wisdom and beauty. then there were a few words at the end. "harry is properly indignant, as we all are, at your hint that you may see norman and hilda, before you see home again. harry says it is quite absurd to speak of such a thing, but we have seen very little of him of late. i hope we may see more of him now that his friend and partner has returned. he has been quite too much taken up with his little amy, to think of us. however, i promised mr millar i would say nothing of that bit of news. he must tell you about it himself. he has a great deal of scottish news, but i should only spoil it by trying to tell it; and i think it is quite possible that harry may fulfil his threat, and come for you himself. but i suppose he will give you fair warning," and so on. graeme closed the letter, saying nothing. "it is not just very clear, i think," said mrs snow. "is it not?" said graeme. "i did not notice. of course, it is all nonsense about harry coming to take us home." "and who is little miss amy, that she speaks of? is she a friend of your brother harry? or is she mr millar's friend? mrs arthur doesna seem to make it clear?" "miss amy roxbury," said graeme, opening her letter again. "does she not make it plain? oh, well! we shall hear more about it, she says. i suppose harry has got back to his old fancy, that we are to go and live with him if mr millar goes elsewhere. indeed, i don't understand it myself; but we shall hear more soon, i daresay. ah! here is rosie." "and here is dandy," said rose, coming in with her habit on. "and here is wee rosie come to keep you company while i am away. and here is mr snow, on old major. don't expect us home till night. we shall have a day of it, shall we not?" they had a very quiet day at home. wee rosie came and went, and told her little tales to the content of her grandmother and graeme, who made much of the little girl, as may well be supposed. she was a bonny little creature, with her father's blue eyes and fair curls, and showing already some of the quaint, grave ways that graeme remembered in her mother as a child. in the afternoon, emily came with her baby, and they were all happy and busy, and had no time for anxious or troubled thoughts. at least, they never spoke a word that had reference to anything sad. but, when graeme read the letters again to emily, mrs snow noticed that she did not read the part about their going west, or about little amy, or about harry's coming to take them home. but her eye lingered on the words, and her thoughts went back to some old trouble, she saw by her grave look, and by the silence that fell upon her, even in the midst of her pretty child's play with the little ones. but never a word was spoken about anything sad. and, by and by, visitors came, and mrs snow, being tired, went to lie down to rest for a while. but when rose and mr snow came home, they found her standing at the gate, ready to receive them. chapter forty two. "i want to know! now do tell; if there ain't mother standing at the gate, and opening it for us, too," exclaimed mr snow, in astonishment and delight. "that is the farthest she's been yet, and it begins to look a little like getting well, now, don't it?" "i hope nothing has happened," said rose, a little anxiously. "i guess not--nothing to fret over. her face don't look like it. well, mother, you feel pretty smart to-night, don't you? you look first-rate." "i am just as usual," said mrs snow, quietly. "but what has kept you so long? we were beginning to wonder about you." "has anything happened?" said rose, looking over mrs snow's head, at a little crowd of people coming out at the door. "we have visitors, that is all. the minister is here, and a friend of yours--your brother harry's partner. he has brought news--not bad news, at least he doesna seem to think so, nor miss graeme. i have hardly heard it myself, yet, or seen the young man, for i was tired and had to lie down. but you'll hear it yourself in due time." rose reined her horse aside. "take care, dear," said mrs snow, as she sprung to the ground without assistance. "there is no need for such haste. you might have waited for sandy or some one to help you, i think." "what is it, graeme?" said rose, for her sister looked flashed and excited, and there were traces of tears on her cheeks she was sure. but she did not look anxious--certainly not unhappy. "rosie, dear, charlie has come." "oh! charlie has come, has he? that is it, is it?" said rose, with a long breath. yes, there was mr millar, offering his hand and smiling--"exactly like himself," rose thought, but she could not tell very well, for her eyes were dazzled with the red light of the setting sun. but she was very glad to see him, she told him; and she told the minister she was very glad to see _him_, too, in the very same tone, the next minute. there was not much time to say anything, however, for hannah--whose patience had been tried by the delay--announced that tea was on the table, in a tone quite too peremptory to be trifled with. "rose, you are tired, i am sure. never mind taking off your habit till after tea." rose confessed herself tired after her long and rapid ride. "for i left mr snow at major spring's, and went on a long way by myself, and it is just possible, that, after all, you are right, and i have gone too far for the first ride; for see, i am a little shaky," added she, as the teacup she passed to mr snow trembled in her hand. then she asked mr millar about the news he had brought them, and whether all were well, and a question or two besides; and then she gave herself up to the pleasure of listening to the conversation of the minister, and it came into graeme's mind that if harry had been there he would have said she was amusing herself with a little serious flirtation. graeme did not think so, or, if she did, it did not make her angry as it would have made harry; for though she said little, except to the grave wee rosie nasmyth, whom she had taken under her care, she looked very bright and glad. rose looked at her once or twice, a little startled, and after a while, in watching her, evidently lost the thread of the minister's entertaining discourse, and answered him at random. "i have a note from harry," said graeme, as they left the tea-table. "here it is. go and take off your habit. you look hot and tired." in a little while the visitors were gone and mr millar was being put through a course of questions by mr snow. graeme sat and listened to them, and thought of rose, who, all the time, was sitting up-stairs with harry's letter in her hand. it was not a long letter. rose had time to read it a dozen times over, graeme knew, but still she lingered, for a reason she could not have told to any one, which she did not even care to make very plain to herself. mr snow was asking, and mr millar was answering, questions about scotland, and will, and mr ruthven, and every word that was said was intensely interesting to her; and yet, while she listened eagerly, and put in a word now and then that showed how much she cared, she was conscious all the time, that she was listening for the sound of a movement overhead, or for her sister's footstep on the stair. by and by, as charlie went on, in answer to mr snow's questions, to tell about the state of agriculture in his native shire, her attention wandered altogether, and she listened only for the footsteps. "she may perhaps think it strange that i do not go up at once. i daresay it is foolish in me. very likely this news will be no more to her than to me." "where is your sister?" said mrs snow, who, as well as graeme, had been attending to two things at once. "i doubt the foolish lassie has tired herself with riding too far." "i will go and see," said graeme. before she entered her sister's room rose called to her. "is it you, graeme? what do you think of harry's news? he has not lost much time, has he?" "i was surprised," said graeme. rose was busy brushing her hair. "surprised! i should think so. did you ever think such a thing might happen, graeme?" this was harry's letter. "my dear sisters,--i have won my amy! you cannot be more astonished than i am. i know i am not good enough for her, but i love her dearly, and it will go hard with me if i don't make her happy. i only want to be assured that you are both delighted, to make my happiness complete." throwing her hair back a little, rose read it again. this was not quite all. there was a postscript over the page, which rose had at first overlooked, and she was not sure that graeme had seen it. besides, it had nothing to do with the subject matter of the note. "did the thought of such a thing ever come into your mind?" asked she again, as she laid the letter down. "yes," said graeme, slowly. "it did come into my mind more than once. and, on looking back, i rather wonder that i did not see it all. i can remember now a good many things that looked like it, but i never was good at seeing such affairs approaching, you know." "are you glad, graeme?" "yes, i am glad. i believe i shall be very glad when i have had time to think about it." "because harry's happiness won't be complete unless you are, you know," said rose, laughing. "i am sure harry is quite sincere in what he says about it," said graeme. "it is not to be doubted. i daresay she is a nice little thing; and, after all, it won't make the same difference to us that fanny's coming did." "no, if we are to consider it with reference to ourselves. but i think i am very glad for harry's sake." "and that is more than we could have said for arthur. however, there is no good going back to that now. it has all turned out very well." "things mostly do, if people will have patience," said graeme, "and i am sure this will, for harry, i mean. i was always inclined to like little amy, only--only, we saw very little of her you know--and--yes, i am sure i shall love her dearly." "well, you must make haste to tell harry so, to complete his happiness. and he is very much astonished at his good fortune," said rose, taking up the letter again. "`not good enough for her,' he says. that is the humility of true love, i suppose; and, really, if he is pleased, we may be. i daresay she is a nice little thing." "she is more than just a nice little thing. you should hear what mr millar says of her." "he ought to know! `poor charlie,' as harry calls him in the pride of his success. go down-stairs, graeme, and i will follow in a minute; i am nearly ready!" the postscript which rose was not sure whether graeme had seen, said, "poor charlie," and intimated that harry's sisters owed him much kindness for the trouble he was taking in going so far to carry them the news in person. not harry's own particular news, rose supposed, but tidings of will, and of all that was likely to interest them from both sides of the sea. "i would like to know why he calls him `poor charlie,'" said rose, with a shrug. "i suppose, however, we must all seem like objects of compassion to harry, at the moment of his triumph, as none of us have what has fallen to him." graeme went down without a word, smiling to herself as she went. she had seen the postscript, and she thought she knew why harry had written "poor charlie," but she said nothing to rose. the subject of conversation had changed during her absence, it seemed. "i want to know! do tell!" mr snow was saying. "i call that first-rate news, if it is as you say, mr millar. do the girls know it? graeme, do you know that harry is going to be married." "yes, so harry tells me." "and who is the lady? is it anyone we know about? roxbury," repeated mr snow, with a puzzled look. "but it seems to me i thought i heard different. i don't seem to understand." he looked anxiously into the face of his wife as though she could help him. "that's not to be wondered at," said she, smiling. "it seems miss graeme herself has been taken by surprise. but she is well pleased for all that. harry has been in no great hurry, i think." "but that ain't just as i understood it," persisted mr snow. "what does rose say? she told me this afternoon, when we were riding, something or other, but it sartain wa'n't that." "it could hardly be that, since the letter came when you were away, and even miss graeme knew nothing of it till she got the letter," said mrs snow, with some impatience. "rosie told me," went on mr snow. "here she is. what was it you were telling me this afternoon about--about our friend here?" "oh! i told you a great many things that it would not do to repeat," and though rose laughed, she reddened, too, and looked appealingly at graeme. "wasn't roxbury the name of the lady, that you told me was--" "oh! uncle sampson! never mind." "dear me," said mrs snow, "what need you make a mystery out of such plain reading. miss graeme has gotten a letter telling her that her brother harry is going to be married; and what is there so wonderful about that?" "just so," said mr snow. he did not understand it the least in the world, but he understood that, for some reason or other, mrs snow wanted nothing more said about it, so he meant to say no more; and, after a minute, he made rose start and laugh nervously by the energy with which he repeated, "just so;" and still he looked from graeme to mr millar, as though he expected them to tell him something. "harry's letter gives the news, and that is all," said graeme. "but i cannot understand your surprise," said mr millar, not to mr snow, but to graeme. "i thought you must have seen it all along." "did you see it all along?" asked mr snow, looking queer. "i was in harry's confidence; but even if i had not been, i am sure i must have seen it. i almost think i knew what was coming before he knew it himself, at the very first." "the very first?" repeated graeme. "when was that? in the spring? before the time we went to mrs roxbury's, on the evening of the convocation?" "oh! yes! long before that--before miss rose came home from the west. indeed, i think it was love at first sight, as far as harry was concerned," added mr millar, with an embarrassed laugh, coming suddenly to the knowledge of the fact that mr snow was regarding him with curious eyes. but mr snow turned his attention to rose. "what do _you_ say to that?" asked he. "i have nothing to say," said rose, pettishly. "i was not in harry's confidence." "so it seems," said mr snow, meditatively. "i am sure you will like her when you know her better," said mr millar. "oh! if harry likes her that is the chief thing," said rose, with a shrug. "it won't matter much to the rest of us--i mean to graeme and me." "it will matter very much to us," said graeme, "and i know i shall love her dearly, and so will you, rosie, when she is our sister, and i mean to write to harry to-morrow--and to her, too, perhaps." "she wants very much to know you, and i am sure you will like each other," said mr millar looking deprecatingly at rose, who was not easy or comfortable in her mind any one could see. "just tell me one thing, rose," said mr snow. "how came you to suppose that--" but the question was not destined to be answered by rose, at least not then. a matter of greater importance was to be laid before her, for the door opened suddenly, and hannah put in her head. "where on earth did you put the yeast-jug, rose? i have taken as many steps as i want to after it; if you had put it back in its place it would have paid, i guess. it would have suited _me_ better, and i guess it would have suited better all round." her voice betrayed a struggle between offended dignity and decided crossness. rose was a little hysterical, graeme thought, or she never would have laughed about such an important matter in hannah's face. for hannah knew her own value, which was not small in the household, and she was not easily propitiated when a slight was given or imagined, as no one knew better than rose. and before company, too!--company with whom hannah had not been "made acquainted," as hannah, and the sisterhood generally in merleville, as a rule, claimed to be. it was dreadful temerity on rose's part. "oh! hannah, i forgot all about it." but the door was suddenly closed. rose hastened after her in haste and confusion. mr snow had been deeply meditating, and he was evidently not aware that anything particular had been happening, for he turned suddenly to mr millar, and said,-- "i understood that it was you who was--eh--who was--keeping company with miss roxbury?" "did you think so, miss elliott," said charlie, in some astonishment. "mr snow," said his wife, in a voice that brought him to her side in an instant. "you may have read in the book, how there is a time to keep silence, as well as a time to speak, and the bairn had no thought of having her words repeated again, though she might have said that to you." she spoke very softly, so that the others did not hear, and mr snow would have looked penitent, if he had not looked so bewildered. raising her voice a little, she added,-- "you might just go out, and tell hannah to send jabez over to emily's about the yeast, if she has taken too many steps to go herself; for miss rose is tired, and it is growing dark;--and besides, there is no call for her to go hannah's messages--though you may as well no' say that to her, either." but the door opened, and rose came in again. "i can't even find the jug," she said, pretending great consternation. "and this is the second one i have been the death of. oh! here it is. i must have left it here in the morning, and wee rosie's flowers are in it! oh! yes, dear, i must go. hannah is going, and i must go with her. she is just a little bit cross, you know. and, besides, i want to tell her the news," and she went away. mr snow, feeling that he had, in some way, been compromising himself, went and sat down beside his wife, to be out of the temptation to do it again, and mr millar said again, to graeme, very softly this time,-- "did you think so, miss elliott?" graeme hesitated. "yes, charlie. i must confess, there did, more than once, come into my mind the possibility that harry and his friend and partner might find themselves rivals for the favour of the sweet little amy. but you must remember, that--" but charlie interrupted her, eagerly. "and did--did your sister think so, too? no, don't answer me--" added he, suddenly rising, and going first to the window to look out, and then, out at the door. in a little graeme rose, and went out too, and followed him down the path, to the gate, over which he was leaning. there was no time to speak, however, before they heard the voices of rose and hannah, coming toward them. hannah was propitiated, graeme knew by the sound of her voice. mr millar opened the gate for them to pass, and graeme said, "you have not been long, rosie." "are you here, graeme," said rose, for it was quite dark, by this time. "hannah, this is mr millar, my brother harry's friend and partner." and then she added, with great gravity, according to the most approved merleville formula of introduction, "mr millar, i make you acquainted with miss lovejoy." "i am pleased to make your acquaintance, mr millar. i hope i see you wed," said miss lovejoy, with benignity. if mr millar was not quite equal to the occasion, miss lovejoy was, and she said exactly what was proper to be said in the circumstances, and neither graeme nor rose needed to say anything till they got into the house again. "there! that is over," said rose, with a sigh of relief. "the getting of the yeast?" said graeme, laughing. "yes, and the pacification of miss lovejoy." it was not quite over, however, graeme thought in the morning. for rose seemed to think it necessary to give a good deal of her time to household matters, whether it was still with a view to the good humour of hannah or not, was not easy to say. but she could only give a divided attention to their visitor, and to the account of all that he and will had done and enjoyed together. graeme and he walked up and down the garden for a while, and when mrs snow had risen, and was in the sitting-room, they came and sat down beside her, and, after a time, rose came too. but it was graeme who asked questions, and who drew mr millar out, to tell about their adventures, and misadventures, and how will had improved in all respects, and how like his father all the old people thought him. even mrs snow had more to say than rose, especially when he went on to tell about clayton, and the changes that had taken place there. "will fancied, before he went, that he remembered all the places distinctly; and was very loth to confess that he had been mistaken. i suppose, that his imagination had had as much to do with his idea of his native place, as his memory, and when, at last, we went down the glen where your mother used to live, and where he distinctly remembered going to see her with you, not long before you all came away, he acknowledged as much. he stepped across the burn at the widest part, and then he told me, laughing, that he had always thought of the burn at that place, as being about as wide as the merle river, just below the mill bridge, however wide that may be. it was quite a shock to him, i assure you. and then the kirk, and the manse, and all the village, looked old, and small, and queer, when he came to compare them with the pictures of them he had kept in his mind, all these years. the garden he remembered, and the lane beyond it, but i think the only things he found quite as he expected to find them, were the laburnum trees, in that lane," and on charlie went, from one thing to another, drawn on by a question, put now and then by graeme, or mrs snow, whenever he made a pause. but all that was said need not be told here. by and by, he rose and went out, and when he came back, he held an open book on his hand, and on one of its open pages lay a spray of withered ivy, gathered, he said, from the kirkyard wall, from a great branch that hung down over the spot where their mother lay. and when he had laid it down on graeme's lap, he turned and went out again. "i mind the spot well," said mrs snow, softly. "i mind it, too," said graeme. rose did not "mind" it, nor any other spot of her native land, nor the young mother who had lain so many years beneath the drooping ivy. but she stooped to touch with her lips, the faded leaves that spoke of her, and then she laid her cheek down on graeme's knee, and did not speak a word, except to say that she had quite forgotten all. by and by, mr snow came in, and something was said about showing merleville to their visitor, and so arranging matters that time should be made to pass pleasantly to him. "oh! as to that, he seems no' ill to please," said mrs snow. "miss graeme might take him down to the village to mr greenleaf's and young mr merle's, if she likes; but, as to letting him see merleville, i think the thing that is of most importance is, that all merleville should see him." "there is something in that. i don't suppose merleville is any more to him than any other place, except that harry and the rest had their home here, for a spell. but all the merleville folks will want to see _him_, i expect." rose laughingly suggested that a town meeting should be called for the purpose. "well, i calculate that won't be necessary. if he stays over sunday, it will do as well. the folks will have a chance to see him at meeting, though, i suppose it won't be best to tell him so, before he goes. do you suppose he means to stay over sunday, rosie?" "i haven't asked him," said rose. "it will likely depend on how he is entertained, how long he stays," said mrs snow. "i daresay he will be in no hurry to get home, for a day or two. and rosie, my dear, you must help your sister to make it pleasant for your brother's friend." "oh! he's no' ill to please, as you said yourself," answered rose. it was well that he was not, or her failure to do her part in the way of amusing him, might have sooner fallen under general notice. they walked down to the village in the afternoon, first to mr merle's, and then to mr greenleaf's. here, master elliott at once took possession of rose, and they went away together, and nothing more was seen of them, till tea had been waiting for some time. then they came in, and mr perry came with them. he stayed to tea, of course, and made himself agreeable, as he always did, and when they went home, he said he would walk with them part of the way. he had most of the talk to himself, till they came to the foot of the hill, when he bade them, reluctantly, good-night. they were very quiet the rest of the way, and when they reached home, the sisters went up-stairs at once together, and though it was quite dark, neither of them seemed in a great hurry to go down again. "rose," said graeme, in a little, "where ever did you meet mr perry this afternoon? and why did you bring him to mr greenleaf's with you?" "i did not bring him to mr greenleaf's. he came of his own free will. and i did not meet him anywhere. he followed us down past the mill. we were going for oak leaves. elliott had seen some very pretty ones there, and i suppose mr perry had seen them, too. are you coming down, graeme?" "in a little. don't wait for me, if you wish to go." "oh! i am in no haste," said rose, sitting down by the window. "what are you going to say to me, graeme?" but if graeme had anything to say, she decided not to say it then. "i suppose we ought to go down." rose followed her in silence. they found mr and mrs snow alone. "mr millar has just stepped out," said mr snow. "so you had the minister to-night, again, eh, rosie? it seems to me, he is getting pretty fond of visiting, ain't he?" rose laughed. "i am sure that is a good thing. the people will like that, won't they?" "the people he goes to see will, i don't doubt." "well, we have no reason to complain. he has given us our share of his visits, always," said mrs snow, in a tone that her husband knew was meant to put an end to the discussion of the subject. graeme was not so observant, however. "it was hardly a visit he made at mr greenleaf's to-night. he came in just, before tea, and left when we left, immediately after. he walked with us to the foot of the hill." "he was explaining to elliott and me the chemical change that takes place in the leaves, that makes the beautiful autumn colours we were admiring so much," said rose. "he is great in botany and chemistry, elliott says." and then it came out how he had crossed the bridge, and found them under the oak trees behind the mill, and what talk there had been about the sunset and the leaves, and a good deal more. mr snow turned an amused yet doubtful look from her to his wife; but mrs snow's closely shut lips said so plainly, "least said soonest mended," that he shut his lips, too. it would have been as well if graeme had done so, also she thought afterwards; but she had made up her mind to say something to her sister that night, whether she liked it or not, and so standing behind her, as she was brushing out her hair, she said,-- "i think it was rather foolish in mr perry to come to mr greenleaf's to-night, and to come away with us afterwards." "do you think so?" said rose. "yes. and i fancied mr and mrs greenleaf thought so, too. i saw them exchanging glances more than once." "did you? it is to be hoped the minister did not see them." "merleville people are all on the watch--and they are so fond of talking. it is not at all nice, i think." "oh, well, i don't know. it depends a little on what they say," said rose, knotting up her hair. "and i don't suppose mr perry will hear it." "i have commenced wrong," said graeme to herself. "but i must just say a word to her, now i have began. it was of ourselves i was thinking, rose--of you, rather. and it is not nice to be talked, about. rosie, tell me just how much you care about mr perry." "tell me just how much _you_ care about him, dear," said rose. "i care quite enough for him, to hope that he will not be annoyed or made unhappy. do you really care for him, rosie?" "do you, graeme?" "rose, i am quite in earnest. i see--i am afraid the good foolish man wants you to care for him, and if you don't--" "well, dear--if i don't?" "if you don't, you must not act so that he may fancy you do, rose. i think there is some danger in his caring for you." "he cares quite as much for you as he cares for me, graeme, and with better reason." "dear, i have not thought about his caring for either of us till lately. indeed, i never let the thought trouble me till last night, after mr millar came, and again, to-night. rosie, you must not be angry with what i say." "of course not. but i think you must dispose of mr perry, before you bring another name into your accusation; graeme, dear, i don't care a pin for mr perry, nor he for me, if that will please you. but you are not half so clever at this sort of thing as harry. you should have began at once by accusing me of claiming admiration, and flirting, and all that. it is best to come to the point at once." "you said you would not be angry, rose." "did i? well, i am not so sore about it as i was a minute ago. and what is the use of vexing one another. don't say any more to-night." indeed, what could be said to rose in that mood. so graeme shut her lips, too. in the mean time mr snow had opened his, in the privacy of their chamber. "it begins to look a little like it, don't it?" said he. he got no answer. "i'd a little rather it had been graeme, but rosie would be a sight better than neither of them." "i'm by no means sure of that," said mrs snow, sharply. "rosie's no' a good bairn just now, and i'm no' weel pleased with her." "don't be hard on rosie," said mr snow, gently. "hard on her! you ought to have more sense by this time. rosie's no' thinking about the minister, and he hasna been thinking o' her till lately--only men are such fools. forgive me for saying it about the minister." "well, i thought, myself, it was graeme for a spell, and i'd a little rather it would be. she's older, and she's just right in every way. it would be a blessing to more than the minister. it seems as though it was just the right thing. now, don't it?" "i canna say. it is none the more likely to come to pass because of that, as you might ken yourself by this time," said his wife, gravely. "oh, well, i don't know about that. there's aleck and emily." "hoot, fie, man! they cared for one another, and neither miss graeme, nor her sister, care a penny piece for yon man--for the minister, i mean." "you don't think him good enough," said mr snow, discontentedly. "nonsense! i think him good enough for anybody that will take him. he is a very good man--what there is o' him," added she, under her breath. "but it will be time enough to speak about it, when there is a chance of its happening. i'm no weel pleased with rosie. if it werena that, as a rule, i dinna like to meddle with such matters, i would have a word with her myself. the bairn doesna ken her ain mind, i'm thinking." the next day was rainy, but not so rainy as to prevent mr snow from fulfilling his promise to take mr millar to see some wonderful cattle, which bade fair to make mr nasmyth's a celebrated name in the county, and before they came home again, mrs snow took the opportunity to say a word, not to rose, but to graeme, with regard to her. "what ails rosie at your brother's partner, young mr millar?" asked she. "i thought they would have been friends, having known one another so long." "friends!" repeated graeme. "are they not friends? what makes you speak in that way, janet?" "friends they are not," repeated mrs snow, emphatically. "but whether they are less than friends, or more, i canna weel make out. maybe you can help me, dear." "i cannot, indeed," said graeme, laughing a little uneasily. "i am afraid charlie's visit is not to give any of us unmingled pleasure." "it is easy seen what she is to him, poor lad, and i canna but think--my dear, you should speak to your sister." "but, janet, rosie is not an easy person to speak to about some things. and, besides, it is not easy to know whether one may not do harm, rather than good, by speaking. i _did_ speak to her last night about--about mr perry." "about the minister! and what did she answer? she cares little about him, i'm thinking. it's no' pretty in her to amuse herself so openly at his expense, poor man, though there's some excuse, too--when he shows so little discretion." "but, amusing herself, janet! that is rather hard on rosie. it is not that, i think." "is it not? what is it, then? the bairn is not in earnest. i hope it may all come to a good ending." "oh! janet! i hope it may. but i don't like to think of endings. rosie must belong to some one else some day, i suppose. the best thing i can wish for her is that i may lose her--for her sake, but it is not a happy thing to think of for mine." "miss graeme, my dear, that is not like you." "indeed, janet, it is just like me. i can't bear to think about it. as for the minister--" graeme shrugged her shoulders. "you needna trouble yourself about the minister, my dear. it will no' be him. if your friend yonder would but take heart of grace--i have my own thoughts." "oh! i don't know. we need not be in a hurry." "but, dear, think what you were telling me the other day, about your sister going out by herself to seek her fortune. surely, that would be far worse." "but she would not have to go by herself. i should go with her, and janet, i have sometimes the old dread of change upon me, as i used to have long ago." "but, my dear, why should you? all the changes in our lot are in good hands. i dinna need to tell you that, after all these years. and as for the minister, you needna be afraid for him." graeme laughed; and though the entrance of rose prevented any more being said, she laughed again to herself, in a way to excite her sister's astonishment. "i do believe janet is pitying me a little, because of the minister's inconstancy," she said to herself. "why am i laughing at it, rosie? you must ask mrs snow." "my dear, how can i tell your sister's thoughts? it is at them, she is laughing, and i think the minister has something to do with it, though it is not like her, either, to laugh at folk in an unkindly way." "it is more like me, you think," said rose, pouting. "and as for the minister, she is very welcome to him, i am sure." "nonsense, rose! let him rest. i am sure deacon snow would think us very irreverent to speak about the minister in that way. tell me what you are going to do to-day?" rosie had plenty to do, and by and by she became absorbed in the elaborate pattern which she was working on a frock for wee rosie, and was rather more remiss than before, as to doing her part for the entertainment of their guest. she had not done that from the beginning, but her quietness and preoccupation were more apparent, because the rain kept them within doors. graeme saw it, and tried to break through it or cover it as best she might. mrs snow saw it, and sometimes looked grave, and sometimes amused, but she made no remarks about it. as for mr millar, if he noticed her silence and preoccupation, he certainly did not resent them, but gave to the few words she now and then put in, an eager attention that went far beyond their worth; and had she been a princess, and he but a humble vassal, he could not have addressed her with more respectful deference. and so the days passed on, till one morning something was said by mr millar, about its being time to draw his visit to a close. it was only a word, and might have fallen to the ground without remark, as he very possibly intended it should do; but mr snow set himself to combat the idea of his going away so soon, with an energy and determination that brought them all into the discussion in a little while. "unless there is something particular taking you home, you may as well stay for a while longer. at any rate, it ain't worth while to go before sunday. you ought to stay and hear our minister preach, now you've got acquainted with him. oughtn't he, graeme?" graeme smiled. "oh! yes, he ought to stay for so good a reason as that is." "there are worse preachers than mr perry," said mrs snow, gravely. "oh! come now, mother. that ain't saying much. there ain't a great many better preachers in our part of the world, whatever they may be where you live. to be sure, if you leave to-night after tea, you can catch the night cars for boston, and stay there over sunday, and have your pick of some pretty smart men. but you'd better stay.--not but what i could have you over to rixford in time, as well as not, if it is an object to you. but you better stay, hadn't he, girls? what do you say, rose?" "and hear mr perry preach? oh! certainly," said rose, gravely. "oh! he will stay," said graeme, laughing, with a little vexation. "it is my belief he never meant to go, only he likes to be entreated. now confess, charlie." chapter forty three. "eh, bairns! is it no' a bonny day!" said mrs snow, breaking into scotch, as she was rather apt to do when she was speaking to the sisters, or when a little moved. "i ay mind the first look i got o' the hills ower yonder, and the kirk, and the gleam of the grave-stones, through the trees. we all came round the water on a saturday afternoon like this; and norman and harry took turns in carrying wee rosie, and we sat down here and rested ourselves, and looked ower yon bonny water. eh, bairns! if i could have but had a glimpse of all the years that have been since then, of all the `goodness and mercy' that has passed before us, now my thankless murmurs, and my unbelieving fears would have been rebuked!" they were on their way up the hill to spend the afternoon at mr nasmyth's, and mr millar was with them. nothing more had been said about his going away, and if he was not quite content to stay, "his looks belied him," as miss lovejoy remarked to herself, as she watched them, all going up the hill together. they were going very slowly, because of mrs snow's lingering weakness. one of the few of the "scotch prejudices!" that remained with her after all these years, was the prejudice in favour of her own two feet, as a means of locomotion, when the distance was not too great; and rather to the discontent of mr snow, she had insisted on walking up to the other house, this afternoon. "it is but a step, and it will do me no harm, but good, to go with the bairns," said she, and she got her own way. it was a "bonny day," mild, bright, and still. the autumnal beauty of the forests had passed, but the trees were not bare, yet, though october was nearly over; and, now and then, a brown leaf fell noiselessly through the air, and the faint rustle it made as it touched the many which had gone before it, seemed to deepen the quiet of the time. they had stopped to rest a little at the turn of the road, and were gazing over the pond to the hills beyond, as mrs snow spoke. "yes, i mind," said graeme. "and i mind, too," said rose, softly. "it's a bonny place," said mrs snow, in a little, "and it has changed but little in all those years. the woods have gone back a little on some of the hills; and the trees about the village and the kirkyard have grown larger and closer, and that is mostly all the changes." "the old meeting-house has a dreary look, now that it is never used," said rose, regretfully. "ay, it has that. i mind thinking it a grand and stately object, when i first saw it from the side of the water. that was before i had been in it, or very near it. but i learnt to love it for better things than stateliness, before very long. i was ill-pleased when they first spoke of pulling it down, but, as you say, it is a dreary object, now that it is no longer used, and the sooner it goes the better." "yes, a ruin to be an object of interest, should be of grey stone, with wallflowers and ivy growing over it," said graeme. "yes, but this is not a country for ruins, and such like sorrowful things. the old kirk was good enough to worship in, to my thinking, for many a year to come; and the new one will ay lack something that the old one had, to you and me, and many a one besides; but the sooner the forsaken old place is taken quite away, the better, now." "yes, there is nothing venerable in broken sashes, and fluttering shingles. but i wish they had repaired it for a while, or at any rate, built the new one on the same site. we shall never have any pleasant associations with the new red brick affair that the merleville people are so proud of." and so they lingered and talked about many a thing besides the unsightly old meeting-house--things that had happened in the old time, when the bairns were young, and the world was to them a world in which each had a kingdom to conquer, a crown to win. those happy, happy days! "oh! well," said mrs snow, as they rose to go up the hill again, "it's a bonny place, and i have learnt to love it well. but if any one had told me in those days, that the time would come, when this and no other place in the world would seem like home to me, it would have been a foolishness in my ears." "ah! what a sad dreary winter that first one was to you, janet, though it was so merry to the boys and me," said graeme. "it would have comforted you then, if you could have known how it would be with you now, and with sandy." "i am not so sure of that, my dear. we are untoward creatures, at the best, and the brightness of to-day, would not have looked like brightness then. no, love, the changes that seem so good and right to look back upon, would have dismayed me, could i have seen them before me. it is well that we must just live on from one day to another, content with what each one brings." "ah! if we could always do that!" said graeme, sighing. "my bairn, we can. though i mind, even in those old happy days, you had a sorrowful fashion of adding the morrow's burden to the burden of to-day. but that is past with you now, surely, after all that you have seen of the lord's goodness, to you and yours. what would you wish changed of all that has come and gone, since that first time when we looked on the bonny hills and valleys of merleville?" "janet," said graeme, speaking low, "death has come to us since that day." "ay, my bairns! the death of the righteous, and, surely, that is to be grieved for least of all. think of them all these years, among the hills of heaven, with your mother and the baby she got home with her. and think of the wonderful things your father has seen, and of his having speech with david, and paul, and with our lord himself--" janet's voice faltered, and graeme clasped softly the withered hand that lay upon her arm, and neither of them spoke again, till they answered sandy and emily's joyful greeting at the door. rose lingered behind, and walked up and down over the fallen leaves beneath the elms. graeme came down again, there, and mr nasmyth came to speak to them, and so did emily, but they did not stay long; and by and by rose was left alone with mr millar, for the very first time during his visit. not that she was really alone with him, for all the rest were still in the porch enjoying the mild air, and the bright october sunshine. she could join them in a moment, she thought, not that there was the least reason in the world for her wishing to do so, however. all this passed through her mind, as she came over the fallen leaves toward the gate on which mr millar was leaning; and then she saw that she could not so easily join the rest, at least, without asking him to let her pass. but, of course, there could be no occasion for that. "how clearly we can see the shadows in the water," said she, for the sake of saying something. "look over yonder, at the point where the cedar trees grow low. do you see?" "yes, i see," said he, but he was not looking the way of the cedars. "rose, do you know why i came here?" rose gave a startled glance towards the porch where they were all sitting so quietly. "it was to bring us news of will, wasn't it? and to see merleville?" said she. did she say it? or had she only thought of it? she was not sure, a minute after, for mr millar went on as if he had heard nothing. "i came to ask you to be my wife." did this take her by surprise? or had she been expecting it all the time? she did not know. she was not sure; but she stood before him with downcast eyes, without a word. "you know i have loved you always--since the night that harry took me home with him. my fancy has never wandered from you, all these years. rose, you must know i love you, dearly. i have only that to plead. i know i am not worthy of you, except for the love i bear you." he had begun quietly, as one begins a work which needs preparation, and strength, and courage, but his last words came between pauses, broken and hurriedly, and he repeated,-- "i know i am not worthy." "oh! charlie, don't say such foolish words to me." and rose gave him a single glimpse of her face. it was only a glimpse, but his heart gave a great leap in his breast, and the hand that lay on the gate which separated them trembled, though rose did not look up to see it. "rosie," he whispered, "come down to the brook and show me harry's waterfall." rose laughed, a little, uncertain laugh, that had the sound of tears in it; and when charlie took her hand and put it within his arm, she did not withdraw it, and they went over the field together. graeme had been watching them from the porch, and as they passed out of sight, she turned her eyes toward mrs snow, with a long breath. "it has come at last, janet," said she. "i shouldna wonder, dear. but it is no' a thing to grieve over, if it has come." "no. and i am not going to grieve. i am glad, even though i have to seek my fortune, all alone. but i have will, yet," added she, in a little. "there is no word of a stranger guest in his heart as yet. i am sure of will, at least." mrs snow smiled and shook her head. "will's time will come, doubtless. you are not to build a castle for yourself and will, unless you make room for more than just you two in it, dear." emily listened, smiling. "it would be as well to leave the building of will's castle to himself," said she. "ah! yes, i suppose so," said graeme, with a sigh. "one must build for one's self. but, emily, dear, i built rosie's castle. i have wished for just what is happening over yonder among the pine trees, for a long long time. i have been afraid, now and then, of late, that my castle was to tumble down about my ears, but charlie has put his hand to the work, now, in right good earnest, and i think my castle will stand." "see here, emily," said mr snow, coming in an hour or two later, "if mr millar thinks of catching the cars for boston, this evening, you'll have to hurry up your tea." "but he has no thought of doing any such foolish thing," said mrs snow. "dear me, a body would think you were in haste to get quit of the young man, with your hurry for the tea, and the cars for boston." "why no, mother, i ain't. he spoke about it this morning, himself, or i'm pretty sure i shouldn't. i'll be glad to have him stay, and more than glad." "he is going to stay and hear the minister preach," said graeme. "you know you asked him, and i'm sure he will enjoy it." "he is a good preacher," said mr snow, gravely. "and he's a good practiser, which is far better," said his wife. "but i doubt, deacon, you'll need to put him out of your head now. look down yonder, and tell me if you think rosie is likely to bide in merleville." and the deacon, looking, saw mr millar and rose coming slowly up the path together, and a duller man than mr snow could hardly have failed to see how matters stood between them. mr millar was looking down on the blushing face of his companion with an air alike happy and triumphant, and, as for rose, mr snow had never seen her look at all as she was looking at that moment. "well," said his wife, softly. "well it is as pretty a sight as one need wish to see," said mr snow. he nodded his head a great many times, and then, without a word, turned his eyes on graeme. his wife smiled. "no, i am afraid not. every one must build his own castle, as i heard her saying--or was it emily? this very afternoon. but we needna trouble ourselves about what may come to pass, or about what mayna. it is all in good hands." "and, rosie dear, all this might have happened at norman's last year, if only charlie had been bolder, and harry not so wise." the sisters were in their own room together. a good deal had been said before this time that need not be repeated. graeme had made her sister understand how glad she was for her sake, and had spoken kind, sisterly words about charlie, and how she would have chosen him for a brother out of all the world, and more of the same kind; and, of course, rose was as happy, as happy could be. but when graeme said this, she turned round with a very grave face. "i don't know, graeme. perhaps it might; but i am not sure. i did not know my own mind then, and, on the whole, it is better as it is." "harry will be glad," said graeme. indeed, she had said that before. rose laughed. "dear, wise harry! he always said charlie was pure gold." "and so he is," said graeme. "i know it, graeme; and he says he is not good enough for me." and rose laid down her cheek upon her sister's lap, with a little sob. "ah! if he only knew, i am afraid--" "dear, it is the humility of true love, as you said about harry. you love one another, and you need not be afraid." they were silent for a long time after that, and then rose said, flushing a little,-- "and, graeme, dear, charlie says--but i promised not to tell--" "well, you must not, then," said graeme, smiling, with just a little throb of pain at her heart, as it came home to her that now, rose, and her hopes and fears, and little secrets belonged more to another than to her. "not that it is a secret, graeme," said her sister, eagerly. "it is something that charlie has very much at heart, but i am not so sure myself. but it is nothing that can be spoken about yet. graeme, charlie thinks there is nobody in the world quite so good as you." graeme laughed. "except you, rosie." "i am not good, graeme, but very foolish and naughty, often, as you know. but i will try and be good, now, indeed i will." "my darling," murmured graeme, "i am so glad for you--so glad and thankful. we ought to be good. god has been very good to us all." of course all this was not permitted to shorten the visit of the sisters to their old friend. mr millar went away rather reluctantly, alone, but the winter had quite set in before they went home. mrs snow was well by that time, as well as she ever expected to be in this world, and she bade them farewell with a good hope that she might see them again. "but, whether or not," said she, cheerfully, "i shall ay be glad and thankful for the quiet time we have had together. there are few who can say of those they love, that they wish nothing changed in their life or their lot; but i do say that of all your father's bairns. no' but that there may be some crook in the lot of one or other of you, that i canna see, and maybe some that i can see; but when the face is set in the right airt [direction] all winds waft onward, and that, i trust, is true of you all. and, rosie, my dear, it takes a steady hand to carry a full cup, as i have told you, many a time; and mind, my bairn, `except the lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it,' and, `the foundation of god standeth sure.' miss graeme, my dear, `they that wait on the lord shall renew their strength,' as you have learnt yourself long syne. god bless you both, and farewell." they had a very quiet and happy winter. they had to make the acquaintance of their new sister, and a very pleasant duty it proved, harry had at one time indulged some insane hopes of having his little amy safe in his own keeping before the snow came, but it was soon made plain to him by mrs roxbury, that this was not for a single moment to be thought of. her daughter was very young, and she must be permitted at least one season to see something of society before her marriage. she was satisfied with the prospect of having the young merchant for a son-in-law; he had established a reputation of the most desirable kind among the reliable men of the city, and he was, besides, a _gentleman_, and she had other daughters growing up. still it was right that amy should have time and opportunity to be quite sure of herself, before the irrevocable step was taken. if mrs roxbury could have had her way about it, she should have had this opportunity before her engagement had been made, or, at least, before it had been openly acknowledged, but, as that could not be, there must be no haste about the wedding. and so the pretty amy was hurried from one gay scene to another, and was an acknowledged beauty and belle, in both civic and military circles, and seemed to enjoy it all very well. as for harry, he sometimes went with her, and sometimes stayed at home, and fretted and chafed at the state of affairs in a way that even his sisters considered unreasonable, though they by no means approved of the trial to which amy's constancy was exposed. but they were not afraid for her. every visit she made them--and many quiet mornings she passed with them--they became more assured of her sweetness and goodness, and of her affection for their brother, and so they thought harry unreasonable in his impatience, and told him so, sometimes. "a little vexation and suspense will do harry no harm," said arthur. "events were following one another quite too smoothly in his experience. in he walks among us one day, and announces his engagement to miss roxbury, as triumphantly as you please, without a word of warning, and now he frets and fumes because he cannot have his own way in every particular. a little suspense will do him good." which was very hard-hearted on arthur's part, as his wife told him. "and, besides, it is not suspense that is troubling harry," said rose. "he knows quite well how it is to end. it is only a momentary vexation. and i don't say, myself, it will do harry any harm to have his masculine self-complacency disturbed a little, by just the bare possibility of disappointment. one values what it costs one some trouble to have and to hold." "rose, you are as bad as arthur," said fanny. "am i? oh! i do not mean that harry doesn't value little amy enough; but he is unreasonable and foolish, and it looks as if he were afraid to trust her among all those fine people who admire her so much." "it is you who are foolish, now, rose," said her sister. "harry may be unreasonable, but it is not on that account; and amy is a jewel too precious not to be guarded. no wonder that he grudges so much of her time, and so many of her thoughts to indifferent people. but it will soon be over now." "who knows? `there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,' you know," said arthur. "who knows but harry may be the victim among us? our matrimonial adventures have been monotonously prosperous, hitherto. witness rosie's success. it would make a little variety to have an interruption." but harry was not destined to be a victim. as the winter wore over, mrs roxbury relented, and "listened to reason on the subject," harry said; and by and by there began to be signs of more than usual occupation in the roxbury mansion, and preparations that were likely to throw rosie's modest efforts in the direction of housekeeping altogether in the shade. but rosie was not of an envious disposition, and enjoyed her pretty things none the less, because of the magnificence of harry's bride. as for little amy, she took the matter of the trousseau very coolly. mamma was quite equal to all that, and took trouble enough, and enjoyment enough out of it all for both, and she was sure that all would be done in a right and proper manner, without anxiety or over-exertion on her part, and there was never a happier or more light-hearted little bride than she. at first it was proposed that the two weddings should take place on the same day, but, afterwards, it was decided otherwise. it would be inconvenient for business reasons, should both the partners be away at the same time, and in those circumstances the wedding trip would be shortened. and besides, the magnificence of the roxbury plans, would involve more trouble as to preparations, than would be agreeable or convenient; and rose proposed to go quietly from her own home to the home charlie was making ready for her; and it was decided that harry's marriage should take place in the latter part of april, and the other early in the summer. but before april, bad news came from will. they heard from himself first, that he had not been sometimes as well as usual, and then a letter came from mr ruthven to graeme, telling her that her brother was ill with fever, quite unable to write himself; and though he did not say in so many words, that there was danger for him, this was only too easily inferred from his manner of writing. the next letter and the next, brought no better news. it was a time of great anxiety. to graeme it was worst of all. as the days went on, and nothing more hopeful came from him, she blamed herself that she had not at once gone to him when the tidings of his illness first reached them. it was terrible to think of him, dying alone so far from them all; and she said to herself "she might, at least, have been with him at the last." he would have been at home by this time, if he had been well, and this made their grief and anxiety all the harder to bear. if she could have done anything for him, or if she could have known from day to day how it was with him, even though she could not see him, or care for him, it would not have been so dreadful graeme thought. her heart failed her, and though she tried to interest herself still in the preparations and arrangements that had before given her so much pleasure, it was all that she could do, to go quietly and calmly about her duties, during some of these very anxious days. she did not know how utterly despondent she was becoming, or how greatly in danger she was of forgetting for the time the lessons of hope and trust which her experience in life had taught her, till there came from mrs snow one of her rare, brief letters, written by her own hand, which only times of great trial had ever called forth from her. "my bairn," she said, "are you not among those whom nothing can harm? _absolutely nothing_! whether it be life or death that is before your brother, you hae surely nothing to fear for _him_, and nothing for yourself. i think he will be spared to do god's work for a while yet. but dear, after all that has come and gone, neither you nor i would like to take it upon ourselves to say what would be wise and kind on our father's part; and what is wise and kind will surely come to pass." their suspense did not last very long after this. mr ruthven's weekly letters became more hopeful after the third one, and soon will wrote himself, a few feeble, irregular lines, telling how his friend had watched over him, and cared for him like a brother, during all those weeks in his dreary, city lodging; and how, at the first possible moment, he had taken him home to his own house, where mrs millar, his mother, was caring for him now; and where he was slowly, but surely, coming back to life and health again. there was no hope of his being able to be home to harry's marriage, but unless something should happen to pull him sadly back again, he hoped to see the last of rosie elliott, and the first of his new brother charlie. there were a few words meant for graeme alone, over which she shed happy, thankful tears, and wrote them down for the reading of their old friend, "brought face to face with death, one learns the true meaning and value of life. i am glad to come back again, for your sake graeme, and for the sake of the work that i trust i may be permitted to do." after this they looked forward to the wedding with lightened hearts. it was a very grand and successful affair, altogether. amy and her bridesmaids were worthy of all the admiration which they excited, and that is saying a great deal. there were many invited guests, and somehow, it had got about that this was to be a more than usually pretty wedding, and saint andrew's was crowded with lookers-on, who had only the right of kind and admiring sympathy to plead for being there. the breakfast was all that it ought to be, of course, and the bride's travelling-dress was pronounced by all to be as great a marvel of taste and skill, as the bridal robe itself. harry behaved very well through it all, as arthur amused them not a little by gravely asserting. but harry was, as an object of interest, a very secondary person on the occasion, as it is the usual fate of bridegrooms to be. as for the bride, she was as sweet and gentle, and unaffected, amid the guests, and grandeur, and glittering wedding gifts, as she had always been in the eyes of her new sisters, and when graeme kissed her for good bye, she said to herself, that this dear little sister had come to them without a single drawback, and she thanked god in her heart, for the happiness of her brother harry. yes, and for the happiness of her brother arthur, too, she added in her heart, and she greatly surprised fanny by putting her arms round her and kissing her softly many times. they were in one of the bay windows of the great drawing-room, a little withdrawn from the company generally, so that they were unobserved by all but arthur. "graeme's heart is overflowing with peace and good will to all on this auspicious occasion," said he, laughing, but he was greatly pleased. after this they had a few happy weeks. rosie's preparations were by this time, too far advanced to give any cause for anxiety or care, and they all enjoyed the quiet. letters came weekly from will, or his friend, sometimes from both, which set them quite at rest about the invalid. they were no longer mere reports of his health, but long, merry, rambling letters, filled with accounts of their daily life, bits of gossip, conversation, even jokes at one another's expense, generally given by will, but sometimes, also, by the grave and dignified mr ruthven, whom, till lately, all but charlie had come to consider almost a stranger. still the end of may was come, and nothing was said as to the day when they expected to set sail. but before that time, great news had come from another quarter. norman and his family were coming east. a succession of childish illnesses had visited his little ones, and had left both mother and children in need of more bracing air than their home could boast of in the summer-time, and they were all coming to take up their abode for a month or two, on the gulf, up which health-bearing breezes from the ocean never cease to blow. graeme was to go with them. as many more as could be persuaded were to go, too, but graeme certainly; and then she was to go home with them, to the west, when their summer holiday should be over. this was norman's view of the matter. graeme's plans were not sufficiently arranged as yet for her to say either yes or no, with regard to it. in the meantime, there were many preparations to be made for their coming, and graeme wrote to hasten these arrangements, so that they might be in time for the wedding. "and if only will comes, we shall all be together again once more," said she, with a long breath. "to say nothing of norman's boys, and his wonderful daughter, and fanny's young gentleman, who will compare with any of them now, i think," said rose. "we will have a house full and a merry wedding," said arthur. "though it won't be as grand as the other one, rosie, i'm afraid. if we only could have mrs snow here, graeme?" graeme shook her head. "i am afraid that can hardly be in the present state of her health. not that she is ill, but mr snow thinks the journey would be too much for her. i am afraid it is not to be thought of?" "never mind--charlie and rosie can go round that way and get her blessing. that will be the next best thing to having her here. and by the time you are ready for the altar, graeme, janet will come, you may be sure of that." june had come, warm and beautiful. harry and his bride had returned, and the important but exhausting ceremony of receiving bridal visits was nearly over. graeme, at least, had found them rather exhausting, when she had taken her turn of sitting with the bride; and so, on one occasion, leaving rose and some other gay young people to pass the evening at harry's house, she set out on her way home, with the feeling of relief that all was over in which she was expected to assist, uppermost in her mind. it would all have to be gone over again in rosie's case, she knew, but she put that out of her mind for the present, and turned her thoughts to the pleasant things that were sure to happen before that time--norman's coming, and will's. they might come any day now. she had indulged in a little impatient murmuring that will's last letter had not named the day and the steamer by which he was to sail, but it could not be long now at the longest, and her heart gave a sudden throb as she thought that possibly he might not write as to the day, but might mean to take them by surprise. she quickened her footsteps unconsciously as the thought came into her mind; he might have arrived already. but in a minute she laughed at her foolishness and impatience, and then she sighed. "there will be no more letters after will comes home, at least there will be none for me," she said to herself, but added, impatiently, "what would i have? surely that will be a small matter when i have him safe and well at home again." but she was a little startled at the pain which the thought had given her; and then she denied to herself that the pain had been there. she laughed at the idea, and was a little scornful over it, and then she took herself to task for the scorn, as she had done for the pain. and then, frightened at herself and her discomfort; she turned her thoughts, with an efforts to a pleasanter theme--the coming of norman and hilda and their boys. "i hope they will be in time. it would be quite too bad if they were to lose the wedding by only a day or two. and yet we could hardly blame charlie were he to refuse to wait after will comes. oh, if he were only safe here! i should like a few quiet days with will before the house is full. my boy!--who is really more mine than any of the others--all that i have, for my very own, now that rosie is going from me. how happy we shall be when all the bustle and confusion are over! and as to my going home with norman and hilda--that must be decided later, as will shall make his plans. my boy!--how can i ever wait for his coming?" it was growing dark as she drew near the house. although the lights were not yet in the drawing-room, she knew by the sound of voices coming through the open window that arthur and fanny were not alone. "i hope i am not cross to-night, but i really don't feel as though i could make myself agreeable to visitors for another hour or two. i wish sarah may let me quietly in; and i will go up-stairs at once. i wonder who they are!" sarah's face was illuminated. "you have come at last, miss elliott," said she. "yes; was i expected sooner? who is here? is it you, charlie? _you_ are expected elsewhere." it was not charlie, however. a voice not unlike his spoke in answer, and said,-- "graeme, i have brought your brother home to you;" and her hand was clasped in that of allan ruthven. chapter forty four. the pleasant autumn days had come round again, and mr and mrs snow were sitting, as they often sat now, alone in the south room together. mr snow was hale and strong still, but he was growing old, and needed to rest, and partly because the affairs of the farm were safe in the hands of his "son," as he never failed to designate sandy, and partly because those affairs were less to him than they used to be, he was able to enjoy the rest he took. for that was happening to him which does not always happen, even to good people, as they grow old; his hold was loosening from the things which for more than half a lifetime he had sought so eagerly and held so firmly. with his eyes fixed on "the things which are before," other things were falling behind and out of sight, and from the leisure thus falling to him in these days, came the quiet hours in the south room so pleasant to them both. but the deacon's face did not wear its usual placid look on this particular morning; and the doubt and anxiety showed all the more plainly, contrasting as they did with the brightness on the face of his wife. she was moved, too, but with no painful feeling, her husband could see, as he watched her, though there were tears in the eyes that rested on the scene without. but she was seeing other things, he knew, and not sorrowful things either, he said to himself, with a little surprise, as he fingered uneasily an open letter that lay on the table beside him. "it ain't hard to see how all _that_ will end," said he, in a little. "but," said his wife, turning toward him with a smile, "you say it as if it were an ending not to be desired." "ah, well!--in a general way, i suppose it _is_, or most folks, would say so. what do you think?" "if _they_ are pleased, we needna be otherwise." "well!--no--but ain't it a little sudden? it don't seem but the other day since mr ruthven crossed the ocean." "but that wasna the first time he crossed the ocean. the first time they crossed it together. allan ruthven is an old friend, and miss graeme is no' the one to give her faith lightly to any man." "well! no, she ain't. but, somehow, i had come to think that she never would change her state; and--" "it's no' very long, then," said his wife, laughing. "you'll mind that it's no' long since you thought the minister likely to persuade her to it." "and does it please you that mr ruthven has had better luck?" "the minister never could have persuaded her. he never tried very much, i think. and if allan ruthven has persuaded her, it is because she cares for him as she never cared for any other man. and from all that will says, we may believe that he is a good man, and true, and i am glad for her sake, glad and thankful. god bless her." "why, yes, if she must marry," said mr snow, discontentedly; "but somehow it don't seem as though she could fit in anywhere better than just the spot she is in now. i know it don't sound well to talk about old maids, because of the foolish notions folks have got to have; but graeme did seem one that would `adorn the doctrine' as an old maid, and redeem the name." "that has been done by many a one already, in your sight and mine; and miss graeme will `adorn the doctrine' anywhere. she has ay had a useful life, and this while she has had a happy one. but oh, man!" added mrs snow, growing earnest and scotch, as old memories came over her with a sudden rush, "when i mind the life her father and her mother lived together--a life of very nearly perfect blessedness--i canna but be glad that miss graeme is to have a chance of the higher happiness that comes with a home of one's own, where true love bides and rules. i ay mind her father and her mother. they had their troubles. they were whiles poor enough, and whiles had thraward folk to deal with; but trouble never seemed to trouble them when they bore it together. and god's blessing was upon them through all. but i have told you all this many a time before, only it seems to come fresh and new to me to-day, thinking, as i am, of miss graeme." yes, mr snow had heard it all many a time, and doubtless would hear it many a time again, but he only smiled, and said,-- "and graeme is like her mother?" "yes, she's like her, and she's not like her. she is quieter and no' so cheery, and she is no' near so bonny as her mother was. rose is more like her mother in looks, but she doesna 'mind me of her mother in her ways as her sister does, because, i suppose, of the difference that the age and the country make on all that are brought up in them. there is something wanting in all the young people of the present day, that well brought up bairns used to have in mine. miss graeme has it, and her sister hasna. you'll ken what i mean by the difference between them." mr snow could not. the difference that he saw between the sisters was sufficiently accounted for to him by the ten year's difference in their ages. he never could be persuaded, that, in any undesirable sense, rose was more like the modern young lady than her sister. graeme was perfect, in his wife's eyes, and rose was not quite perfect. that was all. however, he did not wish to discuss the question just now. "well! graeme is about as good as we can hope to see in _this_ world, and if he's good enough for her that is a great deal to say, even if he is not what her father was." "there are few like him. but allan is a good man, will says, and he is not one to be content with a false standard of goodness, or a low one. he was a manly, pleasant lad, in the days when i kenned him. i daresay his long warstle with the world didna leave him altogether scatheless; but he's out of the world's grip now, i believe. god bless my bairn, and the man of her choice." there was a moment's silence. mrs snow turned to the window, and her husband sat watching her, his brow a little clearer, but not quite clear yet. "she _is_ pleased. she ain't making believe a mite. she's like most women folks in _that_," said mr snow, emphasising to himself the word, as though, in a good many things, she differed from "women folk" in general. "they really do think in their hearts, though they don't always say so, that it is the right thing for girls to get married, and she's glad graeme's going to do so well. but, when she comes to think of it, and how few chances there are of her ever seeing much of her again, i am afraid she'll worry about it--though she sartain don't look like it now." certainly she did not. the grave face looked more than peaceful, it looked bright. the news which both rose and will had intimated, rather than announced, had stirred only pleasant thoughts as yet, that was clear. mr snow put on his spectacles and looked at the letters again, then putting them down, said, gravely,-- "she'll have her home a great way off from here. and maybe it's foolish, but it does seem to me as though it was a kind of a come down, to go back to the old country to live after all these years." mrs snow laughed heartily. "but then, it is no' to be supposed that she will think so, or he either, you ken." "no, it ain't. if they did, they'd stay here, i suppose." "well, it's no' beyond the bounds of possibility, but they may bide here or come back again. but, whether they bide here or bide there, god bless them both," said mrs snow, with moistening eyes. "god bless them both!" echoed her husband. "and, which ever way it is, you ain't going to worry the least mite about it. be you?" the question was asked after a pause of several seconds, and mr snow looked so wistfully and entreatingly into his wife's face, that she could not help laughing, though there were tears in her eyes. "no, i am no thinking of worrying, as you call it. it is borne in upon me that this change is to be for the real happiness of my bairn, and it would be pitiful in me to grudge her a day of it. and, to tell you the truth, i have seen it coming, and have been preparing myself for it this while back, and so i have taken it more reasonably than you have done yourself, which is a thing that wasna to be expected, i must confess." "seen it coming! preparing for it!" repeated mr snow; but he inquired no farther, only looked meditatively out of the window, and nodded his head a great many times. by and by he said, heartily,-- "well, if you are pleased, i am. god bless them." "god bless all the bairns," said his wife, softly. "oh, man! when i think of all that has come and gone, i am ready to say that `the lord has given me the desire of my heart.' i sought his guidance about coming with them. i had a sore swither ere i could think of leaving my mother and sandy for their sakes, but he guided me and strengthened me, though whiles i used to doubt afterwards, with my sore heart wearying for my own land, and my own kin." mr snow nodded gravely, but did not speak, and in a little she went on again: "i sought guidance, too, when i left them, and now, looking back, i think i see that i got it; but, for a while, when death came, and they went from me, it seemed as though the lord had removed the desire of my eyes with a stroke, because of my self-seeking and unfaithfulness. oh, man! yon was a rough bit of road for my stumbling, weary feet. but he didna let me fall altogether--praise be to his name!" her voice shook, and there was a moment's silence, and then she added,-- "but, as for grieving, because miss graeme is going farther away, than is perhaps pleasant to think about, when she is going of her own free will, and with a good hope of a measure of happiness, that would be unreasonable indeed." "now, if she were to hold up her hands, and say, `now, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,' it would seem about the right thing to do," said mr snow, to himself, with a sigh. "when it comes to giving the bairns up, willing never to see them again, it looks a little as if she was done with most things, and ready to go--and i ain't no ways ready to have her, i'm afraid." the next words gave him a little start of surprise and relief. "and we'll need to bethink ourselves, what bonny thing we can give her, to keep her in mind of us when she will be far-away." "sartain!" said mr snow, eagerly. "not that i think she'll be likely to forget us," added his wife, with a catch in her breath. "she's no of that nature. i shouldna wonder if she might have some homesick thoughts, then, even in the midst of her happiness, for she has a tender heart! but, if they love one another, there is little doubt but it will be well with them, seeing they have the fear of god before their eyes. and, she may come back and end her days on this side of the sea, yet, who knows?" "i shouldn't wonder a mite," said mr snow. "but, whether or not, if she be well, and happy, and good, that is the main thing. and whiles i think it suits my weakness and my old age better to sit here and hear about the bairns, and think about them, and speak to you about them and all that concerns them, than it would to be among them with their youth and strength, and their new interests in life. and then, they dinna need me, and you do," added mrs snow, with a smile. "that's so," said he, with an emphasis that made her laugh. "well then, let us hear no more about my worrying about miss graeme and the bairns. that is the last thing i am thinking of. sitting here, and looking over all the road we have travelled, sometimes together, sometimes apart, i can see plainly that we were never left to choose, or to lose our way, but that, at every crook and turn, stood the angel of the covenant, unseen then, and, god forgive us, maybe unthought of, but ever there, watching over us, and having patience with us, and holding us up when we stumbled with weary feet. and knowing that their faces are turned in the right way, as i hope yours is, and mine, it is no' for me to doubt but that he is guiding them still, and us as well, and that we shall all come safe to the same place at last." she paused a moment, because of a little break and quiver in her voice, and then she added,-- "yes. `the lord hath given me the desire of my heart' for the bairns. praise be to his name." the third miss st quentin by mrs molesworth published by hatchards, piccadilly, london. this edition dated . the third miss quentin, by mrs molesworth. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ the third miss quentin, by mrs molesworth. chapter one. six years old. a very little girl was sitting on the rug in front of a brightly burning fire. she was amusing herself with picture books, a number of which were scattered about her, but her small face was flushed, her eyes were heavy, and she seemed restless and dissatisfied. she was suffering from a very bad cold. "i can't read, and i can't see the picshures," she said complainingly, "my eyes hurts, and my head too. you read to me, harvey." the nurse to whom she spoke was busied in putting away the breakfast things. "you must wait a bit, miss ella. i've got ever so many things to do this morning." ella looked far from pleased. "things must wait, not me," she said imperiously. "mamma always reads to me this minute." "your mamma's ill, miss ella; and when there's illness in the house there's plenty for everybody to do without wasting one's time over nonsense." ella's face grew scarlet with anger. "'tisn't nonsense," she said; "i'm ill too. i've got a cold, and you should amoose me." but before harvey had time to reply, except by a short laugh, the door opened, and both the occupants of the nursery looked round to see who was there. a young girl of thirteen or fourteen, but with something in her air and manner which made her seem older, came in quickly. she was tall and slight, and though very plainly dressed, one could not have passed her by without noticing her. "harvey," she said, and her tone, though not ungentle, was cold and even a very little haughty, "how is miss ella to-day? mrs st quentin is very anxious about her." harvey glanced round with a sort of affectation of indifference that was irritating. "there's not the least need in the world to be anxious, miss," she said. "the child's got a cold, like everybody else in this changeable weather. there was no need for her mamma to hear nothing about it." the girl looked at her still more severely. "it is your fault that she has a cold, and you know it," she said. "she was out far too late the day before yesterday. i certainly do not wish mrs st quentin to be troubled, but if you are not more careful i shall speak to my father; i warn you plainly." ella had been listening open-mouthed to this discussion, and in the interest of it had forgotten her own tribulations. she got up from the floor, and moved by the generous childish impulse of defending the oppressed, resenting too, perhaps, that her sister had taken no direct notice of her since entering the room, she ran to harvey and caught hold of her hand. "naughty maddie," she said, "you're not to scold poor harvey; i don't like you, maddie. go away; i'll tell mamma." madelene glanced at the little girl, opened her lips as if to speak, but closed them again. "if she is kind to ella it is a good thing, i suppose, and perhaps i should not have said anything before the child," was the reflection that rapidly passed through her mind. "you don't understand, ella dear," she said quietly, and with unusual self-control, though her fair face coloured a little. "i am very glad that you don't like harvey to be scolded." and without saying more, she left the room. "`scolded' indeed, by a upsetting piece of goods like her. very fine, miss madelene, but you're not mistress yet, nor never shall be to _me_, i can promise you," muttered harvey. but ella was clinging to her. "you must read to me now," the child urged. "i'm very good to you, harvey. i wouldn't let sister maddie scold you, so you should be nice to me." a slight and not pleasant smile crossed the maid's face. "come along then, miss ella," she said. "if you'll be very good and not worrit-worrit if i'm out of your sight for half a minute, i'll read to you for a little. what is it you want?" she seated herself comfortably in a rocking chair by the fire, and took the child on her knee. "here now," she said, carelessly picking up the first picture book that came to hand, "i'll read you some of these nursery rhymes--`little boy blue.'" "no," said ella crossly, "i don't like singy stories. read me real ones. `laddin's' very nice." but harvey's eyes had caught sight of another of the bright-coloured books. "oh, no," she exclaimed, with a little malicious laugh, "we'll have `cinderella,' miss ella. `cinderella, miss ella,' there's a rhyme for you! it's like your name, and she's like you too. she had two big sisters, and her mamma was--" here she coughed and stopped short. "her mamma was dead. i know the story," put in ella, "_my_ mamma isn't dead, so it isn't like me. you're talking nonsense, harvey," and she pushed the book aside and began to wriggle about impatiently. "i'm not talking nonsense," said harvey sharply. "just listen now, miss ella. cinderella had two big sisters, and they were very cross to her-- at least not always perhaps, but pretty often, and they'd come and scold for nothing at all." "like maddie this morning," said ella; "but it wasn't me she scolded. it was you. the story isn't like me; you're very silly, harvey." harvey began to lose her temper; she was not going to be called "silly" even by a baby. "just you take care what you say, miss ella," she said roughly, "you don't know anything about it. the story doesn't say the big sisters were bad to her when she was a little girl like you. but some day you'll grow up and be a young lady, and then you'll see. how would you like to have all the dirty work to do and old shabby clothes to wear, while miss maddie and miss ermie went flaunting about in silks and satins and feathers?" and as she spoke she opened the book at one of the pictures, where the sisters were arraying themselves for the ball, while sweet cinderella crouched forlorn in a corner. ella stared at the book with an attention she had never before bestowed upon it, her face very solemn indeed. suddenly her expression changed. "no," she said, "it's not like me and maddie and ermie. _her_ sisters are very ugly, and they've horrid black curls. maddie and ermie aren't ugly, and they haven't nasty cross faces. no; they'd never be so naughty," and she looked up in triumph, though there was a little quaver of anxiety in her voice still. "oh, very well," said harvey, "if you're so fond of your sisters as all that, however unkind they are to poor harvey--" "i didn't say _you_--i think maddie was very naughty to scold you, dear harvey. i only said they wouldn't be so c'uel to me if i was big--not like these _piggy_ sisters in the book," said ella, using the strongest language in her repertory. "oh, well, you're not big yet. perhaps you'll wish for poor harvey all the same some day, though you don't care for her now. of course poor harvey's only a servant, and miss maddie and miss ermie are grand, rich young ladies." "and i shall be a grand, rich young lady too," said ella. harvey only laughed. ella grew very excited. "harvey, say i shall be. you _must_ say it," she repeated, shaking the maid's arm. "miss ella, for shame. what a little fury you are. how can i say what you'll be? you should be a grand, rich young lady if _i_ was your sister, but i can't speak for others." "what do you mean?" cried ella. "_mamma_ will let me be a grand young lady. maddie and ermie aren't over mamma. harvey, do you hear?" "hush," said the nurse, suddenly changing her tone, "your mamma's very ill, miss ella, and if you make such a noise they'll all think you very naughty. i was only joking--of course you'll be a beautiful young lady too, some day." but ella was not to be so easily smoothed down. "you weren't joking," she said resentfully. "i'll ask maddie if it's true," and she began to scramble down. "i'll take the book and tell her you said it was like me and them." harvey caught hold of her. "if you do, miss ella," she said, "you'll get such a scolding as you've never had in your life. and i'll be sent away--you'll see--and it'll be all your fault." ella stopped short. "then why did you say it to me?" she asked, for she was a clever and quick-witted child. "oh, well--i shouldn't have said it. when you're older you'll understand better, darling. you see harvey loves you so--she'd like you to be the eldest and have everything like a little princess. the _third's_ never the same--and harvey doesn't like to think of her miss ella coming in for the old clothes and the leavings, and the worst of it all, so to say." ella had calmed down now, but she sat listening intently with a startled, uneasy look, painful to see on her pretty little face. "but mamma won't let me have the shabby old clothes, _mamma_ loves me too, harvey," she persisted. "yes, yes--but poor mamma's very ill. but never mind, darling. while harvey's here no one shall put upon you, and then there's your auntie phillis. _she_ loves my miss ella, that she does." "auntie's not here," said the child. "no, but may be she'll come some day soon," said harvey mysteriously, "only don't you say i said so. you don't want to get poor harvey scolded again, do you, darling?" "no," said ella, but that was all, and when harvey kissed her, though she submitted quietly, she did not in any way return the caress. then she got down from her nurse's knee and collected her picture books together, and put them away. "sha'n't i read anything to you? there's lots of other pretty stories," harvey asked. "no," said ella again, "i don't like no stories." and once or twice during that day, even harvey was startled, and a little conscience-stricken at the expression on the child's face. that same morning in a pretty sitting-room on the ground floor of the house, madelene st quentin and her sister ermine were reading, or rather preparing some lessons together, when the door opened and an elderly lady in walking dress came in. madelene started to her feet. "oh, aunt anna," she exclaimed, "i am so glad you have come. i have felt so fidgety all the morning, i couldn't settle to anything. it is so good of you to have come over again so early." "i promised you i would, my dear," the new-comer replied. "i knew you would be anxious to see me after your father being with us last night." "you had a long talk with mamma first, and then you and papa had time to consider it all?" said madelene, "oh, i do hope--" lady cheynes interrupted her. "i will tell you all about it," she said, "but first tell me--how is poor ellen this morning? had she a good night?" madelene shook her head. "not very, i'm afraid. it is so provoking--with all our care to save her anxiety--last night when ella was taken to say good-night to her, mamma found out in an instant that the child had a cold, and she has been worrying about it ever since. i spoke as severely as i could to harvey this morning. of course it is all her fault." lady cheynes in her turn shook her head. "of course it is her fault. but i am afraid it is no use for you to say anything, my dear maddie. it is a vicious circle. ellen's faith in harvey must not be destroyed, for it could only be done at a terrible risk to your poor mother--and yet the more harvey is left to herself the more and more she presumes upon it." "i am not quite sure of that, aunt anna," said madelene. "there must be good in harvey, i hope--ella is very fond of her." lady cheynes tapped the umbrella she held in her hand, impatiently on the floor. she was a small, handsome old lady, scarcely indeed old in point of years, but looking so, thanks to her white hair and the style of dress she affected. she was never seen except in black, but black of the richest, though as she had not changed the fashion of her garments since her widowhood some thirty years ago, she had something quaint and old-world-like about her, decidedly pleasing however when combined with freshness of material and exquisite neatness of finish. she had bright dark eyes, and delicate features. a very attractive old lady, but somewhat awe-inspiring nevertheless. "rubbish, maddie," she said sharply. "i don't mean," she hastened to add, "that there is no good in the woman. if so, she would be a fiend. but as for the child being fond of her--that says nothing; people talk a good deal of nonsense about children's innate discernment. there is nothing so easy as to humbug a child--up to a certain point, that's to say. harvey can easily wheedle ella into fancying herself fond of her, when it suits the woman's purpose. but at bottom i doubt if the child does care for her." "ella has a generous nature," said madelene. "yes," ermine agreed, speaking for the first time; "she always flies up in defence of any one she thinks ill-used." lady cheynes glanced across the room at the last speaker. "i did not notice you were there, ermie," she said abruptly, "philip is kicking his heels somewhere about. suppose you go out and look for him? the two of you can entertain each other for half an hour or so while i talk to madelene. it's no secrets--you needn't feel hurt. but i never have been and never shall be able to talk comfortably _a trois_." ermine got up from her place at the table and moved towards the door, turning a laughing face to lady cheynes as she did so. "my feelings offended, auntie!" she said. "that would be something new, wouldn't it? now do make a nice and gratifying little speech to me for once." lady cheynes smiled at ermine as she left the room. "i wish ella were as good tempered as ermie," said she, with a sigh. "the child is very spoilt; that is the worst of it. and that brings me to what you are so anxious about, my dear." "yes?" said madelene eagerly, her face flushing, and her large soft eyes lighting up. but her aunt hesitated. she knew the extreme disappointment her next words must convey, and though her manner was abrupt, her heart was tender and sympathising. "it is no use, maddie. i said everything i could think of yesterday to poor ellen. and your father, as we know, agrees with us. but of course he _cannot_ but give in now to that poor child of a wife of his. it would be brutal not to do so." madelene did not speak, but her eyes filled with tears. "oh, auntie," she said at last. "you must be _truly_ unselfish, my dear, and not take it to heart too much." "i had thought it would have been a comfort to poor mamma, for she has been very good to ermine and me. i think--i do think, considering she has had us herself since we were quite little, that she might trust us," said madelene in a tremulous voice. "she does--thoroughly," said lady cheynes, "don't make it more painful for yourself by any doubts of that kind, my dear child. and there is reason in what she says, too. ellen is not a foolish woman." "no," said madelene, "i did not mean--" "you are very young, you know, my dear, though older than your years. and even as it is, things will not be easy for you. that is what poor ellen feels. there is your father--it is very hard upon him, still a young man, to be a second time left a widower. and he will never marry again--not a third time." madelene started. her aunt patted her hand gently. "don't be shocked at my alluding to such a possibility," she said. "i know your father and ellen would like you to understand all. so much hangs on you, maddie. it is to you ellen confides your father, and that is one of her great reasons for wishing the child to be away. it would be too much upon you. i see that myself. you would have to get a first-rate nursery-governess, or some one of that kind, or, worst of all, you might be bound to keep harvey." "but harvey will stay with her as it is--stay and do her best to poison our little sister against us," said madelene. "for you see, aunt, the-- the position will be rather an awkward one afterwards, when we are all grown-up, i mean. and ella must come back to her own home, some time." "if she lives," said lady cheynes, "but that is another point. ellen may be fanciful--i hardly agree with her myself; her own illness seems to me accidental. her family is strong, but, rightly or wrongly, she thinks ella very delicate. and mrs robertson lives in a mild climate and would take the child abroad if necessary. in that way there is something to be said in favour of the plan." "yes," said madelene, but she still sighed. "aunt anna," she added in a moment or two, "i will try and bear the disappointment well, and be as cheerful as i can with poor mamma, for--for the little while that remains." "yes, dear, i am sure you will. now, perhaps, we had better call in ermine and philip--he is anxious to see all he can of you before he goes. and next week bernard will be here--they will go back to school together." "oh," exclaimed madelene, "i am so glad bernard is coming. ermie and i have always wished so to see him. only--everything is so sad here just now," and she hesitated. "you and ermie must come over once or twice to spend a day with us while the boys are still here. ellen would like it--she was saying only yesterday how unhappy it makes her to see your young lives so saddened." "poor mamma, she is very unselfish," said madelene. then lady cheynes got up, and followed by her grand-niece, made her way out of the room, down a long passage with a glass door at the end leading into the garden, where for a moment she stood looking out. "i don't see them," she said; "get a shawl, maddie, and we'll go and look for them. a breath of air will do you good." she slipped her hand through the girl's arm, and together they walked slowly along the broad gravelled terrace, which ran round two sides of the house. "they may have gone to the stables," said madelene. "ermine is always glad of an excuse for visiting the horses, and papa won't allow her to go alone." "i should think not, indeed," said the old lady. "even with philip, i don't know--philip is only a boy--" laughing voices were just then heard. "there they are," said lady cheynes, as round a corner came the two she and madelene had come out to look for. "dear me, running races, are they? ermie is really a tom-boy, i am afraid." but a very attractive tom-boy, it must be allowed, she could not but add to herself, as ermine, her cheeks flushed with running, her bright brown hair, some shades darker than maddie's, flying behind her, her merry hazel eyes sparkling with fun, came rushing towards them. "we've had such a race," she exclaimed breathlessly. "i expect it's about the last time i'll have a chance of gaining. philip's legs _are_ growing so long." "time they should," said philip. "i think you forget, ermine, that i was fourteen last week. and i'm not anything like as tall as most fellows of my age." "take your hands out of your pockets if you want to look taller," said madelene in an elder-sisterly tone. "it makes boys slouch so dreadfully. and, by the by, philip, you haven't even offered to shake hands with me." the boy started and looked ashamed. "oh, i beg your pardon, madelene, i do, indeed," he said, "won't you forgive me?" he looked up at her--she was a little taller than he--with real distress in his dark eyes. he was a strikingly handsome boy, with his grandmother's delicate features, though in his case sun-browned and stronger looking, and eyes which the old lady used to say confidentially to some of her friends, made her tremble for the mischief they might do in the future. already in the present they were not to be resisted. madelene laughed a little and held out her own hand, which philip took eagerly. "i am glad," she said, "to hear from aunt anna, that your friend bernard is coming next week to keep you in order till you go back to school." "oh," ermine exclaimed, "is _he_ coming? i'm not glad at all. i hate prigs." rather to madelene's surprise philip said nothing. "is he a prig?" she asked. philip coloured a little. "no," he said, "of course he isn't. ask granny. he's not a prig, but i'm cross." lady cheynes looked rather puzzled. "what's the matter, phil?" she said. "you were pleased enough this morning about bernard's coming." "i know i was," said the boy. "but it's since coming over here and feeling the old jolly way. it's so horrid not to see more of each other. i'd rather have you girls than any one when i'm at home. and bernard's older and you don't know him. he'll make you seem quite grown-up, and--" "maddie, perhaps--not me," ermine interrupted. "never mind, phil. you and i will keep each other company." "but i've scarcely seen you these holidays," said philip. "granny, can't they come over to us?" madelene shook her head. "not just now," she said sadly. "we really have a good deal to do. one or other of us has to walk or ride with papa every afternoon--mamma fidgets so if she thinks he doesn't go out--and then one of us must be within hail in case she was worse. and then there's ella--" there _was_ ella in fact. for as she said the words, a little shrill voice came sounding over the lawn. "maddie, ermie, i'm here. and oh there's big phil. take me a ride, phil, on you's shoulders, do, _do_." "horrid little minx--" the boy was beginning to say, though in a low voice, but the words died on his lips. the little figure looked so bright and innocent as it flew towards them like a lapwing, heedless of harvey and her remonstrances in the background, sure, with the irresistible confidence of childhood, of its welcome. "good morning, godmother," she said, holding up her sweet little face for a kiss. "i'se got a bad cold," and she tried to cough, "but harvey said it would do me good to come out a little in the sun. and i'm going to see mamma when i go in, to let her see my cold isn't worse. oh, big phil, _do_ take me a ride on your shoulders." she clasped her hands entreatingly. everything she did was full of pretty childish grace, when, that is to say, ella chose to be in good temper. "hoist her up," said philip, and between them the two elder sisters managed to settle the child on his shoulders. "that's right--gallop away. oh! how nice!" she exclaimed, and when after two or three canters round the lawn, which was really as much as ever philip had breath for, he deposited her again safely on the ground, she thanked him as graciously as a little princess. "what a pity maddie and ermie are too big for you to ride them too," she said condescendingly, at which they all laughed. "yes," said lady cheynes, smiling, but not for ella to hear, "you can be generous enough, my little girl, when you get your own way." "and when she is _first_" added ermine. "it is too funny, auntie, to see that sort of feeling in ella, already. i'm sure maddie and i weren't like that when we were little." lady cheynes looked round, harvey was coming up the path, the old lady made a little sign to ermine to take care. "i think perhaps miss ella has been out long enough, if you'll excuse me, my lady," said the maid, in her smoothest tones. "take her in then by all means," said lady cheynes. "ella, my dear, your nurse is waiting for you." ella was playing with phil, a few paces off. "i won't go in," she said coolly. madelene took her by the hand. "come, dear," she said, "you mustn't make your cold worse." the child pulled away from her. "you're very naughty, maddie," she said. "you only want me to go away that you and ermie may play with phil yourselves. phil, say i'm not to go." "not i," said philip. "you're a spoilt, rude little girl, and i'm very sorry i gave you a ride." ella turned upon him like a little fury, but harvey interposed. "come, miss ella, my dear," she said. "sir philip will think you're growing into a baby instead of a big girl if you dance about like that." and by dint of coaxing and persuasion which harvey knew how to employ skilfully enough when it suited her, the child was at last got away. "grandmother," said philip cheynes, half-an-hour or so later, when the two were on their way home in the old lady's pony-carriage, "don't you think it is a great pity that colonel st quentin married again? it has brought them all nothing but trouble--mrs st quentin so delicate, and that spoilt little brat." "you mustn't abuse my godchild, phil," lady cheynes replied. "she might be a charming child. and her poor mother--no, i think madelene and ermie owe a great deal to her." "oh, well," said philip, boyishly, "i suppose they do. maddie's awfully cut up about ella's going away from them. for my part, i'm very glad she is going away. still, she is a jolly little thing when she's in a good temper." chapter two. eleven years after. summer, not spring now. but the same garden and the same people in it-- three of them, that is to say, little chance though there might be at the first glance, of our recognising them. they were sitting together on the lawn--the two sisters madelene and ermine and their cousin philip. they were less changed than he perhaps--madelene especially, for she had always been tall, and at fourteen had looked older than her years, whereas now at five-and-twenty one could scarcely have believed her to be as much. she had fulfilled the promise of her girlhood for she was an undoubtedly beautiful woman, though to those who knew her but superficially, she might have seemed wanting in animation, for she was quiet almost to coldness, thoughtful and self-controlled, weighing well her words before she spoke and slow in making up her mind to any decision. ermine, brown-haired and brown-eyed, brilliantly handsome, was more popular than her elder sister. but rivalry or the shadow of it between the two was unknown. never were two sisters more completely at one, more trusted and trusting friends. "they are all in all to each other and to their father," was the universal description of them. "almost too much so indeed," some would add. "it must be because they are so perfectly happy as they are that neither of them is married." for why the misses st quentin did _not_ marry was every year becoming more and more of a puzzle to their friends and the world at large. sir philip cheynes got up from the comfortable garden chair on which he had been lounging and leant against the elm under whose wide-spreading branches the little party had established themselves. a table was prepared for tea, ermine had a book on her knee which she imagined herself to be or to have been reading, madelene was knitting. "it will spoil it all," said philip at length after a silence which had lasted some moments, "spoil it all completely." "what?" asked madelene, looking up, though her fingers still went on busily weaving the soft snowy fleece on her lap. "everything, of course. our nice settled ways--this satisfactory sort of life together, knowing each other so well that we never have misunderstandings or upsets or--or bothers. your father and my grandmother are a model aunt and nephew to begin with, and as for us three--why the world never before saw such a perfection of cousinship! and into the midst of this delightful state of things, this pleasant little society where each of us can pursue his or her special avocation and--and perform his or her special duties--for we're not selfish people, my dears--i'm not going to allow that--into the midst of it you fling helter-skelter, a spoilt, ill-tempered, restless unmanageable school-girl--eager for amusement and impatient of control--incapable of understanding us or the things we care for. i never could have imagined anything more undesirable--i--" "upon my word, philip, i had no idea you could be so eloquent," interrupted ermine. "but it is eloquence thrown away, unless you want to prove that you yourself, if not we, are the very thing you have been denying, without having been accused of it." "selfishness--eh?" said philip. "of course, or something very like it." philip was silent. to judge by his next remark ermine's reproof had not touched him much. "i don't know that, for some time to come at least," he said, "it will matter much to me. i shall probably be very little here till christmas and then only for a few weeks." his cousins looked up in some surprise. "indeed," they said. "where are you going? abroad again?"--"you will miss all the hunting and shooting," ermine added. "i know that," said philip. "i'm not going for pleasure. i am thinking of taking up my quarters at grimswell for a while. the house there is vacant now, you know, and my grandmother thinks it a duty for me to live on the spot and look after things a little." madelene's eyes lighted up. "i am so glad," she said. "i quite agree with aunt anna." "i thought you would," said philip, "and so would never mind who. i can't say i exactly see it myself--things are very fairly managed there--but still. i'm the sort of fellow to make a martyr of myself to duty, you know." ermine glanced at him as he stood there lazily leaning against the tree--handsome, sunny and sweet-tempered, with a half mischievous, half deprecating smile on his lips, and a kindly light in his long-shaped dark eyes. "you look like it," she said with good-natured contempt. "but to return to our--" began philip. "stop," cried ermine, "you are not to say `muttons,' and i _feel_ you are going to. it is so silly." "really," philip remonstrated. "maddie," and he turned to miss st quentin appealingly, "don't you think she is too bad? bullying me not only for my taken-for-granted selfishness but for expressions offensive to her ladyship's fastidious taste which she fancies i _might_ be going to use." "my dear philip, you certainly have a great deal of energy--and--breath to spare this hot afternoon," said ermine, leaning back as if exhausted on her seat, "i know you can talk--you've never given us any reason to doubt it, but i don't think i ever heard you rattle on quite as indefatigably as to-day. one can't get a word in." "i want you both to be quiet and let me talk a little," said madelene breaking her way in. she scented the approach of one of the battles of words in which, in spite of the "perfect understanding" which philip boasted of between his cousins and himself, he and ermine sometimes indulged and which were not always absolutely harmless in their results. "as philip was saying when you interrupted him, ermie, let us go back to our--subject. i mean this little sister of ours. i wish you would not speak of her return, or think of it as you do, philip." "that's meant for me too, i wish you to observe, phil," said ermine. "it's a case of evil communications, and maddie is trembling for my good manners to the third miss st quentin when she makes her appearance among us." "on the contrary, ermine," said madelene gravely, "if you are influenced by philip's way of speaking it is that the ground with you is ready for the seed." philip began to whistle softly--ermine grew rather rosier than she was before. "if so--well--what then? go on, maddie," she said. she got up from her seat and half threw herself on the grass beside madelene. but madelene did not speak. "of course," ermine went on, "i know it's all quite right, and not only right but inevitable. and you're as good and wise as you can be, maddie. it was only that this morning i felt rather cross about it, and philip and i couldn't help showing each other what we felt. but go on, maddie--say what you were going to say." "it is only the old thing," said madelene. "i think, and i shall always think what i did at the time, though i was only a child then, that it was a mistake to send ella away to be brought up out of her own home and separated from her nearest relations. of course it was not anticipated that the separation would be so long and complete a one as it has turned out--at least i _suppose_ not." "i don't know why it need have been so," said ermine, "only every time there has been anything said of her coming to us her aunt has put difficulties in the way." "there seemed sense in what she said," madelene replied; "it was not much use ella's coming here, just to get unsettled and her lessons interrupted, for a short visit. and then, of course, papa's long illness was another reason." "and mrs robertson's own wishes--the strongest reason of all," added ermine. "she may be a kind and good enough woman, but i shall always say she is very selfish. keeping the child entirely to herself all these years, and now when she suddenly takes it into her head to marry again in this extraordinary way--she must be as old as the hills--poor ella goes to the wall!" "that's probably the gentleman's doing," said philip. "well then she shouldn't marry a man who would do so," said ermine. "i quite agree with you," he replied drily, "but we all know there's no fool like an old fool." "it is hard upon ella, with whomever the fault lies--that is what i've been trying to get to all this time," said madelene. "if she had always looked upon this as her home, and felt that we were really her sisters, she would have grown up to understand certain things gradually, which, now when the time comes that she must know them, will fall upon her as a shock." "you mean about our money and this place?" asked ermine. "of course--and about papa's being, though i _hate_ saying it, in reality a poor man." "do you think there is any need for her to know anything about it for some time to come?" asked philip gently, completely casting aside the bantering tone in which he had hitherto spoken. madelene looked up eagerly. "oh, do you think so, philip?" she said. "i am so glad. it is what i have been thinking, but i know papa respects your opinion and it will strengthen what i have said to him." "decidedly," said philip. "it seems to me it would be almost--brutal--i am not applying the word to any person, but to the situation, as it were--to meet the poor child, already sore probably at having been turned out of the only home she can really remember, with the announcement that the new one she is coming to is only hers on sufferance, and that her future is, to say the least, an uncertain one." "it would not be so for another day if we had more in our power," said madelene hotly. "no, i know that--know it and understand it. but--a child of--how much? fifteen, sixteen?" "seventeen, seventeen and a quarter." "well, even of seventeen and a quarter would have the haziest notions about law and legal obligations. no, gain her love and confidence first, by all means." "it is papa," said madelene rather disconsolately. "the best of men are, at times i suppose, a little unreasonable. though he has given up the idea of a formal explanation to poor little ella, still i am afraid he will wish us to be more--i don't know what to call it, less treating her just like ourselves, than ermie and i would wish," and she looked up appealingly, her blue eyes quite pathetic in their expression. "and she may misunderstand it--us," added ermine. "but it is right, necessary to a certain extent that she should _not_ be placed in exactly the same position that she would have as your very own sister," said philip firmly. "people should think of these awkward complications before they make second marriages, but once awkward positions do exist, it's no good pretending they don't. however, i think you are exaggerating matters, maddie; unnecessarily anticipating an evil day which may, _will_, i feel sure, never come. before this much-to-be-pitied young lady has to learn that she is not an heiress like her sisters, she may have learnt to love and trust those sisters as they deserve, and love casteth out other ugly things as well as fear." "thank you, dear philip," said miss st quentin. "and--grand discovery!" he exclaimed. "she's not `out'. you can easily treat her more like a child at first, till she has got to know you. she cannot have been accustomed to much dissipation under the roof of the worthy mrs robertson." "no, none at all i fancy. but she has had her own way in everything there was to have it in i feel sure," said madelene. "and if we begin by snubbing her--" "snubbing her, not a bit of it. it will make her feel herself of all the more importance if you will tell her uncle marcus thinks it better for her not to come out till she's eighteen--neither of you came out till then?" "_i_ was nineteen," said ermine; "you know we were abroad all the year before. i thought it very hard then, but now i'm very glad. it makes me seem a year at least younger than i am," she added naively. "it's only staving off, after all, i'm afraid," said madelene. "when she _is_ eighteen or even nineteen, and has to come out, and wonders why papa won't let her have everything the same as us and--" "oh, maddie, don't fuss so," said ermine. "twenty things may happen before then to smooth the way." "i hope so," said miss st quentin. but her tone was depressed. "scold her, philip, do," said ermine. "if she worries herself so about ella it will make me dislike the child before i see her, and that won't mend matters." "when does she come?" sir philip asked. "next month," madelene replied. "do you think she feels it very much--the leaving her aunt, and coming among strangers as it were?" he asked. "i don't know. she cannot but be fond of her aunt, but she has said distinctly that she would not wish to go on living with her and her new husband. and of course it is time and more than time for her to come to us if this is ever to be her home. and though mrs robertson is marrying a wealthy man, she loses all she had as a widow, and certainly we should not have liked _our sister_ to be dependent on a stranger." "you could have given mrs robertson a regular allowance for her, if that had been the only difficulty. but if this mr what's his name?" "burton," said ermine. "if that burton fellow is rich he would possibly have disliked any arrangement of that kind," said philip. "he evidently wants to get rid of her," said madelene, smiling a little. "some things in mrs robertson's letters make me imagine that the third miss st quentin has a will of her own, and a decided way of showing it. she speaks of `dear ella's having a high spirit, and that mr burton was not accustomed to young people.'" "and ella called him `old burton' in a letter to papa," added ermine. "we told papa she must have left out the `mr', but for my part, i don't believe she did. i think that expression has made me more inclined to like her than anything else," said ermine, calmly. "ermine!" said madelene. but philip turned to her with another question. "are you sure," he said, "that mrs robertson may not already have explained things to ella? if so, it would be better to know it." "i am sure she can't have told her what she doesn't know herself," said madelene. "papa's losses made no practical difference to her; she has always received anything she wanted for ella--to do her justice she has never been the least grasping--from us, but in his name just as before. we begged him to let it be so, and it has never come to much." "then do you think she has brought the child up very simply?" asked philip. "no--that is to say, i fancy she has been indulged a good deal as to her personal wishes. mrs robertson was comfortably off, though she had not a large house. i think all she has ever taken from papa or us has been literally spent on little miss ella herself. and they went to the south of france two winters, you know." philip did not speak for a minute or two. then he said slowly,-- "as things are, perhaps it is as well that ella does not know more. but--had they remained as they were, i don't know but that mrs robertson _had_ a right to be told of uncle marcus's losses. indeed, it might have influenced her plans, possibly have prevented her marrying again, had she known the child had nothing to look to in the future." madelene reddened. "she _has_ something to look to in the future," she said, "she has _us_. and i'm quite sure nothing of the kind would have stopped her aunt's marrying again." "`no fool like an old fool,' and everybody knows there's nothing on earth as obstinate _as_ a fool. you're forgetting what you just said, phil," said ermine. "no, i'm not. i didn't say it would have stopped it once she had got it into her head. i meant it might have prevented her ever thinking of it," philip replied. "i don't see that it would have made any difference. mrs robertson could never have _left_ ella anything except savings, which couldn't have come to much. but do leave off talking about money, philip--i perfectly hate it. ermie and i have been driven into hating it in the last two or three years since we came of age." "and leave off talking about ella, too, for a bit, do," said ermine. "i mean to do my duty by her when she comes, but oh! i am so tired of the subject! don't you think we might have tea now, maddie? i don't believe papa will be back for ever so long." "certainly--it would be nonsense to wait for him--will you--oh, thank you, philip, yes, just ring the bell at the side-door, twice. they understand. what a comfort it is to have some one who knows our little ways!" "a tame cat," said philip meekly, "well, thank you. you are not so lavish of civil speeches to me, you and ermine, as to make me inclined to quarrel with even the ghost of one." "come now, that's not quite fair," said ermine, as the kettle and hot cakes duly made their appearance, "one doesn't make civil speeches to one's best friends, one keeps them, like calling cards, for acquaintances." "well, not civil speeches then--nice, gratifying speeches." "i should have thought you must be tired of that sort of thing," madelene replied. philip looked at her with an expression of inquiry, but of annoyance, too. "do you mean, maddie, that you think i am spoilt?" he said. "if you do, i wish you would say so plainly." madelene felt a little conscience-stricken. "no," she said, "i don't really. but i think it is a great wonder that you are not. you are a fair prey to flattery--rich, handsome, clever--" "madelene, stop," exclaimed philip. "i might retaliate--why are you and ermine not spoilt then?" miss st quentin hesitated. "i don't know," she said at last naively. "i don't think women--girls-- do spoil so easily. and then--there are heaps of girls, here in england, as good-looking and far better-looking than we are--it is much rarer to find a man as handsome as you, phil. and then--we have had more anxieties and responsibilities than you, and they keep one from being spoilt." "i have granny," said philip. "i don't mean that she is an anxiety or a responsibility, but she is--pretty sharp on one, you know. she wouldn't let me be spoilt." "no," said madelene, "she is very sensible. and after all you needn't look so cross, philip. i didn't say you _were_ spoilt--i said on the contrary it was great credit to you that you were not." "you didn't," said philip, "you allowed me no credit whatever in the matter. i do think it's rather hard on me to have all this severe handling just because i said i liked nice speeches from people i cared for--mind you, people i care for. that's quite a different thing from being open to flattery." "well, of course, it is," said madelene. "we don't seem to be understanding each other with our usual perfection of sympathy, somehow, to-day." "it's all because of that tiresome child's coming," said ermine crossly. "i'm afraid philip is right in dreading it. `coming events cast their shadows before them.' i can't say i think ella's advent is likely to add to our sunshine." just then came the sound of wheels up the avenue. "what can that be?" said madelene. "callers," philip suggested. "no, it is getting too late. besides--it sounds too slow and heavy for a carriage or pony-carriage. it is more like--" and she hesitated. "maddie won't commit herself," said ermine laughing. "she sets up for a sort of `fine ear' in the fairy-story, don't you know, philip?" "no," said madelene. "it isn't that. i only hesitated because what i was going to say seemed so silly. i thought it sounded so like the old weevilscoombe fly--and what _could_ it be coming here for at this time? the old miss lyndens hire it when they come out for their yearly visit, but that is over and past a fortnight ago." that it was an arrival of some kind, however, became clear. in another minute the hall bell was heard to ring--it was a bell of ponderous clang, impossible to mistake for any other. then the figure of barnes, the butler--barnes who never disturbed himself except on occasions of peculiar importance--was seen hastening along the terrace. the three cousins stared at each other. "what can it be?" said madelene, growing rather pale. "can papa have met with an accident?" the same thought had struck sir philip: he did not reply, but looked apprehensively towards barnes. "if you please, ma'am," said that functionary, puffing a little with excitement and quick movement, "if you please, ma'am, it's--it's a lady. a young lady, with luggage--from weevilscoombe, i suppose--anyhow, it's the weevilscoombe fly as has brought her--" but though there was plenty of time for madelene to have here exclaimed "i knew it," she did not avail herself of barnes's pause, for this purpose. "a young lady;" she repeated; "there must be some mistake. we are not expecting any one. what is her name--she gave it, i suppose?" "yes, ma'am," said barnes, hesitating still more--though he had all the air and bearing of an old servant he had not been more than five or six years in their service--"she did and she said as her name was `miss st quentin'." the three looked at each other again. "miss st quentin," they at last repeated, simultaneously, though not perfectly so--madelene was a little behind the others and her "tin" came out last. "i thought," began barnes again, "i took the liberty of thinking, it must be a mistake. from what i have 'eard, ma'am, i should say it was, so to say, a slip of the tongue, the young lady being accustomed to be so addressed, living at a distance, if so be as i shrewbly suspect that her rightful desergnation is miss--hella st quentin, the third miss st quentin, ma'am." and again--too startled to feel any inclination to smile at the butler's grandiloquence, which was often, almost more than any one's risible nerves could stand unmoved--the three cousins looked at each other. and again they made simultaneously the same exclamation; this time consisting of but one word,-- "ella!" they all three ejaculated. chapter three. "it is really ella." "what shall we do? what can be the matter?" said madelene, when after an instant's silence she began to take in the fact of ella's arrival. "receive her cordially of course. what else in heaven's name can you do?" sir philip replied with a touch of impatience. "after all there is nothing so extraordinary in a girl's coming to her own father's house--even taking refuge there if, as is possible--" "she has been turned out of her aunt's," interrupted ermine. "yes, i'm certain that's it--she and old burton have come to blows and ella's high spirits or high temper have proved too much for him." "ermine," said philip, warningly, "you should really," and he glanced in barnes's direction. but if barnes did hear what they were saying he at least appeared so absolutely unconscious that philip's remonstrance fell rather flat. the butler had retired to a few paces distance, where he stood awaiting orders with an irreproachably blank expression. "is the young--is miss ella st quentin in the library?" asked sir philip suddenly. "yes, my--i beg pardon--yes, sir philip," barnes replied. his former master had been a peer, and even after some years of serving a commoner barnes found it difficult to ignore the old habit. "then go and tell her miss st quentin; mind you, say it distinctly, no miss madelene or miss ermine--the young lady is, as you supposed, miss ella st quentin--say that miss st quentin will be with her immediately. you'd better go at once, maddie." "she couldn't have meant to call herself miss st quentin--it was just an accident, no doubt," said madelene nervously. "of course, but it's just as well from the first to remind her that she is _not_ miss st quentin," said philip. "stupid of her aunt to have let her get into the habit. but madelene--" "yes, yes. ermine, hadn't you better get some fresh tea?--this will be cold," said madelene, touching the teapot. "philip, hadn't ermine better come too?" no one could have believed it of her--no one ever did believe it possible that the cold, stately madelene was in reality a martyr to shyness and timidity. but the two or three who knew her well, knew the fact and pitied her intensely, her cousin philip among them. but he knew, too, the best way to treat it, cruel as it sometimes seemed. "no," he said, "decidedly not. you will get on much better alone, maddie. off with you, there's a good girl. and good-bye. i'm going round to the stable-yard and i'll mount there. i'm dying with curiosity, but all the same i'm too high-principled to indulge it. it wouldn't do for me to stay--you and ermine are quite enough for the poor child to face at first." "oh, philip," said madelene, stopping short again, for by this time she had got a few yards on her way, "i thought you would have stayed to help us." "not i," philip called after her. "it's much better not, i assure you. i'll look in to-morrow to see how you're all getting on, and to hear the whole story. and if i meet uncle marcus on his way home, as i dare say i shall, i'll tell him of the arrival, so as to save you having to break it to him." "and do beg him to come home as quickly as he can," replied madelene. philip got up from his seat and moved to go. "good-bye, ermine," he said. ermine looked at him dubiously. "are you in earnest, philip?" she said. "i have more than half an idea that you are going off out of cowardice, and--and--that all your regard for ella's feelings, etc, is--" "what?" said philip, smiling. "talk," ermine replied curtly. philip laughed. "no, truly," he said. "all things considered it is much better for me to leave you. and it's quite true about my curiosity. i'm awfully curious both to hear about it all and to see this little personage who has descended among us in this thunder-and-lightning, bomb-shell sort of way. by jove--" and he stopped short, while a different expression came into his face--"what a nuisance it is to think that all our jolly times together are over! i was grumbling at it prospectively this morning--to think that it has already come to pass." he sighed. ermine sighed too. "yes," she said, "it is horrid. for i know--as positively as if i could hear what is at this moment passing in the library--that the child has come to stay." "oh lord, yes," philip exclaimed, "not a doubt of it." "i only wish she _were_ a child," pursued ermine. "it might be more of a bother in some ways, but in others--seventeen's an awful sort of age-- most girls then are really children and full of fancying themselves grown-up, and standing on their dignity, and all the rest of it, and yet not really grown-up enough to be proper companions to--" "two full-fledged old maids like you and maddie," put in philip. "exactly," said ermine. "well, good-bye again," he said, lifting his hat as he turned away in the direction of the stables. miss st quentin made her way slowly to the house. she looked outwardly calm, indeed to look anything else had scarcely ever in her life occurred to madelene, but inwardly she was greatly perturbed. to begin with, she was as i have said, a sufferer from intense shyness; shyness of that kind most painful and difficult to contend with, better perhaps defined as moral timidity, which shrinks with almost morbid horror from giving or witnessing pain or discomfort, which, but for the constraining and restraining force of a strong sense of duty, would any day gladly endure personal suffering or neglect, or allow wrong-doing to go unrebuked, rather than attempt the slightest remonstrance. madelene could enter a roomful of strangers without a touch of nervousness, but the thought of reproving a servant would keep her awake for nights! and that something in the action of her young half-sister was about to call for rebuke or disapproval she felt instinctively certain. then there were other reasons for her feeling far from able to meet ella with the hearty welcome she would have wished; housekeeper's considerations were on her mind! "i did so want to have the rooms arranged the way ermine and i were planning," she said to herself. "it would have been so much better to have begun regularly at once. now i really don't know what to do. papa would certainly be displeased if i gave her one of the long corridor ones, and yet the two or three empty rooms in the south wing are so small and would seem shabby. but i am afraid there is nothing else to do. i must explain to her that the rooms intended for her can't possibly be ready for some time. and about the maids too--we had planned it so well. now, there will really be no one able to look after her, for i can't trust melanie; she is so injudicious with that chattering tongue of hers." meantime, the cause of all these discussions was waiting alone in the library. she had seated herself when first shown in, in a matter-of-course, unrestrained manner, as if quite at her ease. but this had been for the benefit of barnes and his subordinates. no sooner was she left alone, than the girl got up and strolled nervously towards the window, where she stood looking out. now that the deed was done, her courage began to flag. "i wonder," she said to herself, clasping her little hands together, "i _wonder_ what they'll say. they surely can't blame me, when i tell them how unendurable it was, and that even aunt phillis, in her heart, though she wouldn't own it, wished i were gone, for i know she did. she'll have got my telegram by now. how delighted old burton will be--that's the only bit of it i hate to think of! still, staying there to spite him would have been quarrelling with my nose--is that it?--no, quarrelling with my face--oh bother, i can't get it right, i do so wonder what they'll all say here." there was nothing to help her in what she saw outside--not a human being was in sight--only the lovely, perfectly kept grounds, looking perhaps at their very best in the soft mellowness of the summer afternoon. "how delightful it is here!" she thought next; "what a beautiful room, and what splendid books," and her girlish heart swelled with satisfaction to think that here was her home, the spot on earth where she had an undoubted, an unquestionable right to be! "how poky auntie's house would seem in comparison--and mr burton's `mansion' even worse, for any way there was nothing vulgar or _parvenu_ about our little house. still--it does seem rather a shame that i should have been out of it all, all these years, i, that have just as good a right, as poor old harvey used to tell me, to everything here as madelene and ermine. i do hope i shall be able to like them--of course i must not let myself be `put upon,' but still--i consider they have kept the best of things to themselves hitherto and--oh i wish she'd be quick and come. i don't want to seem nervous and yet i _am_, horribly so." she tapped her parasol on the floor, then she glanced furtively in a mirror to see how she was looking. "my hair's rather rough," she thought, "but otherwise i don't think i look bad. i wish i didn't seem quite so young--and, oh, i do wish i were a little taller!" she was small certainly, but as she was also slight and very well proportioned, this did not really detract from her--_beauty_, one could scarcely call it. ella st quentin was not beautiful; she was just exceedingly pretty. her hair was brown, a shade lighter than ermine's perhaps, but dark in comparison with madelene's fair coils, and her eyes were hazel, lovely eyes, pathetic and merry by turns, as it suited their capricious little owner to make them, and her features were all charming. there were good points in this pretty face too, real sweetness in the curves of the mouth, frankness and honesty in the forehead and no lack of resolution in the chin--but the whole was the face of a child rather than a woman--a well-meaning, but fitful and undisciplined child, who had known little of life and its graver lessons, whom one would tremble to expose to the storms which, sooner or later, in one form or another, all must face. yet there was latent strength too, if one looked more closely; it was a face to make one anxious but hopeful also. she was well but simply dressed. save for the extreme neatness of everything about her, she would have looked a mere school-girl; but the sweeps of her grey draperies, the poise of her head, nay, the very fit of her gloves, at once removed her from any possibility of being relegated to the category of girlish hobbledehoys. she had not a trace of awkwardness about her; she had passed through all the stages of teeth-changing, hair "doing up," skirts lengthening and such crises, as one to the manner born--awkwardness and ella were not to be thought of in the same century. the door opening at last, ella flashed round from the window--was it the door, or her fancy only? for now all seemed still again, no, yes--the handle was moving a very little--truth to tell, madelene holding the outside knob, was making a last effort to screw up her courage so as to meet her young sister affectionately but with all her wits about her nevertheless. there was no drawing back now that she had begun to turn the handle, and with a sigh which ella could not hear, miss st quentin came in. ella gasped slightly--"how beautiful," was her first thought, to be however instantly followed by a second, "but how cold, and how horribly stuck-up! no, i feel it already--i shall never like her." but madelene, pale and calm, was advancing across the room. "ella?" she said, as if till that moment she had had some lingering doubt on the matter, "ella--it is really you! what a surprise--no, i would not have known you again in the least. tell me, there is nothing wrong? nothing the matter with your aunt, i hope?" she had stooped to kiss the young girl as she spoke. it would be untrue to say that the kiss was a very affectionate one, but on the other hand there was no intentional coldness about it. but ella was not of this opinion. "no, thank you," she replied, after submitting to, though not in any wise returning, the sisterly embrace. "aunt phillis is quite well--at this moment she must be, i am afraid, rather upset, for she will have got my telegram. i sent her one from weevilscoombe station when i arrived." "and why should that upset her?" asked madelene; "she asked you to telegraph your safe arrival, i suppose? but you didn't travel alone?" "yes, indeed i did," said ella with a slight laugh. it was a nervous laugh in reality, but to her sister it sounded hard and a little defiant. "i not only travelled alone, but i came off without any one knowing. in fact auntie would only know that i _had_ left her for good, when she got my telegram." miss st quentin's pale face flushed a little, then the momentary colour faded, leaving her paler than before. she sat down, and motioned to her sister to do the same. "i am very sorry, very, very sorry to hear this," she said, nerving herself to speak. "ella, i am afraid you have done very wrong, and foolishly. it is not using mrs robertson well after all her care of you--replacing a mother to you and giving you a home all these years. and--it is not a good beginning of your future life with us, to have done what we--what papa cannot approve of." ella half rose from the chair on which she had only that moment seated herself. her eyes sparkled ominously, her face flushed too, but after a different fashion from madelene's. "i don't know anything about your not approving, and as for papa--well at least he can tell me himself what he thinks. but as for aunt phillis--i am sorry if i have grieved her. i would not have done so if i could have helped it, but i don't see that i could. it isn't my fault that she is going to marry a vulgar, purse-proud old snob, who had already begun to cast up to me, yes, actually to cast up to _me_, the daughter of colonel st quentin of coombesthorpe, what his wife-to-be had done for me and spent on me as if i were a charity-child! and that touches on the point of the whole. i am grateful to poor auntie for all her love and care," and here the young, excited voice quivered a little, "but i don't see that i need to be grateful to her for what you may call substantial things--she didn't _need_ to give me a home, as you say, or to spend her money on me--and a good deal of what was spent was my own money, or at least papa's, which is the same thing; she has told me so herself. i had my own home, just as you and ermine have--i am papa's daughter just as much as you two are, even though we hadn't the same mother. do you think now--in the name of common-sense--do you see that i should be grateful for being taken away from my own proper home, such a home as _this_--for no reason at all that i can see except that auntie herself wished it." madelene's face looked unspeakably pained. "it was your own mother's wish," she said, in a low voice. "so i have been told--but--do you think dead people's wishes should be allowed to affect the welfare of the living to such an extent?" asked the child in her sharp downright fashion. "for i don't. still that's not the point--it was done and we'll take it for granted it was done for the best. but now it was coming to an end--old burton wasn't going to have any trouble about me--he's never been asked and never will be to spend a penny upon me, except once when he paid a fly for me and quarrelled with the driver, and on my last birthday when he gave me a _very_ shabby prayer-book--sham ivory backs, you know, the kind that splits off--and it was auntie's own doing, so i _don't_ see that i could have been expected to put up with his rudeness." "had you done anything to irritate him?" asked madelene. ella opened her eyes in surprise. "oh dear, yes," she said, "heaps of things. i don't suppose i ever did anything but irritate him. my very existence, at least my presence, in auntie's household irritated him. i understand it all now," she went on, speaking more and more naturally with the interest of the subject. "don't you see he didn't know anything about us when he first made auntie's acquaintance and began to think she'd just suit him for a wife, and he thought i was a homeless orphan, a poor dependent, and that he'd have to take me too. it was rather irritating, i'll allow," she continued, smiling to herself a little, "for he saw we'd never get on, and if he'd only been a little nicer when he found i wasn't in his way, after all, we might have `parted friendly,' as servants say. but he was thoroughly put out by me--i _couldn't_ help trying to annoy him. and last night it came to a sort of crisis--he said i was impertinent and other things he had no business to say to papa's daughter, who is no relation of _his_, and at last he told auntie, poor auntie, that she must choose between him and me." "and what did mrs robertson say?" asked madelene. "she didn't say much. indeed i didn't give her any opportunity. she had a headache this morning, no wonder, and didn't come down. so i just packed up a few things and told the servants to say i'd gone out, and i went to the railway and--came off here. _naturally_ i came here," she repeated, her tone acquiring again a shade of defiance, in reality the veil of some unacknowledged misgiving. madelene did not at once reply. she sat there, her eyes gazing out of the window before her, in what ella thought a very aggravating way. "do you not agree with me?" the younger sister asked after a moment's silence. shyness was unknown to ella, as were hesitation and patience when she was much concerned about anything. madelene turned round and looked at her. "she's angry," thought ella. "it is not any other feeling that makes her look like that." and she kept her own bright eyes fixed upon her sister, which did not add to miss st quentin's composure. "of course if you were obliged to go _anywhere_ in this--this strange sort of way, you did right to come here," said madelene quietly. "but that is not the question at all. were you right to leave your aunt's house as you have done? that is the thing." "yes," said ella coolly, "under the circumstances i think i was quite right." "without consulting papa, without talking it over with mrs robertson, without--without," miss st quentin went on, a sudden sensation of something very like temper nerving her to say it--"without in the least considering our--ermine's and my--convenience?" ella gazed at her in unfeigned surprise, for a moment or two she was too astonished to feel indignant. "i don't understand you," she said. "is it usual for sisters to be upon such terms? is a daughter expected to beg and apologise like a stranger, before getting leave to come home--home where she has a right to be, and from which she was banished without her wishes being consulted in the least?" "you were a baby," said madelene. "you could not have been consulted. and--well the thing was done and this has _not_ been your home, and it is no use talking in that exaggerated, theatrical sort of way, ella. i shall do my best, my very best," and here there was a little tremor in her voice, "to make you happy and content with us, and so i know will ermine, but i can't say that in what you have done to-day i think you have acted wisely, or--or rightly. what papa will say about it i don't know. i--i did not mean to put forward any inconvenience to myself, or ourselves, in any prominent way." she had already regretted the allusion to her sister and herself that she had made. it was, she felt, both unwise and inconsistent with the resolution she had come to. ella did not answer. "will you come out for a little?" madelene went on. "we have been having tea--ermine and i and--and our cousin--on the lawn. you would like a cup of tea, would you not? i am afraid your room will not be ready yet. we have been making some changes, and the rooms we intend for you are to be papered and painted next week. in the meantime we must consider how best to arrange." "i am sorry to give you so much trouble," said ella coldly. "i should have thought--it surely cannot be difficult for the third daughter to have a room just as you and ermine have. but of course you are right--i _am_ a stranger, and it is no good pretending i am not." "that was not what i meant at all," said madelene. but again ella made no reply. "i must take care what i say," she was thinking to herself, "or i shall be called `exaggerated' and `theatrical,' again." madelene opened the window and stepped out. "shall we go this way?" she said. "it is nearer than round by the front door." ella followed her. "i am to be a younger sister when it comes to questions of precedence and that kind of thing, it appears," she thought. "but a stranger when it suits the rest of the family to consider me so." there was something soothing however to her impressionable feelings in the beauty all around her; it was a really exquisite evening and the girl was quick to respond to all such influences. "how lovely!" she said impulsively. madelene turned. there was a smile on her face, almost the first ella had seen there; the quiet, somewhat impassive countenance seemed transfigured. "yes," she said, "it _is_ lovely. i am glad for you to see it again for the first time on a day like this, though to us, and i think you will agree with us when you have lived here long enough, coombesthorpe has a charm of its own in every season." ella opened her lips to reply, but before she had time to do so, she caught sight of a figure hastening towards them over the lawn. "oh," said madelene, "here is ermine. yes! ermie," she called out, before the new-comer was quite close to them, "it is she--it is really ella." chapter four. back in the nursery. ella's eyes rested on her second sister with admiration scarcely less than that which her first glance at madelene had aroused. "at least," she thought to herself, for a moment throwing her prejudice and irritation aside, "at least i have no reason to be anything but _proud_ of my belongings. they are both beautiful." ermine who was tall also, though an inch or two shorter than madelene, stooped to kiss her. and her kiss seemed to ella less cold than her elder sister's. "i shall like her the best," she rapidly decided, for she was much given to rapid decisions. "you have quite taken us by surprise, ella," said ermine, in a tone which told nothing. the truth was that she was on the look-out for some sign or signal from madelene as to what was the meaning of this sudden invasion and in what spirit it was to be met. for though they were not absolutely free from small differences of opinion in private, the mutual understanding and confidence existing between the sisters were thorough and complete, and even had this not been the case, they would never have allowed any outsider to suspect it. madelene caught and rightly interpreted ermine's unspoken inquiry. "ella has thought it right," she began in a somewhat constrained tone, "to come home sooner than was arranged, on--on account of annoyances which she has been exposed to at mrs robertson's and--" "`annoyances,'" flashed out ella, thereby giving ermine her first glimpse of the fieriness of which madelene had already in the last quarter of an hour seen a good many sparks, "`annoyances,' do you call them? i think that is a very mild term for unendurable, unbearable insult, and--" "ella," said madelene quietly, "you have told me quite as much as i want to hear at present. papa will be home soon and then you can see what he says. in the meantime it seems to me very much better to drop the subject--it would only leave a painful association with the beginning of your life here to do nothing but uselessly discuss disagreeables. the thing is done--you have left your aunt's and you are now with us. neither ermine nor i need to say anything about it and it is probably much better that we should not." "very well," said ella, with as near an approach to sullenness in her tone, as such an essentially un-sullen person could be capable of. "i don't like it, but i don't want you to think me ill-natured or quarrelsome when i know i am neither, so i'll give in. but all the same i feel that you blame me and disapprove of me, and i hate to feel that." she glanced up with a slight suspicious dewiness in her lovely brown eyes. "poor little thing," murmured ermine half under her breath, but a glance from madelene restrained her. "i know how she means, maddie," she said aloud, "i hate the feeling of unexpressed blame or disapproval more than the worst scolding spoken out to me." "but there is no question of either, just now," said madelene smiling a little. "i did tell ella openly what i thought, but she did not agree with me, and so i don't see that there's the least use in saying more. do let us get into the shade--and i am sure ella is longing for some tea." "it is all ready," said ermine, leading the way to the table under the trees, as she spoke. "i had some fresh made." "and philip?" asked madelene with the very slightest possible touch of hesitation. "he is gone," said ermine. "he left immediately after you went in." "i thought perhaps he would have stayed after all," she said vaguely. ella listened, not without curiosity. "who is philip?" she had it on the end of her tongue to say, but she hesitated. "if they wanted to make me feel at home--_one of them_," she said to herself, "they would have begun telling me all about everybody and everything, and if they don't choose to tell i don't choose to ask. `philip,' i remember something about some one of the name in a dreamy way. and just now in the house madelene spoke of a cousin--`our cousin,' i think she said. well i suppose he is my cousin too, and if so, i can't but hear about him before long, without asking." one question however occurred to her as a perfectly natural and permissible one. "is my godmother, lady cheynes, at home just now?" she asked abruptly. madelene looked a little surprised. "`my godmother,'" she repeated to herself inwardly, "what a queer way of speaking of our aunt! of course it is only because she is our aunt that she is ella's godmother, i remember her offering to be it `just to please poor ellen,' as she said. what does ella want to know for? perhaps she is thinking of making a descent upon cheynesacre if she doesn't find things to her mind here! i suppose our mention of philip put it in her head." ella repeated her question in another form. "lady cheynes lives near here, does she not? and she _is_ my godmother," she said with a touch of asperity, as much as she dared show to madelene, for there was something in miss st quentin's calm, self-contained manner which awed even while it irritated her younger sister. "yes," madelene replied. "she lives at cheynesacre, which is about five miles from here. but she is our aunt." "oh," said ella, looking a little mystified, "then should i call her aunt? when i have written to her i have always said `godmother.'" "she is not your aunt," said madelene gently. "unless she particularly wished it, i should think it best for you just to call her by her name." ella grew crimson. "another snub," she said to herself. "she is really our great-aunt," ermine said quickly, as if divining ella's feelings. "she was our mother's aunt, and her grandson, sir philip cheynes, is, therefore, only papa's first cousin once removed. but he always calls papa uncle." "oh," said ella. "of course," she went on bitterly, "i can't be expected to understand all the family connections, considering i have been brought up a stranger even to my father. i _suppose_ colonel st quentin is my father," she went on sarcastically, "but i begin to feel a little doubtful even about that." "ella," said ermine, "what do you mean? you must not take that tone. you are vexing and hurting madelene," for miss st quentin's face was pale and her lips quivering, "and i can just tell you, my dear child, now at once, at the first start, that i won't have madelene vexed or hurt. you are a foolish baby, otherwise--" ella's crimson had turned to something still fierier by this, and her eyes were literally gleaming. she controlled herself for a moment or two to the extent of not speaking, but she lost no time in mentally retracting her decision that she "would like ermine the best." it was, perhaps, fortunate that at that moment barnes reappeared upon the scene. he was not in the habit of so much condescension, but for once dignity had yielded to curiosity. barnes was dying to have another look at the new arrival, and to be able to judge how things were going to turn out. so he seized the excuse of his master's dog-cart being seen approaching to betake himself again to the lawn. "if you please, ma'am," he began, hesitating when he had got so far, partly because he did not feel quite at ease under miss ermine's rather sharp glance, and partly because he was conscious of being rather out of breath-- "well, barnes?" said madelene coldly. "i thought you would like to know, ma'am, that the colonel will be here directly. james has just seen the dog-cart at the mile-end turn." this was a land-mark visible by experienced eyes from coombesthorpe gates, though at some considerable distance. "very well. thank you, barnes. you can tell my father he will find me in the library. i should like to see him as soon as he comes in," said madelene composedly, and barnes retired, very little the wiser for his expedition, though ella's burning cheeks had not been altogether lost upon him, and he gave it as his private opinion to the housekeeper that less peaceful times were in store for "his" young ladies than hitherto. miss st quentin got up. "ella," she said, "will you come with me at once to see papa?" ella looked a little taken aback. she had expected to find that madelene was going to have a long, confidential talk with her father in the first place. "if you like--if you think it best," she said, with the first approach to misgiving or shyness she had yet shown. "would you like better to see papa alone?" asked madelene. ella instinctively made a little movement towards her. "oh no, no, thank you," she said, looking really, frightened. "well then, we will go together," said madelene softened, though her manner scarcely showed it. and in a few minutes ella found herself again in the library where she had waited for her sister, little more than half-an-hour before. wheels crunching the gravel drive were heard almost immediately, then barnes's voice and another in the hall. "in the library, do you say?" this new voice repeated. and in a moment the door was opened quickly. "are you here, madelene? there is nothing wrong, i hope? barnes met me at the door to tell me you wanted me at once." "yes, papa," said miss st quentin, rising as she spoke. "you didn't meet philip, then? no, there is nothing wrong. it is only that--" she half turned to look for ella. the girl was standing just behind her, and it almost seemed to madelene as if she had intentionally tried to conceal herself from colonel st quentin's notice at the first moment of his entering the room. and for the second time a softened feeling, half of pity, half almost of tenderness, passed through her towards her young sister. "ella," she went on, and ella came forward. "you see, papa," madelene added, "_this_ is why i wanted to see you at once. ella has arrived--sooner than we expected." she tried to speak lightly, but colonel st quentin knew her too well not to detect her nervousness. he knew, too, that this sudden move on ella's part could not but be annoying and disappointing to his elder daughters, who had been making all sorts of plans and arrangements for her joining them at the time already fixed upon. "ella!" he exclaimed. then he held out his hand, and, drawing her towards him, kissed her quickly on the forehead. "is there anything the matter with your aunt phillis? you have grown a good deal since last year." for he had seen ella from time to time, though but hurriedly. the remark was not a happy one. "i don't think i have grown at all for two years," she said. "i have certainly stopped growing now." her tone was not conciliating. colonel st quentin slightly raised his eyebrows. "i beg your pardon, my dear," he said. "i had forgotten your mature age. and to what then are we indebted for this unexpected pleasure?" he went on. madelene looked distressed. this was exactly the tone she most dreaded to hear her father take. he did not mean to hurt ella, up to now indeed he had no reason to feel displeased with her. for all he knew she had been driven away from mrs robertson's by an outbreak of smallpox, or by the house having been burnt down! and madelene and ermine were accustomed to this half-satirical, bantering manner of his, and the good understanding between the three was complete, more perfect indeed than is often the case between father and daughters. for there was an element of something nearly allied to _gratitude_ in colonel st quentin's affection for his elder daughters, which even on the parent's side, between generous natures is quite compatible with the finest development of the normal paternal and filial relations. "it was nothing wrong--that is to say no illness or anything of that kind," madelene hastily interposed, "but ella thought it better to come away. mr burton, the old gentleman you know, papa, that mrs robertson--" "yes, yes, that mrs robertson is going to marry. well, what about him?" he interrupted. colonel st quentin was much more vivacious than his eldest child. "he seems to have been getting rather jealous, exacting, i don't know what to call it--annoyed at ella's sharing her aunt's attention with him, i suppose. is not that it, ella? and he has shown it in a disagreeable, ill-bred way, it seems," said madelene. "he was actually rude, insulting," said ella. "he seemed to think i was nothing and nobody, quite forgetting i was your daughter, and--" "insufferable, purse-proud old ruffian he must be," interjected her father. ella's eyes danced. "yes, papa--that's just what it is," she said, "he could not have been less--respectful," she added with a little hesitation, "if i had really been a penniless pauper, instead of having a family and home of my own." colonel st quentin glanced at madelene. he was on the point of speaking, but a sign from her, imperceptible to ella, restrained him. he contented himself with a sigh. ella imagined it to be one of sympathy with her wrongs, and her spirits rose--"penniless pauper," had been very telling, she said to herself. "and so--and so, you and your aunt thought it best for you to come away," he said. "well, well, it is a pity things could not have gone on smoothly a little longer, considering how many years you have been with her and how good she has always shown herself to you. in any case she surely might have written or telegraphed--i certainly think she might have considered us a _little_ as well as old burton. of course she sent a servant with you." "no, no," said ella, hesitatingly. "i came alone." colonel st quentin's face darkened. "she let you--a child like you, travel here alone!" he exclaimed. "upon my word, madelene--you knew this?" he added, turning to her. madelene looked very uneasy. "papa," she said, "you don't quite understand. mrs robertson is not so much to blame as you think. ella--" and she looked at her sister, "tell papa yourself. it is no use concealing anything. mrs robertson will of course be writing herself, and then--" "i have no wish to conceal anything," said ella, haughtily. "i never dreamt of such a thing. yes, what madelene says is quite true, papa. aunt phillis did not send me away. she did not know of my leaving. she will only have heard it by a telegram i sent her from weevilscoombe." "do you mean to say," said colonel st quentin slowly, "that you left your aunt's house without her sanction or even knowledge, as well as without writing to consult me--in short, that you ran away?" "something very like it," said ella defiantly. madelene looked grievously distressed. "oh, ella," she said, "do not speak like that. she does not mean it really, papa--she has explained more about it to me. ella, tell papa you are sorry if you have vexed him. it was natural for her to come to us, papa--even if she has acted hastily." but ella would say nothing. she stood there proudly obstinate, and miss st quentin's appeal in her favour fell on unheeding ears. one glance at her, and her father turned away and began walking up and down the room in a way which as madelene well knew betokened extreme irritation. "little _something_," she heard him murmur, and she hoped ella did not suspect that the half inaudible word was "fool"--"nothing, no conjunction of things could have been more annoying." then he stopped short and stood facing his youngest daughter. "ella," he said quietly, but there was something in his tone which made the girl inwardly tremble a little in spite of her determination, "you have acted very wrongly. you have placed me in a most disagreeable position--obliging me to apologise for your rudeness to your aunt, to whom already i was under heavy obligations for you," here ella glanced up in surprise, and seemed as if about to speak, but her father would not listen, "and you have certainly given this mr burton a victory. the more vulgar he is, if he really is vulgar--i don't know that i feel inclined to take your word for it--the more he will enjoy it." ella compressed her lips tightly. "and," colonel st quentin went on, his hard tone softening as he glanced at madelene, "there are other reasons why i _extremely_ regret the way you have chosen to behave. you have shown no sort of consideration for our--for your sisters' convenience." ella started up. this time she would be heard. "that part of it i cannot in the least understand," she said. "it seems extraordinary to talk of _inconveniencing_ one's own nearest relations by coming home when--when one had nowhere else to go," and her voice faltered a very little. her father looked at her with a sort of expression as if he were mentally taking her measure. "ah, well," he said, "i did not say i expected you fully to understand. you have shown yourself too childish. but you are not too childish to understand that when one does a distinctly wrong thing one may expect undesirable results in more directions than one. and this--the inconvenience to your sisters _i_ lay stress upon, and i shall expect you to remember this. what room are you intending ella to have?" he went on, turning rather abruptly to madelene. "those you meant for her of course are not ready." "no," miss st quentin replied. "they are not yet begun, and what should be done will take some weeks. i wanted them to be so nice," she said regretfully. "i know you did," said her father, and the sympathy in his tone made ella unreasonably angry. "in the meantime," madelene continued, "i was thinking of giving ella one of the rooms in the north wing. indeed they are the only--" "no," said colonel st quentin, "that will not do. we may need those rooms for visitors any day. it is much better for her to have the nursery on the south side. you can easily have what additional furniture is needed moved in, and, as it is ella's own doing, she cannot object to less comfortable quarters than you had intended for her for a time." ella reared her little head, but said nothing. "you must be tired," said madelene, glad to suggest any change, "and i am sure you would like to take your hat and jacket off. come with me to my room; and i will see about getting the nursery ready, papa." ella's head rose, if possible, still higher as she turned to leave the room. madelene was leading the way, but as they got to the door her father called her back. "i don't want to give her a room with a north exposure," he said to his eldest daughter in a low voice, "you know we cannot be sure of her health yet, and she has hitherto been always in such mild places. but of course we must not make her fanciful." "no, papa. i quite understand," said madelene, gently. but this little incident did not tend to smooth down the ruffled wings of the small personage who followed her sister up the wide staircase with the gait of a dethroned queen. "for to-night, ella," said madelene, "i think you had better sleep in my dressing-room. there is a nice little sofa-bed there that ermine sometimes uses when we have a fancy for being quite close together. sometimes when papa is away this big house seems so lonely." "is there no bed in the--the _nursery_?" she inquired icily. "oh, yes," said madelene, "there has always been a bed there. it is a comfortable little room; it is not what used to be the _night_ nursery; that has been turned into a large linen room. but this is what was your day nursery when you were a tiny child. you can't remember the house in the least of course?" "not in the least." "we have used the nursery, as we still call it, now and then for visitors when the house was very full," madelene went on. "oh, yes; for ladies'-maids, i suppose," said ella pleasantly. "no," said madelene, "not for ladies'-maids. we would not put our sister in a room used for servants. and i do not wish you to sleep there till it has been made quite comfortable. it is perfectly clean and aired, but i shall change some of the furniture to make it look nicer, even though you are only to have it temporarily, and, to-night, as i said, you can sleep in my dressing-room. here it is." she threw open a door as she spoke and passed quickly through the large bedroom it opened into to a smaller one beyond. both rooms were very pretty and handsomely furnished, with all sorts of girlish "household gods" about, telling of simple but refined tastes, and long association. for in the bookcase, side by side with the favourites of madelene's grown-up years, were old childish story-books in covers that had once been brighter than now, and behind the glass of the cabinets were many trifling ornaments of little value save for the memory of those by whom, or the occasions on which, they had been given. ella glanced around with a peculiar expression. the fresh admiration which had escaped her at sight of the garden was wanting. she said nothing, but stood looking in at the dressing-room door. "thank you," she said, "if i may leave my hat and jacket here just now; i will fetch them again as soon as i know where to put them. but i should prefer not to sleep here--i suppose there is no actual objection--it is not particularly inconvenient," with a slight accent on the two last words, "that i should sleep at once in what is going to be my room. i should very much prefer doing so." "no," said madelene in a rather perplexed tone, "it can be got ready at once if you really wish it." she was anxious not to oppose ella when not actually obliged to do so, and she determinedly swallowed her own not unnatural disappointment that the young girl should seem so reluctant to meet her in any direction "half-way." "thank you," said ella, more heartily than she had yet spoken, "yes, i should like it very much better. perhaps you would not mind showing me my room now," she went on, "then when it is ready i can find my way to it alone without troubling you again." miss st quentin did not speak, but she turned to leave the room, followed as before by ella. they crossed the landing and passed down another corridor. "down there," said madelene, pointing to the end of the passage, "are your real rooms--those that ermine and i have been planning about for you. the nurseries are down this way," and she descended a few steps leading on to another smaller landing, from which a flight of back stairs ran down to the ground floor. "i warn you that the room will not seem very attractive, but there is a nice look-out at this side. our mother and--and yours--both liked these nurseries. they get all the sun going, in winter." it was a plain room certainly, old-fashioned-looking, for it was less lofty than the other side of the house, and the furniture, such as there was, was simple and seemed to have seen good service. the carpet was rolled up, and the small bed was packed into a corner; the window-curtains were pinned up to keep them clean, though enough was left visible to show that they were of faded chintz. ella in her turn was silent, but she at once deposited the little hand-bag she carried, and her parasol on the only available place, namely the top of the chest of drawers, with an air of taking possession. "i suppose my little box--i only brought one quite small one with me-- may be brought up here?" she said. "yes, certainly, but you _must_ leave the room to the housemaids for an hour or two," madelene replied. "will you dress in ermine's room, in preference to mine? it is nearer--just up the little flight of stairs." "i don't mind in the least," said ella. "i must say i had no idea, not the very slightest, that my coming would have caused such a fuss. perhaps i should apologise, but--i begin to see i have been very foolish. i have been allowing myself to forget the real state of the case, i suppose." "what do you mean by the real state of the case?" asked madelene, calmly resting her eyes on her sister's face. "why--" began ella, a little discomfited though she would not show it, "i mean that you and ermine are not, after all, my own sisters. i seem to be a sort of nobody's sister--or nobody's anything, and yet this is my own father's house. i do not see why everybody should be so down upon me." "nobody wishes to be down upon you, ella," said madelene gently. "and i know that i have done and will do all i can to prevent papa being vexed with you. but it has not been a good beginning--there is no use in concealing it, and ermine and i had wished to welcome you heartily. and won't you come to my dressing-room after all, ella, and let me feel that things are not uncomfortable for you?" but ella stood firm. she shook her little head, though a slight smile quivered about her mouth too. "no thank you," she said, "i like much better to begin as i am going to be. i hope you don't think me such a donkey as to mind what kind of a room i have." "_i_ mind," said madelene, as she turned away. the housekeeper and hostess instincts were very strongly developed in miss st quentin and ella had succeeded in wounding her in a tender place. a few minutes later, when ermine had come up stairs and was standing in her own room, thinking about getting ready for dinner, there came a knock at the door, and in answer to her "come in" ella appeared. she was carrying a dress on her arm. "would you mind--?" she began. "oh i am afraid i am disturbing you--i thought madelene said something about--that i might dress in here." "so you may if you like," said ermine, not too graciously it must be allowed, for she suspected ella had been annoying her elder sister. "there is plenty of time. i will go to madelene till you are ready. you can ring for stevens, the second housemaid, to help you." if ella had had any idea of making friends with ermine in preference to madelene it was speedily discarded. "i detest them both," she exclaimed, as soon as the door had closed on her sister, "nasty, cold, stuck-up things. i almost think i'd rather be back with aunt, if it wasn't for that _horrid_ old burton. but i'll never let auntie know--no _never_, that i'm not happy here. it would be such a triumph to that old wretch." and this lively reflection stopped ella's seeking relief for her outraged feelings in tears, which she had been very nearly doing. "nobody shall be able to say i'm a cry-baby who doesn't know her own mind," she said resolutely, as she dressed herself quickly but carefully, for ella had no love of making a fright of herself! chapter five. ermine's inspiration. when his daughters were leaving the room that evening after dinner, colonel st quentin detained madelene by an almost imperceptible gesture. on her side madelene glanced at ermine, and by the slightest possible turn of her eyelids recommended ella to her care. none of this was lost upon the young lady. "going to talk me over again," she said to herself as she followed ermine, "well, they'll have plenty of opportunities of doing so before they've done with me, i'm afraid." "sit down for a minute or two, can't you, my dear?" said her father, as madelene stood beside him; "it fidgets me to see you standing. surely ermine can look after that child for a few minutes." "oh, yes," miss st quentin replied, drawing a chair close to her father's as she spoke. "it's about her i want to speak of course," colonel st quentin went on. "i have been thinking a great deal about her even in the hour or two since she came. what are we to do with her, madelene?" madelene could not help smiling a little at her father's overwhelmed tone. he who had faced unmoved all the dangers and vicissitudes of a soldier's life, who had not so many years ago borne with comparative equanimity the complete loss of all the fortune he could really call his _own_, now seemed quite unnerved by what was surely but a most natural, not to say agreeable event, the return of his youngest child to her home. "oh, papa, don't worry about her," she said. "things will settle themselves, you'll see. it is only the awkwardness of her sudden arrival that makes you feel uneasy about her. she _must_ be a nice child--she couldn't be your daughter and poor ellen's--" since the death of her young stepmother, miss st quentin had half-unconsciously adopted the habit of speaking of her by her christian name--"without having a true and good nature _au fond_." "if she only were a child," said her father, "but it strikes me pretty forcibly," he went on, smiling a little, though rather grimly, in spite of himself, "that she is, and considers herself very decidedly a young woman. she's very pretty too, and knows how to set herself off, that little black frock with those fal-de-rals, rosettes--what do you call 'em?" "bows," corrected madelene. "bows then--was very coquettishly managed." "it was too old for her," said miss st quentin decidedly. "and--not altogether good style for so young a girl as she really is. i fancy mrs robertson has left her a good deal to herself, of late especially. i think it was time she came to us, papa," she added. "indeed i only wish--" but she stopped. "that she had never left us--but don't say it, madelene. it's no use, and--i don't know that she would have been alive but for phillis's care." "perhaps not," said madelene. "still, she is not like her mother--she has not that transparent look." she did not say more, reserving to herself her private opinion that ella was and always had been, her slight make notwithstanding, a most sturdy little person, for which indeed there was every precedent, as young mrs st quentin had been the only delicate member of her own family. "it may perhaps soften papa to think her not strong," she said to herself. "like her mother," repeated colonel st quentin, "no, indeed. ellen was the simplest, most gentle creature. i don't suppose she ever gave two thoughts to herself in any way--appearance or anything else. yet--oh madelene, i do wish i had not married again!" he burst out with a sigh. "papa?" said madelene, and her tone sounded almost as if she were a little shocked. "i can't quite understand how you can say so, or feel so, dear papa," she went on, more softly. "when you say yourself, how perfectly sweet and gentle ellen was--and not only sweet, sturdily true, and high-principled, even for our sakes, ermie's and mine, you should be glad we had such an influence as hers for the six or seven years she lived. i often think we don't know how much we owe her." "yes," said her father, "that is true, and i thank you for reminding me of it. if her own child had had the same advantage all might have been well. it has all gone wrong; the having to part with her for so long-- and then my losses. of course but for that i would probably have had her home sooner, but i could not bear you girls to have all the expenses of her education, and the running about with her to mild climates if the winter happened to be severe, as well as your poor old father on your hands!" "papa--i did not know you had thought of it that way," said madelene, rather sadly. "it makes me feel as if we really have something to make up for to poor little ella." "no--don't begin fancying that," he said quietly. "there were other reasons, too--my health for a time; and then phillis was able and willing. i wish i hadn't said it. for of all things i dread your spoiling ella. and don't sacrifice yourselves to her for my sake in any way, i entreat you, my dear child." he looked up anxiously. madelene smiled as she replied, though in her heart she sighed. colonel st quentin was not a selfish man, in intention even less so than in deed. and _the_ sacrifice, a sacrifice of some years' duration already, which his eldest daughter had made to him, he suspected as little as she desired that he should. "you needn't be afraid, papa," she said. "for her own sake it would be _wrong_ to spoil her." "but there's spoiling and spoiling," he went on. "in her place now, she should go on studying for some time. you know, madelene, she _should_ be prepared for contingencies. she may have to work for her living; there is no saying." "only in case of both ermine and me dying," said madelene calmly. "and that, to say the least, is not _probable_. besides--we might easily increase our life insurance, papa?" "no, no, nothing of the kind," said colonel st quentin excitedly. "i won't have you crippling your income any more--do you hear, madelene? if such an awful catastrophe happened as your both dying before me-- well, _surely_ it would kill me?" he said. "though such things don't kill! but there would be enough for me, as much as i have deserved, after mismanaging my own money." "it wasn't your fault, papa. _everybody_ says so," his daughter replied. "i do wish you wouldn't speak of it that way." "but besides that," colonel st quentin went on, "there are other and less terrible possibilities. if you married, madelene, you and ermine, and of course that may happen any day, though i know you are both of you rather, what the french call _difficile_--your husbands might not, naturally enough--care about being saddled with a little half-sister-in-law, even if he consented to the pensioning off of the old man himself." "papa," said madelene again, but this time her tone was really stern, "you pain me indescribably, really indescribably, by speaking so. anything reasonable--_anything_, really for ella's good, you may depend on our carrying out. but you cannot expect us to sympathise with you when you become, i must say, really morbid on this subject." colonel st quentin was silent for a moment or two. he sat, shading his face with his hand, so that madelene could not judge as to his expression. "there is another view of the case, too," said madelene. "ella is very attractive. why should _she_ not marry? surely there are some few men in the world who don't look out for heiresses." "perhaps," said her father. "well yes, i suppose we may allow that is a possibility. still--that brings in complications too--there must be no sailing under false colours, and it would be so natural for her to be credited with her share of your fortunes by strangers. no, madelene, till she is old enough to understand the whole--and i agree with you that till she has come really to _know_ you and ermine, it may be best to avoid explanations--i think the less society she sees the better. and one outlay i will not object to for her--let her have a few thoroughly good lessons, the best you can get; it will give her occupation, and at the same time fit her to be independent--should the worst come to the worst so to speak?" "very well," said madelene. "i agree with you, that it will be good for her to have occupation--" "and make her useful--practically useful, so far as you possibly can," interrupted her father again. "very well," she said again. "but, papa dear, as far as `the worst's coming' in any sense except that ermie and i might die--is to be taken into account, do dismiss it for ever. we _couldn't_ marry men who would look at things in the way you put it. you wouldn't wish us to marry selfish brutes, papa?" and colonel st quentin was forced to smile. then madelene and he joined the two others in the drawing-room. "can we not have a little music?" said colonel st quentin, a minute or two latter. "ella, my dear, you play i suppose--or do you sing?" his tone was kindlier again. madelene's spirits rose. she thought her talk with her father had done good. she went towards the piano and opened it, glancing smilingly at her young sister. ella was seated on a low chair in a corner of the room--the light of a lamp fell on her face and bright hair. it struck madelene that she looked paler than on her first arrival. "will you play something, ella?" she said, "or are you perhaps too tired?" "i am not the least tired, thank you," the girl replied, "but i hate playing. i never practise, on that account." "upon my word," muttered colonel st quentin. "do you sing then?" ermine interposed, quickly. ella hesitated. "your mother--mamma," said madelene, using purposely the old name for her stepmother, "mamma sang beautifully." ella turned towards her. "do you mean _my_ own mother?" she asked coldly. "of course," madelene replied. "i said so." colonel st quentin moved impatiently. "why can you not answer ermine's question simply, ella?" he said. "and why do you speak to madelene in that tone? it is, to say the least, very questionable taste to accentuate in that way the fact that you and your sisters had not the same mother. and--if no one has told you so before, _i_ tell you now that your mother, my second wife, loved my two elder daughters as if they had been her own, and her best wish for you was that you might resemble them. where you have got these vulgar notions about half-sisters and so on--i see you are full of them--i can't conceive. is it from your aunt phillis?" "no-o," ella replied, a little startled apparently by her father's vehemence. "i did not intend to say anything to annoy you," she added. "but about the singing?" ermine said again. "yes," said ella, "i do sing a little. i like it better than playing. i will try to sing if you--if papa wishes it." her tone was humble--almost too much so. there was a kind of obtrusive dutifulness about it that was rather irritating. still madelene gave her credit for having put some force on herself to keep down her temper. "shall i play a little in the first place?" miss st quentin said, seating herself at the piano as she spoke. madelene played beautifully, though her style was very quiet. ella rose gently from her seat and came nearer her; she stood silent and motionless till the last soft notes had died away. "that is lovely, most lovely," she said, her whole face and manner changing. "i should love the piano if i could play like that." "you must love music, i suspect," madelene replied. "perhaps it is the actual mechanical part of playing that has discouraged you." "i have bad hands for it," said ella, looking at her very little fingers, as she spoke. "you have peculiarly small ones," said her sister; "that is like mamma. still she managed to play very charmingly. now what will you sing? i dare say we have some of your songs." ella opened a book of songs and ran through its contents. "yes," she said, "there are one or two of mine here. perhaps," she added more timidly, "they are some that mamma sang, as aunt phillis chose them. i will try this if you like," and she pointed to what had been in fact one of mrs st quentin's special favourites. it was a simple enough song, calling for no great execution, still, though the observation may sound absurd, it was a song depending for its beauty on the voice of the singer. and ella's young voice suited it perfectly. there was complete silence till she ended. then a slight sigh from her father made her glance at him. "i remember that well," he said. "it is very sweet, very sweet. thank you, my dear." "you have been very well taught it seems to me, ella," said madelene, "and you have a charming voice. it is a pleasure to accompany you. still it would be well for you to accompany yourself sometimes--you must keep up your playing too." "she must have lessons in both," said colonel st quentin decidedly. ella pouted. "i hate playing," she repeated. "don't be childish," said her father sharply. "the question is not of your likes or dislikes. it is of what your capacities are. it seems to me you have taste for music and it is only common-sense in your--for everybody to cultivate their best powers." "i like singing," ella said. "but i don't see that i need be _forced_ to play if i don't want to go on with it. it isn't as if i were going to be a governess." "you would probably get to like it better after a while," said ermine. "no one could have had more difficulty with the mechanical part of it than i, for though my hands are not small, my fingers are what is called `tight.' but i am so glad now that i didn't give it up, for though i can't play like maddie, i can join her in duets." "much more than that," said madelene. "but, ella, i am sure you are tired. don't you think you had better go to bed? it is nearly ten. i feel rather tired myself, somehow." ella rose, with again her air of obtrusive submissiveness. the truth was she was desperately tired--and longing to go to bed, but she would have thought it beneath her dignity to allow it. "i am not at all sleepy, thank you," she said, "but of course i am quite ready to go." and she turned to bid her father good-night, with a little formal manner that would have been amusing had it not, under the circumstances, been very irritating. "good-night, papa. come, ermine, you are not to sit up any longer either. we are all rather tired," said madelene with a little intentional peremptoriness which ermine understood, though ella glanced at her with surprise. "_i_ wouldn't be ordered about like that, at _her_ age," thought the youngest sister. colonel st quentin kissed his elder daughters in silence, but just as madelene, who was the last to leave the room, got to the door, she heard him sigh, and despite her resolution of not talking things over any more that night, she could not resist turning back for a moment. "what is it, papa?" she said gently. "oh, nothing much, my dear," he replied. "i am only afraid we are going to have trouble with that child. i don't understand her. you and ermine never were like that--yet she is lovable too if she would allow herself to be so." "yes--i think so too, but, papa, don't think so much about her. she will fall into her place." "she should never have been out of it. it is that i am blaming myself for," he replied. madelene hurried up stairs after her sisters. they were just at the door of ella's room--"the nursery"--when she overtook them. ermine opened it--the candles were already lighted and stevens was arranging some of ella's belongings. it looked a pleasant and cosy room now, even the slightly faded air of the furniture rather added to its comfort. no one, save a most perversely prejudiced person could have found any reason to complain of such quarters. but a very perversely prejudiced person ella was, it is to be feared, fast becoming. she sat down in the capacious, old-fashioned armchair, covered with the same faded chintz as that of the window-curtains, and looked about her. "well," she ejaculated, "i wonder what aunt phillis would say, if she saw me here. here in the old _nursery_! after eleven years' exile from my rightful home, this is the best they can give me." her glance fell on the toilet-glass--it was a large, handsome one, which madelene had directed the housemaids to put in place of the smaller one really belonging to the room. the candles were lighted, two on the mantelpiece not far from where ella was sitting, and two on the dressing-table, and the girl's face and surroundings were clearly reflected. she had loosened her hair and put on a little white jacket-- and as she caught sight of herself, her face in the glass, looking even paler than in reality, her eyes sad and wistful, she wondered what her own reflection reminded her of. suddenly she started-- "i know," she thought, "i know what it is. i look exactly like that picture of cinderella in the _musee_ at nantes that aunt and i went to see last year. i didn't think i could ever look so pretty," and she smiled with a little inward satisfaction. but the smile faded, and a look of perplexity replaced it. the sight of the old room, once so familiar, though since so entirely forgotten, was beginning to vaguely awaken memories of her past childhood. and the association of the pretty french picture helped to bring one special scene to her recollection. "yes," she said to herself, "i do remember--harvey was sitting on this very chair, i do believe, with me on her knee, and there were picture books strewed about. and she told me the story of cinderella, that was it, and there is a confused remembrance in my mind of thinking i was like her, the third sister, though at that time, of course, i knew nothing of half-sisters or stepmothers. still, after all, i haven't a stepmother--madelene and ermine had that, but they don't seem to have suffered from it. i suppose my mother was a gentle, angelic sort of-- goose--" here ella, to do her justice, felt a little shocked at herself. "i shouldn't say that exactly. but she must have given in to them in everything--about sending me away after her death no doubt, for she couldn't have _wished_ me to be expatriated poor mamma. it would have been better for me, no doubt, if i had had more of her nature, but as i haven't--" then she sighed and glanced round the room again, while her mind reverted to her sisters' spacious quarters. "it is very queer," she thought, "that i should have remembered about harvey and the picture to-night. it was like a sort of vision of my life and position--only--i fear there is no chance of the prince ever finding his way to me. madelene and ermine wouldn't let him! i wonder why they are not married themselves, for they are very good-looking. but madelene's manner is so forbidding, and most likely she wouldn't allow ermine to marry before her. ermine is quite under her thumb. ah, well--it is rather melancholy to feel so lonely in my own home. i wish i could have found poor old harvey here again." for ella cherished roseate remembrances of her former nurse, whom, in point of fact, she could only recollect as a name. harvey had left mrs robertson's service, happily for the child she had the care of, very few months after ella went to live with her aunt. miss st quentin and ermine, the former's protestations of fatigue notwithstanding, had not been able to resist a few minutes' confidential talk. "you are not to stay, ermie, you really mustn't," said madelene. "i am tired--it is not nonsense, and i want to be as bright and fresh as possible to-morrow morning, for i foresee papa is going to be rather-- worried--about ella. and it is so bad for him." "it will be very stupid of him if he really takes it that way," said ermine. "he will say, of course, that it is for _our_ sakes, whereas the only part of it we really--or, at least, principally--mind is _his_ feeling it painfully. and after all, it's _wrong_, really wrong to make a trouble out of it--of having our own sister to live with us, where she should always have been." "that's the whole trouble in the matter," said madelene. "if she had always been here it would have been all right and natural." "she's very pretty," said ermine, after a moment or two's silence, "and she has evidently a good deal of character." "witness her running away from her aunt's," interrupted madelene. "well, after all, i confess to some sympathy with her there," ermine went on. "but i am afraid she has a very fiery temper, maddie." "fiery, perhaps, but i hope not sulky or ungenerous," said madelene. "the difficulty will be to carry out papa's wishes without rousing her ill-will. he is so determined that we are not to spoil her, and, in some ways, no doubt, she _is_ spoilt already, and it will make it much more difficult to--at all put her back, as it were. i quite agree with papa about giving her plenty of occupation; she has lots of energy and i fancy she is clever." "she sings so sweetly," said ermine musingly; "indeed, she is charming in many ways, or might be, if she would. i could love her very much if she would be nice and sensible. but there is truth in papa's view of it--it is an awkward position. madelene," she exclaimed suddenly, "an idea has just struck me. why shouldn't ella marry philip?" "that child!" madelene replied. "my dear ermie--" "she won't always be a child--indeed, she is not one now. lots of girls marry at eighteen--we ourselves haven't married young, but that is no rule for ella." "no--i didn't mean that," said madelene. "i don't quite know what i meant. the person that philip should marry has always seemed a sort of myth, and to turn her into little ella, somehow--" "struck you all of a heap," said ermine laughing. "you are not given to inspirations like me, maddie. i have great faith in my inspirations. think this one over, now. why shouldn't it do? it would perfectly delight papa, it would put her in a position such as neither you nor i expect for ourselves--and we would not be jealous, would we? i should love to think mamma's child was safe and happy--and--" "but the wealth and the position would not make her either safe or happy," began madelene-- "of course not," ermine interrupted with some impatience. "it is philip himself i am thinking the most of, you might know. where could she have a better husband?" "yes," said madelene, though doubtfully still, "i know philip is as good and reliable as he can be. but--he is lazy, ermie, and _laissez aller_ in some ways. i have always hoped he would marry some one who would have great influence on him and bring out the best of him--some woman of real character and energy." "philip wouldn't marry that kind of person," said ermine, smiling. "i can see her in my mind's eye--a sort of gertrude winchester, only better-looking, i hope." "i was thinking of no one in particular," said madelene in a slightly aggrieved tone. "or if he did," ermine went on, "it would be the worst possible thing for him. he would leave everything to her and let her manage his affairs, and he would grow lazier than ever." "aunt anna manages his affairs as it is," said madelene. "but in quite a different way. she keeps him as well as them up to the mark, and she is always anxious to put more and more into his hands. and i think a young wife would rouse him and make him feel his responsibilities better than anything. and i am sure ella is clever, and energetic--her energy we have already seen some proof of. oh, i do wish they would fall in love with each other!" "yes," said madelene, "it's just as well you have remembered to put that unimportant detail in at the end. i thought you were leaving _it_ out altogether." "maddie, you're rather cross, and you're not fair on me. you know i am only too romantic in my ideas i think it is frightful for people to marry if they don't care for each other. and philip i am sure would not do such a thing, and i don't think little ella would." madelene sat thinking. "it might be very nice," she said at last. "i think perhaps you're right about philip's character--only--ermie, i'm afraid ella has really a bad temper," and she looked up anxiously. "not _bad_, quick and hot perhaps, but that's different, and she is in many ways very young still." "well--" said madelene, getting up as she spoke "we must go to bed, ermie. and--i certainly don't want anything of the kind just yet; papa would be horrified. we must do as he wishes, and try to make ella please him. i shall have to see about masters for her. i wonder if vienot still comes over to weevilscoombe?--philip certainly can scarcely help _admiring_ ella." chapter six. lady cheynes at luncheon. "i don't mind having some singing lessons," said ella, twisting round on the piano stool, where she had established herself for the sake of conveniently examining her sisters' music, "but as for playing--it would be money thrown away, and however rich we are i don't see any sense in that. i wouldn't practise, for that would be waste of time too." "but if papa wishes it--makes a point of it, in fact," said madelene. ella was silent. "if it's a duty--as obedience to papa--well, in that case i suppose i must give in," she answered. "but i think it's rather hard lines--at my age. were _you_ forced to go on with lessons when you thought you had done with them--you and ermine?" she asked abruptly. "there would have been no `forcing' required if we had known it was papa's wish, even if we had disliked it," said miss st quentin. "but the circumstances were quite different--" "i don't see it," muttered ella. "and the present question is the thing to consider," madelene went on, taking no notice of ella's interruption. "all the same, i may tell you that at your age ermine did not consider herself by any means grown-up or `out.'" ella pricked up her ears. "but you do count me `out,'" she said eagerly. "i should by rights have been presented this year. aunt phillis said so, it was one of the things she regretted--this stupid marriage of hers coming in the way, i mean--for she could not bear the idea of my leaving her till--till i had to." "you would not have been presented this year in any case," said miss st quentin. "seventeen is, with very rare exceptions, too young to come out." "that means," said ella, "that i am still to be considered in the schoolroom, no, in the nursery, figuratively and literally." "you will be with us at home--we are not thinking of getting a governess for you," madelene answered, smiling a little--she was full of determination not to let herself be put out by ella--"but as for going out--to parties i mean--i don't think papa will wish that for you at present. he is very anxious for you to have these lessons--french and german as well as music. and i think it would be a good thing for you to take some little charge in the house." "i should like to take my share with you and ermine now that i am here altogether," said ella, with dignity. "do you mean taking week about of the housekeeping? some sisters do that, i know." miss st quentin had some difficulty in keeping her gravity. "no," she said quietly. "i do not mean charge of that kind. you forget that to look after a large house like this, even with very good servants, takes a great deal of experience. i have had it to do more or less ever since i was younger than you, but it was not easy, i can assure you." "then why shouldn't i begin now? if you and ermine were married i might have to keep house for papa here. why shouldn't i begin to learn?" asked ella. "it isn't likely you would ever have to do that," began madelene. then she hesitated. "i shall be glad to teach you what i can--but i think you should have some definite work in the house too. i was thinking you might take charge of the books in the library, dusting them and seeing that they are kept in order, for papa doesn't like the servants to touch them. and i think he wants an addition to the catalogue made. and then, it would be a great help to ermine if you looked after the flowers in the drawing-room every morning." "can't the gardeners do that?" said ella. "we have always superintended it ourselves," said madelene simply. her reply rather disconcerted ella. she wanted to be able to say to herself that the disagreeable work was to be put upon her; the things her sisters did not like doing themselves--but in the face of madelene's remark she could scarcely hint at anything of this kind. so, she said nothing, but sat vaguely turning over the leaves of the music-book before her. suddenly the door opened-- "lady cheynes," said the servant. madelene hastened to meet the new-comer, her face lighting up with pleasure. "oh, aunt anna," she exclaimed, "how nice of you! you have come to stay all day, i hope, at least to luncheon?" "to luncheon, well perhaps, but i must leave immediately after," said the old lady, kissing her niece as she spoke. "and now--where is the child?" and she glanced round. "ella," said madelene, "she was here an instant ago--can she have run off?" "shy?" asked lady cheynes. madelene smiled. "i don't think so," she said. "ah, there you are," she went on, as ella appeared from the other side of a screen, where she had momentarily hidden herself. "ella, lady cheynes remembers you, though i don't think you remember her." ella raised her lovely eyes to the old lady's face with a softer expression than madelene had yet seen in them. "i am not quite sure of that," she said very gently, "things are beginning to come back to me a little. i almost think i _do_ remember my--lady cheynes a very little." the old lady laid her two hands on ella's shoulders and drew her forward a little. "is she like her dear mother at all?" speaking half to herself and half to her niece. "i scarcely think so," said miss st quentin softly. "her voice is like ellen's," lady cheynes went on, "and--yes, her eyes are like hers too. you must see it," she added to madelene. "i do," madelene replied, honestly, though truth to tell she had not before perceived it; "i quite see it now," for the gentleness was still in ella's eyes. "god bless you, my child," lady cheynes murmured, and she kissed ella on the forehead; "i could not wish anything better for you than that you should be like your mother in every way, except that i hope you are stronger. and she looks so, does she not, maddie?" "i don't think she could possibly look better," said madelene. ella glanced at her with a less amiable expression than that with which she had been favouring lady cheynes, but the visitor was loosening her mantle at that moment, and did not see it. "of course they will make out that i am as strong as a horse," the girl was saying to herself. "where have you located her?" the old lady went on to ask. "the rooms you were intending for her can't be ready." "no," said madelene, "that is the worst of ella's unexpected arrival, and we couldn't--papa did not wish her to be in the north side--so--" "i am in the nursery," said ella, meekly. "i am quite comfortable there." "in the nursery," repeated lady cheynes with a comical expression, "but i don't expect you will stay there long, do you?" ella looked down. "i don't know," she said. "it is quite a nice little room. would lady cheynes like to see it, perhaps?" she asked demurely. miss st quentin felt at that moment more inclined to shake ella than at any time since her arrival. "why should my aunt wish to see it?" she said sharply. "you forget ella, that she knew this house long before any of us were heard of. it was her own old home." ella's eyes opened in genuine astonishment. "i didn't know--i can't understand," she said. "was your unmarried name st quentin, then, god--lady cheynes i mean?" "no, for in that case i should be _your_ aunt, my dear, which i am not. all the same this was my home, for coombesthorpe at that time belonged to my father. but why do you call me lady cheynes? why not godmother, as in your letters?" ella's eyes sparkled. "that's one for madelene," she would have said had she been acquainted with schoolboy language. "i wasn't sure," she began. "don't be afraid of putting the blame on me," interrupted madelene. "it was i, aunt anna, that told ella it was better to call you by your name unless you wished her to do otherwise." lady cheynes smiled. "call me godmother then," she said, "though i warn you, ella, i mean to take all a godmother's privileges. i shall--well--pet you if you are a good girl, but--i can scold too," and she knitted her brows, without much effect however, as her bright eyes had plenty of fun in them. "i'm not afraid, godmother--not a bit," said ella laughing. "why can she not be like that to _us_?" thought madelene regretfully. "how did you know of ella's arrival?" she asked her aunt suddenly. "through philip, of course. and oh, by the by, i was to ask you if you will be at home this afternoon, if so, he will come over, but he is rather busy, and prefers not to chance it." "i don't think we can possibly be at home," said madelene. "i have to go to weevilscoombe, and ermine is going to drive over to waire, to get the addresses of some masters for ella. papa is anxious that she should begin some regular occupation at once. but i do want to see philip. may i drive back with you, aunt anna? and then i could easily walk to weevilscoombe, and papa can meet me there--he has to go there too." "by all means," lady cheynes replied. then there fell a little silence, which was broken by madelene. "ella," she said, "i think you should not put off writing to your aunt, as papa said. you will be out all the afternoon." ella rose at once. "shall i--may i write in the library?" she said meekly. "of course," miss st quentin replied. lady cheynes kept silence till ella had closed the door behind her--then she turned quickly to her niece. "now tell me all about it, maddie," she said. "of course philip didn't know more than the mere fact. but i can see you are put out--i was anxious to hear all; that was why i hurried over. there can't be much amiss however--the sight of the child has reassured me. she has quite won my heart already, and she seems most anxious to please you--ready to take your least hint." madelene hesitated before replying. she was unselfishly anxious for ella to propitiate her godmother and really glad that the first impression had been so favourable. yet--all things considered--it was a little hard upon her! it took some self-control to listen to ella's praises with perfect good temper. "i am sorry if i have seemed `put out,' aunt anna," she replied at last. "i am very glad indeed you are pleased with ella, and i hope you will make papa a little happier about her. he is _rather_ hard upon her perhaps--about her coming off as she did," and miss st quentin went on to tell the story of ella's taking the law into her own hands, as she had done. lady cheynes listened attentively, smiling a little now and then. "ah," she said, "i understand. yes, just the sort of thing to annoy marcus. for my part, i don't like the child the less for it. and she knows nothing of the real position of things. philip and i were talking it all over last night, and he told me what he had said to you, and i agreed with it. yes--the first thing to do is thoroughly to gain her confidence and affection--but that surely will not be difficult." "it seems as if it should not be so, certainly," said madelene. "but you see, aunt, papa has taken up some ideas about ella, very strongly. and we cannot oppose him, and yet i am so afraid of her thinking that it is we, not papa. just as you came in i was trying to get her to agree to, or rather to like the idea of, these lessons. she has got some absurd notion in her head that ermie and i are wanting to keep her down." "she has been spoilt," said the old lady decidedly. "but i am sure she has a good heart. it is to be hoped," she added, "that philip and she won't see much of each other while she has these ideas about you and ermine. he would be so angry that he would take a prejudice to her, and i should regret that." "so should i," said madelene. "perhaps," she went on, after a little pause, "it will be as well if we just go on quietly by ourselves for a little. there are no gaieties in prospect at present, so the question of ella's `grown-up-ness' need not be discussed, and if she is sensible and pleases papa about these lessons, he may perhaps relax a little after a while. i am not even altogether sorry," she added, "much as we shall miss him, that philip is to be away. in ella's present mood it would have been--a little difficult." "he will be leaving very soon," said lady cheynes, "but i must have him home by christmas. you will let the child come over to me now and then, won't you? i will undertake to do no harm, and i may be able to help you." "of course," said madelene heartily, "and if she shows her best side to you as i think she will, you will find her very charming. i think--i fancy she has a much more cordial feeling to you, aunt, than to us," and miss st quentin could not help sighing a little. "all the better--in one sense, that is to say," replied the old lady briskly. "if she were prejudiced against me too, it would be a bad look-out i can influence her far more if she fancies me impartial." "or partial--to her," suggested madelene smiling. "what does mrs robertson say to this escapade of ella's? you have heard from her?" asked lady cheynes. "yes, there is a letter to papa this morning. she is very distressed about it of course, but her principal anxiety seems to be to exonerate ella. she is dreadfully afraid, evidently, of its vexing papa with her, just at the first." "just what it has done," said lady cheynes; and then they went on to talk of other matters. at luncheon ella maintained the same quiet demure tone which amused even while it irritated madelene. and though lady cheynes appeared to take it quite naturally, and even now and then rather acted the part of drawing out the timid little stranger, the twinkle in her bright old eyes from time to time convinced miss st quentin that ella's godmother knew what she was about. "and perhaps of us all," thought madelene, "she gauges ella's character the most correctly." the thought in itself was a relief. madelene no longer felt so perplexed and dispirited. she even could afford to smile, inwardly, at the sight of ella's preternaturally resigned expression and meek tone of voice when ermine told her, rather sharply perhaps, to get ready for their drive, the pony-carriage being already at the door. "i beg your pardon," ella replied. "i did not know, at least not clearly, that you were going to be so kind as to take me a drive." "i shall shake her well before long," said ermine, as she stood in the hall with her aunt and sister, waiting for the little delinquent. "i can stand her temper and impertinence," laughing as she used the word. "it's so absurd and comical. but i can't stand her suffering-saint-ism. i really can't." "for my part i should think it's the more amusing of the two," said lady cheynes, "but then to be sure i have not yet been favoured with a sight of the little volcano's explosions. when i have done so i'll give you my opinion." at that moment ella made her appearance. she was dressed as on her arrival the day before, and as she bade the girl good-bye, kissing her as she did so, her godmother "took her in" from head to foot. "i think i have scarcely perhaps estimated the difficulties seriously enough," said lady cheynes, when she and madelene were installed in her carriage. "there is any amount of determination, not to say obstinacy, about that small personage. and she has certainly been spoilt. i see it more clearly. the style of her dress is far too old, even though one cannot call it showy, but it is a degree too _soigne_, i hardly know how to express it, for a girl of seventeen. i like neatness of course, but that is quite a different thing." "i fancy ella has been allowed to give a great deal of time and thought to her appearance," said madelene. "but after all, there must come a stage of that kind, i suppose, in every girl's life." "perhaps," said her aunt. "but for my part i prefer it later. i do love a good honest tom-boy girl of fifteen or so." "but ella is seventeen past," said madelene; "that makes all the difference." "umph," grunted the old lady. "i am quite sure she never was a tom-boy. just think of ermine at seventeen." and madelene could not help smiling. "yes," she agreed. "ermine was very different, certainly. i remember how she cried at having her skirts lengthened, and tried privately to shorten them again. still we must remember that ella's life has been quite different." "you must make her dress more simply," said lady cheynes. "those tight-fitting garments without a crease or wrinkle, and perfect gloves, and pointed boots may be all very well in town, though for my part i don't like _that_ sort of particularity carried too far; it takes off the thoroughbred look. but in the country it is absurd. get her a brown holland frock or two, or a homespun with a nice little norfolk jacket and a belt, and see that the skirts are shorter and that she has sensible boots." then an amused look stole over the old lady's face. "what is it, aunt anna?" asked madelene, without, it must be confessed, much amusement in her tone. indeed she was looking and feeling decidedly lugubrious, the prospect of such a transformation of ella's wardrobe was appalling! "i was only thinking what fun philip would make of her if he saw her setting off for a country ramble like a little figure out of the _revue de la mode_. that hat of hers, and the little veil, fastened just at the proper height, or depth, and the parasol, held so daintily, and--" "oh, please stop, aunt," said madelene. "i don't want philip to make fun of her, i'm sure, but how to transform her, as you calmly propose, _i_ don't see." and poor miss st quentin really looked as if she were ready to cry. lady cheynes began to laugh, and her laugh gathered strength and soon became a hearty one. "my dear maddie," she said, "you have met your match. you, who are never put out or disturbed in your regal calm by anything or anybody! it is very wicked of me, but i can't help laughing." madelene herself by this time could not help joining in it. they were both still somewhat hilarious therefore when, at the lodge gates of cheynesacre they came upon sir philip. he threw away his cigar and got into the carriage beside them. "my dear friends," he began. "my very much respected grandmamma, my admired cousin--i am enchanted, but at the same time, slightly, very slightly, surprised to see you indulging in such mirth. may i--dare i venture to inquire its cause?" madelene only laughed the more, especially when lady cheynes turned upon philip. "don't be so silly, philip," she said sharply; "why can't you say plainly, `what are you laughing at'? not that i am going to tell you, for i am not." philip turned his eyes plaintively on his cousin. "nor you? is it useless to appeal to you?" "quite," madelene replied. "it is a private joke of auntie's and mine. i have come round this way on purpose to see you, philip, as you would not have found any of us at home to-day. i suppose it will be to say good-bye, as you are leaving so soon, i hear." "i am leaving very soon, certainly," he replied. "the day after to-morrow, probably. but i quite intend to come over to coombesthorpe first. i want to say good-bye to uncle marcus and ermine too." "they are coming here to luncheon to-morrow," said his grandmother promptly. "oh, indeed," said sir philip. "well then if maddie will invite me i will drive back with them to afternoon tea." "i shall not be at home," said madelene. "maddie," said philip reproachfully, "it is mean, it is unkind of you to force me to avow my real motive. the fact is--i am dying to see the third miss st quentin. why is she not with you to-day? you might have some regard for my feelings." "she has gone to waire with ermine," said lady cheynes. "madelene is arranging about her having lessons from the same masters as the little hewitts at the rectory. and," she went on, "they are nicely brought-up girls--they will be pleasant companions for ella." "those gawky hewitt children!" said philip, with a complete change of tone. "why i thought ella was seventeen and quite a grown-up sort of person!" "she is seventeen," said lady cheynes, calmly, "but some girls are grown-up at seventeen and others are children." "oh," said philip. "well for my part, i don't care about girls of the hewitt type. i suppose then, that mrs robertson has kept her back-- that she is what you call `quite in the schoolroom' still." "if you had heard what she said to me, you would suppose her still in the _nursery_, even," replied his grandmother. "then," philip remarked, "i think i will defer for the present my introduction to your sister, madelene." "just as you please," miss st quentin replied indifferently. but as they got out of the carriage, "i did not know," she whispered, "that you could be so naughty, aunt anna." chapter seven. an invitation. the summer was gone; autumn itself was almost giving place to winter. ella st quentin looked out of the window one morning as she finished dressing, and shivered as she saw the grass all silvered over, faintly gleaming in the cold thin sunshine. "how freezing it seems!" she said to herself. "i hate winter, especially in the country. i wish--if it weren't for that old wretch i really think i would write to auntie and ask her to invite me for a week or two's visit. it can't be so cold, and certainly not so dull, at bath as here. i do think i deserve a little fun--if it were even the chance of some shopping--after these last three or four months. to think how i've practised and bored at french and german--not that i dislike my lessons after all," and she smiled a little at the consciousness that _had_ she done so it would indeed have been a case of "twenty not making him drink." "these teachers are really very good ones, and i don't dislike reading english with ermine, either. if she were a teacher and not my sister, i could really get very good friends with her. but all the same--_what_ a different life it is from what i expected. if auntie could see me in this horrid rough frock that makes me look as if i had no waist at all," and ella impatiently tugged at the jacket of the very substantial sailor serge which madelene had ordered for the cold weather, "and in this poky room." for ella was still "in the nursery." she was not to inhabit her permanent room till the winter was over, for the chimney had been found to smoke, and there was a leakage from the roof which had left the wall damp. and ella had caught a slight cold, thanks to her thin boots, which had alarmed her father quite unreasonably. so the decree had gone forth that in her present cosy quarters she was to remain till the milder weather returned, which gave her the delight of another grievance. as she stood gazing out at the wintry landscape which to less prejudiced eyes would have been full of its own beauty, the prayers bell rang. ella started--her unpunctuality had been a frequent cause of annoyance for several weeks after her arrival at coombesthorpe, but, perverse as she was, the girl was neither so stupid nor so small-minded as to persist in opposition when she distinctly saw that she was in the wrong. so this short-coming had to a great extent been mastered. she tugged at her belt, gave a parting pat to her hair, saying to herself as she caught sight of her reflection in the glass, "it certainly takes much less time to dress as i do now than in the old days," and flew along the passages and down stairs just in time to avoid a collision with mr barnes, as, heading his underlings, he politely followed the long file of women-servants into the library, where colonel st quentin always read prayers. ella took her place by the window; outside, a cheery red-breasted robin was hopping about on the gravel, and the sunshine, which was gathering strength, fell in a bright ray just where the little fellow stood. it is to be feared that much more of her attention was given to the bird than to her father's voice. "what a little duck he is," she exclaimed, as soon as prayers were over. "see, madelene--" and as her elder sister came forward with ready response, ella's face lighted up with pleasure. the whole world seemed brighter to her; so impressionable and variable was she. "yes," said miss st quentin, "he is a dear. we can hardly help fancying it is always the same robin. for ever since ermine and i were quite little there is one to be seen every winter on this terrace. it is here we have the birds' christmas tree, ella--one of those over there. it is so pretty to see them. there are so many nice things in the country in winter--i really do not know sometimes which i like the best--summer or winter." ella felt a little pang of self-reproach--she remembered how five minutes before she had been grumbling up in her own room. "madelene must be much nicer and better than i am in some ways," she thought to herself; "perhaps i would have been like her if they had kept me with them, or had me back some years ago," and the reflection hardened her again, just as the softer thought was about to blossom. at that moment colonel st quentin's voice was heard from the adjoining dining-room. "breakfast is ready and the letters have come," he said. "nothing for me?" said ermine; "what are yours, maddie?" "one from flora at cannes," said miss st quentin, "two or three answers to the advertisement for a laundry-maid, and--oh, here's something more interesting. the belvoirs are giving a dance--on the th. here's the card," and she tossed it over to ermine, "and there's a note from mrs belvoir, too, `to make sure of us,' she says." "colonel and the misses st quentin," murmured ermine, "that means--i suppose--" and she looked up hesitatingly at madelene. "oh," said madelene, "it means what you choose, in the country. it isn't like london, where one has to calculate the inches of standing and breathing space for each guest." "it means of course," said her father, "such of the misses st quentin as are--`_out_.'" he pronounced the last word with a good deal of emphasis, then turned to his coffee and his own letters as if the question were settled. ella had not lost a word. a flush of colour had come to her cheeks and a brightness to her eyes on first hearing her sister's announcement. "they _can't_ mean not to take me," she said to herself. "just at christmas too--why, girls who aren't a bit out go to christmas dances." and madelene, for her part, was wishing more devoutly than she had ever wished concerning a thing of the kind in her life, that she had not been so impulsive as to mention the invitation in her younger sister's hearing. "i only long for her to go," she said to ermine when they were alone. "i'd give anything if papa would let her. and i don't see that it could do any harm--a christmas dance is different, and really she has been good about her lessons, especially about her practising. three wouldn't be too many, to such old friends." "not to go to the ball," ermine replied. "but i fancy they will want us to stay for a day or two. you see mrs belvoir says she will come over to make further arrangements. and three would be too many to go to stay. but maddie, i--" "no. i know what you're going to say, and you're not to say it," madelene interrupted. "you are not to be the one to stay at home. you're ever so much younger than i--" "one year, eleven months and a day," said ermine. "twenty years--a hundred would come nearer it," said madelene. "i was born old and circumstances have not rejuvenated me. no--if we can get papa to agree to let ella go, _i_ shall stay at home. it stands to reason. i am getting to an age when i should not be expected to go on dancing." "ah, well--we needn't quarrel about it yet," said ermine lightly. "i am only afraid the occasion will not arise, and that papa will be inexorable. there was something far from propitious in the accent he put on that `out' this morning." she was right; inexorable he proved. yet the sisters went about it diplomatically enough. they said very little at first, and were careful not to fret the thing into a sore from the start, as is so often done, and for a day or two they congratulated themselves that their gently suggested arguments had carried weight. but when the following week mrs belvoir wrote to say she was driving over to settle about the day they would come, and how many nights they would stay, and to discuss the whole programme--then the bolt fell. "ella go? no, most certainly not," said colonel st quentin. "i never thought of such a thing. i hope you haven't been putting anything of the kind into her head?" "we have not mentioned it to her since the morning when the first note came," said madelene. "that morning unluckily i spoke of it before her." "why should you say `unluckily'? it is absurd to treat her in that way," said her father. "there should be and there must be no question raised, in the faintest way even, of anything of the kind for her. she is not yet eighteen--why, ermine never went out at all till she was nineteen--" "that was unusual however papa," miss st quentin ventured to say. "well, what can be more unusual than ella's case? _it_ calls for unusual treatment certainly. she has been most injudiciously brought up, i see it more and more clearly. a life of dependence--dependence on her own exertions not improbably--" "oh, papa," murmured madelene reproachfully--"for which she is about as fit as--as that kitten of yours," contemptuously indicating ermine's persian cat, who had long left all kittenishness behind it, and was sleeping on the hearth-rug in calm placidity. "tartuffe is _scarcely_ a kitten now, papa," ermine could not resist interrupting. "ermine!" said madelene in a tone of remonstrance. "and," pursued colonel st quentin unmoved, "just as the silly child is settling down a little, you would go and spoil it all by stuffing her head with waltzing and admiration. no, no--i am surprised at you, madelene, i really am. and if there were no other objection, there's her health. you are afraid of her catching cold again if she changes her bedroom, and yet you would propose taking her off to a strange house, unaired beds possibly, and exposing her to the alternate heat and chills of a ball-room, and--" colonel st quentin was working himself up to thorough unreasonableness. "we won't say any more about it, papa," said madelene, decidedly. "we have said _nothing_ to ella, so you really needn't be vexed about it." she refrained from adding, as she might have done, that the scare about ella's health had entirely originated with himself, and she was wise in so doing. what human being, man, woman or child, was ever rendered more amenable to reason by being "put in the wrong?" "i mind it principally, of course," she said to ermine, "because it _will_ seem to her that it is our doing--negatively at least. she will think that if we had begged papa to let her go he would have given in. and i haven't, in the faintest degree, let her think that we disagree with him about it. it would alienate her still more from him, and, besides, it would be disloyal to papa." "and, besides," added ermine, "i hardly like to say so, but i doubt if ella would believe our protestations. there is an element of suspiciousness in her character, which i don't at all like in so young a person, and quite lately she has seemed to me to be wrapping herself up in it more and more." "yes, she has been very cold and stand-off to us lately," madelene agreed, "ever since that unlucky morning when i blurted out about the belvoirs' dance." "she would have had to hear about it sooner or later," said ermine. "i don't see that it would have made much difference." "we might have managed it more diplomatically. we might have told her we were going away for a day or two, and mentioned that there was to be a dance, incidentally," said miss st quentin. ermine looked up at her, half amused, half distressed. "my dear maddie," she said. "i do think you've got ella on the brain. you mustn't give yourself such a lot of trouble about her--beating about the bush and worrying lest she should be put out. it will become a kind of slavery. i almost feel inclined to speak to papa about it from _your_ point of view." "no, no, you must not, ermie," her sister replied. "papa is already irritated on the subject. it will come right in time, i dare say. i wish aunt anna were at home. she might have had some influence with papa about this dance. i do think he is making a mistake--i must tell melanie," she went on, "that she need not do any more about the frock we were planning for ella." "it's half made," said ermine. "well, she must turn it into a dinner-dress. but there is no need for ella to know about it at present. it would only tantalise her, poor little thing. when will aunt anna be back, ermine? you heard from her last." "a few days before christmas--that was all she said," ermine replied, "philip will be coming about the same time. i wonder what papa wants us to do at christmas, maddie. shall we go to cheynesacre, do you think, or will they come to us?" "i don't know. if papa remains in his present mood, i should say neither," miss st quentin replied with some asperity. "he would probably dislike the idea of ella's going there with us, and a party here would be as bad. and if he proposed such a thing as our going without her--well--i should certainly refuse. one must make a stand somewhere. how can he expect the child to get to love us?" "madelene is making quite a personal grievance of it," thought ermine. "i am much more concerned for her than for ella,"--"it is very tiresome that this should have happened just now," she said aloud. "for one thing, i did so want philip to see everything harmonious when he came back." "so did i," madelene replied. "that is just another vexation." the subject of the manor dance was never named in ella's presence, but she was quick enough to see that it was in contemplation for her sisters. "will they really go so far as to leave me all alone?" she said to herself. "it will be a scandal if they do. if i am to be distinctly treated in this way, ignored as if i were about seven years old--they should at least be consistent and get a governess to keep me company when they go off and leave me alone. as if either of _them_ was ever treated so at my age! what can madelene want to go to a dance for--i am sure i wouldn't if i were as old as she--and really, sometimes lately since she has had this cross fit, she has looked thirty." it was almost true. poor madelene's real distress of mind at the failure of all her hopes with regard to her half-sister, had preyed upon her. she was one of those much-to-be-pitied people who have but little spontaneous power of expressing their deeper feelings; indeed the more she felt the less she showed it, though her very silence and apparent indifference told their own tale to those who knew her well. ermine had good reason for feeling at the present juncture much more concern for madelene than for ella. a week or two passed, uncomfortably enough. the weather, as in england is often the case, seemed to aggravate the dreary uneasiness of the mental atmosphere at coombesthorpe. it rained--a steady, pitiless winter rain--almost incessantly for a week. there was no possibility of walking or driving, and more than once ella found herself seriously picturing in her own mind the life she might now, had she exercised some diplomacy, have been leading with mr and mrs burton, with actual regret. "at worst, i might have gone out sometimes. in a town however it rains one can always get out a _little_--and here,"--and she moved away with a gesture of something approaching despair, as her glance fell on the gravel paths sodden with rain, on the dripping trees, on the stretch of park beyond the garden, where faint mists or clouds--it was difficult to say which--hid the horizon, and made one feel as if shut in in a universe of hopeless grey. in those days ermine, it must be owned, was barely kind, certainly not sympathetic towards the girl. she was sorry for her in her heart, but this very feeling caused a certain irritation, for ermine's nature was more prejudiced than madelene's; she was vehement in her affections, and where these were strongly engaged, she was apt to be one-sided. in one direction the two younger misses st quentin got on well together--ella had shown herself from the first an apt and interested pupil, and about this time ermine, rather to her surprise, remarked a distinct increase in her zeal and attention. "this composition of yours is really very good--very good indeed, ella," she said one morning when she had been looking over an essay of her young sister's, compiled from notes of various writers on a certain period of history. "at your age i could not have done nearly so well." ella's eyes flashed, and there was a peculiar expression about her mouth--there was however a distinct mingling of satisfaction in her tone as she replied, though coldly. "i am glad you approve of it. i am glad that you think it above the average of what girls of my age can do." "decidedly," said ermine warmly. but as she glanced at ella, she felt chilled again by the hard look on the round young face. she would have felt more than chilled had she read the thoughts at that moment passing through the girl's brain. "yes," she was saying to herself, "i am clever, and they can't deny it. i shall learn all i can, and then, if this goes on, i shall run away and become a governess. i should manage it somehow, i am sure." two days later, as they were going to bed one evening, madelene called her for a moment into her own room. "ella," she said, "ermine and i are going away from home for a few days. we are going to the belvoirs; you may remember our speaking of the invitation one morning when it came. mrs belvoir was here the other day, but you were out. they are nice people, and they give nice dances. when--when you are out i shall like you to go there." "then they didn't invite me this time?" asked ella drily. "they invited `the misses st quentin,'" madelene replied. "that meant what we liked to decide ourselves of course. it does not rest with outsiders to determine if a girl is out or not." "of course not," said ella. "then," she went on, "will you tell me what you wish me to do while you are away? am i to be quite alone with mrs green (the housekeeper) as chaperon?" "no," her sister replied, irritated by the scarcely veiled impertinence of ella's tone, though a moment before she had been longing to express to her some of her own feeling on the matter, "no, certainly not. i am writing to ask miss harter, mrs hewitt's sister, whom you have seen at waire, to come to stay with you." "oh, indeed," said ella. miss harter was a pleasant, intelligent woman of thirty, whom ella had found amusing and agreeable enough once or twice when she had met her, though it now suited her to describe her to herself as "a fusty old maid." things both great and small but _very_ rarely turn out as we expect. two days before that on which colonel st quentin and his two daughters were to leave home he fell ill. his illness was not very serious, but sufficiently so to put his going out of the question. and as he said that the presence of a stranger in the house would be an annoyance to him, miss harter's visit was put off, ella manifesting livelier satisfaction at this than she had condescended for long to show about anything. "what an incomprehensible girl she is," said madelene, as she and ermine drove away. "i think i must give up trying to make her out." "i think her present phase is comprehensible enough," ermine replied. "she is violently in love with the idea of being a martyr, a suffering saint--no, neither of those expresses it quite. i have it--a cinderella." a smile broke slowly over madelene's face. "yes," she said, "that does express it. and we are the two cruel sisters--step-sisters, not half-sisters--a little poetic licence must here be allowed--going off in triumph to the ball! what a pity we have not got black corkscrew curls, ermine, and an aigrette of three plumes apiece to appear in to-morrow evening!" chapter eight. left behind. ella spent the afternoon of her sisters' departure in praiseworthy fashion. she acted up that is to say to the _role_, she had chosen to adopt. she prepared her lessons perfectly, she practised the most uninteresting of her piano exercises for an hour and a half; then she went up to her own room and looked out her oldest and shabbiest clothes, to see if she could not find anything in want of repair among them. it was not easy to do so. stevens, who was an excellent needlewoman, kept ella's things by madelene's directions in perfect order, and it took some hunting on the girl's part, before she succeeded in finding a stocking or two with incipient holes, or a skirt which looked as if it would not be the worse for a new braid round the edge. on these she set to work, huddling herself up in shawl, for it was very cold, and sitting on the straightest-backed and hardest chair in her room. "i wish they would give me an allowance for my clothes, however small," she said to herself. "i could save out of it, i am sure, for i could dress much more plainly than i do even, which would certainly not distress my sisters. and i would have a right to what i saved in that way, surely. every child can claim food and clothing from its parents till it is of age," and she smiled bitterly. "perhaps if i can make madelene see that it would cost less to give me a small allowance, i may persuade her to make papa agree to it." just then her meditations were interrupted by a knock at the door, and old hester, the head housemaid, who had been deputed by madelene to take care of ella, so far as her material comforts were concerned, came in. "miss ella," she exclaimed, "whatever are you about? sitting up here without a fire when it's as cold as cold. wouldn't the colonel be in a taking if he knew! you could have had a fire lighted if you'd only said the word. and there's the library, and the little drawing-room as bright and cheery as can be, at your service." "i am busy working, thank you, hester," ella replied primly. "i could not take work like this down stairs." she did not resent hester's reproaches, for the housemaid was an old servant, who had been at coombesthorpe during the life of ella's mother, and was much attached to her. hester looked at what ella was sewing. "darning stockings," she exclaimed. "now upon my word, i do call that too bad of stevens. not but what it's a very right thing for a young lady, be she who she may, to know how to turn her hand to darning a stocking, but you've your studies, my dear, and other things to see to, and--" "it's--it's not exactly stevens' fault, hester," said ella, too honest to leave hester under such a mistaken idea. "she does mend all my things; it is not often she overlooks a hole. but i prefer to do more myself, and i want to accustom myself to going without fires and little things like that, for there is no knowing how i may be placed some day, and i want to be independent." hester looked at her in surprise and perplexity. she knew that the second wife had been portionless, and she knew too, though vaguely, that coombesthorpe and the bulk of the family revenues had come from the mother of the two elder daughters--but she could not believe that they would ever allow their half-sister to realise this practically in any painful way. "we none of us know how we may be placed any day for that matter, miss ella, my dear. the best of us is in god's hands and subject to his will, and even if it seems hard we must bow to it. but--you've a good home and kind friends--it's a sort of tempting of providence like, for you to speak that way." she looked at ella half-inquiringly as she spoke; she wondered how much "the child," as she mentally called her, knew. "they might have left her in her innocence a bit," she said to herself half indignantly. on her side ella was struck by hester's tone. "she speaks almost as she might if i had been an _adopted_ child, with no real right here," she said to herself. "it just shows--" "and of course, hester," she replied haughtily, "it must _seem_ as if i were one of the last women in the world ever to have to think of managing for myself or earning my own livelihood, but there are things that it is better not to explain. i may have my own feelings." "to be sure," hester replied, more and more perplexed. "but any way, miss ella, you'll let me light a fire for you. it'd be far from independent if you was to fall ill of a bad cold, and your papa ill already, and just for this day or two with no one but you to see to him." ella started. "i forgot," she said. "i forgot about papa. perhaps i had better go and see if there is anything i can do for him." she was not exactly to blame for this thoughtlessness. since her coming to coombesthorpe her relations with her father had continued uncertain and constrained, and madelene had judged it better to trust to time to bring about a better state of things, for the least effort on her part to force this would have been at once perceived and resented by colonel st quentin. "don't tell that child to look after me while you and ermine are away," had been almost his last words to madelene before she left. "if she thinks of it of herself that would be a different matter." and in ordinary circumstances the chances are that ella would not have gone near her father. but hester's words reminded her that he was ill, and her conscience struck her. "i'll go to papa now," she said. "he is in the study, isn't he, hester? he was to get up after luncheon." "yes, miss ella, you'll find him in the study. but maybe he's asleep. tap gently at the door." ella's tap revealed the fact that her father was awake. "come in," he said, his voice sounding rather sharp and irritable. "cross old thing," muttered ella to herself, "i wish i hadn't come down. can i do anything for you, papa?" she asked aloud as she entered the room. "would you like me to read to you, perhaps?" colonel st quentin was lying on a couch by the fire; his books and newspapers on a little stand beside him. he glanced at ella hesitatingly. he was feeling very lost and dull without his two elder daughters, and his eyes were tired. "no, thank you," he began to say, but his tone was not very decided. "i--i think i read aloud pretty well," the girl went on. her quick impressionable nature was touched by her father's looks: he was very pale, and she knew that he had suffered a good deal. "how selfish of them to have left him," was her next reflection. "do let me try, papa," she went on more eagerly and naturally, "it must be rather dull for you alone, when you can't get about." "and for you too, my dear," he said kindly. "what have you been doing with yourself all day--since your sisters left, i mean?" ella grew rather red. "oh," she replied, "i've been practising, and doing my french and german--much the same as usual. and then i've been sewing." it did not sound very lively. the "much as usual," struck colonel st quentin too, and again he glanced at his youngest daughter. it struck him that she looked paler and thinner than formerly, and less bright and spirited. the fact was that ella was blue and pinched with having sat in her fireless room for more than an hour, but this her father did not know. he moved uneasily on his couch. "you can read to me if you like," he said. "i think i have exhausted the papers, but this book is rather interesting. madelene is reading it to me but she can finish it to herself afterwards." half pleased and half frightened, ella took the book. she had done herself scant justice in saying she read "pretty well." she read very well indeed, and at the end of three-quarters of an hour colonel st quentin looked up with real gratification. "thank you, my dear," he said. "that is a good place to stop at, i think. i have enjoyed it very much. now i shall rest a while, for i hope to be able to come in to dine with you. it would be too dreary for you all alone." ella did not reply, but her father saw that her face flushed again a little. "you are not looking as well as i should like to see you," he said. "do you not feel well?" "oh, yes," said ella, touched in spite of herself. "i'm quite well, thank you, papa, but," and here, in spite of all her heroic resolutions to endure in silence, the girl's impulsive nature burst out--"it is rather dull. i have tried to do as you wished about my lessons and practising, and i like them, but it is rather dull," she repeated. "while your sisters are away, you mean? just this day or two?" asked colonel st quentin. "no, i meant altogether," answered ella frankly. "i--i've been accustomed to more variety i suppose, and at auntie's i wasn't considered a mere child. i think it's that that makes it seem so dull." colonel st quentin made no reply for a moment or two. he sat, leaning his head on his hand, considering deeply. it seemed as if what madelene had tried to warn him of had come true. had he made a mistake in the tone he had insisted upon being taken with ella? he had never liked her so well as to-day, nor felt so drawn to her, and quite unreasonably he became almost inclined to blame his elder daughters for not "managing better." "i have given in to their wish that no formal explanations should be made to her, not," they said, "till they had gained her affection and confidence." "i certainly don't think they are much nearer doing so than they were the day she came. it is an uncomfortable state of things altogether," he said to himself. suddenly he looked up. "how old _are_ you, ella?" he said abruptly. "nearly eighteen, papa. i shall be eighteen in two months," she replied promptly. "that is seventeen and ten months," colonel st quentin replied dryly. "well now, my dear, you can run away. i think i shall manage to get into the dining-room by dinner-time." ella went off. "`run away,' indeed," she repeated to herself, "as if i were about three! i wonder he doesn't ring for my nurse to fetch me." still, on the whole, the interview with her father had raised her spirits. "i _almost_ think," reflected ella, "i _almost_ think that if it were all to come over again, papa would tell madelene i _was_ to go. nobody scarcely but would pity me, left here alone, and it would have seemed so much more natural for me to go than either of the others, who have had years and years of it. i'm quite sure, when i'm as old as madelene i shan't care about dances and things like that, _especially_ if i'm an old maid." the evening passed tranquilly. colonel st quentin dined with his daughter, ella greatly enjoying her seat at the head of the table. and after dinner they spent an hour together in the drawing-room, when ella very prettily volunteered to play, for her father to judge of her improvement. colonel st quentin was pleased and touched. "you must have practised diligently, my dear," he said. "you find it less tedious now, do you not?" ella hesitated. "i shall never care much for playing," she said. "but i am glad you think i have improved. may i sing to you a little?" "certainly--you are sure you have no cold? you must never sing if you have the least cold," said her father anxiously. but ella's clear notes set all such fears at defiance. she chose two or three of the songs which she knew to have been her mother's favourites, and she felt that she sang them beautifully. her father said little, but she knew that she had pleased him. a few minutes' silence followed; then colonel st quentin said he felt tired and would go to his own room. "i hope to be quite well to-morrow, or nearly so at least," he said as he kissed ella. "i really begin to hope i may escape easily this time," for the poor man was from time to time a martyr to gout. "i am only sorry to have to leave you so early, but it gives me a better chance for to-morrow. good-night, my dear." "good-night, papa," said ella dutifully. "it isn't very early. i generally go to bed at ten, and it is half-past nine," this with the tiniest of tiny sighs. "what will they be doing to-night, papa? do you think they will be dancing, just the party in the house, to try the floor, perhaps?" "i can't say, i'm sure. no, no, i should scarcely think so," replied colonel st quentin, half consolingly, half irritably. ella's small shaft had gone home. and ella went up to her own room, and as she settled herself comfortably in the old nursery easy chair before the now brightly blazing fire, a "mudie book," which madelene had thoughtfully provided for her in her hand, she did not look altogether an object of pity. "yes," she said to herself, "i really do think if it came over again, papa would make them take me. i'll try again to-morrow to make him understand better." but to-morrow, alas! brought disappointment. to begin with, the weather was atrocious. it continued bitterly cold, with the aggravation of just falling short of frost, and by nine o'clock the rain set in again, the cruel, pitiless winter rain, blurring the sky and the land with its grim veil. ella, who had planned a brisk walk early in the morning, gazed out of the dining-room window in despair. "what _can_ i do all day long?" she thought, and then as her eyes fell on the table where breakfast was waiting, she moved from it impatiently. "they might have let me have my meals in one of the smaller rooms," she thought. "it looks too ghastly--that table and only poor me. i wish i had pretended to have a cold and stayed in bed." just then her father's servant came in with a message--a message not calculated to raise her spirits. colonel st quentin was not so well, very much less well this morning indeed. he was very sorry, the man went on, not to be able to get up. he would send for miss ella later in the day, but just now he was going to try to sleep a little. "it's too bad," thought ella, "just as we seemed to be getting to know each other better! and very likely madelene and ermine will make out that i've made him ill, somehow. oh dear, i wish i hadn't quarrelled with old burton and then i could have asked auntie to have me on a visit?" she had been so diligent the day before, that this morning there was even less than usual for her to do, and after the hour-and-a-half's piano practising there was literally no obligation on her of any kind. the library books were in perfect order, the flowers in the drawing-room had been all attended to, and if not, thought ella bitterly, what was the use of dressing up the room for nobody to see! the morning seemed interminable. tired of the big, empty rooms ella at last went off up stairs to give herself another dose of stocking-darning, as a preparation for the governessing which again began to fill her imagination as the only possible escape from this unendurable state of things. the fire was not lighted. hester had felt so certain that her remonstrance of the day before would be effectual, that she had not thought it needful to take further precautions. hence it came about that ella was seated like the day before, muffled up in a shawl, which did not prevent her looking blue and pinched, her eyes slightly reddened by tears of sympathy with her own woes, when, in answer to her rather startled "come in," (ella's conscience made her cowardly of hester) a tap at the door was followed by an unexpected apparition. "_godmother_," the girl exclaimed, scarcely able to believe her eyes, and starting to her feet as she spoke. "yes, godmother herself," said lady cheynes, coming forward. "but, my dear child, what are you thinking of--what is everybody thinking of to allow it?--you sitting up here in the cold on a bitter day like this? do you want to get ill? why it's enough to give you a sore throat or bronchitis or a frightful cold in your head to say the least." "i don't feel so very cold, thank you, godmother," said ella meekly. "i don't catch cold easily, and i want to make myself hardy. i--i had some little things to do up in my own room." lady cheynes glanced at the stockings ella had not had time to put out of sight. "darning stockings!--hum--can't one of the maids do that for you? you don't mean to say madelene expects you to do this sort of thing. and-- surely--if you do want to sit up in your own room you can give orders to have a fire lighted, can't you?" lady cheynes frowned. ella had never seen her look so stern. "oh--i'm sure--hester would have lighted it if i had wanted it. and i might have stayed down stairs only--it's very dull," she burst out nervously. "papa isn't any better to-day--he can't leave his room, and down stairs it all seems so big and lonely." ella's voice quivered before she got to the end of the sentence; she was so very sorry for herself. her godmother eyed her keenly. "when do madelene and ermine come home?" she asked. "this afternoon, i suppose." "oh, no," said ella. "the ball--the dance at the belvoirs' is only this evening. they are staying, i think, till to-morrow." "humph," said lady cheynes. "you don't care for dancing, i suppose?" this was too much. ella's face was a study. "_me_" she exclaimed, "not care for dancing. who ever said so?" the old lady laughed a little. "i don't know--nobody perhaps. i was judging by circumstantial evidence. a girl of your age, who did care for it, would have managed by hook or by crook to get leave to go." ella gasped. "do you really think so?" she exclaimed. "why, godmother, the question was never raised in the least; the _possibility_ of such a thing was never alluded to. if i had thought there was the faintest chance of it i should have nearly gone out of my mind." "did you never tell your sisters how much you would have liked to go?" asked lady cheynes. "no," said ella. "they may have guessed it, but we hardly alluded to it at all. but oh, godmother, please don't say _now_ there might have been any chance of my going. it is--it is more than i can bear to think of it." she clasped her hands together and looked up in the old lady's face, her lovely brown eyes brimming over with tears. lady cheynes said nothing. she walked to the window and stood there looking out. "how well i remember the view from this room," she said dreamily, speaking as much to herself as to ella. "this was our nursery, too. i recollect one day my doll's falling out, between the bars, and when she was picked up and brought to me her face was all disfigured and cracked. wax dolls cost a small fortune in those days. i remember thinking i never _never_ could be happy again! dear me--it is only a question of proportion after all--a child's bitter sorrow is as bad to it, as what seem more real sorrows are to older people. it seems a pity to--to add," but here she stopped, rather abruptly. ella had left off crying in the interest of listening to her godmother. she was disappointed that lady cheynes said no more. "yes?" she said insinuatingly; "what were you saying, godmother? `a pity to add to'?" "never mind, child. i was thinking aloud. now, take off that shawl and run down to the warm library, like a sensible girl. if you must finish darning your stockings, take one or two of them with you. there is no one but barnes to be shocked. i am going to see your father if he is not asleep, and then i shall ask you to give me a scrap of luncheon. i only came home last night, and i heard marcus was ill and drove over at once." ella obeyed. the two went down stairs together. then in reply to lady cheynes' message came one from her nephew, saying that he was awake, and begged her to go to see him. ella sat alone in the library. she felt considerably less desolate and depressed, and it certainly was more comfortable than up stairs in the cold. she was very glad to have her godmother's company at luncheon, anything was better than sitting alone through the meal with barnes and his subordinates fidgeting about. and she was by no means sorry that the old lady should have come upon her as she had done, for however fond she was of her grand-nieces ella felt certain lady cheynes did not approve of the present state of things. "if she had been at home, i do believe i should have gone," thought ella. suddenly the door opened and her godmother reappeared. her eyes looked very bright, there was a slight flush upon her soft old cheeks and a smile, a peculiar smile, flickered about her mouth. "godmother," exclaimed ella, as she had done up stairs in her own room. "what is it?" she went on, feeling a sort of vague excitement. "you look as if you had something to tell me. you are smiling, so it can't be anything wrong. what have you been talking about to papa?" lady cheynes drew a chair close to ella's, and sat down. "supposing i were a _fairy_ godmother, ella, just for fun, you know, what would you ask me to do to cheer you up a little this dreary day?" ella opened her eyes wide, very wide--and i almost think she opened her mouth too. "godmother?" she said, while a rosy colour crept over her face, "oh, godmother, what _do_ you mean?" chapter nine. too good to be true. "godmother," ella repeated, "what do you mean?" lady cheynes smiled. "supposing i were to tell you you were to go to the dance at the belvoirs' to-night after all?" she said. ella's face fell a little. "godmother," she replied, "i'm afraid you're teasing me; i _couldn't_ go now." "not if i took you? i was asked of course--they are very old friends, and i did not answer definitely, not being sure when i was returning home. indeed till this morning i thought it was over, that it was last night." "but," ella went on, the corners of her mouth drooping like a little child's, "i haven't any frock, godmother. that makes it quite impossible." "i don't know. hester tells me there is a very pretty little white tulle frock almost ready for you. madelene has been having it made by melanie--in case of anything unexpected, i suppose," said lady cheynes quietly. ella looked as if she could scarcely believe her ears. "_madelene_ has been getting a frock ready for me," she said. "perhaps, perhaps, godmother it was for a surprise. wouldn't she be vexed at my knowing it? do you--would you _dare_ to let me wear it? oh, godmother," and her eyes sparkled, "how lovely it would be!" "_will_ be," said her godmother, smiling more and more. "listen, ella, i've got your father's leave to take you. you are to drive home with me immediately after luncheon. hester is putting up the frock and my maid will set to work and finish it. now think, have you everything else you need--gloves--shoes?" "i have gloves--tan-coloured ones, but they're quite new and nice and long. they are the last pair of those poor auntie gave me. i have never needed to wear such long ones here! and shoes--i have no white ones, godmother." "you must have white ones," said lady cheynes. "ah well--perhaps we can get some at weevilscoombe. i can send a man in to the shoemaker's there. or if not--" and the old lady hesitated. "never mind--we'll manage somehow. now, my dear, run up stairs and show hester all that you want packed up. you must be quick, for we shall leave immediately after luncheon." scarcely knowing if she were standing on her head or her heels, off flew ella. up stairs in her room she found hester, who now that the young lady was in such luck thought it well to sober her down a little by looking rather grim. "oh, hester," cried ella, flying at the old servant, seizing her by the shoulders and whirling her round, "did you ever know anything so lovely? have you packed up the frock? do tell me about it--how did you know about it? was it to be a surprise and oh! hester, what will my sisters say when they see me there? i'm so awfully afraid they'll be vexed, even though they won't show it to her ladyship." hester stopped short in the packing she was already in the midst of. "now, miss ella," she said, "that just shows how little you know your sisters. vexed indeed--they'll be just as pleased as pleased, miss st quentin especially. if only you knew--no, miss, you can't see the frock--it's all pinned up neatly, and you must let jones undo it herself," and hester laid a protecting hand on the white puffy-looking packet she was reserving for the top of the trunk. "you cross old thing," said ella. "however i'll forgive you. i'm too happy to mind. all the same if my sisters did want me to go, why didn't they ask papa--he gave in the moment godmother tackled him?" hester grunted, but said nothing. "that reminds me," ella went on, "i must run in to see papa for a moment, to thank him. you've got all my things in now, hester. i haven't time to change this frock, though i should have liked to," glancing at her thick grey homespun with contempt; "and besides, my sunday frock--fancy me having come back to sunday frocks like a good little girl!--is rather the uglier of the two. it is so clumsily made; i'd have _liked_ to take my dark green cashmere that i brought from auntie's." "and catch your death of cold. you forget, miss ella, it's a deal colder here than at bath, and in a town too it's always warmer." "oh, well, i don't care. i shall come back first thing to-morrow morning; so it won't matter. oh, hester, i am so happy--here, catch, these are my gloves. yes, i'm sure i've all now." and with another series of pirouettes ella took herself off. she flew to her father's room this time. "may i come in? oh, papa, i don't know how to thank you," she cried. and as her father looked up, she seemed to him a transfigured creature from the meek, subdued ella of the night before. there she stood, radiant and glowing with a delight which one could have fancied illumined even the dull folds of her grey frock as with sunshine. a smile broke over colonel st quentin's pale worn face. "my poor little girl," he ejaculated involuntarily, "do you really care so much about it?" "of course i do. oh! you don't know how happy i am. but oh, papa, you don't think madelene will mind, do you?" colonel st quentin's face changed. "_madelene_ mind!" he repeated. "my dear ella, how extraordinarily you misapprehend your sister." just, in other words, what hester had said. for a moment ella's face looked grave. if it were the case after all that madelene was not to blame? but no--how could it be so? for papa, had been so easy to persuade--was now so plainly enjoying her delight. the girl's expression darkened. madelene, she felt almost inclined to believe, was worse than she had yet imagined. she must be cleverer and more cunning, thought ella, not only to keep her in the position she did, but to make it seem that she wished it otherwise. but these reflections of course were not to be expressed. and come what would, ella decided triumphantly, her sister could not deprive her of this one evening's enjoyment. "i'm glad you don't think madelene will be vexed," she said quietly. colonel st quentin gave a slight smile. "you must promise me, ella," he went on, "to be very nice--biddable and considerate you know, to your-- to lady cheynes. it is really very good, very good indeed of her to take you. don't tease her to stay late, or anything of that kind. i suppose it's all right about your dress--she says so. now, good-bye, my dear. enjoy yourself and don't fancy that any one will grudge your doing so." "good-bye, papa," said ella, stooping to kiss him. they set off immediately after luncheon. arrived at cheynesacre, a great consultation took place. jones was fortunately good-natured as well as skilful--she surveyed the snowy mass which old hester had packed up so carefully with grave consideration. "yes, my lady," she said, "boolyooners of toole, quite simple, i see. the bodice is complete, luckily. well--if harriet can work with me-- harriet is a handy girl, i don't see but that it may be ready by eight o'clock--or even a little sooner." "sooner, decidedly," said lady cheynes, "we must start at half-past eight. it's a long drive and of course an early dance. you must have some white flowers ella--not a bouquet, but a spray or two on the bodice. and was there not something else you needed?" "shoes, godmother. i have no white ones." "oh, to be sure. what do you think, jones, could we get a decent pair at weevilscoombe?" jones shook her wise head. "then--run down stairs, ella, and ring for the head-gardener to speak to me in the conservatory. i will follow you immediately." five minutes later, the old lady entered the drawing-room with a small, carefully enveloped parcel in her hand. there was a look in her face that ella had never seen there before--a look which in a younger woman would have been accentuated by tears in her eyes. but old age weeps rarely and painfully. lady cheynes' bright, dark eyes were undimmed, yet they had a very tender light in them as she unfolded the packet. "look, child," she said. "here is a pair of slippers which i little thought would ever have danced again. they belonged to my own child. you have never heard of her of course. she would have been an old woman in your eyes, had she been alive still. they were the last white slippers she ever wore; you see they are perfectly clean, only yellowed a little with age, in spite of my blue paper!" ella took them carefully and admiringly in her hands. they were very dainty little shoes, and on the front of each sparkled an old-fashioned buckle. "how pretty they are!" said the girl. "are these diamonds, godmother?" and she touched the buckles. "no, they would be too valuable in that case to be left stitched on the slippers," lady cheynes replied. "they are only old paste, but very good old paste. i gave them to clarice to wear at the fancy dress ball she got the shoes for, and they were old even then. you see the shoes have high heels, ella, which suits them for present fashions rather too well, in my opinion. that was because they were for a fancy dress. when clarice was a girl, high heels were not worn. now try them on, child--i only hope they are not too small." ella slipped off her own shoe and drew on one of the white ones without the least difficulty. "do they fit you?" asked lady cheynes quickly, "quite; perfectly," said ella, proceeding to try the second slipper. "the left foot is perhaps, yes, just a trifle too large," she went on. "you see they are both _easy_, and my left foot is a little tiny bit smaller than my right--and then i have thicker stockings on than in the evening. but i am sure they will do, godmother, beautifully; and it is so _very_ good of you." lady cheynes stooped to look at the little feet in their motley clothing of red stockings and white shoes. "humph," she said, with a mingling of admiration and contrariety in her voice, "humph--i thought clarice's feet the smallest that ever were seen. you can put a bit of cotton-wool in the toes if you like, ella." "oh, no, thank you, they're not as bad as that," said ella, jumping up. "i can dance in them splendidly--i _feel_ i can," and she gave herself a twirl or two. "oh, dear godmother," she went on, "i can scarcely believe that i'm going. i really _can't_." jones and the handy harriet worked their best. before eight o'clock all was ready, and ella stood arrayed for her godmother's inspection. "very nice, yes, very nice," said the old lady. "put out your foot, ella--yes, there won't be another pair of shoes and shoe-buckles like those, there. now, what have you to put on over you? no! no," as ella held up a gauzy mantle or shawl, "that's not half enough. you must have something over that. my dark-brown fur-lined cloak, jones, will be the very thing. you are not used to a long drive in winter such as we shall have to-night. and it is freezing now, i hear--the roads are getting slippery. we cannot go fast." "you must have plenty of hot-water bottles, my lady," said jones, as she returned with the cloak. "and i'll tell henry to be sure and have them filled again to come home with." "we shall not stay so late as all that," the old lady replied. "however, it will do no harm to speak to henry. what are you making such grimaces about, ella?" "the cloak, godmother. it is so awfully heavy--i am afraid it will crush me dreadfully, and see, it quite trails on the floor. don't you think, in the warm carriage--if i doubled my shawl?" "no, nonsense," said lady cheynes, decidedly. "that cloak is the proper thing. you can shake yourself out when you get there. good tulle is elastic," and she turned away inexorably. it was a long drive--longer than ella had realised. and it was so cold outside that the carriage windows had to be kept up the whole way, not admitting a breath of air; and they quickly became so opaque that even if the night had been brighter and clearer than it was, ella could have seen nothing. in spite of her excitement and eager anticipation she felt herself growing drowsy, and when they at last drew up, though she had not been actually asleep she had been so near it that all about her seemed dreamy and unreal. hardly understanding where she was, she found herself following her godmother across a great square hall, whose dark oak panelling was decorated with christmas evergreens and holly, down a short passage into a room crowded with ladies' shawls and wraps and attendant maidens. "shake yourself out, ella," said lady cheynes. "yes, that is right," as her god-daughter half mechanically obeyed her, under the supervision of one of the ladies'-maids. "you are not at all crushed. keep our cloaks where they will be easily got at, we shall be leaving early," she went on to the woman, who evidently recognised her. "now, ella, my dear. but for goodness' sake, child, don't look so solemn. no one would recognise you." "i--i didn't mean to look solemn, godmother," said the girl, glancing up in the old lady's face with a little smile of deprecation in her lovely eyes. at that instant a young man hastily crossing the hall, just behind them, caught sight of her. he stopped short and hesitated. "by jove!" he ejaculated under his breath, then drew back. he was out of the range of seeing or being seen by lady cheynes. "who can she be?" he said to himself. the old lady moved on calmly till she reached the doorway where mrs belvoir was standing, and the greetings and introduction of ella took place. "we are later than i expected," said lady cheynes. "you see it was such a sudden idea of mine." "a delightful idea," mrs belvoir replied. "where will you establish yourself, lady cheynes? there are a few seats in the ball-room--or would you prefer staying here?" "i will stay here, thank you," ella's godmother replied, seating herself beside her hostess. "but this child here," she added in a lower voice, "i should like her to dance. her sisters don't know she is coming. it will be quite a surprise to them to see her." "they are both dancing," said mrs belvoir. "of course she must dance. ah! there is louis,"--as she caught sight of one of her sons and beckoned to him. "louis," and a word or two of whispered explanation followed, before he was brought up and introduced, nothing loth, to the lovely stranger. he did not catch the name clearly; mrs belvoir's special care to introduce the young girl correctly, as "miss _ella_ st quentin," had a curious result. "miss ellison winton," young belvoir repeated to himself; "who in the world can she be? i have never seen her before, that's certain." but long ere his fragment of a dance with her came to an end, he found himself hoping that he should see her again! "she is quite bewitching," he thought, "and she dances beautifully. i wish i were not engaged so deep." "may i introduce a partner or two to you, miss--miss winton?" he said, and ella did not notice the mistake, as she acquiesced, and two or three new men were led up to her. "major frost, mr littleton, sir philip cheynes," followed each other in quick succession, and each in turn was informed privately by young belvoir that the young lady was "a miss ellison winton, a perfect stranger," he added, "staying at some house in the neighbourhood;" and ella herself, a little bewildered still, heard the various names but indistinctly--the "sir philip," she caught but not the surname. and it never occurred to her to associate the bearer of it with her godmother's grandson, whom she believed to be still in the north. there was dancing in two rooms; during ella's next dance, a waltz with major frost, the elder misses st quentin were in the other room. the next, which she danced with mr littleton, was a square, and though she once caught sight of madelene's head through a doorway, they did not come more nearly together! which ella, still more than half afraid of being seen by her sisters, was not sorry for. "it must come, sooner or later," she thought; "but i should like to be beside my godmother when they first see me." chapter ten. an old-world shoe. "our dance, i think, miss st quentin," said major frost, when, after searching some time for madelene, he discovered her at last in the tea-room. "the second polka it is," and as madelene acquiesced, "i have been dancing with such a wonderfully pretty little creature," he went on, "a miss wyndham, or winton, i am not quite sure of the name. a perfect stranger, staying at some house in the neighbourhood they say. i must point her out to you." "i wonder who she can be?" miss st quentin replied. "mrs belvoir did not know of any particularly pretty girl coming--no stranger, i mean." "but she is a _very_ particularly pretty girl; i know you will agree with me. if you don't mind we'll go into the other room and i will point her out to you. she is dancing with cheynes, i think." madelene felt but mildly interested in the object of her partner's enthusiasm, but she made no difficulty. the second room was very crowded. they danced for a few minutes and then stopped. "it is too full, really," said major frost. then suddenly he gave a little exclamation. "there she is," he said, and madelene looked where he directed. it was her turn to start and exclaim. "what is it?" asked her partner in surprise. madelene had recovered herself. "nothing," she said, "nothing except the most--the _most_ extraordinary resemblance. it is not very pleasant here," she went on, "suppose we go back to the other room. i want to speak to my sister ermine; she is in there." major frost was too polite to object, but he was rather disappointed. "so you don't admire the stranger?" he said. "on the contrary--i could only glance at her, but i could see that she is very lovely, as you said. i wonder if my cousin, sir philip cheynes, knows who she is?" just then she caught sight of ermine. she was fortunately not dancing. madelene made a sign to her. "ermine," she said in a low voice, "i am perfectly bewildered. do you know i do believe ella is here?" "_ella_?" ermine repeated. "yes--dancing in the other room with philip. if it is not she, i never saw such a likeness--_never_." "but," said ermine, looking dazed, "if she is dancing with philip, he would know, he would tell us." "_he_ may not know who she is," said madelene impatiently, for once grasping the situation more rapidly than her sister. "he has never seen her. and if it is she, she has not come in her own name. major frost said she was a miss _wyndham_." ermine looked relieved. "then it can't be she," she said. "she would never do such a thing. knowing too that we were to be here--it would have been perfectly absurd." but miss st quentin still looked dissatisfied. "i don't know," she said. "i feel as if i were dreaming. she is not only the very image of ella, but her dress is uncommonly like the white tulle frock that i had made for her in case papa had given in. ermine, if she has done such a thing--such a scandalous thing as to come here by herself trusting to us not to tell--it would be--i don't know _what_ we should do." "your imagination is running away with you, maddie," said ermine. "still all the same i shall go and have a look at this remarkable young woman--quietly, you know, without letting her see me. there's major frost looking as if he couldn't think what's the matter, and he is rather a gossip. i'll meet you again in the tea-room after i have made my voyage of discovery." so madelene returned to her partner whose curiosity was not, at that time at least, destined to be satisfied. as soon as the dance was over, she declared herself too tired and hot to attempt the next, and sending major frost off to explain matters to a brother-officer of his to whom she happened to be engaged, she found a seat for herself in a corner of the conservatory where she hoped to be able to remain _perdue_ for a few minutes. her head was full of ella--for that major frost's "miss wyndham" was not her sister she could scarcely believe. and she felt both uneasy, and indignant. suddenly a slight rustling close at hand warned her that her retreat was no longer hers alone--a small figure in white was making its way in her direction, and as it seated itself she heard ella's voice say lightly to some one unseen. "oh, yes, you will find me here. it is very good of you to fetch it for me." madelene rose to her feet. they were alone. "_ella_" she said. the girl turned her head, then she too got up, and came forward, with a smile on her face, but a somewhat ill-assured and deprecating one. "i was wondering when we should come across each other," she said. "i meant to go into the other room to look for you and ermine, madelene," and here she tried to smile again, but the effort was rather a failure, and her lips quivered a little. "madelene, are you very astonished to see me? had you no idea i--might perhaps come after all? madelene, don't look at me like that. i didn't think you'd be so vexed." for miss st quentin's face was growing very stern. she had caught sight of and identified the white tulle frock by this time. "i cannot say anything till i understand the whole," she began. "it is your place to tell me." just then steps were heard approaching. ella started. "it is the man i am dancing with--he went to fetch me an ice," she said hurriedly. "i don't want him to see me being scolded," and her voice sounded as if she were going to cry. madelene hated scenes, and still more did she hate any exposure to strangers of family affairs. she instantly drew back. "i shall take care that your partner does not see me," she said. "but i shall look out for you in the tea-room after this dance. ermine will be there too." there was no time for ella to reply. miss st quentin had no difficulty in concealing herself. she just stepped quietly behind a clump of high and thick-growing plants in the corner, where the light was not strong, and her dress being black, no one would have noticed her unless they had been directly looking for her. a moment after, she heard a voice addressing her sister. "here is the ice--at least it is a cup of iced coffee. will that do as well, miss wyn--?" it seemed to madelene that the new-comer rather slurred over the name; it was the case that he did so, for he had heard it but indistinctly, and ella, in no hurry to be revealed to her sisters, had not cared to set the mystification right. but--madelene scarcely noticed what he said, in her surprise at recognising ella's partner as her cousin philip! for a moment or two, she could not understand it. then again she gradually recollected that it was perfectly possible he did not know ella--he had never seen her; he had probably been introduced to her by some one who had no idea who she really was. madelene had already seen and talked to philip, who had hastened his return from the north in order to be present at the belvoirs' dance. he was to spend the night with his present hosts and "surprise" his grandmother by appearing at cheynesacre in the course of the following afternoon, some days sooner than she was expecting him. for neither he nor his cousins had the slightest, the very slightest, notion that such a move on the old lady's part as she had executed with ella in her train was possible. "thank you, thank you very much. yes of course it will do--much better than a regular ice, for i can drink it off in a moment, and i do so want to lose no more of this lovely waltz," madelene next heard her sister reply. "she is eager to get out of my way," she thought, "and what wonder? but i am not going to make a scene, you need not be afraid, ella. philip evidently does not know her. it must all be told him afterwards. how disgraceful it seems! and just when we wanted her to have made a good impression on him--he will be utterly horrified. oh! i wish i could see ermine." the voices had ceased. ella and her partner had left the conservatory. madelene made her way to the entrance and then, glancing round to make sure they were not standing about anywhere close at hand, hurriedly crossed the ball-room to the room where ermine was to meet her. she was already there, eagerly looking out for madelene, whom she at once drew into a corner. "madelene," she began, but miss st quentin for once was so excited that she interrupted her. "ermine," she said, "it _is_ she--ella. i have seen her and spoken to her. i never in all my life was so--" "wait, madelene--do let me speak. of course it is ella, but it is all right. she came with aunt anna. there is nothing to be vexed about. aunt anna took it all upon herself. she persuaded papa to let the poor child come. really, maddie," seeing that no change of expression lighted up her elder sister's face, "i don't understand you some times. i thought you would have been quite delighted. you _did_ want her to come." but miss st quentin's equanimity had been too thoroughly disturbed for her to recover it quickly. she was, at the bottom of her heart, more seriously vexed with herself than with any one else, vexed with her own hasty and, as she now saw, absurd idea that ella would have ventured on such an escapade as to follow them by herself. and to one of madelene's temperament, mortification is peculiarly bitter. for the moment she yielded to her irritation and allowed herself the questionable relief of venting it on others. "of course i wanted her to come if the thing had been properly arranged. papa should have consented when _we_ asked him, or else, it seems to me, kept to his decision. aunt anna went to coombesthorpe, i suppose, and found ella weeping like a poor little martyr at having been left alone. and her entreaties and ella's tears prevailed where my downrightness failed, it seems," she said cynically. ermine looked at her in surprise. "well, and what if they did?" she said. "you are not going to begin feeling jealous of aunt anna's influence with papa--that would be too absurd. and as for ella's tears--wait at least till we know that she shed any. but, maddie--i've seen aunt anna, and it is so absurd. philip and ella are dancing together--have been, at least, and neither knows who the other is! isn't it fun? aunt anna has quite entered into the spirit of it, and she says we are to try to keep it up, and not let either of them speak to her or to us when the other is by. ella is engaged for every dance--people are all smitten by her, but aunt is going soon, so it won't be difficult." "i don't see any point in it," said madelene, coldly. "don't you! oh i think it's capital--the very thing we thought of at the beginning," and here, though there was no one to catch her words, ermine dropped her voice,--"if--if they were to take a fancy to each other, maddie, it would be such a good thing, such a comfort to papa, too." madelene's face softened. "i am afraid ella is too superficial, if not heartless--" she said, though with reluctance. "for all philip's careless manner, he has really deep feelings. he would be miserable with a frivolous wife." "maddie, you are prejudiced. i don't think you have any right to think ella shallow--her deeper feelings may not have been awakened yet, but that is a different matter," said ermine. "i think it would be delightful." "it certainly would cut the knot of several difficulties," madelene allowed. "and they are far more likely to be attracted to each other, meeting as strangers," said ermine. "it is as good as a play! philip is prejudiced against ella--he fancies she is a worry to us, and she would have found this out at once, she is so quick! oh, i think it is too lucky that they should have met like this." ermine looked quite ready in her enthusiasm to clap her hands--madelene could not resist the infection. she smiled at her sister. "my dear child," she said, "i had no idea you were such a matchmaker. what would aunt anna say to it?" "aunt anna knows what she is about. don't trouble about _her_," said ermine. "but we must not be seen whispering together like this. i want to get hold of major frost, to prevent his finding anything out, and spoiling it all." miss st quentin sat still for a moment or two after her sister had left her. "if i could feel sure that ella has any real character, real depth," she thought. "it would certainly be very nice--if her future were assured it might, indirectly, make many things easier. it would surely make papa less morbid." and madelene sighed a little as for once she allowed her imagination to glance backwards on what might have been had cares and responsibilities fallen less prematurely upon her. ella meanwhile, but for her disagreeable interview with her eldest sister, had been enjoying herself to the top of her bent. she had not been long of discovering that she was sailing under false colours, as more than one of her partners, imagining he had heard her name correctly, addressed her distinctly as "miss wyndham." and she did not set the mistake right. she would enjoy herself for this one evening, she decided, and madelene's unpleasant strictures might be reserved till afterwards. "i will keep out of their way," she said to herself, "for if all these men knew i was their sister they would begin cross-questioning me, and it would all seem queer. and godmother won't mind if from time to time i let her know i'm all right. she wants me to have as much dancing as i can--we shall be leaving so early." it all turned out more easy of execution than she could have expected. after her first half-apologetic whisper to lady cheynes, at the end of her dance with major frost, of "godmother, i'm so happy, but need i come back to you _every_ time? the dances follow so quickly," had been met with an indulgent smile, and the words, "no, no, my dear--amuse yourself as much as you can, but remember we must leave at twelve," she felt quite at ease on that point, and somehow she did not again catch sight of lady cheynes at all. and with her partners she took care to keep to generalities, nor was it difficult to do so, seeing that socially speaking she was really a stranger in the neighbourhood. she danced twice in succession with sir philip, the second time immediately following the passage of arms with madelene in the conservatory. she had not the faintest idea who he was, but she thought him by far the most agreeable of her partners. and he, attracted at first sight by her beauty, was still more captivated by her pretty, half-childish bearing and the little air of mystery about her, which he was quick enough to detect. "you will give me another dance, i hope?" he said; "though indeed it is perhaps hardly fair of me to ask it, when so many less fortunate than i have been already, must be refused." "but you were one of the first to ask me," she said simply, "you, and mr--mr something belvoir, a son of the house, and a sir philip somebody, and major--major frost. you are not major frost, are you?" she added quickly, with a slight tone of inquiry. philip smiled. he was not going to be trotted out by this charming little person, who knew so well how to keep her own secrets. "mr louis belvoir, you mean," he said, calmly ignoring the latter part of her speech. "ah, yes, there he comes. you are dancing with him? and what about another waltz?" "it must be soon, then," she said, "for i am leaving early; at twelve, not a moment later, my god--my chaperone said." "what a very strict chaperone she must be," said sir philip, smiling. "it sounds quite like a certain old fairy-story. i wish i could be dancing with you when the clock strikes, to see what would happen." to his surprise the girl did not laugh, or even smile. she looked up at him with a curious expression. "i don't think i like that story," she said. "i have never liked it since i was a baby. and yet--somehow--it seems always coming up," she added in a lower voice. philip's curiosity increased. "you don't mean to say," he said laughingly, "that if i call upon you to-morrow morning i shall find you scrubbing the kitchen pots and pans?" ella's face crimsoned. "you can't call upon me," she retorted sharply; "you don't know where i live nor anything about me." "except your name--miss wyndham," he repeated, slightly accentuating the last two words. the girl turned quickly, as just at that moment mr louis belvoir's voice was heard. "our dance, miss winton, i think," he said. "and i may claim the next but one then, i hope?" sir philip hastened to add. ella nodded "yes," as she went off on louis belvoir's arm. "_who_ can she be?" thought sir philip, as he stood there, looking after them, rather bewilderedly. "she is quite wonderfully pretty, and--what is it? charming is such a stupid word. she is too simple and naive to be called charming; her eyes are so honest, too. what or who is it she reminds me of i wonder? no one seems to know. and how odd she was when i alluded to `cinderella.'" he did not dance the next dance but hung about till he could claim "miss wyndham" for the promised waltz, and as he kept her and young belvoir in view, he had no difficulty in finding her when the time came. "this is my last dance," she said, after a turn or two. "mr belvoir has just told me the time." "and is your chaperone quite inexorable? would there be no use in trying to melt her--suppose we do?" suggested philip eagerly. ella shook her head. "no," she said with a little sigh. "i promised not even to ask her. but oh, i have enjoyed myself so much," and again came the little sigh. sir philip's eyes expressed the sympathy he felt, but he dared not venture on any more questions. "i may meet you at some other dance before long, i hope?" was the utmost he risked. "it is not likely," she replied. "i am no--" and she hesitated. "not remaining long in this part of the world?" "no--not that. i was only going to say i am not supposed to be _out_," she said with evident reluctance. "and yet she is visiting in some house in the neighbourhood evidently without any of her own family," thought philip, more and more _intrigue_, and in his own mind he was considering what observation leading to further revelations he might hazard when he was startled by a sudden move on his partner's side. "i must go now; please don't think me rude," she exclaimed hurriedly, and before he had time fully to take in the sense of her words she had gone. "i _will_ find out where and with whom she is staying," he said to himself, starting forward to follow her, when a hand was laid on his arm, and turning, he saw his cousin ermine. "where have you been hiding yourself all this time?" she said smiling. "are you not going to ask me to dance to-night?" "of course, of course, if you care to," philip replied. but his manner was confused and hurried. it was evident he did not want to be detained. "i'll be back in two minutes, ermine," he said, "but excuse me for an instant. some friends of mine are just leaving, and i want--i just have a word to say to them before they go." "but i must speak to you for a moment," said ermine persistently. "did you not know your grandmother has been here?" "my grandmother!" ejaculated sir philip, so astonished as to forget for an instant his determination to discover some particulars about the mysterious miss wyndham, and if possible obtain a glimpse of the chaperone she had alluded to. "yes, of course. aunt anna--lady cheynes. why do you look so incredulous?" ermine went on. "it seems so queer. what in the world put such a thing in her head, and why wasn't i told? she will be very vexed at my not having gone near her," he said with considerable annoyance in his tone. "not at all. she had not in the least expected to find you here. she had no reason to do so--you know you meant to give her a surprise by walking in to-morrow morning. she told me to tell you she knew you were dancing and she didn't want to interrupt you." "all the same, i wish i had known," sir philip persisted. "i can't get over the idea of her having been here and my not knowing." "she didn't stay long," said his cousin. "she was sitting in the small drawing-room all the time, and i _assure_ you she wasn't in the least, not the very least, vexed at not seeing you. she's expecting you home to-morrow." "it was such an odd fancy of hers to come," philip repeated. "why--it's years since i knew her go to anything of the kind. are you sure she's gone, ermie? may she not be still in the cloak-room, perhaps?" "no, i'm sure she's gone. i wish you'd believe what i say," said ermine, looking slightly irritated by his pertinacity. "oh, well, i suppose it's all right. but i shall be too late for the other friend i wanted to say good-night to. excuse me, ermie--i'll be back in two minutes," and before his cousin could think of any further excuse for detaining him he was gone. "it will be too provoking," thought she, "if he goes running against them just as they're leaving. i wonder who it is he wants to say good-bye to." philip hastened as fast as he could to the hall--a sharp rush of cold air told that the door was open, and as he got up to it the sound of wheels announced that some one had just driven away. "whose carriage was that?" he inquired of one of the servants standing about. the man was a stranger and did not recognise him. "lady cheynes's," he replied. "it was the cheynesacre carriage, sir." with a muttered exclamation of annoyance philip drew back. he glanced into the cloak-room as he passed--it was quite deserted, no one else seemed to be taking their departure just then. he strolled forward again towards the door, and pushing it open, stepped out on to the drive. yes, it was a very cold night, much too cold for keeping horses waiting, in consequence of which, no doubt, no horses or carriages were to be seen. "she must have gone," thought the young man. "but who in the world is she, and whom can she have come with? louis belvoir knows no more than i do, and i don't want to make myself conspicuous by asking any one else." he turned back, but just as he was stepping inside the porch, something glistening on the ground caught his eye. "by jove!" philip ejaculated, "can it be one of my lady's diamond pins? what a joke it would be--for she always maintains that she never loses anything." he stooped as he spoke to pick it up, but the object that met his hand was not at all what he had expected. the sparkle which had attracted him was that of diamonds of a kind, certainly, but the jewel was attached to something else, much more ponderous, though small and dainty enough for what it was--a shoe! it had lain in the shadow, all of it except the front, on which the old paste buckle had glittered in the moonlight--it had once been a slipper of gleaming white satin, but time had slightly dimmed its brightness. sir philip took it into the light of the lamp--there was no servant about just then--and examined it curiously. gradually a smile broke over his features. "ah," he thought, "my allusion to cinderella this evening seems to have been prophetic. i shall pocket this treasure. it is miss wyndham's, i know, i remember noticing the buckles when she was dancing, and the rather old-world look of the slippers. upon my word, it is like a fairy-tale. the shoes must have been too big for her." he was quiet and rather absent when he returned to his cousin ermine, but had evidently got over his annoyance. "you were in time then to say good-night to your friends, i hope?" asked ermine with some curiosity. "no--at least, not exactly," he replied. "but it doesn't matter." chapter eleven. after the ball. "good-night, and good-bye for the present, though i shall be coming over to coombesthorpe in a day or two. i am going home very early to-morrow morning, before any of you good people will be stirring," said sir philip to his cousins, when, all the guests save those staying in the house having departed, these last were dispersing for the night. "you're in a fidget about aunt anna," said ermine. "i can see it, phil--you should have more trust in my assurances." "i have--unlimited; still i shall be more comfortable when i have seen her, i confess," he said. "well, come over as soon as you can," said madelene. "you know," she went on, "you haven't forgotten that our sister--ella--is with us?" there was a tone of constraint in her voice which sir philip perceived at once. "poor maddie," he thought, "she is too good to say so, but i can see--i feel sure--that that child is a great torment to her." and "no indeed," he went on, "worse luck. i have not forgotten that fact." "phil!" ermine exclaimed, but there was a mischievous look in her eyes which would have puzzled her cousin had he seen it clearly. "you should not be prejudiced, philip," said madelene gravely. "but i am, and i can't help it," he retorted. "at least you must own to some curiosity on the subject," said ermine. "you will come over soon?" "of course. i want to hear and ask scores of things," he replied. "no, i am not curious at all, except so far as your comfort is concerned. have you found it possible to carry out my suggestion and keep her in the schoolroom in the meantime?" "better still," said ermine, her eyes dancing unmistakably. "we have for the present relegated her to the _nursery_." she dropped her voice somewhat, and glanced round her as if anxious not to be overheard. philip raised his eyebrows in surprise, but a look of relief overspread his countenance at the same time. "oh, come," he said, "that's almost too good to be true! what a phenomenon she must be--i am really beginning to feel curious. but i mustn't keep you chattering here any longer. they'll all be wondering what secrets we've got." he was true to his word. the next morning, clear, cold and frosty, saw him betimes on his way to cheynesacre. he had taken it into his head to walk over, leaving word that he would send for his luggage in the course of the day, and in a modified degree carry out his original intention of "surprising" his grandmother, by marching in upon her at her solitary breakfast. for notwithstanding her unwonted dissipation of the night before he felt pretty confident of finding lady cheynes at her usual place at table at her usual hour of ten. nor was he disappointed. he had the satisfaction in the first place of considerably startling the "barnes" of the cheynesacre establishment, and leaving him aghast in the hall, walked coolly on into the dining-room. a bright fire was blazing on the hearth, the kettle was singing, the round table with its snowy cloth was spread ready for breakfast, and at it, reading her letters as usual, sat lady cheynes. "granny," said philip in the doorway. the old lady started. "my boy," she exclaimed, "you must have got up in the middle of the night, or perhaps you haven't been to bed at all, after your gay doings." "it strikes me, granny, that my gay doings are nothing to yours. i'm glad to see you looking just like yourself, but it really was too bad of you not to let me know in time last night that you were there." he stooped to kiss lady cheynes as he spoke; she looked up with a smile. "you were enjoying yourself; i didn't want to interrupt you. it was a sudden thought of mine; i did not stay long," the old lady replied, speaking less deliberately than her wont. "i can't conceive what put it in your head to go at all," he said, as he seated himself. "i'm tremendously hungry, granny. i walked over, and i must send symes for my luggage. i meant to have given you a surprise; you didn't expect me till next week, did you?" "no, of course not. i'm not very fond of surprises as a rule, but still, as it has happened i'm glad you're here. it seems a shame to begin working you the moment you arrive, but will you go over to weevilscoombe this morning for me to speak to mr brander about layton's lease? it will save me from writing a letter which after all would probably not have made things clear." sir philip tapped his boots with his cane reflectively. "this morning?" he said. "i suppose to-morrow wouldn't do? i want to go over to coombesthorpe to-day if i can." "i am afraid to-morrow would not do," said his grandmother. "i should like you to be at mr brander's by twelve. i am going over to coombesthorpe myself, so i can tell them you will be there to-morrow. indeed i don't think maddie and ermine will be home till this evening. _i_ am going to see their father, who has been seriously ill." "and that child--i'm delighted to hear she _is_ such a child still," said philip. "i suppose you look after her when the girls are away." "yes," said lady cheynes, dryly. "i do. but who told you she was `such a child'?" "ermine. she said that not the schoolroom even, but the _nursery_ was ella's proper place," replied philip, honestly believing that he was literally repeating ermine's words. "indeed!" said lady cheynes slightly raising her eyebrows. then the bell was rung and sir philip's dog-cart ordered to be round in half an hour. "in the meantime," said his grandmother, "if you will come to the study, i will explain to you the points which i wish brander clearly to understand." philip sauntered to the study. "granny is even more than commonly energetic," he said to himself, as he stood at the window gazing out at the wintry landscape while he waited for her. "however--i wonder if by any chance she knows anything about that lovely little personage last night! she has such quick eyes, i expect she noticed her--she could hardly have failed to do so. i expect the small princess is in trouble about her shoe this morning! it looks like a family heirloom." he drew it out of his pocket and looked at it--yes, by daylight it seemed even quainter. the satin was a rich creamy yellow, and the buckle was of curiously antique form. "granny could tell the date to a year," he thought to himself. all the same, he slipped the shoe back to its hiding place pretty sharply when he heard the door handle turn and his grandmother enter the room. he would have been rather astonished had he overheard the directions she had just been giving to her trusty jones. "i don't wish miss ella to know of sir philip's return," she said. "take her her breakfast when she wakes--i told her to ring for it--and tell her that the carriage will be round as soon as she is dressed. i am going to drive back to coombesthorpe with her, myself." then the old lady rejoined her grandson in the study and kept him immersed in her instructions to mr brander, till his dog-cart was announced. "you will probably stay to luncheon with him," she said. "you may as well, for you would not find me at home. i am going to lunch at coombesthorpe." "then tell them," sir philip began,--"oh no, by the by, you will not see the girls?" "perhaps i shall--i may wait till they return." "tell them i shall be over to-morrow, then. they were looking very well last night, didn't you think so? ermine especially, madelene looked rather solemn--does that child worry her much, do you think, granny?" "if she does, it is maddie's own fault," lady cheynes replied sharply. "at least hers to some extent, and perhaps partly her father's. i find ella as reasonable as one could wish. i'm sure when she is alone with me--" but here she suddenly checked herself. "is she ever alone with you? do you have her here? upon my word, granny, it's most self-sacrificing of you. but--you're not going to have her here any more, i hope, not now i've come back?" "how unselfish you are!" said his grandmother, with a smile, however, that somewhat belied the satire of her words. "she is my god-daughter; i have duties and responsibilities with regard to her." philip murmured something inaudible. but lady cheynes took no notice. "you shouldn't keep the horse waiting, phil," she said. "it is bitingly cold." "good-bye then, till--dinner-time, i suppose?" he said as he went off. he felt slightly dissatisfied. "granny" had not seemed as pleased to see him as she usually was after an absence; she had asked him nothing about matters at grimswell, where he had really been working hard, and "going into things,"--the rectifying of abuses, the setting a-foot new benevolent schemes, and so on--with fervour and energy which he had scarcely known he possessed. he could and would of course talk it all over with granny when he got her to himself, that very evening probably, but still--no, she had not been quite herself that morning, she was "carried" and constrained. perhaps there were troubles at coombesthorpe which he had not heard of; his grandmother had spoken rather snappishly of madelene. "i do believe it's all that child," was the conclusion at which the young man finally arrived. "i must get it all out of granny and help to smooth things a little if i can. i wonder,"--was his next thought--"i wonder if maddie noticed that girl or knew who she was." he found the lawyer at home, but somewhat surprised to see him. sir philip explained to him his unexpected return. mr brander, who had known him from his infancy, pricked up his ears at the prospect of a little local gossip. "so you were in time for the manor dance, sir philip. a very successful affair i hear. my nephew,"--mr brander had a brother who ranked among the small squirearchy--"my nephew looked in this morning on his way home; he slept at his sister's--and he was full of it. he was telling me all the details. i was delighted to hear that lady cheynes chaperoned her nieces herself, though sorry to hear of the colonel's illness." philip looked surprised. "oh no," he said, "my cousins were staying in the house. what put it into my lady's head to go i'm sure i don't know, but it was not as chaperone to any one." "indeed," said his companion, "i must have misunderstood fred then. but he was quite clear about it--said that the youngest miss st quentin was tremendously admired, bids fair in fact to, so to speak, outshine her sisters. of course there is the charm of novelty in her case; she is quite a stranger in this neighbourhood." philip's brow contracted. old brander meant no harm, but his remarks struck the young man as slightly free. besides--what utter nonsense he was talking! "there is some absurd mistake," he remarked rather stiffly. "i don't suppose you misunderstood your nephew, but he has got hold of some nonsense. the youngest miss st quentin is still to all intents and purposes a child; there could have been no question of her being at the manor last night." in his turn mr brander looked surprised. "fred must be more exact in his statements," he said; "he must have mistaken some one else." and then as philip proceeded to lay before him the papers and explanations with which lady cheynes had furnished him, the conversation took the turn of business and no more was said about mrs belvoir's dance. but a feeling of increasing mystification was left in philip's mind. "i cannot understand my grandmother's sudden freak last night," he thought. "it is sure to make people gossip, especially if any one noticed that she and i were never together the whole evening. the next report will be that she and i have quarrelled--it would be no more absurd than that fred brander's story about ella st quentin having been the belle of the manor ball!" ella was at that moment dressing as quickly as she could, having slept till long after her usual breakfast hour and only awakened to be told that as her godmother wished to drive over to coombesthorpe for luncheon, she had no time to spare. so her thick grey linsey frock was donned again, and the fluffy masses of white tulle, slightly "tashed," as the scotch say, but snowily pretty still, reconsigned by jones's careful hands to the tray of ella's large basket trunk. "it's very little the worse," said the maid. "if you just get millannie to iron it out the next time you want to wear it, miss, it'll be as good as ever. it is millannie to do it, i suppose? you haven't a maid of your own yet." "no indeed," ella replied. "hester looks after me a little, and stevens, the second housemaid, mends my things. melanie never does a thing for me; she's always busy for my sisters." "never mind, miss. it'll be different when you come to be counted quite a grown-up young lady, which will be soon now, you'll see. and you did enjoy yourself last night?" "oh indeed i did. it was--heavenly," said ella with fervour. "and i do thank you so much for getting my frock ready so beautifully, jones. now i must run off, i suppose." there was only one thing on her mind as she flew down stairs to her godmother, but it was rather a big thing! a most extraordinary accident had befallen her on leaving the manor the night before. she had lost a shoe! one of _the_ shoes. clarice's shoes--which lady cheynes had kept enveloped in silver paper for more years than twice ella's whole life could count, and only with much thought and hesitation had confided to her little god-daughter for one evening. it was really dreadful. yet ella could scarcely take blame to herself. "they were much too big--especially that left foot one," she said to herself. "i shall always think myself wonderfully clever for keeping them on while i was dancing. and the buckles are not real. i am glad of it, though i am afraid godmother will mind quite as much as if they were." should she tell of the loss at once? she hesitated. she was not cowardly, but she was very reluctant to cause pain to the old lady, and it was perhaps needless to do so, as there seemed every probability that the slipper would be found. if her godmother did not ask about them, ella decided that she would not speak of the shoes, and as soon as possible she would find some way of making inquiry at the manor. "if madelene and ermine are not cross about my having been there," she thought, "i'll get them to help me. they can't blame me when i tell them exactly how it happened--it must have been just as i was getting into the carriage. i remember one of the horses started a little and godmother told me to be quick." lady cheynes seemed to have forgotten all about the precious loan. she was in a fidget to be off, congratulating herself on her cleverness in having prevented her grandson and god-daughter meeting, or indeed having any suspicion of each other's vicinity. for she had entered into the spirit of the mystification thoroughly, as ermine had said, and quite agreed with her that it would be most amusing to witness sir philip's astonishment when he should be presented to the little lady, of whom he had so mistaken an idea. "don't let them meet, if you can possibly help it, auntie, till phil comes over to us," ermine had said, to which lady cheynes had agreed. "he is very prejudiced against her, i warn you," she had added. "i doubt if he would ever have let himself even admire her if they had met first in an ordinary way." "that's just why," ermine replied enigmatically, but lady cheynes asked for no explanation. not much was said during the drive to ella's home. the girl was still a little sleepy, and rather nervous too when she thought of the shoe. and her godmother seemed pre-occupied and slightly absent. only once just before they reached the coombesthorpe lodge, she turned somewhat abruptly to ella. "then you did enjoy last night, my dear? it was worth the trouble?" "godmother," said ella earnestly, "i enjoyed myself, _tremendously_. i shall always thank you for having taken me, always, more than i can say," and she held up her pretty face for a kiss. "i do hope," she added after a moment's silence, "i do hope madelene will not be vexed about it. she surely won't be when she hears how it all was." lady cheynes caught her up sharply. "_madelene_ vexed," she said. "my dear child what are you saying? why, how can you imagine madelene would be vexed?--she will have been delighted. and even supposing she had any such feeling, which is impossible--really _impossible_, she knows her duty, the respect she owes to her father, and i may say, to myself, far too well to resent anything we approve." ella did not venture to say anything in disagreement, but in her heart she began to do her elder sister greater injustice than ever heretofore: she began to doubt her sincerity. colonel st quentin was better, was the news barnes met them with, and when the ladies' arrival had been announced to him, he sent word that he would join lady cheynes in the library in five minutes. "you need not stay with me, my dear ella," said her godmother, "your father and i will entertain each other till luncheon is ready and you may like to get your things unpacked." ella never resented anything from her godmother, and set off to her own room quite contentedly. a bright fire was burning in "the nursery" to welcome her, and faithful hester, on the pretext of unpacking, was waiting eagerly to hear the young lady's adventures. "oh, how jolly of you to have a fire, you dear old thing," was ella's greeting. "dear me, how strange it seems to be back again! hester, open my box quick and let me have a peep at my frock before you put it away. i want to feel sure it wasn't all a dream." "then you enjoyed yourself, miss ella? indeed, i can see you did," said the old woman, as she carefully shook out the "_bovillonnes_" which had so exercised mrs jones's mind. "your dress isn't--not to say spoilt, at all. it'll look as good as new for the next time." "next time indeed!" sighed ella, "and when will that be, i wonder? there was a gentleman there last night, do you know, hester, that said i reminded him of cinderella? but cinderella was luckier than i--she went to _three_ balls, one after the other, and--" but hester interrupted her. she was peering anxiously into the trunk. "miss ella," she said, "i can't see the fellow to this slipper nowhere. they're not your own, are they? at least i don't remember packing them up." ella's face grew grave. "oh dear," she exclaimed, "i had forgotten about it. i don't know what to do," and the story was related to hester. "you must tell miss madelene--miss st quentin, about it, as soon as ever she comes home, and i daresay she'll send to inquire at the manor. dear--dear--it would be a pity if it were lost." and the talking about it put other things out of the girl's head, otherwise she might not improbably have gone on to tell hester more details about the ball and the unknown who had compared her to the old fairy-tale heroine. but the luncheon-bell interrupted her gossip with hester. ella found her father already in the dining-room with lady cheynes. "i'm so glad you're better, papa," she said, as she went up to kiss him, her sweet face bright and eager. "yes, my dear. i'm glad of it myself. and you--why, aunt anna, she looks like a robin-redbreast--as brisk and fresh as can be! not at all as if she had been dancing till i don't know what o'clock." "gaiety suits her apparently," said lady cheynes smiling. she was delighted to see the beginning of a better understanding between the father and child,--"and she was a very good girl, marcus; i must do justice to her. she stopped dancing,--though she owned that her partner was most attractive--resolutely, when the time came for us to leave, and neither by word or look hinted at wishing to stay longer." "that's right," said ella's father approvingly. "and what news of philip, aunt? will he be turning up soon?" "i expect to find him at cheynesacre when i get back there this afternoon," said the old lady. colonel st quentin brightened up still more. "indeed! i am very glad to hear it. we must try to have a cheerful christmas--ella's first among us too--" ella smiled with gratification--"madelene and ermie will be delighted to hear philip is back. you will be able to wait to see them this afternoon?" lady cheynes hesitated. "i fear not," she said, "the days are so very short now." "and phil arriving. ah well--tell him to come over soon." ella left her father and his aunt to themselves again after luncheon, but apparently they had not much more to say to each other, for she was soon sent for to bid lady cheynes good-bye. "and be a sensible child, my dear," were her godmother's parting words, "don't begin fancying nonsense about madelene. let her and ermine see your father by himself when they come in this afternoon and he will tell them all about it." "thank you, dear godmother," said ella. she seemed almost to cling to the old lady as if reluctant to let her go. "poor child," thought lady cheynes as she drove off, "yes--there is much good in her. she is very sweet and may certainly be led, even though not driven. if only they don't all get at cross-purposes--i fear maddie is right--it was a mistake to separate her from them all." it was nearly dark when the coombesthorpe carriage, which had been sent to the manor to fetch the two sisters, drove up to their own door. ella who had spent the afternoon in restless sittings about the house, unable to settle to anything and anticipating half nervously the meeting with madelene and ermine, was in the hall to receive them. "will you go to papa?" she said gently. "he is anxious to see you--he is a good deal better. i shall have tea ready for you in the library in a quarter of an hour, if that will do." "yes, thank you," said madelene, and "that will do beautifully," ermine replied more heartily. ella's heart sank. she had honestly meant and wished to do her best. "madelene is _not_ going to be nice to me," she reflected. the truth was that miss st quentin was feeling both anxious and bewildered. "ermine," she said, pausing at the door of her father's room, "are you going to tell papa about philip's having been there last night?" "no, i don't suppose there will be any approach to the subject. if aunt anna has chosen to keep up the little mystification till to-morrow, it would be rather impertinent for us to interfere. and madelene, you are not to begin blaming yourself to papa for having, as you say you did, spoken crossly to ella last night. it will just worry him and make mischief. just let him see, as i shall, that we were both heartily pleased for her to have the pleasure." madelene sighed. "i don't feel--" she began. "oh well, if you want to do penance, apologise to ella. she looks very meek and mild--i fancy she is in a mood of good resolutions, and for any sake don't let phil find us all at loggerheads." chapter twelve. smuts. the interview with her father turned out satisfactorily for madelene. each was suffering from inward consciousness of having acted to some extent unreasonably, and each felt a kind of unexpressed relief at not being brought to task. colonel st quentin's manner and tone were plainly deprecatory of blame. "you must not think me weak and foolish for having given in to your aunt, when i had stood out so--well, i suppose i must say--obstinately with you and ermine," he said with a slight smile. "ermine and i were only too delighted for ella to have the pleasure of it," madelene replied. "i knew that--i was assured of that," said her father, and then the subject was allowed to drop. ella was looking very demure in her grey linsey-woolsey, waiting beside the tea-table in the library, when the two others joined her. a smile which she could not altogether repress, crossed ermine's face as the contrast between her little sister's present "get-up" and that in which she had last seen her, crossed her mind. "oh, well, i'm not sorry to be home again," she said aloud. "what do you think, ella? would you like to have yesterday night over again?" ella looked up with a half doubtful questioning in her sweet eyes. was ermine chaffing her, or was this veiled sarcasm, or what? but before she had time to form any judgment on the matter, to her surprise madelene interposed. "ella," she said--she was standing near the fireplace, and her tall figure in its dark winter garb looked very imposing, though her face, had ella seen it clearly, was gentle and almost touching in its expression--"ella, my dear," she said, "i want to say to you now, at once, that i am very sorry i so misjudged you last night, blaming you when you did not deserve it--when indeed you _could_ not have deserved it; for a moment's reflection might have shown me you could not have come to the manor unknown to or unapproved of by papa. but i was so astonished that for once, i suppose i lost my head. will you forget about it, and believe that i am very happy you had the pleasure?" "of course," said ella. "i often am hasty myself--i never dislike any one for being a little cross," she went on, smiling. "i'm very glad you liked me to be there. papa was very kind about it," she added, unable to repress a little hit at her sister, "he agreed to my going _at once_ when my godmother proposed it." madelene's face grew cold again. "why could you not stop at the right place, you foolish child?" thought ermine. but she kept her thoughts to herself--a glance at madelene had told her that it was best so. outwardly, however, things seemed most prosperously smooth. "your frock looked lovely, ella," said ermine. "melanie will be quite jealous of jones." "and it is really not spoilt at all," said ella, eagerly. "but oh, madelene, that reminds me--i had such a misfortune." miss st quentin looked up anxiously. to her nature any appeal for sympathy always brought healing on its wings. "what?" she said, expecting to hear of some trifling accident. her face expressed real concern when she heard the particulars of the lost shoe. "we must certainly try to get it back," she said. "it is pretty sure to have been picked up. only if any dishonest servant has got hold of it, the buckle would be a temptation; an ignorant person would so easily mistake the paste for diamonds--i will write to mrs belvoir to-morrow, ella--it is too late to-night--and send over a man expressly." "thank you," said ella. "but," she went on, "will she understand? did she know i was your sister, as i didn't come with you?" "of course," said madelene haughtily. "you don't suppose ermine and i would have given any cause for gossip. we took care to speak quite naturally the next morning about aunt anna having brought you over for a little--it was all louis belvoir, who mistook your name at the first." "oh yes, i see," said ella. she seemed on the point of saying more, but her courage failed her. "i wonder if they know who the man was that i danced that last waltz with," she said to herself. ermine seemed to play into her hands. "how did you like young belvoir, by the by, ella?" she inquired. "he dances well, doesn't he? what other men did you dance with?" but ella was not going to be trotted out, especially not before madelene, whose eyes, she fancied, and perhaps not without reason, were fixed on her scrutinisingly. "there were several," she replied; "i didn't hear all their names distinctly. yes, i thought mr belvoir danced well, but there were one or two others who danced quite as well." "oh, indeed," said ermine. "no one in particular, then?" "major frost was very amusing," said ella. madelene, who had finished her tea, put down her cup and turned to the door. "we had better go up stairs and take our things off, ermine," she said. "i am afraid ella is the reverse of ingenuous," she said when they had left the library. "we _know_ she danced more with philip than any one. she is a regular woman of the world in the way she can keep back what she does not choose to tell--it would be only natural for her to ask us who he was, if she really did not know." "oh, maddie, i don't think you are fair about her," said ermine. "and talking of not being ingenuous--she might accuse us of it when she comes to know him. she will know we must have seen her dancing with him, if she takes the trouble to think it over, and our not mentioning his being there may strike her." "well, it isn't my doing. i hate mystifications," said madelene. "however as aunt anna is mixed up in it i suppose it will be all right. but--no, ermine, i'm afraid ella is not the sort of wife we should wish for philip. and i'm afraid of letting myself wish it, lest i should really be influenced by selfish motives, for no doubt it might make things easier." "you're enough to provoke a saint," said ermine. "however i don't suppose either you or i will have much power to `make or mar' in the matter. if it is to be, it will be--so far we haven't meddled; _we_ didn't originate their meeting as they did." "people always take refuge in that sort of fatalism when they want to throw off responsibility," said madelene. "i don't believe in fatality about marriages any more than about anything else. but _i_ shall not interfere, i am far too uncertain of its being a good thing for philip." "maddie has had an indian letter, and she has got a fit of extra conscientiousness in consequence," thought ermine. "if i were bernard, i don't think i'd stand it." and yet as she looked at her sister, and saw the gentle sadness in her eyes, and noted the increasing signs of endurance and uncomplaining patience in the delicate features, a sort of rush of tenderness came over her. no one better deserved to be happy than her own sweet madelene, she said to herself. the evening passed peacefully. colonel st quentin was pleased to have his daughters with him again, and pleased too with himself for feeling so much more cordial and affectionate than heretofore towards his youngest child. and madelene was pleased too to see him so, for jealousy formed no part of her nature, though her exaggerated conscientiousness and self-questioning sometimes took the appearance of suspiciousness of others. ella's quick eyes detected her elder sister's satisfaction at her father's kindlier tone, and she felt puzzled by it. "she does seem as if she wanted papa and me to get on better together, after all," she thought, and the idea softened her own manner in turn. besides this, she was, though she would on no account have confessed it, both tired and sleepy; the unusual excitement, more than actual fatigue had told upon her, and she was not sorry when ermine, openly acknowledging that she was quite ready to go to bed, proposed that they should all say good-night. "it's quite disgraceful to be so done up after such a very mild amount of dissipation," she said laughingly. "philip would make great fun of us. he is coming over to-morrow, maddie, you know." "yes, papa says aunt anna left a message from him to tell us so," said madelene thoughtlessly. ella pricked up her ears at this. "how could--" she began, but something in the expression of her elder sister's face made her stop short. "ah," she reflected, "madelene said that by mistake. they didn't want me to know that precious cousin of _theirs_ was coming. i shall hate him for being their cousin and not mine--only he is dear godmother's grandson, and i should like him for that. godmother must have had a letter from him while i was there, i suppose. she might have told me of it." and a feeling of resentment to lady cheynes too, mingled with her indignation against her sisters. her "good-night" was correspondingly cold, but they did not seem to notice it. "i will write a note to mrs belvoir to-night, ella," said madelene in a low voice, as they were leaving the room, "to have it ready for to-morrow morning, so that one of the grooms can take it over quite early and wait for an answer." "thank you," said ella, and for the moment she felt really obliged. the lost slipper was weighing a good deal on her mind, and she began to think that after all she would feel rather foolish if obliged to confess to her godmother how she had lost it. "she will certainly say i should have found it out before i got into the carriage, but i quite thought it was among the rugs--and jones looked herself for me, this morning. i think it must have slipped off just as i stepped in and rolled out before they shut the door." and her dreams were haunted by the slipper. she thought madelene came down to breakfast next morning with it tied on to her head as an ornament, and that it suddenly skipped on to the floor all of itself, and became a wonderful white satin chariot which careered round the room drawn by six cats, while on the box sat her partner in her last waltz at the manor, shouting at the top of his voice that he was going to take a note to mrs belvoir first thing in the morning, and to wait for an answer. and these words "wait for an answer," seemed to mingle themselves fantastically with all the consciousness of her sleep. or perhaps it seemed so to her, for they were the first that fell on her ears as she began to awake next morning. the door was opening and some one just entering was speaking to another person outside. "yes," said the voice--it was old hester's--"wait for an answer--be sure to tell him." "what are you talking about?" asked ella. "what is it about waiting for an answer?" "it's the message for the groom, who's going to the manor, miss ella," hester replied. "miss st quentin gave me the note last night, and i was telling stevens. she's so sorry for you to be uneasy about the shoe--`taking off the pleasure of her first little treat, poor child,' was her words to me, miss ella." "it's very kind of her," said ella sleepily, with again the return upon herself as to her judgment of her sister. suddenly a new idea struck her. "hester," she said, "what sort of person is sir philip cheynes? is he nice, or is he conceited and stuck-up, and--flirting, you know-- that sort of a man?" "bless you, no, miss ella, not as ever i've heard tell. what's put such a notion in your head? if he was stuck-up, he'd not be so to his own cousins; and he does think all the world of them, that he does. and as for being a flirting gentleman, he'd be uncommon clever to get miss maddie or miss ermie to join in such like nonsense, though by what i hear sometimes, young ladies--and young ladies who think a deal of themselves too--is not so partickler as they might be, now a days. i don't hold with that tennis-playing, miss ella, and all that sort of apeing gentlemen, as seems the fashion." ella laughed. "tennis is very dull, _i_ think. i shouldn't like to spend several hours a day at it," she said. "sir philip is evidently a prig of the first water," she decided mentally. "but if so, he's not likely to admire _me_, so why do they want to keep me out of his way, as i see they do? and they have got god mother to join them in it for some reason." ella's inward indignation sent her down stairs to breakfast in anything but a genial mood. and, as her moods were very apt to do, it found its expression in her outer woman. "you do look so grim, ella," said ermine. "i am so tired of that linsey-woolsey frock of yours--couldn't you put a bit of scarlet about yourself somewhere? even a red tucker would be an improvement." madelene glanced at her younger sister as ermine spoke. "you might wear your sailor serge every morning now, i think, ella," she said. "that frock is getting shabby and it is a dingy shade. you remember we couldn't get the grey we wanted. about christmas time too, one likes to see people looking bright." ella surveyed her garments with a half indifferent air that was rather irritating. "i think it does very well," she replied. "even aunty thought two new winter frocks enough. i don't see that it matters so long as it is warm, and indeed to tell the truth, i like this better than my sunday frock; it is so clumsily made." madelene said no more. "every step forward seems followed by two backwards with her," she reflected. "ermine had better not build any castles in the air about her and philip--if she had the slightest suspicion that _we_ should like such a thing, it would, i do believe, make ella detest him." "i have sent over to the manor, ella," she said as she rose from the breakfast-table; "the groom should be back by half-past twelve or so, as mrs belvoir is sure to be at home. i am sure you are feeling anxious about the poor little slipper." "i am," said ella. "thank you, madelene." and indeed it was partly distress of mind about the lost property which was making ella indisposed this morning to take a roseate view of life. "the weather seems really settling in for frost," said ermine. "after the rain it will make the roads very slippery. i hope the frost will last till after christmas, now it has begun. i wish i could go a good long walk this morning, but i fear we mustn't think of it--eh, maddie?" "no--there are arrears of things to see to even after being away only two days," miss st quentin replied. "you might get philip to take you a walk after luncheon, when i go to sit with papa." "and ella too," ermine added. "would you like a nice long walk, ella? it would be a pleasant variety to have an escort for once." "no, thank you," said ella, stiffly, though in her heart she thought ermine much kinder than her elder sister. "i don't care for walking in the afternoon. i shall go out after i've finished my practising this morning." "not alone, ella?" said madelene; "or at least if you do go alone, it will not be further than the grounds, i hope?" "no," said ella, "i don't mean to leave the grounds." she spoke more amiably--for this sort of authority or interference on her sister's part did not irritate her, as it might have done some girls. she resented nothing which gave her the sensation of being considered a person of importance. twelve o'clock found her walking briskly down the drive which led to the principal entrance. the sharp clear air stimulated her nerves pleasantly; she felt high-spirited and almost happy. as madelene had said truly, coombesthorpe had a beauty of its own in every season. "it is lovely," thought ella, as she looked around her, down across the gently sloping lawns to where the first murmur of water told of the stream pursuing its way, lonely now, without the merry companionship of its summer friends, the birds and gnats and butterflies; not to speak of the many quaint creatures who found their homes on its banks. "i wonder where they all go to?" she went on. "i suppose lots of them are asleep. i wish i knew more about country things. ermine is so clever about them. i could learn all sorts of things from her if i was sure she-- they--wanted to like me--" then her gaze passed on from the thicket concealing the brook, up again to the hills rising beyond. there was snow on the higher peaks; to be guessed at rather than seen, for a thin wintry haze made hills and clouds melt into each other. ella shivered a little. "fancy living up on those hills," she thought. "and they say there are cottages there where the people stay all the winter. the road to the manor passes round the foot of them. i wonder how soon the groom will be back. oh, i do hope he will bring the shoe." she had forgotten about it for the moment; the recollection made her hasten her steps. she would ask the woman at the lodge if possibly the groom had already returned; if not, she would walk a little way down the road, which for some distance beyond these first gates remained a private one, in hopes of meeting him, for it would be easy to ask if he was bringing back a parcel or only a note. there seemed no one stirring about the lodge when she got there, which was unusual, as the couple who lived in it were the proud possessors of two very pretty children, one or other or both of whom were generally to be seen peeping out of the doorway when any one came by. "they seem all asleep," thought ella, who had long ago made great friends with the little family. "i hope they're not ill." she made her way to the door as she spoke, and tapped gently, at the same time endeavouring to "lift the latch," like red riding hood of old, and let herself in. but the door resisted; it was evidently fastened inside. ella tapped more loudly, and almost before she finished doing so, a faint sound of weeping caught her ear, but no reply came to her knocks. "is any one in?" she called out, beginning to feel a little uneasy. "willie, hetty, who is it crying? mrs rose, are you there?" a sort of movement inside, sounding like the slow, enforcedly deliberate way in which a little, short-legged child gets down from a chair, followed by a pattering of small feet across the stone floor, became audible. then a doleful voice replied to her questions: "i'm all aloned. i'm hetty. i dunno who you is. mammy's took willie in master crocker's waggin to doctor's. willie's eyes is bad. and the pot won't budge and the dinner's spilin." then ensued a louder burst of bitter wailing. ella rapped again impatiently. "let me in then, you silly child," she cried. "i'm ella--miss ella from the hall. you know my voice, surely, hetty. i'm not a wolf," she added, half laughing. thus adjured, hetty cautiously approached. "miss ella," she said in a tone of relief. "i'll try to loose the door, miss, but its drefful hard. mother locked it outside and pushed the key in under the door. i weren't to open it till daddy comed home, but mammy didn't know miss ella'd be coming," she added, as if half in vindication to herself of her departure from mammy's injunctions. "then do the same again," said ella. "push the key under the door and i'll open it outside. your little hands can't turn it." hetty gave a sort of grunt of satisfaction at the brilliant idea. the key was pushed through, and in another moment, ella stood on the open threshold. poor hetty's face was swollen with crying and scorched by the fire, and her first greeting to ella was a fresh burst of tears. "'tis the dinner--daddy's dinner," she exclaimed, and sure enough a rather ominous smell of burning drew ella's attention to the fire. quick as thought the girl pulled off her thick jacket, tossed aside her fur cap--for the kitchen felt very hot after the keen clear air outside--and stood for a moment investigating the formidable-looking pot, which was the cause of hetty's woe. "give me a towel or something, hetty. i don't want to burn myself." hetty stuffed a substantial cloth into her visitor's hands. "and a apern, miss, or you'll smutty your nice gown. here's one of mammy's." ella took the hint and tied it on, and well for the linsey-woolsey that she did so, as it was not without various black streaks on the vicarious apron that she succeeded in safely depositing "daddy's dinner" on the hearth-stone. "goodness! how heavy pots are," she exclaimed, "and how the fire does scorch one's face--even a little one like that. i don't think the dinner's _much_ burnt, hetty," she went on, carefully investigating the contents of the stew-pot with the aid of an iron spoon, and sniffing them gingerly at the same time. "stir it about, miss, please, so as it won't stick to the sides," suggested hetty; which ella proceeded to do, thinking to herself the while, that if all other trades failed her, that of a cook would be little to her mind. "now, hetty," she said, "i think this'll take no harm, staying where it is. when does your father come home? it's about his time, isn't it?" as the clock struck the half hour to one. "he should a' been home before, miss ella, else mammy wouldn't a' left me and the pot aloned. but there's a deal to do in the houses, now it's so cold, a' seein' to the fires,"--her father was one of the gardeners--"and maybe mr meakins has kept him late. but it's all right now, miss, and thank you," said six-year old hetty, remembering for the first time to bob her courtesy. "would you like to wash your hands, and there's a smut on your cheek? you've made it worser," as ella involuntarily raised her hand to the indicated spot. "thank you, hetty, perhaps i'd--" ella began, when suddenly the sound of horse's feet approaching, reminded her of her original errand at the lodge. "there's the groom--the groom from the manor," she said, flying off, forgetful alike of smutty marks and "mammy's" big apron in her eagerness, and heedless of hetty's assurances that she could open the gate, anxiety as to which the little maiden supposed to be the cause of the young lady's excitement. ella's ears had not misled her. a horse was waiting at the gate, but scarcely had she called out to its rider-- "you've been at the manor; what message is there?" when a glance upwards told her that she had made some great mistake. it was no groom who sat there, gazing at her in speechless astonishment--it was a gentleman; so much she perceived instantaneously; but this first flash of surprise was as nothing compared with the shock of astonishment which succeeded it when in another half second her eyes told her brain what at first it refused to accept--the rider was her partner--her partner _par excellence_ that is to say, of two nights before at mrs belvoir's dance. but if ella was surprised, what was the effect on the new-comer of the sudden apparition of the mysterious little personage who had made so much impression on him? _was_ it she--"miss wyndham," or was it only a case of extraordinary resemblance? yet if not miss wyndham, who then? he knew the roses at the lodge, as well as he knew himself--mrs rose was the only daughter of one of his own tenants, and though a comely young woman, in no way exceptionally pretty--this girl could be no sister or cousin of hers, he felt sure. yet again his hasty glance had shown him that she was not in the ordinary attire of a lady; she was half covered by a huge and not over-clean apron, her hair was pushed off her forehead, her face was scorched-looking and a grimy streak crossed it on one side. "miss wyndham," if miss wyndham it were, must be playing a part in a comedy, or else--could it be that the girl he had been so struck with was _not_ a lady; that in some clever way she had inveigled herself in among the smart people at the manor, and that this was the meaning of her strange, half mysterious, half reticent manner? a curious and by no means agreeable thrill passed through the young man as this last idea drove its predecessors out of his mind with the rapidity of lightning. hetty meanwhile had run out and was fumbling at the gate. the sight of the child brought philip back to matters-of-fact. "i will open myself, hetty," he said, for the elder girl stood as if transfixed making no effort to help the little one. and in a moment he had dismounted and was leading his horse through the gateway. they both stared at each other for half a second. ella was the first to speak, though her cheeks glowed more and more as she did so. happily she had forgotten all about the sooty mark on her cheek. "i beg your pardon for mistaking you," she said. "i thought you were the groom from--" "i cannot beg your pardon," interrupted philip, "for i am absolutely in the dark as to whether i have mistaken you or not. are you--" but here he hesitated, though the tone of her voice and the manner of her speech had almost satisfied him that his recognition had been correct--"_are_ you miss wyndham, and if so--what in the world--" it was by this time all ella could do to repress her laughter. "what in the world am i doing here?" she said, finishing his sentence for him. "did you not ask if you would find me scouring pots and pans if you came to see me? well--i have been doing something of the kind-- witness my apron, and my hands," staring ruefully at some black streaks on her fingers. "and your cheek, miss ella," interrupted hetty, understanding the gesture though not the words. "it's a deal smuttier nor your hands." ella's face grew still more scarlet. "oh, you horrid little girl," she exclaimed, "why didn't you tell me?" and lifting a corner of the apron she began to rub her cheek so indignantly that sir philip could scarcely keep his countenance. but his bewilderment and curiosity overcame his amusement. "then," he said, for though hetty's name for the young lady had vaguely caught his ear, it had not as yet awakened any association, "then i am to conclude you _are_ miss wyndham?" "no," said ella sharply, for the consciousness of the smut on her face had quite upset her temper, "i'm not, and i never said i was; and why you chose to call me by a name that was not mine i am sure i don't know. i didn't know yours, and i don't now, and you wouldn't tell it me, but for all that i didn't call you by an imaginary one." sir philip looked rather taken aback. "when i had the honour of being introduced to you," he said stiffly, "i think i was told your name was wyndham?" "i am not responsible for other people's stupidity," said ella. "i have no objection to your knowing who i am. i--" but at this moment little hetty gave her a tug. "there's daddy a coming, miss ella," she said. "i see him over there in the long path. may i run to tell him what mammy said?" and hardly waiting for permission, the child set off. chapter thirteen. ermine misses the fun. a mist seemed suddenly to roll away from sir philip's brain. "_miss ella_," he repeated, with a sort of gasp; "you don't mean to say--you can't be little ella st quentin?" "why not?" ella retorted, sharply still--the "little" was unfortunate. "i am ella st quentin and i have never pretended to be any one else; but at my age people are not spoken of as if they were three or four years old." "i beg your pardon," said philip. "and," she went on, "i don't understand why you should speak of me in that way at all. i don't know who _you_ are." but philip did not at once reply--his thoughts for the moment were pursuing another train. "i can't make out," he said, speaking more to himself than to her, "why they all mystified us. they must have known we were dancing together--madelene, ermine, certainly, and my grandmother must have--was it with _her_ you came to the belvoirs'?" he exclaimed suddenly. "was _that_ the reason of granny's strange freak?" in her turn, ella's face looked first astonished, then illumined. "are you speaking of lady cheynes, my godmother?" she said. "then are you sir philip cheynes? oh, how fearfully stupid of me not to know! but," and her bewilderment took the same direction as his, "why did none of them introduce us properly? of course i never thought of you being here; i understood till yesterday that you were up in the north somewhere. i did not hear your surname at all, and i was not sure if _you_ were `sir philip,' though i remembered that much. if i had thought of it--it is not such a very common name--but i just never thought of _you_, of my godmother's grandson, at all." "i see," philip replied; "and they all lent themselves to the--`mystification,' that is plain. i confess i don't see much point in it." he spoke stiffly, but he was not resenting it on _her_--indeed he had no reason to do so, but when people are vexed they are not always reasonable--so ella remained gracious. suddenly his eyes fell on her quaint figure--she had forgotten all about her personal travesty by this time--and a half dubious, half quizzical smile lighted up his face as if in spite of himself. "it seems mystifications all round," he said. "it is, to say the least, an extraordinary coincidence that i should light upon you like this, all perfectly got up in the aschen-puttel style." "you are very,"--"impertinent" was on the tip of ella's tongue, but she suppressed it. "i daresay he has heard of all my iniquities from madelene. i am not going to have him endorse her opinion of me," she thought, and a very charming smile stole over her face, as, colouring again a little, she replied gently, "you are right. it is _very_ queer that we should have met again like this," and she went on to explain hetty's domestic tribulations. "it was most kind of you," said philip warmly. "but," as at that moment the little girl and her father joined them, "don't you think you had better return to your own character now? it is very cold, too. rose, you mustn't let hetty keep house alone in this style, my good fellow," he went on to the gardener; "the child might have fallen into the fire and been badly burnt." it had never happened before, and never should again, the man assured him civilly. he had not known of his wife's absence; she had, so hetty had been charged to explain, been tempted to take advantage of the unexpected chance of getting her boy to the doctor's; and by the invariable rule of contrary, rose himself had been detained at work much later than usual. while the gardener was thus explaining matters, ella had run in to the lodge, and a moment later reappeared in hat and jacket, minus the apron and the smuts. "good-bye, hetty," she said, and "good-bye sir philip cheynes," she added, turning to him. "i am going a little further, towards the outer gate." philip looked at her. "will you not take your constitutional in another direction?" he said quietly. "there is--i have something to say to you, which i may not find another opportunity for." ella looked surprised and a little startled. his tone was solemn. was he going after all to make out that she deserved lecturing for her innocent deception? but her expression changed to relief when he went on, rose and hetty having by this time retired-- "it is not exactly something to say; it is rather something to _give_ you. if you don't mind walking beside me while i lead my horse, i will explain. a--a piece of property of yours has come into my possession. i had no expectation of course of seeing you here, but i have the-- article in my pocket, because, to tell the truth, i was going to show it to my cousins and consult them about it. i thought it probable they had noticed the shoes `miss wyndham' wore the other evening if they were the peculiar-looking ones in question, and that they would be able to tell me where to find her." ella had had hard work to keep down her impatience during this long explanation, and when he came to the word "shoe" her eyes danced with delight. "oh," she exclaimed, "if you have found my slipper i can't thank you enough. you don't know how miserable i have been about it," and she went on to tell how her anxiety to hear if it had been found had brought her to the lodge that morning. "it must be mine," she went on; "it is too impossible that such a queer accident should have happened to any one else the same evening. but please let me see it, that i may be quite sure." philip drew a little parcel out of his pocket and held it out to ella, who eagerly unwrapped it. yes--there it lay--the dainty little old-world slipper, with infinite pathos about its mellow satin and quaint buckle to any one who knew its history. ella looked inclined to kiss it. "oh, how pleased i am," she said. "do tell me where you found it and all about it--and how odd it was that you should have noticed the slippers i had on and known it was mine." sir philip looked at her quizzically. "i must take your word for it, i suppose, that it _is_ yours," he said. "_by rights_, you know, you should try it on, at least after madelene and ermine have done so." "what nonsense," ella exclaimed. "you are not in earnest?" it was not till some time afterwards that she understood what he had meant. "i can show you the fellow to it, if you like," she added. "well--perhaps that would do as well," he agreed, looking much amused. "and as for trying it on, that _wouldn't_ convince you," she said after a moment's reflection, "for they're too big for me. they weren't made for me--" "scarcely, unless--you are even more of a fairy personage than i have suspected. the slippers must be thirty years old at least. if you were grown-up thirty years ago, you look young for your age," he said. ella laughed. "yes, i see," she answered. "but, by the by, i wonder you never saw them before. they belonged to your sis--no, she couldn't have been your sister--what was she to you, then, clarice cheynes?" and she glanced up in his face with a little frown of perplexity on her own. a light broke over philip's. "they were _hers_!" he exclaimed, "and poor granny disinterred them for you to dance in!" "i am her godchild," ella replied, rearing her head a little as she spoke. "of course. i only meant, what i am sure you think too, that it was very good of her. people are sometimes more selfish about feelings of that kind than about anything else. no--i never saw the slippers before, but i know that granny has a room where she treasures up all the little possessions of my aunt--who never was my aunt--clarice." "did she die before you were born then?" asked ella. "yes--she died the year my father and mother were married, and i was not their eldest child," said sir philip, "though all the others died as babies." they were near the house by this time. ella looked up dubiously. "perhaps you will get on your horse again now," she said, "and ride up to the door. my sisters are expecting you, i know--perhaps you will tell them of having met me, and found out who i was." "will you not tell them yourself?" he said. "no, i am going round the other way, behind the house. i have no longer any interest in watching for the groom," ella replied, "and i would rather you told my sisters, please." she hesitated a little--"they, madelene, might be a little annoyed, at--at my having been at the lodge, and all that." philip looked surprised. "i don't think that is at all the sort of thing to vex maddie," he said. "indeed it is rather in ermine's own line, i should say." but ella still looked doubtful, and hurried off, half smiling, but with a gesture that implied her preference for not making one at the forthcoming interview. philip mounted and rode up, _en regle_, to the door, where, in answer to his inquiries, he was told that miss st quentin was at home and in the library. there, sure enough, he found his elder cousin. she started up as he came in. "oh, philip, that's right," she exclaimed. "we were just hoping you would come before luncheon. it is so nice to have you at home again," she added affectionately. "it is nice to _be_ home again," he replied, as he went up to the fire and stood warming his hands at the blaze. then there fell a little silence. "madelene," said sir philip at last, "you haven't yet introduced me to you sister ella." "no," miss st quentin replied, "there has not yet been any opportunity for my doing so," she was beginning, when she suddenly and unaccountably stopped. "if you will ring, philip," she said, "i will send to tell both ermine and ella to come." but philip did not move towards the bell. "i don't want them to come just yet," he said. "i want to talk to you a little first. and besides, ella is out." "ella out," repeated madelene, looking up and changing colour slightly. her manner seemed rather constrained and nervous. "how do you know?" her glance at him said. philip smiled. "yes," he said, "i know what you are looking so `funny' about, maddie, as we used to say when we were children. you cannot sham the very least bit in the world; you never could, you know. yes--i have met ella, and the mystification is at an end. but by jove what it ever began for, i cannot imagine. will you not enlighten me?" miss st quentin grew more and more uneasy. "no," she said, "i can't. it--it was a freak of ermine's, and aunt anna took it up and joined in it, so _i_ could not oppose it, though to tell you the truth i never liked it. of course _at the beginning_ it was altogether accidental; we had no idea--ermie and i, i mean--of aunt anna's getting papa to let ella go to the ball--we had done our utmost to persuade him, but he wouldn't. and then your being there was unexpected--and they made a muddle of ella's name: all that came about of itself." "yes," said philip. "i see. but i see, too, how cleverly you all--no, not so much you, maddie--joined to keep up the mistake, though upon my word i can't see any point in it. i cannot find fault with my grandmother, but i shall have it out with ermine." madelene looked distressed; she saw that philip was on the point of being angry. "it is my clumsiness," she said. "if you had seen ermine first it would have been all right. she would have made you see it differently--but don't be vexed about it, philip. i do beg you not to be. i do _so_ want to have no more worries in which ella is concerned. i am so tired of misunderstandings and all that kind of bother." philip took her up at once. "have you had many bothers, poor maddie?" he said. "is she--is ella not--not nice and gentle with you?" madelene felt as if she could have bitten her tongue off for having spoken so ill-advisedly. "no, of course i didn't mean to say anything against ella," she replied quickly. "you shouldn't take one up so, philip. it makes me think ermine was right." "right in what? maddie, i am tired of all these half-speeches and cross-purposes. and i foresee i shall very likely have a quarrel with ermine if you won't speak out. what was she right in, and why did she want me to make your young sister's acquaintance without knowing who she was." "she thought--as it had happened so--it was not our doing at first, remember--she thought you would like ella better, judge her for herself as it were, if you met her as a stranger. ermie has fancied you were a little prepossessed _against_ ella, and, i think," miss st quentin went on, consideringly, "i _think_, perhaps she blames herself a little for its being so. you remember--that day when ella first arrived--ermine had been really hardly fair about her." philip sat listening. "well?" he said, after waiting as if for his cousin to continue. "that's all," said madelene. "it really is, philip. i can't tell you any more of what ermine thinks or doesn't think, and as it is, i didn't want to tell you this. you might have treated it, i do think, as a simple little piece of fun. but now that i have said so much, i trust you to make no to-do about it." "i shall have it out with granny," remarked philip; "but that's our own affair, hers and mine." but he said no more about quarrelling with ermine. after a while he looked up and related to madelene how he and ella had met. a variety of expressions crossed madelene's face as he spoke. "i wish you had not met her for the first time--" "but it wasn't the first time," philip interrupted. "well--you know what i mean--the first time at _home_, in that extraordinary guise. she must have looked comical," said madelene, laughing however. "she is very impulsive." "impressionable, i should say," said philip. "and very warm-hearted. i like to see that sort of impulsiveness," he added heartily, watching madelene's face rather closely the while. again a slightly uneasy look stole over it. "yes," she said, "it was kind, thoroughly kind of her to help poor hetty." but even in this cordial praise there was a suggestion of reserve which did not escape philip. "cross-purposes. they're all at cross-purposes," he thought, "and i'm afraid maddie's in a mood for a good long ride on her hobby-horse at present. madelene," he said suddenly after some moments silence, "you've had a letter from bernard lately. i know you have, for he wrote to me by the same mail." "in that case i need not give you any news, as you will have heard it all direct," miss st quentin replied dryly. "come now, maddie, i know what that means. you don't want to talk about him. is there no change then--do you see no prospect of any?" "none at all," madelene replied, in a voice which she strove to make as expressionless as possible. "it's rather hard upon omar, i must say," said philip; and if his object were to rouse his cousin, he succeeded. "did i ever say it wasn't hard on him?" she exclaimed. "is it my fault? have i left undone _anything_ to make him give it up?" "i don't say you have. i don't say that in that way you are to blame," said philip quietly; "always allowing that the obstacles _are_ as insuperable as you make out." "they are more so--worse and worse," said madelene, with a rather wintry smile. "then you will forbid his coming home, as he can now, i suppose?" "i have no right to do so, but if he does, i--" the rest of her sentence was left to the imagination, for at that moment the door opened, and ermine, followed by ella, made her appearance. ermine gave no one time to feel awkward. "it is too bad of you, philip, and of you, ella, too," she said laughing, "to have balked me of my fun. it would have been too lovely to see you both looking so astonished." "i am not very fond of looking ridiculous for the amusement of my friends, though i would do a good deal to oblige you, ermine," said sir philip dryly. ella's eyes sparkled with satisfaction. she would not like sir philip cheynes to speak to _her_ in that tone, she said to herself. but ermine did not seem to mind in the least. "i can stand your withering speeches, my dear boy," she said coolly. "it was great fun all the same, and aunt anna enjoyed it as much as i did. you can have it out with her, if you like, when you go home." "i intend to do so," he replied. ella stood glancing from one to the other with a rather comical look of perplexity on her pretty face. they seemed on very free and easy terms, these sisters of hers with their cousin. somehow she had not quite realised it, and it surprised her a little. she had never seen anything quite of the same kind before. it was not flirtation, and yet--she was not by any means sure but that the brother and sisterly love covered some deeper and tenderer feeling, and she watched and listened with peculiar curiosity. madelene, she observed, looked up with some anxiety when she heard the bandying of words between ermine and her cousin. "philip," she said half reproachfully in a low voice--he was standing near her--"you promised me?" sir philip turned, with the smile which was one of his charms. "don't be afraid, maddie," he said almost tenderly, it seemed to ella. "ermine, my dear, we must not even _play_ at quarrelling; it troubles dear old mad." "shall we kiss and be friends then--eh, phil?" said ermine saucily; and when sir philip began something about taking her at her word, and she ensconced herself defiantly behind her elder sister's chair, madelene laughed with hearty pleasure, her whole face lighted up with satisfaction at seeing that there was no real danger of misunderstanding between the two. "i have it," said ella to herself. "it isn't ermine herself so much. it is madelene who wants philip for her; _that_ explains the keeping me out of his way when i first came, and all the rest of is. i wonder if my godmother wishes it too? yet the trick the other night can hardly have been on that account. i don't see any object in it. i suppose it was just a freak of ermine's, and that madelene and my godmother too gave in to her. ermine _is_ so spoilt." but she was interrupted in these wise and profound cogitations. ermine suddenly gave an exclamation. "oh dear," she said. "i am forgetting to give you this note from mrs belvoir. i met james with it as i was crossing the hall." "a note only--no parcel," said madelene in a tone of disappointment. "i am so sorry, ella," she went on after running her eyes down the two or three hurried lines which the envelope contained. "i am so sorry. mrs belvoir knows nothing of the--of your lost property. i am so sorry for you, dear." a pleasant light spread over her cousin's face as he caught the last words. they seemed to assure him of madelene's kindliness and sympathy. ella too was touched by them. "about the shoe, you mean," she said. "oh, madelene, i was just going to tell you. i am not surprised or disappointed for,"--here she glanced at philip--"won't you tell them how it was?" she went on, half shyly; "i don't think i heard quite exactly how or when you happened to find it." "_you_ found it! phil found it! oh, how lovely!" cried ermine. "have you got it in your pocket, philip, or were you afraid of sitting down upon it and smashing it?" philip frowned a little. "out with it," said ermine, "then--what should you do then?--we'll have to skip the herald part of the business. go down on your knees--isn't that it?--and present it first to maddie and then to me. of course _we_ can't get it on, and then you summon--" philip began to look distinctly annoyed; ella, notwithstanding her usual quickness, seemed merely bewildered. "i have not got it," said sir philip; "of course i returned it at once to its rightful owner." "i have got it," said ella. "it is up stairs with its fellow. sir philip gave it to me when we met. would you mind telling where you found it?" "it was just outside the hall door at the manor," the young man replied. "i was standing there not long after my last dance with--with _miss wyndham_," he added with a little smile, "and saw it lying--the buckle gleaming in the moonlight." "like _glass_" interrupted ermine; "dear me, you are quite poetical, philip. it must have been that time you went to catch some friends of yours whom you wanted to say good-night to before they left." "yes," said philip, simply, "it was." and ella fixed her brown eyes on him as he spoke. chapter fourteen. differences of opinion. as philip was leaving that afternoon, ella, whom he had not seen since luncheon, met him in the hall. "will you be so kind," she began, "if it is not too much trouble--would you mind taking this little parcel to my godmother?" and she held up a small packet just twice the size of the one that had been transferred from his keeping to hers that same morning. "is it the shoes?" he said; "ah, i supposed so. certainly i will give them to her. shall i say you forgot them before?" "no," said ella, colouring a little, "for that would not be true. still i would rather she did not know of my having so nearly lost one; it would distress her and seem as if i had been careless. i don't think you need say anything; just give her them from me." "without telling her of their adventures?--very well. but, ella,"--she looked a little surprised at his thus addressing her--"i must call you ella; anything else would be absurd,"--he interpolated. "well, yes; i suppose so," she said rather stiffly. "you must warn madelene--your sisters--that you don't want my lady to know of the accident, otherwise she might very likely allude to it, especially with _my_ having had the good luck to find it." ella's face fell. "oh, then," she said, "you had better tell my godmother all about it yourself. it would be enough for me--i mean, madelene would very probably make a matter of conscience of telling it, if i asked her not. she--my sisters do not give me credit for much good as it is," she added with a slight smile, more bitter than playful, "however, it doesn't matter. i will write by to-night's post and confess all my sins myself to my godmother." "i think it would be both foolish and unnecessary to tell her anything about it," said sir philip, who had his own reasons for not wishing anything more to be said about the episode of the shoe. "i can, if you like, say a word of warning myself to maddie," he went on, turning back as he spoke to the library. "at the same time," as ella made an eager gesture of assent, "i don't agree with you about madelene being so--so ill-natured and unfeeling and indeed, worse--hypocritical--as you seem to think her." his tone was quiet, but very grave. ella started a little. it was not so much that he convinced her by what he said, as that she was shocked at hearing her opinion of her sister translated into the words of others. "i--i did not exactly mean that," she said confusedly. "no," philip returned. "i am sure of that. besides, of course anything you may say to me--in a moment of thoughtlessness or irritation, and we are all subject to such moments--about your sisters, cannot possibly do any harm." he smiled at her a little as he spoke--and philip's smile was very sweet--and then disappeared again into the library. ella went slowly up stairs to her own room; a bright fire was blazing there. "that speech may tell two ways," she said to herself; "if he is such a very privileged and neutral sort of person, i suppose he will listen to all they say against me. what a fool i was to think he would sympathise with me!" and her cheeks glowed with annoyance. "yet he might really have been a friend, for i know dear old godmother cares for me. i just wish i had chanced to meet them both elsewhere, quite independently of all the associations and influences here, for i am sure," and a little smile flickered over her face, "i am sure sir philip _did_ like me the other night--and now," the smile quite fading away, "he will just look upon me as they all do--as a tiresome, spoilt little fool that needs any amount of sitting upon. indeed, _but_ for meeting me _incognito_, i don't suppose he would ever have been nice to me at all. and the very thing they took advantage of to _prevent_ our getting to know each other well and naturally, had just the opposite effect, my dear sisters! but why did godmother join in it?" and ella's brows contracted in perplexity. "i suppose ermine can get her to do whatever she likes," she decided, though the conclusion was not a thoroughly satisfactory one. just then hester knocked at the door. she had come "to see to the fire," she said, miss st quentin having given orders that during this very severe weather a good one was to be kept up in miss ella's room all day. "did you go telling tales about my sitting up here in the cold then?" asked ella, ungraciously enough. "not i, miss ella," said hester, calmly. "if you had gone for to do it again i'd have spoke up to the young ladies likely enough; but you'd have known of it, miss ella--i'm not one as goes aught but straightforrard." "am i not one of the young ladies then?" said ella. "you're just a contrary baby, missie; sweet enough, i'll not deny, when it suits you." ella laughed, but her laugh was rather contemptuous. "so you've had sir philip here, miss ella," the old servant went on. "wasn't i right about him--he is a nice gentleman, isn't he?" and hester looked rather scrutinisingly as she spoke. hester was not without a little harmless love of gossip. "i'm sure i don't remember what you said," ella replied indifferently. "if you mean that he's nice-looking, yes; he's not bad." but while she spoke she congratulated herself that she had not told hester more particulars of the dance at the manor. "not much chance of _his_ ever being my prince," she thought with a sigh, realising now the place which for the last day or two she had allowed "the stranger," as they say in the old romances, to occupy in her vague, pretty day-dreams. for the girlish imagination at eighteen "gallops apace." down stairs in the library meanwhile ella's two sisters were sitting together. philip had left, after giving, as if of himself, the suggestion as to not mentioning to lady cheynes the narrow escape of the slipper--a suggestion at once appreciated and accepted. madelene was writing; ermine, under cover of a book and some work at hand on a little table beside her, was in reality doing nothing, except from time to time glancing at her sister. "maddie," she said at last. miss st quentin stopped writing and looked round with a slight touch of impatience. "what is it, ermine?" she said. "if it is anything very particular i'll leave off, but i do want to finish this letter. it must go to-morrow, and you know i can never count upon doing anything in the evening." "it is a letter for the indian mail then, i suppose?" said ermine. "yes." "i--i wish you'd tell me what you are saying, maddie," said ermine hesitatingly. "you know i don't ask out of officiousness or curiosity." "i don't suppose you do; all the same i wish you would leave the subject. it doesn't do any good and it only makes it harder for me." "tell me at least what you have said," urged ermine. "you know the only thing i can say--the old story--while papa lives it is impossible." "and that is all bernard omar has won by five--six years' waiting!" exclaimed ermine indignantly. "my dear ermine, be just to me," said her sister sadly. "i have never wished him to wait, nor encouraged him in the least to do so. and now-- you must see for yourself that it is less possible than ever." "because of ella?" "yes, of course. i can't leave this place. it would be wrong, considering it _is_ mine, though eventually i feel sure it will be yours. but it would be too much, far too much to put on you alone, ermine--the care of this place and papa, as he now is, and, in addition, ella! no blessing would follow me if i acted so selfishly." "but if bernard agreed to give up his profession and come and live here?" said ermine. "he would not do so six years ago, and i think he was right then. but _now_--heaven knows he has gained his laurels if ever a man did; and as for being idle, he would have plenty to do here in looking after the place and with his own writing." "stop, ermine," said madelene decidedly. "such an arrangement is absolutely out of the question. bernard would never feel he had a wife, nor i that i had a husband: coming into the midst of a family like ours would certainly not be the kind of thing he would like, and every existing difficulty would be increased." "you mean ella, i suppose?" said ermine; "and yet you are indignant with me for wanting philip to fall in love with her and marry her. that would make everything easier. it would leave me at liberty to go hopping about a little, and perhaps somebody decent might take a fancy to poor me at last. nobody ever has, you know, hitherto." "nonsense, ermie. lots have, but you've snubbed them all, you know. why don't you go about more as it is?" "and leave you alone for all the home worries? no, indeed--if you had a husband to help you, now." "oh, ermine, do leave the subject," said madelene wearily. "of course, as far as we are concerned it _would_ be delightful for ella to marry philip--it would make a different man of papa, i do believe; but neither papa nor we are the chief people to be considered. and i will not do anything to help on a marriage in that way--above all, with the grave doubts i have as to how it would turn out." "well then, it's to be hoped nobody ever will take pity on me," said ermine, dryly, "for assuredly i will never leave you here as things are." "it is fortunate then that the contingency in question, according to you, has not yet arisen," said madelene calmly, turning again to her letter. yes--ermine had spoken truly. it was really six years since madelene st quentin had agreed to consider herself engaged to bernard omar, with the understanding that no one but her sister and bernard's old friend, philip cheynes, were to be taken into their confidence. for it was at that time that colonel st quentin's health had begun to fail, and any additional anxiety or excitement was forbidden for him. besides this, the engagement could not have been but an indefinite one; for madelene, though but nineteen, had many responsibilities on her hands, and bernard, three years her senior, was on the point of starting with his regiment for india. it had been due to an accident that an understanding, even between the two themselves had ever been come to, for mr omar was poor and madelene was rich, and both were proud. but they had known each other since madelene's childhood; their mutual trust and confidence were entire; and trying though the long delay had been, it had yet been the great happiness of both lives. once only during those six years had bernard, now captain omar, returned to england on a few months' leave. he and madelene had not seen very much of each other, for during some part of the time the st quentins had been abroad. but little as they were together, the two separated more deeply attached to each other, if that were possible, than before, and with fervent, if vague, hopes for the future. these hopes, however, were rendered vaguer still by colonel st quentin's increased illness, aggravated, if not caused, by his money troubles, which made madelene entirely renounce all idea of ever leaving him even for a few years' sojourn in india. for some time she looked forward to captain omar's retirement as the goal which was to see all difficulties set straight; but with the advent of ella on the scene, her father's morbid irritability, and her own ever-increasing duties, she began to despair. breaking off the engagement seemed to her the only alternative, and she wrote to india to this effect, entreating bernard not to dream of renouncing his profession for her sake, but to try to forget her and the weary years which had but led to ever-repeated disappointment. to this letter she had just received an answer. captain omar refused to come to any decision till they should again have met and discussed matters; in order to do this he had applied for leave and expected to be in england in the course of the next six mouths. but the tone of his letter seemed to madelene cold, and her heart was very sore. "he is getting tired of it at last," she thought. the situation was a complicated one, for though captain omar had distinguished himself both as an officer and a writer, in the eyes of the world his marriage with miss st quentin would be looked upon as greatly to his advantage; furthermore, he felt keenly that in offering to renounce his profession for madelene's sake he was giving the strongest possible proof of his devotion--devotion which it now seemed to him, or would have done so had he known her character less perfectly, was but faintly appreciated. the letter was completed, folded, and directed. ermine made a face at it when she saw it lying ready for the post on the side-table of their little sitting-room up stairs. "i suppose maddie has written to say that he need not give himself the trouble of coming here at all, or something of that kind. i do think it's too bad. she is sacrificing any--ah, well, it's no use thinking of that. i don't believe the marchants are going to ask me after all--and negatively, so to say, sacrificing ella, too. i'm _sure_ philip admires her more than he has ever admired anybody before, but madelene has such influence over him--a cold look or glance of hers would prejudice him-- even without her meaning it in the least. and if i were bernard i wouldn't stand it, no i wouldn't, and in one side of my heart i hope he won't." ermine stamped her foot--there was no one to see--with an energy which would have gone far to prove her relationship to fiery little ella. "i won't tell madelene of the marchants' invitation, if it does come, till too late. if she is so obstinate i have no choice--i must follow suit, i suppose." the next day or two passed uneventfully enough. the weather continued bitterly cold, and colonel st quentin scarcely ventured to leave his room. one or other of his elder daughters was almost constantly in request to read or talk to him or write his letters. ella paid him little duty visits and was always kindly received, but the sort of affectionate and almost familiar tone which had begun between the father and daughter while they were alone, seemed to have disappeared. again there came over the girl the cold mortifying sensation of being but an outsider in her own home, and the vague scheme for her future which had momentarily, in the excitement of her visit to the manor and the appearance of philip on the scene, been half-forgotten, began again to haunt her restless little brain. "this life is too dreary," she said to herself, "day after day the same. no one to sympathise with me--no one to care what i do or feel or anything. it is becoming unendurable." but on the third morning of this unendurable existence--the fourth that is after sir philip's visit to coombesthorpe--something did happen. the post brought an invitation from lady cheynes to madelene and ella, to drive over the following afternoon to dine and stay the night with her. "ella!" exclaimed miss st quentin, involuntarily. "not you, ermine?" "why not, ella?" said ermine, and had she been speaking to any one but her adored madelene, one would have been inclined to call her tone testy, if not snappish; "why shouldn't it be ella? you don't want to set off like the graces, or the `three old maids of lea,' or any unfortunate trio of spinsters you like to name, whenever we go a visiting, do you? and i was spending the whole day at cheynesacre yesterday." "well, then, why didn't you bring the invitation verbally, or at least you might have told me of it," said madelene. "you know ella is not--" "madelene would have liked to hear of it privately, so that _i_ should never have known of it," thought ella, while aloud ermine exclaimed impatiently. "not out, are you going to say, maddie? you can't give that as an excuse to aunt anna, for she certainly thinks she has a right to a voice in ella's concerns. and late events show she means to claim her rights too! as for my not bringing the invitation or telling you of it, i was not told to do so by aunt anna--you know she has her own ways of doing things." madelene looked,--not annoyed,--but dissatisfied still. "did you know she was going to invite us?" she said again to ermine. but ermine was at that moment busily reading a letter of her own, and either did not, or wished to seem as if she did not, hear the question. be that as it may, madelene got no answer. ella, secretly enjoying her elder sister's discomfiture, happened just then to catch sight of her face. it looked more than anxious; pale and weary and almost worn. something in its expression touched ella's impressionable feelings. "poor madelene," she thought, with a rush of a kind of generous pity which she would have found it difficult to explain to herself. "i am sure she _means_ to do right. and after all--if she does want sir philip to--to care for ermine, why shouldn't she? ermine is her very own sister. only--i wish it had all been settled and ermine married to him before i came here." the softened feeling--as most feelings did with ella--expressed itself. "madelene," she said half timidly. "i am of course _quite_ willing to do as you like--i mean as you think best--about going out at all or not. i know--i quite understood at the time that my godmother's taking me to the manor dance was an exception--a sort of extra thing altogether. and i am sure she couldn't be vexed if you said it was best for me not to go out any more just yet, and if ermine went instead. i do believe ermine," with a grateful glance in her second sister's direction, "i do believe ermine planned it to please me, and asked godmother to invite me instead of her." madelene looked relieved at this--some diplomacy had been exerted by ermine the day before at cheynesacre, she felt sure, and she was glad to think it had been thus simple--but ermine, though she reddened a little, replied rather abruptly. "no, ella. i did not really. the inviting you was aunt anna's own idea." "i will tell papa about it, ella, and see what he thinks," madelene said. "but thank you, dear, for what you say. i shall be so glad for you to believe that interfering with any pleasure for you is my very last wish." chapter fifteen. sir philip burns his fingers. "of course she must go; it would seem like dictating to my lady to make any difficulty about it," colonel st quentin replied, when the subject of the cheynesacre invitation was mentioned to him by madelene. "what conceivable reason is there why she should not go?" "i am very glad indeed for her to go," said madelene gently. "i only-- was not sure, papa, how you might feel about it, because you know you would not let her go to the manor dance at first, not till--" "not till my aunt made a point of it and then i gave in, for which i suppose you think me very inconsistent--well, well, i am not going to defend myself, my dear. i dare say i am inconsistent and weak and foolish and in my dotage--what you like," he replied irritably. "but one thing, madelene, is certain, i am not going to quarrel with my aunt. she seems to have taken a fancy to ella and she may be a good friend yet to the poor child. and heaven only knows how soon she may need a friend." colonel st quentin sighed or groaned--his daughter knew the peculiar sound and it was inexpressibly trying to her. "papa," she said, "you don't know how you pain me when you take that tone about ella. of course i am delighted for her to go--but really sometimes i don't know how to please you." "well--well--never mind. i didn't want to vex you. but i have something more important to consult you about. i have a letter from mrs marchant--did you know they had asked ermine to stay there and that she had refused?" "no," said madelene in surprise. "i know something was said about it at the manor when we met them there--both mr and mrs marchant and a brother of his were there, and they were speaking of gaieties they are going to have. but it was not definite. and why should ermine have refused, without even telling me?" madelene's voice sounded aggrieved. "nor me," said her father. "but it is very sensible of mrs marchant to have written to me. she says she is sure ermine would enjoy it, and that she only gave some vague reason of being wanted at home, or something of that kind. there is no reason why she should not go, is there?" "none whatever, and every reason why she should," said madelene eagerly. "papa, will you speak to her yourself, and say you wish it? she has only refused out of some exaggerated idea that we can't get on without her here, and it is such a pity for ermine to get in the way of shutting herself up. she enjoys society and shines in it; she is quite different from me." colonel st quentin glanced up at his daughter as she spoke. her face was a little flushed with the interest of what she was saying, but still she looked ill and less serene than her wont. "i don't see why you should speak so of yourself, maddie," he said kindly. "when i get round again--when the weather's a little better, perhaps, couldn't we ask a few people? it might cheer us up--and little ella would enjoy it." miss st quentin listened in surprise, not wholly unmingled with a less innocent sensation. for madelene was not perfect. "he would do for ella already what he has never dreamt of doing for me," she thought with a passing flash of bitterness. but she quickly overcame it. "if you felt able for it, certainly, papa. we might think of some nice people. that would be when ermine comes back. let me see--when do the marchants want her?" she took up the letter which her father held out to her, and some discussion as to the journey and other details followed. and then madelene, with a brighter face than she had had for some time, went off to summon ermine to an interview with her father. at luncheon that day ella was struck with the increased cheerfulness of the family party, and for some little time her powers of discernment were baffled as to the cause. "can papa have decided i am not to go, and can they be looking so pleased on that account?" she said to herself. "can they--madelene at least, for after all it is she that is looking the cheeriest, _can_ she be so horrid?" but as no allusion was made to the cheynesacre invitation--which in point of fact had for the moment been forgotten by the elders of the party in the greater excitement of ermine's projected visit--she could not or would not not approach the subject, till her elder sister and she happened to be by themselves. then said ella in a voice which though sounding timid and even meek was in reality soft with restrained indignation. "have you asked papa, madelene? is--is ermine to go, then?" "of course," miss st quentin replied. "he decided at once and he has told her so. in her heart i am sure she is pleased though she is pretending to grumble a little. but i am so pleased--and i am sure philip will be too to see her there, though he won't be there the first part of the time." ella scarcely attended to the latter part of this speech, so _almost_ boiling over with indignation did she feel. "oh indeed," she said icily. "then of course you will explain it all to my godmother. i should like to have thanked her for thinking of me, but for the future i hope she will not go through the mockery of inviting me." madelene stared at her. "what do you mean, ella? what has aunt anna got to do with it? and, by the by," as the first hazy perception of some element of cross-purposes began to penetrate to her brain, "how did you know about ermine's going at all? she couldn't have told you about it when she hadn't told me?" and there was an accent of pain in the last words. ella stared in turn. "you told me yourself--this morning at breakfast when lady cheynes' invitation came," said she. madelene stood still and began to laugh. "my dear child," she exclaimed, "i am so sorry. i had forgotten all about to-morrow. yes, certainly you are to go--you and i. papa is _quite_, pleased, and of course if he is, i am. what i was talking about was quite another matter," and she went on to tell ella all about the invitation ermine had received and her pleasure that it was to be accepted. never had madelene been so confiding and companionable to her before; she seemed a different creature. "she _is_ very unselfish," thought ella, and she felt ashamed of her own suspicions, as she heartily joined in madelene's pleasure. "you see," miss st quentin went on, "we have lived rather a shut-up life--for even travelling is often shut-up, though it sounds absurd to say so, and ermine is still young--i don't want her to begin fancying she is not. i should like her to go about more." "you would like her to marry, wouldn't you?" said ella, calmly, though softly. but the calmness rather took madelene's breath away. "yes," she said honestly, though the colour deepened a little in her fair face. "i should. but," she went on rather confusedly, for to her there seemed something slightly coarse in the bald connection of the two ideas, "it isn't exactly that--girls often marry just as happily who stay at home." ah, thought ella, i understand. "is it far from here where ermine is going?" she asked. "not very; still it is a new part of the country to her, which will make it all the nicer. philip will be there part of the time, too. they are old friends of his. mr marchant's half-brother (his mother married twice; her second husband is lord farrance) guildford west, was at school and college with him. he was at the manor. i dare say you danced with him. a small thin man, much smaller than philip and not nearly so good-looking." "i don't remember," said ella indifferently. "then you are quite sure you wish me to go to-morrow to cheynesacre?" she added. "of course," madelene repeated bewildered by the change in ella's tone, which had lost all its sympathetic softness again. "i am delighted that papa seems relaxing a little about you, and by degrees i hope it will be rather livelier for you here. if--" and here madelene, cold, stately madelene for the second time that afternoon blushed a little--"if ermine _were_ married, it would make everything seem brighter, i think." "yes," said ella, "to you i suppose it would do so, if she married somebody you thoroughly liked. and--if she were to live near you, too." she spoke with a kind of clear cold precision which would have caught madelene's attention had she been less pre-occupied. but she was full of pleasureable excitement about ermine's plans, and it was almost with an effort that she listened to ella. "yes, of course," she replied half absently, "that would make it much nicer." and ella drew her own conclusions. it was with curiously mingled feelings that she looked forward to the visit to her godmother's the next day. "very likely," she thought, "sir philip will not be there. as ermine isn't going madelene and his grandmother won't mind whether he is or not. no," she went on, "no, it isn't my godmother's doing. i won't think it. it is only madelene--i don't even feel sure that ermine herself wants it. she, i must say, always seems pleased to put me forward. i'll never forget madelene's face when she saw whom i was dancing with that evening at the manor." madelene however did not seem as devoid of interest in her young sister, as ella in her present mood would have liked to imagine. one of the prettiest of the frocks she had brought with her from her aunt's, was looked out and revived by melanie's skilful hands, under miss st quentin's own supervision, and ermine herself assisted at ella's toilet. "you look lovely,--doesn't she now, maddie?" she exclaimed, when madelene glanced in to say that the carriage was round. "now don't look forbidding--let me spoil the child a bit for once. that shade of pink does suit her--_almost_ better than white. it's the shade philip likes so--now, ella, don't forget to ask him _from me_ if it isn't his favourite colour." "do you often wear it?" said ella, meaningly. "bless the child, what does philip care what i wear?" exclaimed ermine. but madelene's displeasure was not to be mistaken this time. "ermine," she said coldly, "you really must not run on so heedlessly. of course philip cares. even if he were really our brother, as you like to say he seems--he would care. and he will care about ella too because she is our sister. but you shouldn't talk such nonsense--i mean send silly messages like that. it would make ella feel and look quite foolish." and she turned back for an instant as she and ella were going down stairs, to reprimand ermine still more sharply. "do you want to teach the child to flirt?" she asked. "you have agreed with me that there was quite enough tendency of the kind about her already. you will be getting into trouble, ermine, if you don't take care--making her fancy philip is in love with her, and preparing great unhappiness for her, poor child, perhaps." but ermine only laughed. "nonsense, maddie," she said. "why must you always be so gloomy about everything? you really needn't be so cross to me when i've given in _so_ sweetly about going to the marchants--all to please you, you know." and madelene could not resist her kiss, nor resent the whispered warning at the last moment--not to spoil ella's evening by looking severe. ella was scarcely in a humour to have been much depressed or impressed by her sister's looks. her spirits rose with every yard that separated them from coombesthorpe, and when they arrived at cheynesacre and were received in the drawing-room by her godmother the girl flew into her arms as if she had been a caged bird escaping at last from its gloomy prison into sunshine and brightness. "oh, dear godmother, dear, dear godmother," she whispered, "i am so pleased to be with you again." it was impossible not to be touched; she was so genuinely sweet, and she looked so pretty. there were tears in the old lady's eyes, as she kissed her god-daughter. "my dear little ella," she said. "then you have forgiven me?" "forgiven you?" ella repeated; "what for, dear godmother?" "for the trick i played you, or helped to play you and philip here the other evening? philip has forgiven me--it really was very funny." sir philip came forward from the other side of the screen where he had been talking to madelene. "ella has done better than i, granny," he said, as he shook hands with her. "she has not only forgiven but forgotten, it appears." ella started a little when he spoke of her by name. it was still difficult to disassociate him from the attractive "stranger" of the manor ball. "i think it _was_ rather too bad of them all," she said, "but i _couldn't_ have been vexed with godmother when it was all her doing--all the deliciousness of going to the dance at all." she had no time to say more, barely to catch sight of the grave expression with which madelene was listening to her, when she was interrupted by the arrival of other guests. there was a party of fourteen, all strangers to ella, though several among them recognised her as the lovely "miss wyndham" who had so puzzled everybody at the manor. ella's squire was a man who declared he had not yet recovered from the disappointment of her not having given him a dance on the occasion in question. he was evidently an adept at flirting and seemed very disappointed when a few words from his charming companion proved that that was "not her style." not so, sir philip, whose dark eyes spoke satisfaction when he overheard the ladylike little snub, for he had arranged with his grandmother that ella should be his neighbour on the left. "she will be so much of a stranger; it is really the first time she has dined here properly," he said, and lady cheynes made no difficulty. that dinner was a very pleasant experience to ella. philip's manner was perfect. he made her feel quite at home, even while taking care that no one present could have suspected such care was required. "it is the first time i have really felt as if i had _not_ been brought up a stranger to them all," thought she to herself, and the only thing that in the least marred her complete satisfaction was the catching sight now and then of madelene's eyes fixed upon her with an anxious, almost, ella could have imagined, pitying expression. "she thinks i am having my head turned," thought ella, with a slight involuntary toss of the said head. "and she is pitying me too for imagining that sir philip could possibly care about _me_, when all his _devoirs_ are, or should be, consecrated to ermine." and it was with increased determination to resist any attempt at restraint which madelene might try, that ella responded in her sweetest and most charming manner to her "step"-cousin's attentions. her godmother was not displeased, thus much was certain. for she called the girl to her in the drawing-room after dinner, to introduce her to her old friend lady beltravers, who with her husband made two of the guests, and made her sit beside her while she fondled and petted her. "i must make much of her, you see," she said half apologetically to lady beltravers. "she has been away from us for so long! it is not like having a godchild of one's own, never to see her, is it? did philip take good care of you at dinner, my dear child?" she went on, turning to ella. "he would not give you up to any one else, i assure you, though by rights mrs monkerton should have been at his left side." lady beltravers smiled kindly at ella. "i wish we had any young people about us," she said with a little sigh. "my son has no children, you know--and then he is always so busy. won't you bring miss st quentin--" "call me `ella,' please," interrupted the girl. "i'm not miss st quentin, and besides--any friend of dear godmother's--" "ella, then," went on the old lady, completely _subjuguee_--"won't you bring ella over to see me, while she is with you? we might make up a little party--it is so near christmas and there are a few young people in the neighbourhood just now--let me see, the day after to-morrow--" "but i am not staying here after to-morrow," said ella gently, "my sister and i are going back to coombesthorpe to-morrow morning." "yes," said madelene, who at that moment joined the group, "we must be off early, too. there are such a lot of things to do just at christmas time. we have to settle about christmas day too, aunt anna. papa does so hope you and philip will come to us." "on one condition," said lady cheynes quickly, "and that is that you will leave me ella till then. i will bring her back to you on christmas eve, that is next monday, without fail. ermine leaves--let me see, when is it?" "the day after christmas," madelene replied. "ah, well then, it would of course be selfish to take ella from you when you are alone. but till then--you and ermine will have lots of preparations to make for her visit; this child here would only be in the way." madelene murmured something about "papa." her face was a curious study, so mingled were its expressions--of pleasure and even excitement, of almost wistful anxiety and misgiving. ella watched her closely; the misgiving she was quick to see, not so the pleasure. "of course she will find some reason against it," thought the girl. lady cheynes tapped miss st quentin on the arm. "come, maddie, my dear," she said, "you are keeping us all waiting. lady beltravers too." madelene coloured. "i don't really think it is for me to decide, aunt anna," she replied. "you have quite as much--more--voice in it than i. i should be delighted for ella to stay--and i am almost sure papa would be so too." "then put it upon me," said the old lady decidedly. "tell your father _i_ kept ella--subject to his approval of course--if he doesn't like it, he may send over to fetch her home to-morrow afternoon." ella crept to her godmother's side and threw her arms round lady cheynes ecstatically. "oh, godmother, how sweet you are! oh, madelene, you _will_ make papa let me stay, won't you?" madelene smiled: it was impossible to resist ella sometimes. "i do hope it will do no harm," thought the elder sister to herself. just then sir philip and the other men came in; madelene was asked to play, and ella to sing, her sister accompanying her. it was the first time philip had heard her. "i had no idea you sang so beautifully," he said to her when the little performance was over, and miss st quentin was engaged in accompanying another member of the party. ella's eyes sparkled. "do you really think i sing well? i am so pleased," she said simply. "i know you are a good judge. ermine told me so. she and madelene like my singing, i think. it--it is one of the few things madelene seems to approve of in me," she added with bitterness that was real though she tried to say it lightly as if in jest. philip looked at her with grave concern in his eyes. "are you in earnest, ella?" he said; "real earnest, as the children say?" ella gave what in a less elegant and perfectly well-bred young person might have been called "a wriggle." "i don't want to talk about it," she said. "about your sisters you mean?" he went on. "i certainly don't want to do so either if, as i fear, you are unfairly prejudiced against them. at least i should be sorry to hear you say anything unfair, which--which might," but here he hesitated. "don't think i am setting myself up as a judge," he went on, "but it is possible i might be able to make you see things differently. i know my cousins so well, so thoroughly, and yet i think i can see that the position of things is difficult for you all." "i have nothing to say against ermine," said ella quickly, with a sudden access of generosity. "ermine is very good to me--" she glanced at philip as she spoke: a pleased look had stolen into his eyes. "ah," thought ella. "i am glad to hear you say that," he said eagerly; "but mad--" "oh, for that matter," ella went on, "i don't mean to say that _practically_ madelene is not good to me too. but--it is she who is prejudiced it seems to me," she added with rather a wintry smile; "she does not judge me fairly. i don't understand her, nor she me--that is the truth of it, i suppose. i don't think she has ever been young, or had young feelings. she is so frightfully cold and measured, and she thinks every one should see things precisely as she does." philip smiled too, but in his smile there was little more mirth than in ella's. "madelene cold and unfeeling!" he exclaimed. "my dear child, how little you know her! i allow," he went on hastily, noticing an expression on her face which irresistibly reminded him of the days when she used to stamp her feet at "big phil" if he refused to gallop about with her as much as she wanted, "i allow that madelene's _manner_ is often against her. very often the very extent and depth of her feeling makes her seem colder from the effort she puts on herself to be self-controlled." "that's what is always said of cold, stiff, reserved people," ella answered. "just _because_ you can't see or feel their feelings you are told to believe in them doubly! i hate reserved people." philip was a little taken aback. "i think they are rather to be pitied," he said quietly. the words were not without their effect on ella, but she would not show it. "you--" she began, but a little quaver in her voice made her hesitate, "you won't make me like madelene any better for taking her part against me," she said with a sort of incipient sob. philip laid his hand on her pretty white arm. "dear ella," he said with genuine distress in his voice, "how can you mistake me so? if you only understood better! my only wish is that you should not make yourself unhappy when there is no need for it." ella swallowed down one or two tears before replying. "i am happy _here_," she said. "i am always happy with dear godmother. i wish, sir philip, you would let me forget about home troubles for a little. i think you might--you are going away soon to amuse yourself; you needn't grudge me my little bit of holiday." philip grew more and more annoyed. "i have done no good, i see," he said in a tone of vexation. "indeed i have done harm--for i have made you indignant with me for meddling. i wish to goodness--" but here he stopped. "what?" said ella, gently. "i wish you were miss wyndham, or miss anybody except what you are," he said petulantly. "you will now always be thinking i am `taking parts,' or some nonsense of that kind." "no--i don't want to think that," she replied glancing up at him half shyly with a sort of deprecation in her lovely eyes. "thank you--thank you for saying that," he replied eagerly. "indeed you would be doing me the greatest injustice if you--" but at that moment as he was bending towards ella, speaking though earnestly, in a lower tone than usual, a voice interrupted them. it was that of miss st quentin, who had risen from the piano. "ella," she said in her quiet, impassive way, "i want you to take ermine's part in that duet that she and i have just got. i am sure you can manage it." ella rose at once, though without speaking. "upon my word," said sir philip to himself, "madelene is strangely deficient in tact. she might trust me to do the child no harm--she knows how anxious i am to bring about a more cordial state of feeling." and his manner towards his cousin for the rest of the evening was decidedly a shade less cordial than it was wont to be. chapter sixteen. out in the cold. ella woke the next morning with that most delightful of all delightful feelings--the vague consciousness of something nice having happened ere she fell asleep. she slowly, half reluctantly opened her eyes-- "i do hope it wasn't only a dream," she murmured, but as she caught sight of the objects around her, the large bow-window with its curtains of richer material than the old faded chintz of the coombesthorpe "nursery," the toilet table with its marble top and large mirror, and the wardrobe of beautiful inlaid wood--for lady cheynes made a point of installing her little god-daughter in one of the "best" rooms--a smile crept over her face, and she closed her sleepy eyes again with a sensation of vivid satisfaction. no, it was no dream--she was to stay a whole week at cheynesacre, with her dear godmother. papa would never be so cruel as to send for her back again, whatever madelene said, and madelene had as good as promised to plead her cause, and after all she, ella, had no real reason for thinking her elder sister actually insincere. then her mind reverted to what sir philip had said the night before. "he thinks so very highly of madelene," thought ella, "and he must know her well. he speaks more of her than of ermine, but--" and a slight frown clouded her brow, "that _might_ mean that he cares most for ermine, really. how i wonder if he does! he shouldn't be--_quite_ like what he is to--to other girls, if he does. perhaps he's one of those men that can't help being charming to everybody," and at this point in her cogitations poor ella gave a deep sigh. "but any way," she went on, "ermine doesn't care for him, not _that_ way, though of course she might if it was put in her head." and then the quicksilver of her eighteen years refused to let her ponder any more. "i'm going to be happy--for a week at least, come what may," she said aloud as she sprang out of bed. "and as i'm his guest it's sir philip's business to make me enjoy myself, and it would be very surly of me not to." certainly it looked as if the host's task was not to be a very arduous one--never, in madelene's sight at least--had the girl been so sweet and bright and happy. "dear child, she seems in love with all the world," said her godmother when she and madelene were alone that morning for a few minutes before miss st quentin took her departure. "how i wish poor ellen could see her! it must make you feel happy, dear maddie, to see her so bright and blooming." but madelene did not respond as heartily as she really wished she could do. "she is so different at home, aunt anna," she said. "she seems as if she could not trust us, me especially. it seems unnatural in one so young and impressionable," and she sighed. "it will all come right," said the old lady cheerily; "you are too gloomy, maddie." she did not understand the new direction of madelene's anxieties; had she overheard a word or two that passed between the cousins as philip stood at the carriage door saying good-bye, she might have been enlightened. "philip," miss st quentin whispered, "i must say one word to you at the risk of offending you. i hope i am doing right in leaving ella--phil dear, don't be angry with me--remember she is very, very young and--you know you can be so very charming." the blood mounted to the young man's forehead. "madelene," he said, "i really sometimes cannot understand you. do you want me to be actually unkind to your half-sister? do you think _that_ would mend matters?" and he turned coldly away. "i wish i had not gone," said madelene to ermine when the sisters were together again at coombesthorpe. "it has only made philip angry with me, and done no good to ella. i wish aunt anna would adopt her altogether." "papa would never consent to that," said ermine, "at least not in the sense you mean, though in _my_ sense, nothing could be more delightful. i am enchanted that she is staying there--it would have been too stupid of you to oppose it." "i would have done so if i could," madelene replied. "i am so unhappy about ella for her own sake, ermine. i can see that she is already very much attracted by philip and--" "well? what could you possibly have to say against it? it won't be your doing." "i am afraid philip is only amusing himself. you know how charming he can be. and that would be dreadful for her, poor child. it has all come of that absurd comedy at the beginning of their acquaintance." "yes," said ermine, "i hope it has." colonel st quentin made not the smallest objections to ella's remaining at cheynesacre, and once satisfied as to this, the girl gave herself up to full enjoyment of the present. "i have never been so happy before," she said to her godmother on the last day of her stay. and she said truly. sir philip who was in the room at the time glanced at her as she spoke. "we must have a jolly christmas at coombesthorpe," he said. "poor maddie and ermine have had plenty of dull ones there." "have they?" said ella quickly. "well it must have been their own fault." "no, indeed it wasn't," philip replied rather coldly, "unless you call their unselfishness and patience their `fault.'" ella made no reply, but her bright face clouded over. an hour or two later when sir philip and she were on their way to the pond for "a last skate" as she said, he reverted to what had passed. "ella," he began, "since i saw that it vexed you the other night i have said nothing more about your--well i can only call it prejudice against your sisters. but i see it is still there. i wish i could disabuse you of it--you don't know how earnestly i wish it. you are so sweet and affectionate to every one else--i cannot really understand it." "it is often the case that near relations don't get on as well with each other as with--strangers," said ella somewhat primly. "but you don't count granny and me strangers, i hope?" he asked eagerly. "and granny is not a person that _every one_ gets on with." "perhaps not, but she loves me--i feel that she does. and i shouldn't mind _anything_ she said, not even if she scolded me badly--just because of that. and i never can feel that way to madelene. but i do get on very well now with ermine," she added though with a shade of reluctance. "dear ermine," said philip. "i can scarcely imagine the possibility of not `getting on' with her. everybody takes to her wherever she goes. i am so delighted she is going to the marchants," he added. "you are going too?" asked ella, though she knew it already. "yes. i hope to be there the first week of ermine's visit, at least," he replied. "oh," said ella, "that will be very pleasant." "delightful," replied philip absently. this time ella made no observation. suddenly philip turned to her again. "ella," he said, "do forgive me for harping on the subject, but don't you think all this might be put right? if you could show a little more confidence in madelene, a little more affection in your manner, she would, i feel certain, be quick to respond. i can't--" and here he hesitated, "i can't just yet tell you all i should like you to know--i wish i could--but some day you will understand better." ella felt choking. "understand"--did she not understand? but pride and some better feeling than pride, for after all she had no real grounds of complaint against sir philip, came to the rescue. "i _will_ try to be gentler and pleasanter at coombesthorpe, if you think it would do any good," she said bravely. "and changes come--it may not be for very long. i should like you and my godmother to know i had done my best, for--for the time we must be all together there." the tears trembled on her eyelashes, but she turned away to hide them: she did not see the expression on philip's face as he heard her words. she only heard his answer. "thank you, dear ella," he said. "i know you will do what you say, and you have made me very happy by speaking so, for i have been terribly afraid of making things worse instead of better, by my interfering. no--it may not be for long as you say. but you are so young, ella," and there was a half regretful intonation in his voice, "you will see things differently afterwards, and you will like to look back and feel that you have done your best." ella glanced up at him. there was a look in his eyes which made her cheeks flush. "dear ella," he added softly. "i will do my best," she repeated. and to herself she said, believing that she fully realised her words, that come what would she would deserve his approval. "even if he is only to be--a sort of brother to me," she thought, "i would like him to see that i try to be good." and she believed it was as a reward for her heroism that the world all about her looked so bright again, and some faint rays of wintry sunshine that lighted up the frost-besprinkled fields and palely gilded the tops of the dark fir-trees, seemed to her to glow with the warmth and brilliance of a midsummer sky. christmas passed with cheerfulness, if not exactly with "jollity," at coombesthorpe. colonel st quentin was still too much of an invalid to stand a large party, but a few old friends and neighbours joined the family circle. madelene was quiet as ever, but gentle and almost affectionate to ella, who, true to her promise, received her elder sister's advances in good part and refrained from all sharp or icy retorts, even when, as must happen, however good the will on both sides, perfect unanimity of opinion was not the case. and ermine was in such tremendously good spirits that the infection of them was to some extent irresistible. she was so gracious to philip that he, in his own mind, was a little puzzled by it, for a coldness, slight but yet to themselves tangible enough, still seemed to hang between madelene and himself. his cousins for once seemed to be at issue, he fancied, and he was small enough to try to punish madelene by a show of even extra responsiveness to ermine. and ella watched and wondered; sometimes feeling certain that her misgivings as to the state of things between philip and ermine were founded on fact; sometimes rising to a flutter of delight and hopefulness at some slight incident which seemed to prove to her conclusively that there was "nothing in it." "if there were," she said to herself more than once, "would madelene be vexed with him; as i am almost sure she is?" and yet--that there was perfect good feeling between him and ermine she could not doubt, and what that might not mean in reality she could not bear to think! wednesday--for christmas day had been a tuesday--saw the whole party scattered. lady cheynes returned home; ermine started on her journey to shenewood park, whither philip was to follow her the next day from cheynesacre. and ella, as she stood at the window watching the last carriage disappear, felt that now was the real test of her promise to philip. the prospect of a whole fortnight alone with madelene; madelene quieter and "duller," as ella expressed it, than she had yet known her, was not inspiriting. for curiously enough, though it was ermine whom the girl's fancy had erected into a rival, it was not on her, but entirely on her elder sister that she resented the fact. "i could never dislike ermine. she is so bright and open," thought ella, while a tear or two trickled unbidden down her face. "even as philip's wife i don't think i could ever be jealous of her. but it is so different with madelene; everything is calculation with her. she has settled that it would be a good thing for them to marry, and she is determined to carry it out--whether _they_ care enough for each other or not. _she_ has never cared for any one--that's certain." the mood was not a very propitious one, for some vague warnings which miss st quentin unluckily thought it her duty to give her younger sister. it was when they were sitting together in the already fading light that afternoon--ella after fidgeting about restlessly the whole day, having at last taken a book and settled herself in the library where madelene was already installed with what the younger girl mentally dubbed "that everlasting knitting of hers." but the book did not prove very interesting. ella yawned, then gave a sort of groan, and ended by flinging it aside. "do you not care for that book?" asked madelene calmly. "i think i like it. but the other new mudie books are in the drawing-room." "i don't think i should like any book to-day," said ella frankly. "i do feel so stupid. do you never feel that sort of way, madelene?" she went on with a sudden irresistible craving for sympathy. "as if--as if you didn't care for anything." madelene glanced at her half curiously. was this mere childishness-- or--were her fears for poor little ella's peace of mind already beginning to be realised? was this the first taste of the weary pain-- the sickness of heart which she herself had not yet grown innured to? "and in her case it would be ever so much worse," she said to herself, "if philip does not really care for her. i at least have always been sure of bernard, though even thus, heaven knows it has been hard to bear!" her heart ached for the young creature looking up at her with troubled eyes. but she must ignore what she still hoped was but superficial. "everybody knows that kind of feeling at times, i suppose," she said placidly. "it generally is a sort of reaction. we have had a little more excitement than usual, you see, and you enjoyed yourself very much at cheynesacre." "i never was so happy in my life," ella replied impulsively. "i am glad you liked it. philip is certainly a model host--he is a favourite everywhere, and deservedly, for he is very kind-hearted. and it says a good deal for him that his being such a favourite--especially with women--has not quite spoilt him." ella looked up sharply. "do you mean that he is a flirt?" she asked abruptly. madelene hesitated. "not exactly that," she said. "he may flirt a little sometimes but there is no harm in that. but he would never consciously, _intentionally go_ further than that. still his very kind-heartedness has its weak point; he cannot bear to see any one unhappy. and he is impressionable and impulsive in some ways--i should be a little anxious about throwing any--very inexperienced girl much in his society." "but you and ermine have always been thrown with him," said ella. miss st quentin drew herself up a little. "that is quite different," she said. "_i_ am, to all intents and purposes, older than philip." "but ermine is not," thought ella bitterly, though aloud she only replied, "oh yes, of course." ermine's letters came nearly every day, bright and sunny, overflowing with fun and enjoyment. now and then madelene gave one, or a part of one to ella to read, which the girl did eagerly, especially when sir philip's name was mentioned, as was constantly the case. "how much ermine seems to be enjoying herself," said ella one morning. "when i am what you consider _quite_ `out,' madelene, i may pay visits like this of hers, mayn't i?" they were at the breakfast-table. colonel st quentin, who by this time was as well as usual, overheard the remark. "i hope so," madelene was beginning with an ill-assured glance at her father, when he suddenly interrupted her. "i hope _not_, ella," he said. "that sort of thing would only put nonsense in your head. it is quite different for ermine." ella gazed at him in astonishment. his tone was not unkind, but very decided. to his last words she could give one interpretation--it was different for ermine because she was already tacitly engaged to philip, and but for this her father evidently would not have approved of her visiting by herself. ella felt herself grow pale, but she did not speak. "oh, papa," madelene interposed, "that is too sweeping. some day i hope ella _may_ see something of country-house society--with _me_ you would trust her?" colonel st quentin murmured something, of which ella only caught the words--"plenty of time--rational life for a girl." but she felt now as if she did not care. the next morning brought no letter from ermine, the day after came one which madelene read to herself with somewhat clouded brow. "ermine is so tiresome, papa," she said. "for some reason or other she seems to have got a fit of homesickness. just when i was so delighted to think she was enjoying herself. she actually talks of coming home the day after to-morrow." "umph," said colonel st quentin, "that will be friday. tell her i can't send to the station that day--brown is going to look at that new pair, and i won't trust parker's driving in this weather; she must stay any way till monday. is philip still there?" "no," said madelene, going on with her letter. "at least he is leaving to-day." "ah, well, that settles it. she might have arranged to come back with him had he been staying till friday, if she is _really_ home-sick, poor child. but as it is she must wait till monday." "i can't make her out quite," said madelene, "but i will tell her what you say. perhaps--if she is dull, i suppose she had better come home." ella went up stairs to her own room and stood gazing out at the cold, wintry landscape. it was a grey, sunless day. it seemed to her like an image of her own life. "why did i ever come here?" she said. "it would have been better, yes _far_ better, to have borne old barton's impertinence. only--poor aunty--it might have made _her_ unhappy! it would not now--i am so changed. i should be meek enough. what a fool i have been--to dream that philip cheynes had fallen in love with me! he was only amusing himself and thinking of ermine all the time. but _why_ did he? he must have seen i was a fool;" and her cheeks burnt as she recalled the little trifles--trifles at least, if put into words--looks and tones more than actual speech or action, which had seemed to her so significative. "and madelene suspects it. yes, i know she does. perhaps after all she has meant to do her duty by me. if she had only been a little more loving at the first i might have confided more in her; i might have been guided by her. but it is too late now. i won't stay here, where no one cares for me. they may keep my share of the money and everything. i don't want anything where i am not loved." what should she do? she could not decide. for the next day or two her head felt confused and dreamy--she longed to do something, to go somewhere, but lacked the energy to determine upon anything, and a vague, not unpleasing feeling came over her that perhaps she was going to be ill, to have a brain fever and die possibly, and that in this case it was not worth while planning to go away or anything. she must be looking very ill, she said to herself with some complacency, for more than once she caught madelene's eyes fixed upon her with an anxiety that was almost tender. "are you feeling ill, ella?" she said. but ella smiled and shook her head, and replied that she supposed it was the cold; she had never liked cold weather. so passed two or three days; then came the goad to sting her into action. nothing further had been heard or said about ermine's return, but on monday morning miss st quentin exclaimed eagerly, as she opened the letter-bag, which she was accustomed to do if she was down before her father. "ah, a letter from ermine at last! that's right. ella, dear, please put these letters on papa's plate. dear me--there is one with a shenewood envelope for him--whom can that be from? and--that's philip's writing. i wonder why he has not been over to see us?" almost as she spoke her father entered the room. he kissed his daughters, making some slight remark as he did so on the extreme coldness of the morning. "is that what is making you look so pale, ella?" he added as he caught sight of her face. again ella forced a smile and murmured something vaguely about disliking cold. but her father scarcely heard her reply. he had opened his letters and was immersed in them, unsuspicious of the keen attention with which his youngest daughter was observing him. his face grew grave, very grave indeed as he read the one from shenewood park which madelene had remarked upon: a slight look of relief overspread it as he glanced at the shorter letter from sir philip cheynes. "madelene," he said hastily, handing both to her across the table, "did you know anything of this?" and ella saw that the fingers which held out the letters trembled. miss st quentin read both quickly. then she looked at her father. "no," she said, "nothing at all." her voice was grave and she had grown rather pale, still to ella it seemed that her evident emotion was not caused by distress. "philip is coming over himself, i see," madelene said. "i am glad of that. talking is so much better than writing." colonel st quentin pushed back his chair from the table where stood his untasted breakfast. "i suppose so," he said; "but--you will think me very foolish maddie, but this has completely unhinged me. i can't eat--i will go to my own room, i think." "oh, papa," miss st quentin was beginning in a tone of remonstrance, when ella interrupted her. "is anything the matter?" she exclaimed. "you--you seem so strange, madelene, you and papa. if it is anything i am not to hear about, i would rather go away: i have nearly finished my breakfast." her little pale face looked almost as if she were going to cry. madelene seemed as if she did not know what to say or do. "it--it is nothing wrong," she said hastily, "but still not anything i can quite explain to you just yet." "it is something about ermine. i know that," said ella. "but if you don't mind i would rather go, and then you and papa can talk freely." and almost before they quite understood what she was saying, she had gone. "has she had her breakfast really?" said her father, glancing at ella's plate. "yes, i suppose so. but she isn't looking well, madelene. i think we must have felton to look at her. however--just for the moment i can only think of ermine. give me that letter again. philip will be able to tell us more. what crotchet has ermine got in her head about anything of the kind being `impossible'? i'm not such a selfish old tyrant as all that, surely! and if i were--while i have _you_, maddie--" "yes, papa," miss st quentin replied, though her own lip quivered a little. "yes, with _me_, i hope you would never feel deserted. and this is what we must impress upon ermine, if--as seems the case-- everything else is favourable and desirable." then they read the letter over again more than once indeed, with eager anxiety to discover from the written lines all they possibly could as to the writer. "it is a nice manly letter," said madelene at last. "but ermine will be angry, i fear." and ella meanwhile had flown up stairs to her "nursery," the scene of her mature as well as of her childish trials. it had come at last, the certainty of the event she had so dreaded. ermine and philip were to be openly engaged. must she stay to see it? could she bear it? pride said yes; her hot, undisciplined girl's heart said no. and in this conflict she passed the morning, till suddenly a sort of compromise suggested itself. she would write to her aunt phillis--surely she could trust _her_? "i will tell her that i am very unhappy here and ask her to write at once inviting me to go to her. she will do it, i am sure. i will promise her to be as nice as possible to mr burton. oh, if only i can get away i shall not care about him or anything!" chapter seventeen. ella overhears. the letter was soon written. but then came the question of how to post it. ella would not send it openly with the rest of the letters as usual, for she was afraid of madelene's catching sight of it. "i will take it to the post-office in the village myself," she decided. "they won't miss me. they are far too busy and absorbed about ermine. and sir philip will very likely be coming over to luncheon. how i wish i could say i was ill and keep out of the way! it is too hard to feel myself a complete stranger and alien in my own home--and it will cut me off from dear godmother too. i can never see much of _her_ now." a few minutes saw her wrapped up and making her way down the drive. it reminded her of that other morning only a very few weeks ago when she had found little hetty in distress at the lodge and had stopped to help her, and when, all unconscious of her smutty face, she had met philip at the gate. she had not even known his name then, and now--if only he had not been philip cheynes, but a stranger as she had imagined him! he had once wished she were really "miss wyndham." "i wonder why," thought ella. "perhaps if i _had_ been a stranger everything would have been different. there would have been no madelene to interfere and stop it all. and i was so sure ermine did not care for him--i wonder how it has all come about." but she felt as if she dared not let her thoughts dwell on it. she hurried on, safely posted her letter, and turned to go home again without misadventure. it was not till she was within the lodge gates, walking more slowly now that she had accomplished her purpose, that it suddenly struck her what a risk she had run of meeting sir philip, and she started as she realised this, and for half a moment stood still to reflect if she could not reach the house by some other way. but no-- there was no choice of road till much nearer home--and then, as if evoked by her fears, the sound of a horse approaching at a steady trot broke on her ears. it was some way off, even a slight noise travelled far in the clear frosty air, but ella had a long way to walk still before she could reach the concealment of the shrubberies, and where she was now standing her figure stood out clear and distinct against the sky. "if it is he, he has seen me already," she thought with a sort of shiver, and she started off almost at a run, from time to time stopping for a moment both to take breath and to listen if the horse and his rider were indeed coming her way. yes--she heard them stopping at the lodge gate--then on again, faster, a good deal faster, surely! "he has recognised me," thought ella, running now at full speed, till her heart beat almost to suffocation and her breath came in panting sobs. she was near the shrubbery now--and once there she could easily elude him--another effort, though she was all but breathless now, and-- no, it was too late! "ella!" cried the voice she knew so well, "what in the world is the matter? what _are_, you running away in that mad fashion for?" she had to stop--it was almost a relief to her that she was physically incapable of speaking--her face was scarlet, she panted so that sir philip was really startled. she tried to laugh, but the convulsive effort quite as nearly resembled a sob. "ella," philip repeated, "can't you tell me--can't, you speak?" "it--it is nothing," she replied at last. "i have only been running." "but why were you running so? it is wrong, it may really hurt you. you will probably catch cold if you overheat yourself so," he went on seeming vexed and uneasy. "we might have walked up together comfortably from the lodge, as we did the day i brought you back your shoe. do you remember?" did she remember? ella gave an instant's glance at him, but without speaking. "_is_ anything the matter?" philip went on. "your father is not ill?" "oh, no," she said. "i have scarcely seen him and madelene this morning. they are expecting you, i know. i think--is it not a pity to keep them waiting?" sir philip had got off his horse by this time. he gave an impatient exclamation. "say plainly you don't want to speak to me, and i will understand you, ella," he said. "there is no such tremendous hurry for my seeing your father and madelene. i was in such spirits," he went on reproachfully. "i don't think i ever felt so happy in my life as i did this morning when i was riding over, and when i caught sight of you i thought it such a piece of luck--" his voice dropped a little, and his dark eyes looked quite pathetic--"and now you have spoilt it all. i don't understand you this morning, ella." "there is nothing to understand or not to understand," said the girl, trying, though not very successfully to speak lightly. "i didn't particularly want to speak to you, and i didn't suppose you wanted particularly to speak to me. i--i heard a little this morning, though they don't take me into their confidence. but i know they are waiting for you, and anxious to see you and talk it over." philip looked at her curiously. she did not seem, as to him it would have appeared natural that she should do, either excited or much interested. ermine however was not her own sister, he said to himself. perhaps that made a difference, for that she was either self-absorbed or cold-hearted he could not for an instant believe. "there is really no such tremendous hurry," he repeated. "uncle marcus will be all the better for a little time in which to digest the news. they might as well have told you all about it. madelene's conscientiousness and caution run riot sometimes. i should like you to understand it all, and i am quite--" "oh no, no, please no!" she cried, putting her hands hastily to her ears. "i don't want you to--i would much rather wait for madelene to tell me. please--please let me go now. i hope it will be all right, and you know i do care for ermine, and i do want her to be happy." "of course you do. whoever doubted it?" he replied, half smiling at her strange manner. "but, ella--" his words were wasted. before she had heard them ella was off. she darted away, for she had recovered her breath by now, and was hidden among the neighbouring thick-growing shrubs, whose shelter she had all but reached before sir philip had first accosted her. he stood for a moment looking after her, his brows knit, his bright face clouded with perplexity. but it would scarcely do for him to run after her, as if they were a couple of children playing at "i spy." besides which he had his horse to think of. so he slowly mounted again and rode on to the house. "something has rubbed her the wrong way this morning," he said. "madelene's mistaken want of confidence probably. maddie means well, but she doesn't understand ella. and there is some excuse for it. she does seem such a child, and yet she is not really childish." he drew a long breath. "perhaps granny is right about waiting, but i don't know. one _can't_ make rules in such matters, and one may run great risks. i will not let any misunderstanding come between us--that i will not do. before i leave to-day, i will tell her all there is to tell about ermine, and show her she is in _my_ confidence at least." and with no very serious misgiving the young man rang at the hall door and was told that the master of the house was expecting him and would see him in his own room. it was one of the days of ella's "lessons." her german teacher was due at two o'clock. as a rule a very little haste at luncheon left her free by the time appointed, which could not have been easily altered as fraulein braune's "time" to her, poor woman, was "money." but when ella came into the dining-room at half-past one no one was there. a sudden idea struck her: it would be the greatest possible relief to escape making one at the family party. she helped herself hastily to a slice of cold meat, and having eaten it quickly, took a piece of cake in her hand and rang the bell. barnes, who was extra attentive and condescending to-day, as he scented some news in the air, appeared in person. "tell miss st quentin and my father," said ella coolly, "that i could not wait to have luncheon with them as i should be too late for fraulein braune." "certainly, miss hella," barnes replied patronisingly. "it will be of no consequence, i feel sure. my master and miss st quentin _and_ sir philip are still hengaged in the study. orders not to be disturbed. it will do if i explain your absence, miss, when the colonel comes in to luncheon?" ella did not trouble herself to reply. she detested barnes, and he, on his side, did not love her. their intercourse had _debute_ badly; ella had never forgotten or forgiven the half-suspicious condescension with which he had received her on her first unexpected appearance at coombesthorpe, and had she better understood the facts of her position there, she would have been still more irate. for carefully as the st quentins believed themselves to have kept private all the details of their family history such things always leak out. there was not a servant of any intelligence in the establishment who was not thoroughly aware that the place and the money belonged to the two elder sisters, that "the colonel, poor gentleman," had lost his own fortune in risky investments, and that the young daughter of his penniless second wife was to all intents and purposes a pauper. "but for the goodness of our own young ladies," barnes, _plus royaliste que le roi_, was wont to say, "miss hella, for all her high and mightiness, would have to earn her daily bread--and a deal of good it would do her." fraulein braune was punctual: the hour of her lesson passed heavily to-day; it was very difficult for ella to give her usual attention. the german was a good, tender-hearted creature, who had known too much suffering in life herself not to recognise the symptoms of it in another, though she smiled inwardly as she thought that trivial indeed and probably imaginary must be the troubles of one so placed as her fortunate pupil--"young, lovely, rich, surrounded by friends, what can she really have to grieve about?" "my dear, you are tired to-day," she said kindly. "you have a headache i see. there is only a quarter of an hour more. let us spend it in conversation. would the open air do you good?" ella gladly acceded. "i will walk to the furthest gates with you, fraulein," she said, "and we will talk as we go. i have a headache, but it is not a real one; it is because i am unhappy." the gentle woman gave her a glance of sympathy, but she tempered her sympathy with common-sense. "beware, my child," she said, as they walked down the drive, "of _imagining_ causes of unhappiness. one is so apt to do so when one is young," and she sighed. "ah, but i have some real troubles," ella replied, "troubles that no one could deny. i have no mother, you know, fraulein, and only half-sisters who till lately were complete strangers to me." "certainly the want of a mother is a great want," her companion agreed. "but an elder sister may go far towards making up for it." "ye-es, sometimes," acquiesced ella. but the tone was enough. "poor little girl," thought fraulein braune when she left her, "she does seem lonely. and she is so lovable! miss st quentin must be of a cold nature." ella retraced her steps: it was cold, but she walked slowly. she felt sure sir philip would not be staying long; as he had come over so early, and she wandered about the grounds, choosing the side of the house from which she would not be visible to any one leaving it, in hopes of not re-entering it till he had gone. but it grew too chilly at last. she determined to make her way in by the conservatory whence she could run up stairs to her own room without much risk of meeting any one. the conservatory felt pleasantly warm: she lingered in it for a moment or two, not observing at first that the door leading from it into the drawing-room was open, nor indeed attaching any consequence to the fact when she did observe it: the drawing-room was never used by the family in the earlier part of the day. suddenly she heard voices. they were those of madelene and her cousin. "i can't find it, philip," said the former. "aunty must forgive my carelessness. i will send it back to-morrow before her mudie box goes." "may not ella know where it is?" sir philip suggested. "possibly. i think i saw her reading it. but she is at her german lesson and it is a pity to interrupt her." "goodness, madelene, you talk as if she were about twelve years old," said philip irritably. "when are you going to allow the poor girl to consider herself grown-up? at her age, you--" "it is no good going back upon what i was," miss st quentin interrupted. "i was quite different, and circumstances were quite different. i do my best with ella, though i fear i don't succeed in making her happy. it has been a sore subject." "when--when ermine goes, you must make more of a companion of her," sir philip suggested. "and then--some day--if ella goes in the same way--" "it would simplify matters of course; that is to say if it was for her happiness," said madelene, half reluctantly, it seemed to ella. "i should rather think it would. why _then_ omar might take up his quarters here for good. he would be a perfect right-hand to uncle marcus. i can understand your feeling that with ella here it might not be a pleasant or natural position for him. uncle marcus scarcely counts as a third person--he is so much in his own room." "philip, don't talk about it," said madelene decidedly. "you almost seem to want to tempt me into wishing ella away. very certainly with both her and my father in a sense on my hands i have no right to undertake other ties. and if _both_ ermine and i married, it would complicate matters financially, you know." "yes, i do know," said philip, "and i repeat what i said. it would be a very good thing if ella--" "oh, do be quiet, philip," said madelene in a tone almost of entreaty. "she is much too young, and--by the time there is any prospect of her being provided for, it will be too late for me." sir philip gave a sort of grunt, which did not express assent, but he said no more. "it is cold in here," said madelene. "come back to the library." "i must be going," he replied. "you have letters to write i know, and if ella is to be shut-up at her lessons all the afternoon, the prospect is not lively." then ella heard them leave the room. with a rush there came over her the realisation of what she had been doing--"listening!" her face grew scarlet with shame but not for long. "i could not have helped it," she thought with a kind of defiance. "their very first words were about me: i should never have known the truth had i interrupted them. and at all costs it was best to know it. now i need have no hesitation. i will not stay another night here--they shall never be troubled by me again." her face glowed as she recalled some of the expressions she had overheard. then again she felt perplexed at certain allusions she could not explain. what did madelene mean by speaking of "financial" complications? "we are all three sisters; it isn't as if one of us were a son," she thought. "even if most is to go to madelene as the eldest, papa is certainly rich enough to provide well for ermine and me too. not that i want their money--i shall let them see that. i don't in the least mind earning my own living, and i am sure i am able to do so. i should thank papa, i suppose, for having made me work hard since i have been here. it is as if he had foreseen it." then her thoughts took another turn. who was "omar"? some one that madelene was to marry, or would have married already, it appeared, but for her, ella's, unlucky advent. "everything of course, everything unfortunate is put upon my shoulders," she reflected bitterly. "still madelene _means_ to be good and unselfish, i do believe. she shall not be sacrificed to me. and when she is married to this mr omar, whoever he is, and ermine to sir philip, i _don't_ think they will have much to reproach me with, `sore subject' though i am." she sat still for a moment or two till she felt a little more collected. then she crept quietly up stairs to her own room, locked the door by way of precaution and set to work. all her belongings were together and in neat order. "it will be quite easy for any one to pack everything up," she thought. then she dressed herself in her warmest clothes, put a few things into a bag not too heavy for her to carry, and when all was ready, sat down to write a few words, which, as is the fashion of heroines in such circumstances, she fastened conspicuously to her toilet pincushion. the note was addressed to miss st quentin and contained these words:-- "i overheard what you and sir philip were talking about in the drawing-room; i know it was dishonourable to listen, but i could not help it, after the first. it is not my fault that i have been such a sore trouble to you hitherto, but it would be if i stayed here, knowing better now. i will write to you when my plans are settled, but it isn't any use sending after me, as i am not going anywhere you know. i hope you will be very happy--and i hope ermine will be very happy too. please tell papa i see now how wise it was to make me go on with my lessons. "your affectionate sister,-- "ella marcia st quentin." then ella made her way quietly down stairs, and out by a side-door. she met no one, and keeping as long as possible in the shade of the shrubberies, she gained the lodge, then the outer gates, a quarter of a mile further off, finding herself finally on the high road to coombe. she knew her way quite well, though it was now growing dusk. she knew too what she meant to do, so she walked on without hesitating. "i have nearly three pounds in my purse," she reflected. "that will do. but i must get on as fast as i can. i don't suppose madelene will miss me till about five o'clock; it must be almost that now, and if they sent along the road they might overtake me." she hastened her steps; there was a short cut to coombe through the lanes, which she knew, and by walking very fast, she reached her destination without risk of being overtaken. chapter eighteen. a decided step. fraulein braune was sitting in her modest lodging over the coombe post-office when the door opened and the maid-servant announced a visitor. the good lady started up in surprise, but before she had time to greet the new-comer, the latter cautiously shut the door, and then hastened towards her exclaiming as she threw off her hat and veil. "it is i, fraulein, ella st quentin. i have come to ask you a great favour. will you let me stay with you for to-night? i have left my home and i don't want them to know where i am just yet. next week--as soon as i am settled--i shall write to them, but not yet. i must first--" "you have run away from home," interrupted the governess. "oh, my dear miss ella, that is a sad step to take! think how frightened they will all be." "no," said ella, "i have taken care of that. and i had the best reasons. there has been no quarrel, but i have found out that i am a great burden and trouble to them all. it will be an immense relief to them. i cannot explain all without telling you what i have no right to tell, but you must believe what i say. it is not as if i had been brought up at home. i have only been with them about eight months: they will soon forget i have been there at all and everything will get straight now i have left." ella spoke so fast and decidedly that for a moment or two fraulein braune felt confused and bewildered. but though timid and gentle she was a woman of considerable common-sense. she saw that for the moment at least, there was no use in arguing with the girl. "and what do you propose to do then, my dear?" she said. "where will you go to-morrow when you leave this--if--if it is arranged for you to stay here to-night?" ella looked at her for a moment or two without speaking. "fraulein," she said, "you must be candid with me. i came to you because i thought i could trust you. but if i am mistaken, if you intend to do anything towards making me go home again, or telling my people where i am, then i tell you plainly i will go away from this house at once leaving no trace of myself, and neither you nor any one will be able to find me again, i warn you." the governess considered a moment. ella looked resolute and probably meant what she said. "what do you want me to promise you, my dear?" fraulein braune said quietly. "that you will not--you must give me your word of honour that you will not--tell any of my people anything about me till or unless i give you leave." "very well," fraulein braune replied. "i give you my promise. there is little fear but that they will be able to find her at once if they think it best to set to work vigorously," she reflected. "and anything is better than that she should be seen running about by herself, or that she should take some foolish step through her inexperience--i give you my promise," she repeated. ella looked relieved. "then," she said. "i will tell you my plan," and she proceeded to do so. when she had finished, she looked up at the german lady inquiringly. "it is not a bad plan?" she asked. "there is nothing wild and silly about it." "no," fraulein braune replied, "i don't know that there is if, that is to say, your leaving your home is absolutely unavoidable. but, my dear miss ella, one thing i must insist upon. i will go to london with you to-morrow. i cannot let you travel alone." "i'm not the least afraid of travelling alone," began ella hastily, "and i have the exact address. and--it will cost a good deal, fraulein, even if we go second-class and--i haven't much money." "you shall repay me some day," said the good governess, "but that i go with you is decided. it must be--on every account." ella sighed. "it is very kind of you," she said, "but i wish you wouldn't." there was determination however, as well as kindness in fraulein braune's grey eyes. ella had to give in. she shared her friend's evening meal, though not daring to eat as much as she was inclined to do, when she saw how very modest it was. she would not allow the governess to give up her bed to her, as she wished, but insisted on spending the night with the aid of a pillow or two, on the little hair-covered sofa in the sitting-room. it was not very comfortable, she owned to herself, when fraulein braune had left her, _very_ much less so than the cosy bed in the despised "nursery" at coombesthorpe. and she was hungry too, really hungry, for she had had no luncheon to speak of, no afternoon tea at all, a very long walk in the cold and only enough supper to whet her hearty girlish appetite! "i must get used to it," she said to herself. "i can't expect more than the bare necessaries of life now." but she was so tired that in spite of all, she fell asleep and slept soundly. it was morning already when she awoke--some moments of bewilderment as to what had happened and where she was were followed by a gradual recollection of the painful events of the preceding day. then fraulein braune in a curiously befrilled headgear which ella supposed must be a german nightcap, peeped in, to see if her guest was awake. ella started up nervously. "it is time to be getting ready, i suppose?" she said. "i was forgetting." "yes," said the governess. "if you have really kept to your determination of--" "of course i have," said ella sharply. "i shall be dressed in ten minutes; there will be time to catch the early train, will there not?" "oh, yes, if we are quick," fraulein braune replied. not that she would have been sorry if they had missed it, poor woman! but she was in secret hopes that ella's friends would have already communicated with the railway officials, and that her escapade would come to a premature ending at the station. nothing of the kind happened however, and the german was obliged to own to herself when fairly off on their journey, seated opposite ella in a second-class compartment that it really did not look as if the poor girl's family cared much about her. still the more she thought it all over the more satisfied she became that she had acted not only kindly, but wisely in accompanying her pupil. "she would never have got on without me," the governess reflected, "though she is too childish to understand that. it will be easy to confide in mrs ward so far as is necessary to ensure her taking care of ella in the meantime, without ella's in the least suspecting anything of the kind." and indeed though the girl's heart and mind were very troubled and sore, she was feeling no special practical anxiety about her prospects. she had no misgiving as to the feasibility of the plan she had made, and was in no way surprised when things turned out pretty much in accordance with her own ideas. mrs ward was the matron or superintendent of a small "home" for governesses. ella had once in past years, when little more than a child, called at this institution with her aunt to inquire for a young girl temporarily there, in whom mrs robertson took an interest. ella had been struck by mrs ward's kindly, capable manner and sensible advice, and the whole incident had been recalled to her memory recently by fraulein braune speaking of this very institution as her usual head-quarters when in london. and to go there and apply for a situation as governess in france or germany had been the girl's idea. the winter afternoon was fast closing in, it was dusk, almost dark when the cab containing ella and her escort drew up at percival terrace. as had been agreed between the two during their railway journey, fraulein braune got out first, leaving ella alone to await the result of her interview with mrs ward. it had been raining, a cold sleety regular london winter rain. ella shivered as she gazed out at the sloppy pavement, glistening in the light of an adjacent gas lamp. "i had no idea london could look so dreary," she thought. then her fancy pictured the spacious comfortable library at coombesthorpe as it must be looking at that moment--the fire burning brightly, throwing warm reflections on the crimson carpet and the dull rich bindings of the books, while madelene made tea at the pretty table with its sparkling silver "equipage," and colonel st quentin lay back in his chair talking to her as she did so. "and," went on ella to herself, "very likely sir philip is there too, unless he has gone off to ermine again. they are none of them troubling themselves about me--that's plain. but it's better so. i could not stand it--no i could not go back again." just then the door of the house opened and fraulein braune came out. she smiled at ella. "it is all right," she said. "mrs ward insists on my staying the night, though i had intended going back at once." "oh no, no, that would never have done, dear fraulein," said ella, as she sprang out. then the governess paid the cabman and they went in. "what did mrs ward say?" asked ella, when they were in the hall. "she will tell you herself," fraulein braune replied. "i--i thought it right to tell her your name, ella." "of course. i have no intention of concealing it," ella replied haughtily. "but you made her promise not to write home or anything of that kind, fraulein? you know i shall do so myself as soon as ever i am settled." "yes," said the german lady calmly, as she opened the door of the room where mrs ward was waiting for them. ella at once stated her wishes. mrs ward listened quietly, though now and then a quiet smile lighted up her face. "you don't think it would be difficult to get a situation such as i should be fit for?" said the young lady in conclusion. mrs ward hesitated. "no," she said, "i think i might put you in the way of something of the kind. but it would be only a modest beginning, particularly as you want to leave england. you would have no salary at your age, or if any, very little. your best chance would be a situation _au pair_, as it is called. i have one or two on my books." "what does that mean?" asked ella, whose countenance had fallen a little. "you would have to teach english and in return for that you would have board and lodging and certain facilities for acquiring french or german, or both. i have an application at this moment from a school in germany of this kind." and she turned to a large ledger on the table. ella's face for the first time expressed perplexity and misgiving. "no salary," she said to herself. "well, after all i have clothes enough to last a good while and the great thing is to get something settled." she turned abruptly to mrs ward. "i will accept that situation," she said. "i am eager to be settled. can i go at once?" fraulein braune gave an exclamation. "my dear miss ella!" she said. "things of this kind are not settled quite so quickly, my dear young lady," said mrs ward with a smile. "however i will write about it at once, and you can stay here till i get an answer. but--you in the meantime must get your parents' leave. you are not of age and i could not take the responsibility of sending you away anywhere unauthorised by them." ella looked very blank. "i mean to tell them when i am settled," she said. "i--i did not want to do so before." "you must think it over," said mrs ward. "in the meantime i will write the letter. now, fraulein braune, you know the house. tea will be ready in a few minutes. will you take miss st quentin up stairs to number : it is the only unoccupied room, and when you hear the bell ring please come down to the dining-room for tea." ella followed fraulein braune up stairs in silence; she looked grave and perplexed and the kind woman's heart was touched. but she thought it best and wisest to leave the girl to her own reflections. it was not till the next morning, when her friend was about to leave, that anything was said. "i have been thinking it all over," ella began. "i see it is no use trying to keep my plans a secret, and after all it will not make much difference, as i always meant to write home eventually. but i don't want to write myself, just yet. if it is not asking too much, fraulein, will you be so kind as to see my father or my sister as soon as you go back to coombe and tell them where i am, what i intend, so that they can write to mrs ward and satisfy her? i don't think there will be any difficulty; certainly not with my sister, and my father will probably be so angry, that he won't care what i do. you can see for yourself that they are not anxious about me, or they would have done something." fraulein braune could scarcely gainsay this. she was too experienced not to know that nothing would have been easier than to trace ella by this time had her friends cared to do so. "will you see them for me, dear fraulein?" ella repeated. fraulein braune was only too delighted to do so, and to free herself from the responsibility which was very heavy upon her. but to ella she felt it was wiser not to express her satisfaction too strongly; any approach to "crowing over" the girl might still be fatal in its results. "certainly i will see them. i shall go out to coombesthorpe to-morrow morning. i would go this evening but i fear it will be too late." "oh i wouldn't think of going to-night," said ella, with a little smile. "they are not uneasy. it is for my own sake i ask you to go soon. i am so anxious to have it all settled about this place in germany." mrs ward was well pleased to learn from fraulein braune what had been arranged between her and ella. "they will never let her go to germany," said the matron. "it would be almost a scandal--people in such a position as theirs." fraulein braune shook her head. "i don't know i'm sure," she replied. "it does not seem as if they cared for her. i do not know much of the private relations of the family--ella is not an indiscreet girl and has not told me more than was necessary. but i do not think they can care for her, and perhaps they will let her go as a sort of punishment." "ah, well, we shall see," said mrs ward. her position had brought her in contact with many curious phases of family life. the day dragged on slowly for ella. she had nothing to do and for a great part of the time no one to speak to, for of the dozen or so governesses, young or old, at present domiciled in the "home," a proportion was engaged as daily teachers and the rest were busy running about to see or be seen with a view to finding situations. it was not till the afternoon that ella, on re-entering the neat chilly-looking drawing-room found a temporary companion. this was a girl of two or three-and-twenty, whose pleasant, sensible face had already struck ella agreeably. she was knitting busily, but looked up with a smile when the young stranger appeared. "you must be rather dull, here," she said. "it is all very well when one is busy, but i could not stand it for long if i were not so. it is weeks since i have had a quiet, lazy afternoon." "then have you been here long?" ella inquired. "some months. i was fortunate in getting a daily engagement which has enabled me to save a little. so now i am going to switzerland. i have never had a chance of speaking french, but i could not have gone without any money, you see." "won't you get a salary then?" said ella. the girl shook her head. "not the first year, and i'm not sure that i shall want to stay a second. a friend of mine has a girls' school, and if i can speak french well she may be able to find work for me with her." "but should you like that as well as being abroad?" said ella, opening her eyes. "i think switzerland is so charming. i've been there a good deal." "ah, yes--travelling or visiting there is charming no doubt. but to be a governess is very different. one has to put up with a good deal in such cases, but of course when it is a question of acquiring the language, one doesn't mind anything, does one?" "i can't say," replied ella rather loftily. "i can speak french quite well. i don't care about going abroad on that account." she rather resented the "rowing in the same boat" tone of her new acquaintance. "oh, i thought some one said you were going to germany--to wahlbrunn, i know about the place--_au pair_, as they say." "perhaps i am," said ella dryly. her companion glanced at her half curiously. she could not quite "make her out." "i wonder you go abroad if you don't care about the language," she said. "you'll have to rough it you may be sure, and i don't fancy you'll like that." "i dare say not, but that part of it can't be helped," said ella smiling a little. "but it won't be worse for me than for others." "i don't know that," the girl replied. "you look as if you had had a nice home and all that kind of thing. i've never had a home; i was an orphan as a baby--that makes a difference." "my mother died when i was three years old--_that_ makes a difference," said ella. her companion nodded her head as if to say she "understood," and a picture of a harsh and unloving stepmother turning this pretty young creature out of her home crossed her mind's eye. but she was too delicate-minded to ask any questions, and the conversation drifted off to less personal subjects. the girl was leaving england the next day; ella never saw her again, but her words had left their impression. it was with a little shiver that lying awake in the middle of the night she recalled them. "roughing it," what might that not mean? rough words and looks and tones, as well as more practical physical discomfort-- nobody to care about her, whether she were happy or miserable--nobody to love her--"and i have so longed to be loved," thought ella. "but except poor aunty, and--yes, i believe my godmother does love me, or _did_, she will probably give me up in disgust now--except those two i hardly think any one _has_ ever really loved me. oh, madelene, if you had only been a _little_ loving, i would have turned to you now and--perhaps if i had been able to confide in you i would not have been so easily taken in by _him_, by his manner, which meant nothing when i thought it meant everything. for madelene was wise--she did warn me; if only she had cared for me a little. but it is too late now. such as it was, it _was_ my home, but i have thrown it away. what would that poor girl think if she could see it? fancy her never having had any home--" ella's pillow was wet with tears the next morning when she woke. she dreaded and yet hoped for a letter--but there was none. mrs ward noticed her anxious face. "there has hardly been time for an answer from fraulein braune," she said kindly, though in her heart not sorry that the girl was beginning to realise the full bearing of her rash step. "you would be the better for a little air, i think. would you not like to go out?" ella glanced down the long breakfast-table. "is there any one who could go with me, do you think?" she asked timidly. mrs ward looked up rather sharply. "are you afraid of going out alone?" she said. "you must get used to it, my dear. you will never get on if you are so dependent." "i am not _afraid_," replied ella, growing very red as she spoke. "but it is just that i have never had to go out alone." "ah, well--perhaps i can get some one to go with you for once. but you know we are all very busy people here." she spoke to one of the elder ladies, who undertook to accompany ella. for mrs ward felt it right to take special care of the girl in her peculiar position. yet she knew that it was well for her to have the practical side of the future she had chosen brought home to her. "if her people really care for her," thought mrs ward, "they can easily get her to go home again. she is tiring of it already." but she scarcely understood the character she had to deal with. ella went out with miss lister, and though the walk was only to a music shop where her companion had to choose a large selection of "pieces" for her pupils, and though the day was so cold and gloomy as to suggest impending fog, the mere fact of being out of doors and walking quickly raised her impressionable spirits again. she was in a decidedly less conciliatory mood than before going out, and it was with a heightened colour and resolutely compressed lips that she received the parlour-maid's announcement that a lady had come to see her, and was waiting in the drawing-room. "madelene, no doubt," thought ella with a rush of curiously mingled feeling, among which considerably to her own surprise she was conscious that there vibrated a thrill of something very like delight. "do i care for her, after all?" she thought. but before she had time to answer the question, other sensations followed. madelene had come to urge her return, madelene who knew, or at least suspected the root of her bitterest suffering; madelene who had planned and schemed for ermine regardless of the poor little half-sister! ella hardened her heart. "no," she thought, "i will not go home. no. she may beg and pray me to do so, i will not. not at least for a long, long time, till i have got accustomed to it all--to ermine and philip--or at least till i have learnt to hide what i feel. and when they see how firm i am they will have to give in and let me go to that german place. i don't care what it is or how rough it is if only i can get away." she looked and felt cool and determined enough, as, after a moment's pause outside the drawing-room door, she turned the handle and entered. only the two bright red spots on her cheeks betrayed any inward disturbance. "madelene," she began at once, before her eyes had taken in any details of the figure that rose from the sofa at the sound of the door opening. but in an instant she stopped, the words on her lips died away as a keen dart of disappointment sped through her. "no, no, my darling, not madelene. only your poor old auntie," and in a moment she was enfolded in mrs burton's embrace. "oh, ella, my dear, i have been so miserable about you ever since sir--ever since your sister sent to me! oh, my child, you see how it has ended. why did you leave me as you did? all might have been happy and peaceful. mr burton's heart is really such a kind one--it is only manner, my dear. you will get to see it is only manner, i can assure you--" but ella calmly disengaged herself from mrs burton, with an unreasonable feeling of irritation and impatience. "i thought it was madelene," she said. "i thought--" "you were nervous about meeting her, my darling. of course it was only natural. she has never understood you--that is clear. but it is all going to be happy now; you will see--all's well that ends well, you know ellie." "have they sent you for me? do they want me to go home?" she exclaimed. "for i--i had reason for what i did--i am not a child. i cannot consent to go back--i--" "no, no, of course not. how could you wish to go back, where i can see and feel you have been so misunderstood and unhappy? oh, no, dear, you may make your mind quite easy on that score. you don't think your poor auntie would have come on such an errand--to persuade you to go back to prison again, for prison indeed it must have been. oh, no, even madelene saw that--there was no question of your returning there." no question of her returning there! she had cut the bonds then only too effectually--a sharp, yet chill pain seemed for an instant to take the girl's breath away. "they don't want me back again, then?" she said. and then without giving her aunt time to speak, she answered her question herself. "no, of course not--how could they? i heard it with my own ears; they wanted to be rid of me." but the last few words were too low for her aunt to catch. "how could they indeed, knowing how unhappy they had made you, my darling?" said mrs burton. "no, no, _i_ would never have come on such an errand!" ella looked up. "then did they not send you? how did you know? i don't understand," she said in a dull, bewildered way. "i am tired, i think, aunty, and the not expecting to see you, you know. please tell me all about it; i will sit here quietly and listen." "my darling," mrs burton repeated, possessing herself of ella's hand as she spoke. it lay passive in her grasp for a minute or two, but before long the girl managed to draw it away. "tell me, aunt, please," she repeated. "i have got out of those petting sort of ways, i suppose," she said to herself. "i wish aunt phillis wasn't quite so caressing." chapter nineteen. "a marriage is arranged." this was what mrs burton had to tell. on the evening her niece had left coombesthorpe she had been startled by a telegram from madelene, inquiring if ella were with her, to which of course she was obliged to reply in the negative. "i was not so _very_ frightened as i would have been had i not that very morning got your letter asking me to invite you for a visit. fortunately mr burton was out when the telegram came," she went on, "so i did not need to tell him about it--it is just as well--i don't think he need hear more than that you are coming on a visit--oh, but i am running on without explaining," seeing ella raise her eyebrows with a look of surprise. "i must tell you that all the next day and the day after, i kept thinking you would walk in, my dear, and when you did not come and there was no letter i began to be really frightened. i was just making up my mind to tell mr burton all about it and start for coombesthorpe when last night to my astonishment there came a message--" "a telegram?" ella interrupted. "no, neither a telegram nor a letter. a message brought by a messenger from your sister madelene," said mrs burton, with a little confusion of manner which did not escape ella's sharp eyes, "as she could not come herself--" "and why could she not come herself? if she had really cared--" interrupted ella with a little choke in her voice. "and your father so ill! you forget, ella." "papa ill--he was much better?" ella exclaimed with a little start. "but he had a sort of attack the evening you left. did you not know? oh, no of course, how could you. he had had a good deal to agitate him that day, it appears, and at first they were very much alarmed, but it was more nervousness than anything else, and he is better now, but he won't hear of madelene leaving him. she must have had rather a time of it, i fancy--what with the fright about you and all. but i dare say it will do her no harm to be shaken out of her apathy a little." ella's face had grown very grave. poor madelene! had she been frightened about her--ella--then, and ermine away? "was it about my--about me that papa was upset, do you think, aunt?" she asked. "not only that. si--the--i understood that madelene made the best of it to the colonel," said mrs burton, "took the blame upon herself of some misunderstanding. you will tell me all about it of course. the least madelene could do _was_ to blame herself, i should say! and now, darling, that i have explained things, supposing you get ready? i have seen mrs ward and settled everything with her." "but i don't understand in the least," said ella, "you haven't explained anything, aunt phillis. what did madelene's messenger say to you? had she not seen fraulein braune? do you not know that i am only waiting here for their consent--a nominal form that mrs ward insists on--to my going to germany as--as a sort of governess?" mrs burton gave a gasp. yes--she knew it all, but she had been warned to act with the greatest caution and tact and to avoid as much as possible all irritating discussion. and just as she was flattering herself that she had done so, and managed it all so beautifully, here ella faces round upon her, and nothing has been done or settled at all! "my dearest child," she exclaimed, "you cannot seriously think such a step would be allowed? of course madelene has seen fraulein braune and had a long talk with her. but it _can't_ be--your father would not hear of it. and think of the scandal!" "i can't help that," said ella quickly. "of course people would talk of it--the daughter of a very rich man like my father, going out as a governess, would naturally make people talk. but i will not go back, and so as i won't do what they wish i do not ask for any money--not even the money that when i am of age would be legally mine. i am quite willing to work for myself. i told madelene, at least i wrote it, that i would give up my share, but i would not stay at home." "you wrote that to madelene about giving up your share," repeated mrs burton with a curious expression in her face, an expression which ella did not understand. "of course i did. what is money without affection?" said ella, rearing her little head superbly. mrs burton hesitated. they were treading on delicate ground, ground on which she herself had been specially warned to tread with the greatest caution, and she grew nervous. "my dearest child," she began after a moment's silence. "i have not said that your father insists on your returning to coombesthorpe, even though he refuses his consent to your going to germany. on the contrary he does not want you to go back to them. he seems to think it better not." "and madelene?" asked ella sharply. "what does _she_ wish?" "personally, as far as i could make out, she was most anxious for you to go back. she was suffering terribly, so--that may have been exaggerated--at not being able to come herself to you, but she gave in to your father's decision." "and what was that?" "that you should come back to me, darling. it was what you wished yourself when you wrote last week," said mrs burton anxiously. "yes, but things have changed since then. i don't want any temporary plan. i want to--to be independent for good. i want _never_ to return there, to coombesthorpe," said ella, almost fiercely. mrs burton groaned. what was she to do or say? she had undertaken the mission cheerfully and hopefully, confident in ella's affection for herself and, judging naturally enough by the letter she had so recently received, without any misgiving but that her niece would be ready and glad to return to her care, once she was assured of a welcome. "it will be all right, you will see," she had said to miss st quentin's "messenger;" "she would have come straight to me, i know, but for her fears that mr burton might not be willing to receive her. and that i can satisfy her about." but ella's unexpected attitude set her quite at fault. she put her hand in her pocket to draw out her handkerchief, for she really felt as if she were going to cry, and with a sudden exclamation of relief she drew it out again, with not her handkerchief but a letter. it was addressed to ella. "i am forgetting this," said mrs burton, "perhaps it may have more effect than my words." the writing was madelene's. a slight flush rose to ella's pale face as she saw it, and without speaking she opened the envelope. "my dear ella," the letter began,-- "i have been completely miserable about you. i would have set off at once in search of you, had it been possible to leave papa. thanks, to" and here some word was erased, "inquiries i was able to make without raising any gossip, i satisfied myself that you were in safe hands, and fraulein braune has now kindly come to see me herself. we _cannot_ consent to your going to germany; all i can do at present is to beg you to go to mrs burton's in the meantime. i cannot tell you how unhappy i am that you should have overheard and somehow so terribly misconstrued what i said to philip in the drawing-room. i do not altogether understand you even now, and i know you do not understand me. i can only pray that some day it may be different. forgive the pain i have--oh, so unintentionally--caused you. if ermine were here i would beg her to write instead of me--she would know better what to say, and i think you trust her. i shall know no peace till i hear that you are safe with your aunt. i have been almost overwhelmed these last few days and i scarcely know what i write. papa is better, and i have not allowed him to blame you. i have made him see it has been my fault. let me hear you are with mrs burton. "your affectionate sister,-- "madelene." ella kept her eyes fixed on the paper for some time after she had read it; she did not want her aunt to see the tears, which rose unbidden and which with a strong effort she repressed again. when she looked up it was with a calm, almost impassive expression. "i will go back with you, aunt phillis," she said. "i do not wish to make an _expose_ of our family affairs by attempting to defy my father. i will go back with you in the meantime." "my darling!" mrs burton exclaimed. "i knew you would not be obstinate. and you will see--mr burton will be delighted to have you with us. you must feel you are really coming _home_, my own dear child." "poor aunty," said ella half affectionately, half patronisingly. but she smiled graciously enough, and mrs burton was satisfied. ella contrived to say a word or two in private to mrs ward before she left. she thanked her for her kindness and added,-- "you must not think i have given up my plan, mrs ward. i had to give in in the meantime, but when i am of age, or sooner perhaps, you will probably hear of me again." the matron smiled. "i shall always be pleased to hear of you, miss st quentin," she answered. "but not as wanting to be a governess, i hope. try to be happy and useful at home. there is no place like it--except in _very_ exceptional circumstances. and then there are so many women who must work and find it very difficult to do so. i am always sorry to see their ranks increased unnecessarily." ella seemed rather struck by this remark. "i had never thought of it that way," she said. it was not till her aunt and she were ensconsed in a comfortable railway carriage by themselves that she ventured upon the question she had been all along burning to ask. "aunt phillis," she began, "have you nothing more to tell me? did--did madelene's messenger say nothing more?" "what do you mean, my dear?" said mrs burton with manifest uneasiness. "i am almost sure i know who the messenger was," ella went on, "and under the circumstances it was, i think, really kind. but you don't want to tell me, so i won't ask. only--did this mysterious person not tell you any news--anything about ermine?" mrs burton looked up with evident relief. this was plainly a safe tack. "about ermine?" she said with perfect candour; "no, my dear, nothing at all--except--yes, i think--that was said--that she is coming home immediately; she must indeed be home already, i fancy." "and that was all?" "yes, all, i assure you. what news did you expect?" "i can't tell you," ella replied. "we shall be hearing it before long no doubt." then she relapsed into silence, and mrs burton in her own mind began to put two and two together. could ella's determination to leave her home have anything to do with the handsome young cousin of her sisters'-- madelene's "messenger," as the girl had shrewdly surmised? could it be that he had been playing a double game, and making the poor child believe he cared for her when in reality engaged, or in some tacit way plighted, to one of her sisters? for mrs burton had heard some gossip more than once about sir philip cheynes and the coombesthorpe heiresses. if it were indeed so it would explain all. and yet--it was difficult to believe anything of the kind of the young man. "he seemed so frank and chivalrous," thought ella's aunt, "and he spoke in such an entirely brotherly way of madelene and ermine. and they all seem to have _unshed_ to make ella happy. the keeping from her the true state of affairs about the property was kindly done. and i am sure sir philip cheynes was genuinely concerned and anxious about ella. he really seemed terribly sorry. i do wish she had never left me; and to think that poor marcus's money is all gone, and that there is nothing for her! if i had known it, i would never have married again, never, kind as mr burton is! i do hope he and ella will take to each other, and i think they will, his best comes out to any one in trouble." it was very strange to ella to find herself again--and after the lapse of comparatively speaking so short a time--under her aunt's roof, or to speak more correctly, under mr burton's. she would have shrunk from meeting the worthy gentleman a short time before, but late events had changed her greatly. she was quiet and gentle enough now, so much so indeed that her aunt and her husband agreed that they would be glad to see a spark or two of her old spirit. "how you and she used to fight," mrs burton exclaimed half regretfully. "and now," her husband added, "she is as quiet and mild as a lamb. i don't like it, phillis--no, my dear, i don't like it. i take blame to myself for having let her leave you, and if there is anything i can do to make up for it, i will do so. she has such pretty, thoughtful ways too. did you notice how she sees that my paper is always folded ready for me? her father must be hard to please if he was not satisfied with her." it was true. ella was much softened; her sore heart was grateful for kindness, and she was ashamed to recall her childish petulance and impertinence to her aunt's husband. but kind as the burtons were to her, there were often times when she regretted that she had not been allowed to take her own way; for life was dull and dreary to her. she missed the companionship of her sisters, little as she had prized it while with them. madelene's gentleness and refinement, ermine's merry humour and bright intellect had become more to her than she had in the least realised. "if only, oh, if only they had loved me a little," she repeated to herself. time passed--slowly enough to ella; at the end of a week she felt as if she had been a month with her aunt; at the end of a fortnight she could have believed a year had gone by since she left coombesthorpe; before the first month was over the whole of the past year began to seem to her like a strangely mingled dream of pain and pleasure. she wrote to madelene, gently and regretfully, but vaguely, and madelene who had been longing for this letter, and building some hopes upon it, felt saddened and discouraged. she handed it to ermine, who read it carefully. "can you understand her?" asked miss st quentin. ermine knitted her brows. "not altogether," she said. "but, maddie, i don't despair yet of things coming right somehow. i suppose," she added with a little smile, "when one is happy one's self, it is easier to feel hopeful about other people, even--" but here she hesitated; "even about you and bernard." "oh, ermine, do leave that subject alone," said madelene. "next week i shall write to ella," said ermine, "papa will let me send a message from him i feel sure." ella had been fully four weeks at mrs burton's when ermine's letter came. it was a mild day in march, one of the occasional early spring days which are not false to their name; ella had persuaded her aunt to let her go for a walk by herself, and with many injunctions as to the direction she was to take, and the roads and paths she was not to wander from, mrs burton had consented. in spite of herself the fresh, yet soft air, the sensation of "promise" in the birds' chirpings, and the few all but invisible green specks in the hedges, still more the discovery of a lingering snowdrop or two, and of something not unlike buds here and there among the primrose tufts, gave her a thrill of keen pleasure and invigoration. "i wish i could go away--quite away, ever so far," she said to herself. "i should like to make a fresh start and show them all i am not the spoilt, self-willed child they have thought me. i wish they would write and tell me about ermine's engagement, it must be openly announced by now. i do wish they would tell me of it, and then i think i would take courage and write to dear godmother. i am afraid she is very angry with me, and no wonder. it must have seemed very unnatural to her that if i was in trouble at home i did not go to her, when she was so sympathising about my thinking madelene didn't care for me. but cheynesacre was the last, the very last place i could have gone to." she was crossing the wide breezy downs not far from mrs burton's house on the outskirts of the town. already the short afternoon was closing in, and the colours in the sky, softened by the wintry haze, announced the approaching sunset. ella stood still to admire. "how lovely it would be just now at home," she thought; the word slipping out half-unconsciously, "i do love the _real_ country, and yet when i was there with them i used to fancy i longed for streets and shops. i must have changed--yes, i am sure i have changed. but i am very babyish still. i do feel this afternoon somehow as if i were going to be happy--and yet i don't know why." she hastened on. "aunty will be getting frightened," she thought. and as if in reply to the thought, suddenly just emerging on to the open ground, she caught sight of mrs burton's familiar figure. she was walking quickly, more quickly than usual, for aunt phillis was stout and short and not very much given to exertion. ella's conscience reproached her as she perceived that the good lady was panting for breath and considerably redder in the face than usual. "oh, aunty," she exclaimed, "i'm so sorry. have i stayed too long?" for a moment or two mrs burton could not get her breath to reply, instead of speaking she held out a letter--it was addressed to ella in ermine's writing. "i couldn't wait till you came in. i was so eager to tell you. i felt so excited," panted the good lady at last. "i am so pleased and i am sure it will bring things round. madelene has written to me, that is how i know. i do think it very nice of her. and they have--your father and they have invited us to the wedding--mr burton and me. it is very gratifying," and aunt phillis beamed with complacency. ella had taken the letter in silence. but she had grown deadly pale. it had come then--the blow which she had been vaguely anticipating; which she had--how mistakenly she now saw--come to believe she thoroughly realised, had fallen. "i knew something was going to happen," she said to herself; "i felt it coming, and like a fool i fancied it was going to be something happy." her silence startled her aunt. she glanced at her hastily. "my dear child," she exclaimed. "you look quite white. how thoughtless of me to startle you so. don't be frightened, ella dearest. it is pleasant--good news, nothing to be distressed about." ella turned to her with what was intended to be a smile, but failed disastrously. "i--i was only startled," the poor child said at last, with a painful sort of gasp. mrs burton grew more and more alarmed. she glanced round; there was a bench a few paces off. "let us sit down for a minute or two," she said. "it is cold. but you must rest and recover yourself. read your letter quietly. i won't speak to you till you feel all right again." she had fortunately some eau de cologne in her pocket, by the help of which and a few minutes of perfect quiet, ella mastered her agitation. then she opened the letter. she had read but a few lines when a change came over her face, first a look of bewilderment which increased as she read, then a curious, half-fearful questioning appeared in her eyes, to be followed by a flush of eager, yet tremulous joy. "aunty," she said breathlessly, "please look at it," and she held out the letter, "am i making some strange mistake? i feel as if i were dreaming. aunty--let me see your letter--do they tell you too who it is? is it true--is it not sir philip that ermine is going to marry?" mrs burton glanced at her niece in astonishment, astonishment which soon changed to keen concern and sympathy as she understood ella's anxiety. she had plenty of good sense and ready wit however. "ella shall never know i have discovered her secret," was the thought that flashed through her mind. "not sir philip," she repeated, "why of course not--i never thought of him for either of your sisters. he has been far too much like a brother to them always." her tone was quite matter-of-fact. ella gave a half shy look at her--it was reassuring. "yes," she said, "they have seemed like that, i know, but still--one never knows how things may turn out. would you like to read my letter, aunt?--and may i see yours? ermine's is very, very kind." "kinder than i deserve," she added to herself. how grievously she had misjudged her sisters, madelene especially! how suspicious and mean now seemed her fancies that madelene was plotting to keep her out of sir philip's way in order that she might bring about a marriage between him and ermine! she grew more and more ashamed as she read madelene's own letter to her aunt, for it was evident that miss st quentin's personal feelings were those of the greatest satisfaction; there was not the slightest shadow of regret or disappointment that ermine's choice should have fallen where it had. "she could not have written as she does if she had _ever_ thought of sir philip as i suspected," thought ella, and she sat, lost in her own reflections till her aunt's voice interrupted her. "have you ever seen him, ella--your future brother-in-law--mr guildford west?" asked mrs burton. "n-no--no," ella replied, "at least i don't remember him. i think--yes, i recollect madelene's saying once that he was at the manor ball, but i don't think i knew which he was." then her mind reverted to what madelene had said at different times about ermine's future, and she felt startled again to think how she had misinterpreted every allusion of the kind. yet there was still something she could not altogether understand--why had madelene spoken of her as such a care and burden, adding to the existing "complications?" "no," thought ella, "i can't quite make it out. but i will never mistrust madelene again--it is the least i can do to trust her now after having so shamefully misjudged her. some day perhaps, if she and i are ever together again--some day she will explain things perhaps and till then i can only ask her pardon in my heart." she was very pale and there were tears in her eyes as she roused herself to take part in her aunt's eager speculations and comments on the interesting piece of news. "it is so nice of madelene to say they will hope to see _us_ at the wedding. i hope mr burton will go; he is rather shy, you see, ella, having been so long a bachelor, and that makes him seem gruff till people get to know him. but we _must_ get him to go--it will be charming to see you as bridesmaid. i _am_ so pleased about it altogether. and your father is pleased--it will do him good. mr west must be very nice in every way," she went on, "not very rich, i suppose, but with ermine's fortune that was not necessary." ella turned to her with a little surprise. "will ermine have much while papa lives?" she asked. "i have never heard much about it, but papa never speaks as if he were very rich." mrs burton fidgeted a little. "oh--ermine will have a very handsome income," she said evasively. "but i dare say they will explain things themselves to you, now you are really grown-up. i consider it a _very_ good marriage for mr west too." and ella's girlish mind gave no more thought to this part of the matter. pounds, shillings, and pence were such very unimportant considerations in her eyes. chapter twenty. "having it out." the primroses were over--the paler hues of spring were giving place to the richer and fuller beauty of early summer when ella found herself once more at coombesthorpe. it was the day before that of ermine's marriage when she arrived there with mr and mrs burton. it had been proposed that she should precede her aunt, but she shrank from doing so, and with real kindliness and tact, her sisters had refrained from pressing the matter. "she must feel uncomfortable, poor little thing," said ermine, "and it will be easier for her if she only arrives when there are a good many other people here." "and naturally she feels that any sort of `explanations' would be ill-timed just now when we have so much to think of," agreed madelene. "nothing could be sweeter or gentler than her letters. ermine, what _can_ have come over the child? i cannot yet understand her strange bitterness--for after all, what she overheard could have been simply explained. it will have to be explained sooner or later--about money matters i mean, and papa's exaggerated way of looking at it. ermine--i fear it was a mistake not to tell her the whole at first. do you remember the day she came, just when we had been talking it all over with philip? not a year ago yet." "if nobody ever did wrong and nobody ever made mistakes, this world would not be this world any more, and i'm not at all sure but that it would--with our present feelings--be a very dull place indeed," said ermine, philosophically. "keep up your spirits, maddie. i should not be half as cheerful as i am about leaving you if i had not great faith in some, at least, of my pet schemes ending well after all." madelene said nothing for a minute or two. "if--if you are still thinking about _philip_ and ella, you are only preparing fresh disappointment for yourself," she said. "he never mentions her scarcely; he seems to have forgotten all about her." "it did not look as if he were indifferent that day that you were so horribly frightened about her--the day she ran off i mean," ermine replied. "no," madelene allowed. "that day i did think--he was fearfully upset. but it may have been principally on our account. i shall never forget how he looked when i sent over in my desperation to fetch him back from cheynesacre--he was almost _rough_ to me--fancy, ermine! but i did not mind--i was so frightened myself. and he was so clever and sensible about it. he found out so wonderfully quickly that she was safe with fraulein braune." "and he managed mrs burton very well too," said ermine. "don't forget our promise never to tell it was he who went to see her," said madelene, quickly. "ella shall certainly not hear it from us," said ermine, "but i doubt mrs burton's capacity for keeping a secret." "i hope she has not told it," said madelene; "i could not bear poor ella to be misled into thinking philip cares for her--i did my best to warn her, but i doubt if it did any good." "except to make her angry with you," said ermine. "that is usually the fate of the warner in such cases." "and perhaps it put the idea more in her head than it was," added madelene, regretfully. "they say, ermine, that philip is a great deal at the belvoirs' now, and leonora is certainly a very nice girl." "rubbish," said ermine. "he has known leonora belvoir since she was a baby, and seen her constantly. and she is not _half_ as pretty, as ella. if only ella had come back sooner, i think i could have got guildford to find out about it," she added meditatively. "i suppose you couldn't get bernard to do so?" madelene grew crimson. "ermine, how can you be so thoughtless?" she exclaimed. "it is really unkind of you. i hope most earnestly, as you know, that captain omar will not come. philip knows i do not want him to come." but ermine said no more. the day of the marriage was bright and sunny. when ella woke up, and saw from her window the familiar scene in all its summer beauty, she shut her eyes for a moment, while a sort of fantastic wish went through her that the last few months might prove to be only a dream, that she had only now arrived for the first time at her home, and that all happy possibilities lay before her. she was again in her old "nursery"--she had begged that it might be so, though the rooms her sisters had originally intended for her were long ago ready. "oh, dear, if i could but go back again, how different i would be," she thought. "how is it? madelene and ermine seem so different now--it is as if scales had fallen from my eyes. i wonder," she went on, "i wonder if i had never remembered that silly old fancy about being like cinderella--i wonder if harvey had never put it into my head, if things would have turned out better? how sad it seems that bad or foolish things should stick to us like burrs all through the years, and that good and wise and useful things should be so quickly forgotten!" she roused herself before long however; there was plenty for her to do this wedding-day. she was full of the wish to be of all the help and support she possibly could be to madelene. for calm and quiet as miss st quentin appeared, ella well knew that the parting with her sister, her "other self," for such indeed ermine had been to her, was no light matter, no slight wrench. and this reflection bore good fruit with the youngest sister. "i will never call madelene cold or heartless again," she thought. "i _know_ how she loves ermine, and yet she is quietly smiling and calm--a stranger might say she did not mind it at all." it was still the old-fashioned days of early morning marriages: most of the guests were to assemble at the house, for the distance thence to the church was very short. ella had not as yet seen anything of her godmother, for the evening before, with the exception of aunt phillis and her husband, colonel st quentin and his children had spent alone-- and the thought of the meeting with lady cheynes lay rather heavily on the girl's mind. but like many anticipated evils it turned out quite differently from her fears. "run down to the fernery, ella," said madelene, as they were giving the last touches to the bride, "and bring me one or two more sprays of maidenhair. no, ermine, i'm not putting too much green. it needs just a tiny bit more." off ran ella, but half-way down stairs, at a sudden turn she came full tilt against lady cheynes, slowly mounting to ermine's room. "oh, dear--i beg your pardon," ella began. then in a different voice, "oh! godmother, dear godmother, is it you!" she half threw her arms round the old lady's neck, then drew back in affright. "oh, godmother, dear, will you kiss me? will you forgive me?" she cried. "i'm afraid you've been very, very vexed with me, but i _didn't_ mean to do wrong--it--it was all a mistake somehow." her voice faltered as if she were going to cry; in an instant lady cheynes was kissing her. "my darling," she said, "my poor little silly child. no, no--i was more grieved than vexed, dear, but perhaps i understand you as well as, or better than you understand yourself. but don't cry, my little ella. it would never do to have tears to-day." "_i won't_, godmother, i won't cry," said ella, choking back the tears bravely, "it is only," she went on, "that you are--you are all so _very_ good to me." "well, well--we must have a good talk when all this bustle is over. i am going up to see ermine; shall i be admitted?" "oh, dear, yes," said ella, "she is almost ready. but i must be quick-- i was running down to the conservatory for some fern." she ran off again, meeting no one till she had chosen and cut the sprays of maidenhair. then as she turned to leave the fernery, by way of the drawing-room, she heard voices there. two or three persons had entered while she was busy about the maidenhair. and one of the voices was that of sir philip cheynes. ella hesitated; her heart beat fast, she felt for a moment or two as if she could not face him composedly; and at that juncture she would have given years of her life rather than let him perceive any traces of nervousness or agitation. yet stay where she was for more than a minute she could not. "i am not going to play eavesdropper again. what an unlucky place this fernery seems for me." she could not avoid overhearing a little--the end of a conversation between sir philip and another man, as they came strolling towards the spot where she stood. "it is awfully good of you, phil, to take such an interest in it--but-- no i am not sanguine. if the obstacles are to some extent imaginary, they are, with an almost morbidly conscientious mind like hers, all the more difficult to combat. and this recent affair has done great harm; she _will_ take all the blame of it to herself." "yes," came philip's voice in reply, "i know. but don't lose heart, my dear fellow. you can't--why, _ella_!" with a sharp exclamation, "is it--is it really you?" ella's lips were trembling, but she made a tremendous effort. and the sudden perception that sir philip was quite as nervous, or considerably more so than herself helped in a marvellous way to calm her. "i was cutting some maidenhair for ermine," she began. "i--there was no one in the drawing-room when i passed through." "it is certainly a curious coincidence," said sir philip. "i--i wish--i hate this place--one never knows who may or may not be here," he added vehemently. ella grew cold as ice. "if you mean that i have been listening, a _second_ time," she said with frigid haughtiness, "you are mistaken. i only heard the last few words you and this gentleman were saying, and that i could _not_ help." the gentleman in question came forward; he smiled slightly as he caught sight of ella, but there was a half quizzical look on his face which did not tend to smooth her ruffled plumage. "i am afraid--i hope we have not been trespassing?" he began, looking rather puzzled. "we should not have come so early, perhaps, cheynes?" "oh no," said ella sweetly, with a complete change of tone, as she turned to the stranger, "of course it was quite right for--but--are you mr west?" she exclaimed suddenly, as the idea struck her. the tall, dark man before her bowed formally. "i have not the honour of being mr west," he said. "i am only--" "you have met before," philip interrupted. "ella, don't you remember captain omar--bernard omar?" ella in her turn looked perplexed. "i remember the name--i have often heard it," she said: "but i don't remember ever seeing _you_, the bearer of it, before." she pointedly addressed the stranger, and she seemed to take a perverse pleasure in looking her sweetest and speaking in her softest tones. sir philip bit his lip and turned away. "i'll have it out with her," he muttered. captain omar smiled again, more thoroughly this time; he had very white teeth, and very blue eyes, though his hair was dark and his complexion bronzed. and as his eyes smiled as well as his lips, the effect was very pleasant. "i cannot expect you to remember," he said. "but i do--the last summer you spent here, as a baby almost--before you went to live with your aunt--that summer i spent my holidays here--at cheynesacre, that is to say. that was in the days when cheynes was `big phil,' and ran races with a certain little lady perched on his shoulders." ella grew crimson--but she would not seem annoyed by anything captain omar said. "yes," she replied--her calm tone belying her face, "what absurd creatures children are. but i was really only a baby then. no, i don't remember you, captain omar, but i am very pleased to make your acquaintance." she held out her hand graciously--bernard took it deferentially, as if he appreciated the honour. ella had not shaken hands with philip. "i must be quick," she said, "my sisters will think i have forgotten what i was sent for," and with a smile and nod to captain omar she flew off. "what a lovely girl she has become," said he enthusiastically. sir philip gave a sort of grunt. "you think so?" he said. "well, yes--she is very much admired." "she will marry soon, i should think," said captain omar. sir philip said nothing. "she has no fortune," he remarked dryly after a minute or two's silence. captain omar gave a slightly bitter laugh. "upon my word i think that fact is not likely to be an obstacle. if--if madelene had had no fortune you don't suppose things would have been as they are for me? i wouldn't have allowed it in that case." sir philip hesitated. "it's not so much her being _rich_, as her having this place--and all the responsibilities it brings, and the complication of her father and his peculiar position, and--and latterly the addition of ella and the care of her future." "but ella will marry--that's to say she's sure to have opportunities of doing so, if madelene doesn't shut her up," said captain omar impatiently. "now that i have seen ella, i understand all these new difficulties less and less. yet, surely," and he turned to philip with a sort of anguish in his eyes, "don't think me a brute, cheynes, for saying it--you have known the whole story all through--it can't be that she has left off caring for me, and that she puts it on these pretexts, and--" "no, no," sir philip interrupted, "don't get anything of that kind into your head, omar. i'm perfectly certain that madelene is as true as steel, and--if things were to disentangle themselves a little, if she was quite happy and satisfied about ella's future and saw her way to marrying you without any fear of conflicting duties, i'm sure it would be all right. don't lose heart just yet, my good fellow." "there's not much time left for keeping up my heart in," the other replied. "my leave's over next month, cheynes." but sir philip had no time to say more, for just then some other wedding guests made their appearance in the drawing-room. it was not till late that afternoon that sir philip had an opportunity of putting into practice his doughty resolve of "having it out" with little ella. all had "gone off," as the saying is, to perfection; the bride and bridegroom had driven away, most of the "assistants" had thoughtfully taken their departure and madelene, poor madelene, had ventured to shut herself up for an hour or two like the bride's sister in the old song. she had some reason for tears, though scarcely as much as she made herself believe, but ella in her new-born sympathy with her eldest sister, was almost inclined to exaggerate madelene's troubles, and ready to fly out like a little turkey-cock at any one who should venture to think lightly of them. with the object of securing some quiet for miss st quentin, ella had cleverly decoyed away the few younger guests who were remaining till the next day, out to the tennis-court, where, with mrs burton as chaperon, some sets were quickly arranged. but ella herself hated tennis, she was glad to find she was not required to play, and seeing everybody apparently happily engaged, she strolled off a little way among the shrubberies by herself. a rustic bench in a shady corner tempted her; she sat down, gazing before her vaguely. she felt tired and strange, and the remembrance of the _contretemps_ in the unlucky fernery that morning did not tend to soothe or calm her feelings. "i wonder what they are going to settle about me," she said to herself. "i--i should like to stay here if i could be any good to madelene, but it doesn't look as if that could be. and for some things i would like to go away and never come back again. i should like never to see philip cheynes again." a wish not to be fulfilled, for at that moment a quick step along the path made her look up, philip stood before her. ella's eyes fell, and she grew red as she congratulated herself that her last words had not been spoken aloud. but she quickly looked up again, with a sort of cold inquiry in her face. philip smiled slightly as he caught her expression. "yes," he said, "i knew you would be vexed at my following you. i kept out of the tennis on purpose. i must speak to you, ella. i want to know what is the matter. why did you behave so--uncivilly to me this morning--and before omar, too?" "i had overheard a little of what you were saying," said ella haughtily. "it was much the same sort of thing as--as that other time." sir philip muttered something between his teeth which ella could not catch. then suddenly to her surprise his tone changed; he turned to her with a smile. "are you glad ermine is married?" he said. "don't you like west?" ella hesitated. "i like what i have seen of him," she replied. "he is not good-looking though; he is small and rather insignificant." "not like omar?" "no," she agreed, "not nearly as handsome as captain omar." then with a sudden impulse, "sir philip," she said, "won't you explain to me--_why_ won't madelene marry captain omar? why am i made a--a burden and a difficulty of? i would do anything; i have been so unhappy. i know i have misjudged madelene in some ways, but i don't now. i do want to--to be good and nice, and--and--" but the rest of her confidences were lost; her voice broke, and philip knew that she was crying. "ella," he exclaimed, "ella, darling, i can't bear to see you like that. have we all been very cruel to you, somehow? i feel as if we had. i feel as if _i_ had, and yet--and yet--i would do anything--i would give my life to make you happy." ella's sobs ceased. she glanced up at philip with a curious mingling of expressions on her face. "sir philip," she said quietly, "i am not a child. you shouldn't speak to me quite--quite like that, though i know you mean it kindly." "kindly!" he repeated hotly. "ella--you know it isn't that. i dare say i'm a fool--you will probably only laugh at me, but i have waited and i don't think it has done any good. granny said you were too young, and that it wasn't fair upon you till you had seen more of the world, but things have gone wrong quite enough. i won't risk it any more. ella-- do you, no, _could_ you ever get to care for me?" ella's eyes filled with soft tears again. "sir philip, do you really mean it? is it not only that you are sorry for me? i--you are very kind--but i couldn't bear for you only to be sorry for me!" "my darling--what a way to put it! sorry for you--my princess! no indeed! i shall be sorry for myself, if--but it's not going to be that. ella, you will try to care for me, won't you?" "i don't need to try," she answered gently. "it wouldn't be worthy of you if any _trying_ were needed. oh, philip--if you are sure you mean it--i have been so unhappy. i was so ashamed of--of caring for you--" "ashamed," philip interrupted. "yes--for i thought you cared for--i thought at least you were going to marry--ermine. that was how i misjudged madelene. that was the _great_ reason why i went away." philip's face cleared; a good many mists were dispersed by these words of ella's. "but when you _knew_ that wasn't true--up to this morning even, why were you so strange and cold to me?" he asked. "because there was something you said about my being an obstacle or a difficulty--and of course i had no reason to think you cared for _me_, even if you did not for ermine. philip," with a sudden thought, "if this is to be--you and me, i mean--will it make it easier for madelene to marry captain omar?" philip nodded. "she will think so, i have no doubt. though really and truly there was nothing to prevent it. but your father since his losses has got morbid about your future, and madelene has got morbid too in another way; self-sacrifice seemed the readiest means of cutting the knot, and so she has persuaded herself that it was her duty. but now--" he had drawn ella's pretty head close till it all but rested on his shoulder, suddenly she drew herself away and faced him with anxious eyes and tremulous mouth. "morbid about my future! how do you mean?" she exclaimed. "what a fool i am," philip replied. "i forgot you didn't understand. it was only, darling, that the money that should have been for _you_-- madelene and ermine having very large fortunes from their mother--was lost several years ago. and there might have been difficulties, once your sisters were married and all that, in the way of their making any _certain_ provision for you, so--" "so madelene would have sacrificed herself for _me_?" ella interrupted. "in a sense, yes, i suppose i must say so. but also for the sake of your father's peace of mind, and the fear of not being free to do her duty as a wife. she has mounted it all up most ingeniously. but now-- maddie will be _so_ glad, ella." ella's face was turned away however. sir philip grew uneasy. "ella," he repeated, and with gentle force he turned her head, so that she had to look at him. she was crying. philip changed his tone. "ella," he said gravely, "i don't think this is fair upon me. any one to see you, as you are now, would not believe that you were happy in what you have just promised. are you regretting it already?--if so--" ella melted at once. "oh, no, no! you know it is not that," she said. "how _could_ i? i have only just told you how i care for you. i care for you _dreadfully_, philip. but it is just that that makes me so unhappy--so frightened that it is only, or mostly that you pity me. i never dreamt that i was poor. i wish, i do wish they had told me." "it was done with the best and purest motives," sir philip answered quietly. "but, ella, how can you say such things? the very breath of them spoils it all--all our pretty romance. why, my darling, if you had been a great heiress like your sisters it would have lost all its charm; you would not have been what you are--my fairy princess, my cinderella!" and ella looked up smiling again among her tears. "let us go and tell them all," she said. "madelene and my father. and oh, philip, dear godmother! it was she after all--a great deal certainly was her doing. for if we hadn't met first as we did, perhaps--who knows?--perhaps you would never have taken such a fancy to me?" "who knows?" said philip teasingly. "there is one thing i must get out of granny, ella. i shall insist on your being married in those little old slippers." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end. scanned images of public domain material from the google print archive. transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). [illustration: book cover] two little waifs [illustration: "well, dears," she said, "and what are you playing at?"--page .] two little waifs by mrs. molesworth author of 'carrots,' 'cuckoo clock,' 'tell me a story' [illustration: two small figures, hurrying along hand-in-hand, caught the attention of several people.--page .] illustrated by walter crane london macmillan and co. contents. chapter i. papa has sent for us chapter ii. poor mrs. lacy chapter iii. a pretty kettle of fish chapter iv. "what is to be done?" chapter v. in the rue verte chapter vi. among the sofas and chairs chapter vii. the kind-looking gentleman chapter viii. a fall downstairs chapter ix. from bad to worse chapter x. "avenue gÉrard, no. " chapter xi. walter's tea-party chapter xii. papa at last list of illustrations. "well, dears," she said, "and what are you playing at?" _frontispiece_ in another moment the little party was making its way through the station _to face page_ she placed the whole on a little table which she drew close to the bed "oh don't, don't cross that dreadful street," gladys exclaimed anna opened the door sharply, as she did everything, and in so doing overthrew the small person of roger "go along there," she said, "and then turn to the left, and you will see the name 'avenue gÉrard' at the corner" walter was having a tea-party! "it would both have excited your pity, and have done your heart good, to have seen how these two little ones were so fond of each other, and how hand-in-hand they trotted along." _the renowned history of goody two-shoes._ chapter i. papa has sent for us. "it's what comes in our heads when we play at 'let's-make-believe,' and when we play at 'guessing.'" charles lamb. it was their favourite play. gladys had invented it, as she invented most of their plays, and roger was even more ready to play at it than at any other, ready though he always was to do anything gladys liked or wanted. many children would have made it different--instead of "going over the sea to papa," they would have played at what they would do when papa should come over the sea to them. but that was not what they had learnt to look forward to, somehow--they were like two little swallows, always dreaming of a sunny fairyland they knew not where, only "over the sea," and in these dreams and plays they found the brightness and happiness which they were still too young to feel should have been in their everyday baby life. for "mamma" was a word that had no real meaning to them. they thought of _her_ as of a far-away beautiful angel--beautiful, but a little frightening too; cold and white like the marble angels in church, whose wings looked so soft, till one day roger touched them, and found them, to his strange surprise, hard and icy, which made him tell gladys that he thought hens much prettier than angels. gladys looked a little shocked at this, and whispered to remind him that he should not say that: had he forgotten that the angels lived up in heaven, and were always good, and that mamma was an angel? no, roger had not forgotten, and that was what made him think about angels; but they _weren't_ pretty and soft like snowball, the little white hen, and he was sure he would never like them as much. gladys said no more to him, for she knew by the tone of his voice that it would not take very much to make him cry, and when roger got "that way," as she called it, she used to try to make him forget what had troubled him. "let's play at going to papa," she said; "i've thought of such a good way of making a ship with the chairs, half of them upside down and half long-ways--like that, see, roger; and with our hoop-sticks tied on to the top of miss susan's umbrella--i found it in the passage--we can make such a great high pole in the middle. what is it they call a pole in the middle of a ship? i can't remember the name?" nor could roger; but he was greatly delighted with the new kind of ship, and forgot all about the disappointment of the angels in helping gladys to make it, and when it was made, sailing away, away to papa, "over the sea, over the sea," as gladys sang in her little soft thin voice, as she rocked roger gently up and down, making believe it was the waves. some slight misgiving as to what miss susan would say to the borrowing of her umbrella was the only thing that interfered with their enjoyment, and made them jump up hastily with a "oh, miss susan," as the beginning of an apology, ready on gladys's lips when the door opened rather suddenly. but it was not miss susan who came in. a little to their relief and a good deal to their surprise it was susan's aunt, old mrs. lacy, who seldom--for she was lame and rheumatic--managed to get as far as the nursery. she was kind and gentle, though rather deaf, so that the children were in no way afraid of her. "well, dears," she said, "and what are you playing at?" "over the sea, mrs. lacy," said gladys. "over the sea," repeated roger, who spoke very plainly for his age. "going over the sea to papa; that's what we're playing at, and we like it the best of all our games. this is the ship, you see, and that's the big stick in the middle that all ships have--what is it they call it? i can't remember?" "the mast," suggested mrs. lacy. "oh yes, the mast," said gladys in a satisfied tone; "well, you see, we've made the mast with our hoop-sticks and miss susan's umbrella--you don't think miss susan will mind, do you?" with an anxious glance of her bright brown eyes; "_isn't_ it high, the--the mart?" "mast," corrected mrs. lacy; "yes, it's taller than you, little gladys, though you are beginning to grow very fast! what a little body you were when you came here first," and the old lady gave a sigh, which made roger look up at her. "has you got a sore troat?" he inquired. "no, my dear; what makes you think so?" "'cos, when my troat was sore i was always breaving out loud like that," said roger sympathisingly. "no, my throat's not sore, dear, thank you," said the old lady. "sometimes people 'breathe' like that when they're feeling a little sad." "and are you feeling a little sad, poor mrs. lacy?" said gladys. "it's not 'cos miss susan's going to be married, is it? _i_ think we shall be very happy when miss susan's married, only p'raps it wouldn't be very polite to say so to her, would it?" "no, it wouldn't be kind, certainly," said the old lady, with a little glance of alarm. evidently miss susan kept her as well as the children in good order. "you must be careful never to say anything like that, for you know susan has been very good to you and taken great care of you." "i know," said gladys; "but still i like you best, mrs. lacy." "and you would be sorry to leave me, just a little sorry; i should not want you to be _very_ sorry," said the gentle old lady. gladys glanced up with a curious expression in her eyes. "do you mean--is it that you are sad about?--_has_ it come at last? has papa sent for us, mrs. lacy? oh roger, listen! of course we should be sorry to leave you and--and miss susan. but is it true, can it be true that papa has sent for us?" "yes, dears, it is true; though i never thought you would have guessed it so quickly, gladys. you are to go to him in a very few weeks. i will tell you all about it as soon as it is settled. there will be a great deal to do with susan's marriage, too, so soon, and i wouldn't like you to go away without your things being in perfect order." "i think they are in very nice order already," said gladys. "i don't think there'll be much to do. i can tell you over all my frocks and roger's coats if you like, and then you can think what new ones we'll need. our stockings are getting _rather_ bad, but miss susan thought they'd do till we got our new winter ones, and roger's second-best house shoes are----" "yes, dear," said mrs. lacy, smiling, though a little sadly, at the child's business-like tone; "i must go over them all with susan. but not to-day. i am tired and rather upset by this news." "poor mrs. lacy," said gladys again. "but can't you tell us just a _very_ little? what does papa say? where are we to go to? not all the way to where he is?" "no, dear. he is coming home, sooner than he expected, for he has not been well, and you are to meet him somewhere--he has not quite fixed where--in italy perhaps, and to stay there through the winter. it is a good thing, as it had to be, that he can have you before susan leaves me, for i am getting too old, dears, to take care of you as i should like--as i took care of _him_ long ago." for mrs. lacy was a very, very old friend of the children's father. she had taken care of him as a boy, and years after, when his children came to be left much as he had been, without a mother, and their father obliged to be far away from them, she had, for love of her adopted son, as she sometimes called him, taken his children and done her best to make them happy. but she was old and feeble, sometimes for days together too ill to see gladys and roger, and her niece susan, who kept house for her, though a very active and clever young lady, did not like children. so, though the children were well taken care of as far as regarded their health, and were always neatly dressed, and had a nice nursery and a pleasant garden to play in, they were, though they were not old enough to understand it, rather lonely and solitary little creatures. poor old mrs. lacy saw that it was so, but felt that she could do no more; and just when the unexpected letter from their father came, she was on the point of writing to tell him that she thought, especially as her niece was going to be married, some new home must be found for his two little waifs, as he sometimes called them. before mrs. lacy had time to tell them any more about the great news miss susan came in. she looked surprised to see her aunt in the nursery. "you will knock yourself up if you don't take care," she said rather sharply, though not unkindly. "and my umbrella--my best umbrella! i declare it's too bad--the moment one's back is turned." "it's the mast, miss susan," said gladys eagerly. "we thought you wouldn't mind. it's the mast of the ship that's going to take us over the sea to papa." some softer feeling came over susan as she glanced at gladys's flushed, half-frightened face. "poor little things!" she said to herself gently. "well, be sure to put it back in its place when you've done with it. and now, aunt, come downstairs with me, i have ever so many things to say to you." mrs. lacy obeyed meekly. "you haven't told them yet, have you, aunt?" said susan, as soon as they were alone. "yes, i told them a little," said the old lady. "somehow i could not help it. i went upstairs and found them playing at the very thing--it seemed to come so naturally. i know you will think it foolish of me, susan, but i can't help feeling their going, even though it is better for them." "it's quite natural you should feel it," said susan in a not unkindly tone. "but still it is a very good thing it has happened just now. for you know, aunt, we have quite decided that you must live with us----" "you are very good, i know," said mrs. lacy, who was really very dependent on her niece's care. "and yet i could not have asked mr. rexford to have taken the children, who, after all, are no _relations_, you know." "no," said mrs. lacy. "and then to give them up to their own father is quite different from sending them away to strangers." "yes, of course," said the old lady, more briskly this time. "on the whole," miss susan proceeded to sum up, "it could not have happened better, and the sooner the good-byings and all the bustle of the going are over, the better for you and for me, and for all concerned, indeed. and this leads me to what i wanted to tell you. things happen so strangely sometimes. this very morning i have heard of such a capital escort for them." mrs. lacy looked up with startled eyes. "an escort," she repeated. "but not yet, susan. they are not going yet. wilfred speaks of 'some weeks hence' in his letter." "yes; but his letter was written three weeks ago, and, of course, i am not proposing to send them away to-day or to-morrow. the opportunity i have heard of will be about a fortnight hence. plenty of time to telegraph, even to write, to captain bertram to ensure there being no mistake. but anyway we need not decide just yet. he says he will write again by the next mail, so we shall have another letter by saturday." "and what is the escort you have heard of?" asked mrs. lacy. "it is a married niece of the murrays, who is going to india in about a fortnight. they start from here, as they are coming here on a visit the last thing. they go straight to marseilles." "but would they like to be troubled with children?" "they know captain bertram, that is how we came to speak of it. and mrs. murray is sure they would be glad to do anything to oblige him." "ah, well," said mrs. lacy. "it sounds very nice. and it is certainly not every day that we should find any one going to france from a little place like this." for mrs. lacy's home was in a rather remote and out-of-the-way part of the country. "it would save expense too, for, as they have no longer a regular nurse, i have no one to send even as far as london with them." "and young mrs. ----, i forget her name--her maid would look after them on the journey. i asked about that," said susan, who was certainly not thoughtless. "well, well, we must just wait for saturday's letter," said mrs. lacy. "and in the meantime the less said about it the better, _i_ think," said susan. "perhaps so; i daresay you are right," agreed mrs. lacy. she hardly saw the children again that day. susan, who seemed to be in an unusually gracious mood, took them out herself in the afternoon, and was very kind. but they were so little used to talk to her, for she had never tried to gain their confidence, that it did not occur to either gladys or roger to chatter about what nevertheless their little heads and hearts were full of. they had also, i think, a vague childish notion of loyalty to their old friend in not mentioning the subject, even though she had not told them not to do so. so they trotted along demurely, pleased at having their best things on, and proud of the honour of a walk with miss susan, even while not a little afraid of doing anything to displease her. "they are good little things after all," thought susan, when she had brought them home without any misfortune of any kind having marred the harmony of the afternoon. and the colour rushed into gladys's face when miss susan sent them up to the nursery with the promise of strawberry jam for tea, as they had been very good. "i don't mind so much about the strawberry jam," gladys confided to roger, "though it _is_ very nice. but i do like when any one says we've been very good, don't you?" "yes," said roger; adding, however, with his usual honesty: "i like _bofe_, being praised _and_ jam, you know, gladdie." "'cos," gladys continued, "if we _are_ good, you see, roger, and i really think we must be so if _she_ says so, it will be very nice for papa, won't it? it matters more now, you see, what we are, 'cos of going to him. when people have people of their own they should be gooder even than when they haven't any one that cares much." "should they?" said roger, a little bewildered. "but mrs. lacy cares," he added. roger was great at second thoughts. "ye--s," said gladys, "she cares, but not dreadfully much. she's getting old, you know. and sometimes--don't say so to anybody, roger--sometimes i think p'raps she'll soon have to be going to heaven. i think _she_ thinks so. that's another reason, you see," reverting to the central idea round which her busy brain had done nothing but revolve all day, "why it's _such_ a good thing papa's sent for us now." "i don't like about people going to heaven," said roger, with a little shiver. "why can't god let them stay here, or go over the sea to where it's so pretty. _i_ don't want ever to go to heaven." "oh, roger!" said gladys, shocked. "papa wouldn't like you to say that." "wouldn't he?" said roger; "then i won't. it's because of the angels, you know, gladdie. oh, do you think," he went on, his ideas following the next link in the chain, "_do_ you think we can take snowball with us when we go?" "i don't know," said gladys; and just then mrs. lacy's housemaid, who had taken care of them since their nurse had had to leave them some months before, happening to bring in their tea, the little girl turned to her with some vague idea of taking her into their confidence. to have no one but roger to talk to about so absorbing a matter was almost too much. but ellen was either quite ignorant of the great news, or too discreet to allow that she had heard it. in answer to gladys's "feeler" as to how hens travelled, and if one might take them in the carriage with one, she replied matter-of-factly that she believed there were places on purpose for all sorts of live things on the railway, but that miss gladys had better ask miss susan, who had travelled a great deal more than she, ellen. "yes," replied gladys disappointedly, "perhaps she has; but most likely not with hens. but have you stayed at home all your life, ellen? have you never left your father and mother till you came here?" whereupon ellen, who was a kindly good girl, only a little too much in awe of miss susan to yield to her natural love of children, feeling herself on safe ground, launched out into a somewhat rose-coloured description of her home and belongings, and of her visits as a child to the neighbouring market-town, which much amused and interested her little hearers, besides serving for the time to distract their thoughts from the one idea, which was, i daresay, a good thing. for in this life it is not well to think too much or feel too sure of _any_ hoped-for happiness. the doing so of itself leads to disappointment, for we unconsciously paint our pictures with colours impossibly bright, so that the _real_ cannot but fall short of the imaginary. but baby gladys--poor little girl!--at seven it is early days to learn these useful but hard lessons. she and roger made up for their silence when they went to bed, and you, children, can better imagine than i can tell the whispered chatter that went on between the two little cots that stood close together side by side. and still more the lovely confusion of happy dreams that flitted that night through the two curly heads on the two little pillows. chapter ii. poor mrs. lacy. "for the last time--words of too sad a tone." an old story and other poems. saturday brought the expected letter, which both mrs. lacy and susan anxiously expected, though with different feelings. susan hoped that nothing would interfere with the plan she had made for the children's leaving; mrs. lacy, even though she owned that it seemed a good plan, could not help wishing that something would happen to defer the parting with the two little creatures whom she had learnt to love as much as if they had been her own grandchildren. but the letter was all in favour of susan's ideas. captain bertram wrote much more decidedly than he had done before. he named the date at which he was leaving, a very few days after his letter, the date at which he expected to be at marseilles, and went on to say that if mrs. lacy could possibly arrange to have the children taken over to paris within a certain time, he would undertake to meet them there at any hour of any day of the week she named. the sooner the better for him, he said, as he would be anxious to get back to the south and settle himself there for the winter, the doctor having warned him to run no risks in exposing himself to cold, though with care he quite hoped to be all right again by the spring. as to a maid for the children--mrs. lacy having told him that they had had no regular nurse for some time--he thought it would be a good plan to have a french one, and as he had friends in paris who understood very well about such things he would look out for one immediately he got there, if mrs. lacy could find one to take them over and stay a few days, or if she, perhaps, could spare one of her servants for the time. and he begged her, when she had made her plans, to telegraph, or write if there were time, to him at a certain hotel at marseilles, "to wait his arrival." susan's face had brightened considerably while reading the letter; for mrs. lacy, after trying to do so, had given it up, and begged her niece to read it aloud. "my sight is very bad this morning," she said, and her voice trembled as she spoke, "and wilfred's writing was never very clear." susan looked at her rather anxiously--for some time past it had seemed to her that her aunt was much less well than usual--but she took the letter and read it aloud in her firm distinct voice, only stopping now and then to exclaim: "_could_ anything have happened better? it is really most fortunate." only at the part where captain bertram spoke of engaging a maid for the journey, or lending one of theirs, her face darkened a little. "quite unnecessary--foolish expense. hope aunt won't speak of it to ellen," she said to herself in too low a voice for mrs. lacy to hear. "well, aunt?" she said aloud, when she had finished the letter, but rather to her surprise mrs. lacy did not at once reply. she was lying on her couch, and her soft old face looked very white against the cushions. she had closed her eyes, but her lips seemed to be gently moving. what were the unheard words they were saying? a prayer perhaps for the two little fledglings about to be taken from her wing for ever. she knew it was for ever. "i shall never see them again," she said, loud enough for susan to hear, but susan thought it better not to hear. "well, aunt," she repeated, rather impatiently, but the impatience was partly caused by real anxiety; "won't you say what you think of it? _could_ anything have happened better than the murrays' escort? just the right time and all." "yes, my dear. it seems to have happened wonderfully well. i am sure you will arrange it all perfectly. can you write to wilfred at once? and perhaps you had better see mrs. murray again. i don't feel able to do anything, but i trust it all to you, susan. you are so practical and sensible." "certainly," replied susan, agreeably surprised to find her aunt of the same opinion as herself; "i will arrange it all. don't trouble about it in the least. i will see the murrays again this afternoon or to-morrow. but in the meantime i think it is better to say nothing more to the children." "perhaps so," said mrs. lacy. something in her voice made susan look round. she was leaving the room at the moment. "aunt, what is the matter?" she said. mrs. lacy tried to smile, but there were tears in her eyes. "it is nothing, my dear," she said. "i am a foolish old woman, i know. i was only thinking"--and here her voice broke again--"it would have been a great pleasure to me," she went on, "if he could have managed it. if wilfred could have come all the way himself, and i could have given the children up into his own hands. it would not have seemed quite so--so sad a parting, and i should have liked to see him again." "but you will see him again, dear aunt," said susan; "in the spring he is sure to come to england, to settle probably, perhaps not far from us. he has spoken of it in his letters." "yes, i know," said mrs. lacy, "but----" "but what?" "i don't want to be foolish; but you know, my dear, by the spring i may not be here." "oh, aunt!" said susan reproachfully. "it is true, my dear; but do not think any more of what i said." but susan, who was well-principled, though not of a very tender or sympathising nature, turned again, still with her hand on the door-handle. "aunt," she said, "you have a right to be consulted--even to be fanciful if you choose. you have been very good to me, very good to gladys and roger, and i have no doubt you were very good to their father long ago. if it would be a comfort to you, let me do it--let me write to wilfred bertram and ask him to come here, as you say, to fetch the children himself." mrs. lacy reflected a moment. then, as had been her habit all her life, she decided on self-denial. "no, my dear susan," she said firmly. "thank you for proposing it, but it is better not. wilfred has not thought of it, or perhaps he has thought of it and decided against it. it would be additional expense for him, and he has to think of that--then it would give _you_ much more to do, and you have enough." "i don't mind about that," said susan. "and then, too," went on mrs. lacy, "there is his health. evidently it will be better for him not to come so far north so late in the year." "yes," said susan, "that is true." "so think no more about it, my dear, and thank you for your patience with a silly old woman." susan stooped and kissed her aunt, which from her meant a good deal. then, her conscience quite at rest, she got ready to go to see mrs. murray at once. "there is no use losing the chance through any foolish delay," she said to herself. two days later she was able to tell her aunt that all was settled. mrs. murray had written to her niece, mrs. marton, and had already got her answer. she and her husband would gladly take charge of the children as far as paris, and her maid, a very nice french girl, who adored little people, would look after them in every way--not the slightest need to engage a nurse for them for the journey, as they would be met by their father on their arrival. the martons were to spend two days, the last two days of their stay in england, with mrs. murray, and meant to leave on the thursday of the week during which captain bertram had said he could meet the children at any day and any hour. everything seemed to suit capitally. "they will cross on friday," said susan; "that is the indian mail day, of course. and it is better than earlier in the week, as it gives captain bertram two or three days' grace _in case_ of any possible delay." "and will you write, or telegraph--which is it?" asked mrs. lacy timidly, for these sudden arrangements had confused her--"at once, then?" "telegraph, aunt? no, of course not," said susan a little sharply, "he will have left ----pore several days ago, you know, and there is no use _telegraphing_ to marseilles. i will write to-morrow--there is _plenty_ of time--a letter to wait his arrival, as he himself proposed. then _when_ he arrives he will telegraph to us to say he has got the letter, and that it is all right. you quite understand, aunt?" "oh yes, quite. i am very stupid, i know, my dear," said the old lady meekly. a few days passed. gladys had got accustomed by this time to the idea of leaving, and no longer felt bewildered and almost oppressed by the rush of questions and wonderings in her mind. but her busy little brain nevertheless was constantly at work. she had talked it all over with roger so often that he, poor little boy, no longer knew what he thought or did not think about it. he had vague visions of a ship about the size of mrs. lacy's drawing-room, with a person whom he fancied his father--a tall man with very black whiskers, something like mrs. murray's butler, whom miss susan had one day spoken of as quite "soldier-like"--and roger's papa was of course a soldier--standing in the middle to hold the mast steady, and gladys and he with new ulsters on--gladys had talked a great deal about new ulsters for the journey--waving flags at each side. flags were hopelessly confused with ships in roger's mind; he thought they had something to do with making boats go quicker. but he did not quite like to say so to gladys, as she sometimes told him he was really too silly for a big boy of nearly five. so the two had become rather silent on the subject. roger had almost left off thinking about it. his little everyday life of getting up and going to bed, saying his prayers and learning his small lessons for the daily governess who came for an hour every morning, eating his breakfast and dinner and tea, and playing with his toy-horses, was enough for him. he could not for long together have kept his thoughts on the strain of far-away and unfamiliar things, and so long as he knew that he had gladys at hand, and that nobody (which meant miss susan in particular) was vexed with him, he asked no more of fate! and when gladys saw that he was much more interested in trying to catch sight of an imaginary little mouse which was supposed to have been nibbling at the tail of his favourite horse in the toy-cupboard, than in listening to her wonderings whether papa had written again, and _when_ miss susan was going to see about their new ulsters, she gave up talking to him in despair. if she could have given up _thinking_ so much about what was to come, it would have been better, i daresay. but still it was not to be wondered at that she found it difficult to give her mind to anything else. the governess could not make out why gladys had become so absent and inattentive all of a sudden, for though the little girl's head was so full of the absorbing thought, she never dreamt of speaking of it to any one but roger. mrs. lacy had not told her she must _not_ do so, but somehow gladys, with a child's quick delicate instinct of honour, often so little understood, had taken for granted that she was not to do so. "everything comes to him that has patience to wait," says the eastern proverb, and in her own way gladys had been patient, when one morning, about a week after the day on which susan had told her aunt that everything was settled, miss fern, the daily governess, at the close of lessons, told her to go down to the drawing-room, as mrs. lacy wanted her. "and roger too?" asked gladys, her heart beating fast, though she spoke quietly. "yes, i suppose so," said miss fern, as she tied her bonnet-strings. the children had noticed that she had come into the schoolroom a little later than usual that morning, and that her eyes were red. but in answer to roger's tender though very frank inquiries, she had murmured something about a cold. "that was a story, then, what she said about her eyes," thought sharp-witted gladys. "she's been crying; i'm sure she has." but then a feeling of pity came into her mind. "poor miss fern; i suppose she's sorry to go away, and i daresay mrs. lacy said she wasn't to say anything about it to us." so she kissed miss fern very nicely, and stopped the rest of the remarks which she saw roger was preparing. "go and wash your hands quick, roger," she said, "for we must go downstairs. _mine_ are quite clean, but your middle fingers are all over ink." "washing doesn't take it away," said roger reluctantly. there were not many excuses he would have hesitated to use to avoid washing his hands! "never mind. it makes them _clean_ anyway," said gladys decidedly, and five minutes later two very spruce little pinafored figures stood tapping at the drawing-room door. "come in, dears," said mrs. lacy's faint gentle voice. she was lying on her sofa, and the children went up and kissed her. "_you_ has got a cold too--like miss fern," said roger, whose grammar was sometimes at fault, though he pronounced his words so clearly. "_roger_," whispered gladys, tugging at her little brother under his holland blouse. but mrs. lacy caught the word. "never mind, dear," she said, with a little smile, which showed that she saw that gladys understood. "let him say whatever comes into his head, dear little man." something in the words, simple as they were, or more perhaps in the tone, made little gladys suddenly turn away. a lump came into her throat, and she felt as if she were going to cry. "i wonder why i feel so strange," she thought, "just when we're going to hear about going to papa? i think it is that mrs. lacy's eyes look so sad, 'cos she's been crying. it's much worse than miss fern's. i don't care so much for her as for mrs. lacy," and all these feelings surging up in her heart made her not hear when their old friend began to speak. she had already said some words when gladys's thoughts wandered back again. "it came this morning," the old lady was saying. "see, dears, can you read what your papa says?" and she held out a pinky-coloured little sheet of paper, not at all like a letter. gladys knew what it was, but roger did not; he had never seen a telegram before. "is that papa's writing?" he said. "it's very messy-looking. _i_ couldn't read it, i don't think." "but i can," said gladys, spelling out the words. "'ar--arrived safe. will meet children as you prop--' what is the last word, please, mrs. lacy?" "propose," said the old lady, "as you propose." and then she went on to explain that this telegram was in answer to a letter from miss susan to their father, telling him all she had settled about the journey. "this telegram is from marseilles," she said; "that is the town by the sea in france, where your dear papa has arrived. it is quite in the south, but he will come up by the railway to meet you at paris, where mr. and mrs. marton--mrs. marton is mrs. murray's niece, gladys--will take you to." it was a little confusing to understand, but mrs. lacy went over it all again most patiently, for she felt it right that the children, gladys especially, should understand all the plans before starting away with mr. and mrs. marton, who, however kind, were still quite strangers to them. gladys listened attentively. "yes," she said; "i understand now. but how will papa know us, mrs. lacy? we have grown so, and----" she went on, rather reluctantly, "i am not _quite_ sure that i should know him, not just at the very first minute." mrs. lacy smiled. "no, dear, of course you could not, after more than four years! but mr. marton knows your papa." gladys's face cleared. "oh, that is all right," she said. "that is a very good thing. but"--and gladys looked round hesitatingly--"isn't anybody else going with us? i wish--i wish nurse wasn't married; don't you, mrs. lacy?" the sort of appeal in the child's voice went to the old lady's heart. "yes, dear," she said. "but susan thinks it will be quite nice for you with léonie, young mrs. marton's maid, for your papa will have a new nurse all ready. she wrote to tell him that we would not send any nurse with you." gladys gave a little sigh. it took some of the bloom off the delight of "going to papa" to have to begin the journey alone among strangers, and she saw that mrs. lacy sympathised with her. "it will save a good deal of expense too," the old lady added, more as if thinking aloud, and half forgetting to whom she was speaking. "will it?" said gladys quickly. "oh, then, i won't mind. we won't mind, will we, roger?" she repeated, turning to her little brother. "no, we won't," answered roger solemnly, though without a very clear idea of what he was talking about, for he was quite bewildered by all he had heard, and knew and understood nothing but that he and gladys were going somewhere with somebody to see papa. "that's right," said mrs. lacy cheerfully. "you are a sensible little body, my gladys." "i know papa isn't very rich," said gladys, encouraged by this approval, "and he'll have a great lot more to pay now that roger and i are going to be with him, won't he?" "you have such very big appetites, do you think?" "i don't know," said gladys. "but there are such lots of things to buy, aren't there? all our frocks and hats and boots. but oh!" she suddenly broke off, "won't we have to be getting our things ready? and _do_ you think we should have new ulsters?" "they are ordered," said mrs. lacy. "indeed, everything you will need is ordered. susan has been very busy, but everything will be ready." "when are we to go?" asked gladys, suddenly remembering this important question. the sad look came into mrs. lacy's eyes again, and her voice trembled as she replied: "next thursday, my darling." "next thursday," repeated gladys; and then catching sight of the tears which were slowly welling up into mrs. lacy's kind eyes--it is so sad to see an aged person cry!--she suddenly threw her arms around her old friend's neck, and, bursting out sobbing, exclaimed again: "next thursday. oh, dear mrs. lacy, next thursday!" and roger stood by, fumbling to get out his pocket-handkerchief, not quite sure if he should also cry or not. it seemed to him strange that gladys should cry just when what she had wanted so much had come--just when it was all settled about going to papa! chapter iii. a pretty kettle of fish. "the cab-wheels made a dreamy thunder in their half-awakened ears; and then they felt a dreamy wonder amid their dream-like fears." lavender lady. gladys said something of the same kind to herself when, looking round her in the railway carriage on that same thursday morning, she realised that the long, long looked-forward-to day had come. she and roger had actually started on their journey to papa! yet her eyes were red and her face was pale. little roger, too, looked subdued and sober. it had never been so in their plays; in their pretence goings to papa they were always full of fun and high spirits. it was always a beautiful sunny day to begin with, and to-day, the real day, was sadly dull and dreary, and cold too; the children, even though the new ulsters were in all their glory, shivered a little and drew closer together. the rain was falling so fast that there was no use trying to look out of the window, when fields and trees and farmhouses all seem to fly past in a misty confusion. mr. marton was deep in his _times_; mrs. marton, after settling the children in the most comfortable places and doing all she could think of, had drawn a book out of her travelling-bag and was also busy reading. roger, after a while, grew sleepy, and nodded his head, and then mrs. marton made a pillow for him on the arm of the seat, and covered him up with her rug. but gladys, who was not at all sleepy, sat staring before her with wide open eyes, and thinking it was all very strange, and, above all, not the very least bit like what she had thought it would be. the tears came back into her eyes again when she thought of the parting with mrs. lacy. she and roger had hardly seen their kind old friend the last few days, for she was ill, much more ill than usual, and susan had looked grave and troubled. but the evening before, she had sent for them to say good-bye, and this was the recollection that made the tears rush back to the little girl's eyes. dear mrs. lacy, how very white and ill she looked, propped up by pillows on the old-fashioned sofa in her room--every article in which was old-fashioned too, and could have told many a long-ago tender little story of the days when their owner was a merry blooming girl; or, farther back still, a tiny child like gladys herself! for much of mrs. lacy's life had been spent in the same house and among the same things. she had gone from there when she was married, and she had come back there a widow and childless, and there she had brought up these children's father, wilfred, as she often called him even in speaking to them, the son of her dearest friend. all this gladys knew, for sometimes when they were alone together, mrs. lacy would tell her little stories of the past, which left their memory with the child, even though at the time hardly understood; and now that she and roger were quite gone from the old house and the old life, the thought of them hung about gladys with a strange solemn kind of mystery. "i never thought about leaving mrs. lacy when we used to play at going," she said to herself. "i never even thought of leaving the house and our own little beds and everything, and even miss susan. and ellen was very kind. i wish she could have come with us, just till we get to papa," and then, at the thought of this unknown papa, a little tremor came over the child, though she would not have owned it to any one. "i wonder if it would have cost a very great deal for ellen to come with us just for a few days. i would have given my money-box money, and so would roger, i am sure. i have fifteen and sixpence, and he has seven shillings and fourpence. it _could_ not have cost more than all that," and then she set to work to count up how much her money and roger's added together would be. it would not come twice together to the same sum somehow, and gladys went on counting it up over and over again confusedly till at last it all got into a confusion together, for she too, tired out with excitement and the awakening of so many strange feelings, had fallen asleep like poor little roger. they both slept a good while, and mr. and mrs. marton congratulated themselves on having such very quiet and peaceable small fellow-travellers. "they are no trouble at all," said young mrs. marton. "but on the boat we must of course have léonie with us, in case of a bad passage." "yes, certainly," said her husband; "indeed i think she had better be with us from london. they will be getting tired by then." "they are tired already, poor pets," said mrs. marton, who was little more than a girl herself. "they don't look very strong, do they, phillip?" mr. marton took the cigarette he had just been preparing to enjoy out of his mouth, and turned towards the children, examining them critically. "the boy looks sturdy enough, though he's small. he's like bertram. the girl seems delicate; she's so thin too." "yes," agreed mrs. marton. "_i_ don't mind, and no more does léonie; but i think it was rather hard-hearted of susan lacy to have sent them off like that without a nurse of their own. if she had not been so worried about mrs. lacy's illness, i think i would have said something about it to her, even at the last. somehow, till i saw the children, i did not think they were so tiny." "it'll be all right once we get to paris and we give them over to their father," said mr. marton, who was of a philosophical turn of mind, puffing away again at his cigarette. "it will have saved some expense, and that's a consideration too." the children slept for some time. when they awoke they were not so very far from london. they felt less tired and better able to look about them and ask a few modest little questions. and when they got to london they enjoyed the nice hot cup of tea they had in the refreshment room, and by degrees they began to make friends with léonie, who was very bright and merry, so that they were pleased to hear she was to be in the same carriage with them for the rest of the journey. "till you see your dear papa," said léonie, who had heard all the particulars from her young mistress. "yes," said gladys quietly--by this time they were settled again in another railway carriage--"our papa's to be at the station to meet us." "and we're to have a new nurse," added roger, who was in a communicative humour. "do you think she'll be kind to us?" "i'm sure she will," said léonie, whose heart was already won. "she's to teach us french," said gladys. "that will be very nice," said léonie. "it is a very good thing to know many languages." "can you speak french?" asked roger. léonie laughed, "of course i can," she replied, "french is my tongue." roger sat straight up, with an appearance of great interest. "your tongue," he repeated. "please let me see it," and he stared hard at léonie's half-opened mouth. "is it not like our tongues then?" léonie stared too, then she burst out laughing. "oh, i don't mean tongue like that," she said, "i mean talking--language. when i was little like you i could talk nothing but french, just like you now, who can talk only english." "and can't everybody in france talk english too?" asked gladys, opening her eyes. "oh dear no!" said léonie. gladys and roger looked at each other. this was quite a new and rather an alarming idea. "it is a _very_ good thing," gladys remarked at last, "that papa is to be at the station. if we got lost over there," she went on, nodding her head in the direction of an imaginary france, "it would be even worse than in london." "but you're not going to get lost anywhere," said léonie, smiling. "we'll take better care of you than that." and then she went on to tell them a little story of how once, when she was a very little girl, she had got lost--not in paris, but in a much smaller town--and how frightened she was, and how at last an old peasant woman on her way home from market had found her crying under a hedge, and had brought her home again to her mother. this thrilling adventure was listened to with the greatest interest. "how pleased your mother must have been to see you again!" said gladys. "does she still live in that queer old town? doesn't she mind you going away from her?" "alas!" said léonie, and the tears twinkled in her bright eyes, "my mother is no longer of this world. she went away from me several years ago. i shall not see her again till in heaven." "that's like us," said gladys. "we've no mamma. did you know?" "but you've a good papa," said léonie. "yes," said gladys, rather doubtfully, for somehow the idea of a real flesh-and-blood papa seemed to be getting more instead of less indistinct now that they were soon to see him. "but he's been away such a very long time." "poor darlings," said léonie. "and have you no papa, no little brothers, not any one like that?" inquired gladys. "i have some cousins--very good people," said léonie. "they live in paris, where we are now going. if there had been time i should have liked to go to see them. but we shall stay no time in paris--just run from one station to the other." "but the luggage?" said gladys. "mrs. marton has a lot of boxes. i don't see how you can _run_ if you have them to carry. i think it would be better to take a cab, even if it does cost a little more. but perhaps there are no cabs in paris. is that why you talk of running to the station?" léonie had burst out laughing half-way through this speech, and though she knew it was not very polite, she really could not help it. the more she tried to stop, the more she laughed. "what is the matter?" said gladys at last, a little offended. "i beg your pardon," said léonie; "i know it is rude. but, mademoiselle, the idea"--and here she began to laugh again--"of monsieur and madame and me all running with the boxes! it was too amusing!" gladys laughed herself now, and so did roger. "then there are cabs in paris," she said in a tone of relief. "i am glad of that. papa will have one all ready for us, i suppose. what time do we get there, léonie?" léonie shook her head. "a very disagreeable time," she said, "quite, quite early in the morning, before anybody seems quite awake. and the mornings are already so cold. i am afraid you will not like paris very much at first." "oh yes, they will," said mrs. marton, who had overheard the last part of the conversation. "think how nice it will be to see their papa waiting for them, and to go to a nice warm house and have breakfast; chocolate, most likely. do you like chocolate?" "yes, very much," said gladys and roger. "i think it is not you to be pitied, anyway," mrs. marton went on, for the half-appealing, half-frightened look of the little things touched her. "it's much worse for us three, poor things, travelling on all the way to marseilles." "that's where papa's been. mrs. lacy showed it me on the map. what a long way! poor mrs. marton. wouldn't mr. marton let you stay at paris with us till you'd had a rest?" "we'd give you some of our chocolate," said roger hospitably. "and let poor phillip, that's mr. marton," replied the young lady, "go all the way to india alone?" the children looked doubtful. "you could go after him," suggested roger. "but léonie and i wouldn't like to go so far alone. it's nicer to have a man to take care of you when you travel. you're getting to be a man, you see, roger, already--learning to take care of your sister." "i _have_ growed a good big piece on the nursery door since my birthday," agreed roger complacently. "but when papa's there he'll take care of us both till i'm quite big." "ah, yes, that will be best of all," said mrs. marton, smiling. "i do hope papa will be there all right, poor little souls," she added to herself. for, though young, mrs. marton was not thoughtless, and she belonged to a happy and prosperous family where since infancy every care had been lavished on the children, and somehow since she had seen and talked to gladys and roger their innocence and loneliness had struck her sharply, and once or twice a misgiving had come over her that in her anxiety to get rid of the children, and to waste no money, susan lacy had acted rather hastily. "captain bertram should have telegraphed again," she reflected. "it is nearly a week since he did so. i wish i had made phillip telegraph yesterday to be sure all was right. the lacys need not have known anything about it." but they were at dover now, and all these fears and reflections were put out of her head by the bustle of embarking and settling themselves comfortably, and devoutly hoping they would have a good passage. the words meant nothing to gladys and roger. they had never been on the sea since they were little babies, and had no fears. and, fortunately, nothing disturbed their happy ignorance, for, though cold, the sea was very smooth. they were disappointed at the voyage being made in the dark, as they had counted on all sorts of investigations into the machinery of the "ship," and roger had quite expected that his services would be required to help to make it go faster, whereas it seemed to them only as if they were taken into a queer sort of drawing-room and made to lie down on red sofas, and covered up with shawls, and that then there came a booming noise something like the threshing machine at the farm where they sometimes went to fetch butter and eggs, and then--and then--they fell asleep, and when they woke they were being bundled into another railway carriage! léonie was carrying roger, and gladys, as she found to her great disgust--she thought herself far too big for anything of the kind--was in mr. marton's arms, where she struggled so that the poor man thought she was having an attack of nightmare, and began to soothe her as if she were about two, which did not improve matters. "hush, hush, my dear. you shall go to sleep again in a moment," he said. "but what a little vixen she is!" he added, when he had at last got gladys, red and indignant, deposited in a corner. "i'm too big to be carried," she burst out, half sobbing. "i wouldn't even let _papa_ carry me." but kind mrs. marton, though she could hardly help laughing, soon put matters right by assuring gladys that lots of people, even quite big grown-up ladies, were often lifted in and out of ships. when it was rough only the sailors could keep their footing. so gladys, who was beginning to calm down and to feel a little ashamed, took it for granted that it had been very rough, and told mr. marton she was very sorry--she had not understood. the railway carriage was warm and comfortable, so after a while the children again did the best thing they could under the circumstances--they went to sleep. and so, i think, did their three grown-up friends. gladys was the first to wake. she looked round her in the dim morning light--all the others were still asleep. it felt chilly, and her poor little legs were stiff and numb. she drew them up on to the seat to try to warm them, and looked out of the window. nothing to be seen but damp flat fields, and trees with a few late leaves still clinging to them, and here and there a little cottage or farmhouse looking, like everything else, desolate and dreary. gladys withdrew her eyes from the prospect. "i don't like travelling," she decided. "i wonder if the sun never shines in this country." a little voice beside her made her look round. "gladdie," it said, "are we near that place? are you _sure_ papa will be there? i'm so tired of these railways, gladdie." "so am i," said gladys sympathisingly. "i should think we'll soon be there. but i'm sure i shan't like paris, roger. i'll ask papa to take us back to mrs. lacy's again." roger gave a little shiver. "it's such a long way to go," he said. "i wouldn't mind if only ellen had come with us, and if we had chocolate for breakfast." but their voices, low as they were, awakened léonie, who was beside them. and then mrs. marton awoke, and at last mr. marton, who looked at his watch, and finding they were within ten minutes of paris, jumped up and began fussing away at the rugs and shawls and bags, strapping them together, and generally unsettling everybody. "we must get everything ready," he said. "i shall want to be free to see bertram at once." "but there's never a crowd inside the station here," said his wife. "they won't let people in without special leave. we shall easily catch sight of captain bertram if he has managed to get inside." "he's sure to have done so," said mr. marton, and in his anxiety to catch the first glimpse of his friend, mr. marton spent the next ten minutes with his head and half his body stretched out of the window long before the train entered the station, though even when it arrived there the dim light would have made it difficult to recognise any one. had there been any one to recognise! but there was not. the train came to a stand at last. mr. marton had eagerly examined the faces of the two or three men, _not_ railway officials, standing on the platform, but there was no one whom by any possibility he could for a second have taken for captain bertram. mrs. marton sat patiently in her place, hoping every instant that "phillip" would turn round with a cheery "all right, here he is. here, children!" and oh, what a weight--a weight that all through the long night journey had been mysteriously increasing--would have been lifted off the kind young lady's heart had he done so! but no; when mr. marton at last drew in his head there was a disappointed and perplexed look on his good-natured face. "he's not here--not on the platform, i mean," he said, hastily correcting himself. "he must be waiting outside; we'll find him where we give up the tickets. it's a pity he didn't manage to get inside. however, we must jump out. here, léonie, you take mrs. marton's bag, i'll shoulder the rugs. hallo there," to a porter, "that's all right. you give him the things, léonie. omnibus, does he say? bless me, how can i tell? bertram's got a cab engaged most likely, and we don't want an omnibus for us three. you explain to him, léonie." [illustration: in another moment the little party was making its way through the station.] which léonie did, and in another moment the little party was making its way through the station, among the crowd of their fellow-passengers. mr. marton first, with the rugs, then his wife holding gladys by the hand, then léonie and roger, followed by the porter bringing up the rear. mrs. marton's heart was not beating fast by this time; it was almost standing still with apprehension. but she said nothing. on they went through the little gate where the tickets were given up, on the other side of which stood with eager faces the few expectant friends who had been devoted enough to get up at five o'clock to meet their belongings who were crossing by the night mail. mr. marton's eyes ran round them, then glanced behind, first to one side and then to the other as if captain bertram could jump up from some corner like a jack-in-the-box. his face grew graver and graver, but he did not speak. he led his wife and the children and léonie to the most comfortable corner of the dreary waiting-room, and saying shortly, "i'm going to look after the luggage and to hunt up bertram. he must have overslept himself if he's not here yet. you all wait here quietly till i come back," disappeared in the direction of the luggage-room. mrs. marton did not speak either. she drew gladys nearer her, and put her arm round the little girl as if to protect her against the disappointment which she _felt_ was coming. gladys sat perfectly silent. what she was expecting, or fearing, or even thinking, i don't believe she could have told. she had only one feeling that she could have put into words, "everything is _quite_ different from what i thought. it isn't at all like going to papa." but poor little roger tugged at léonie, who was next him. "what are we waiting here in this ugly house for?" he said. "can't we go to papa and have our chocolate?" léonie stooped down and said something to soothe him, and after a while he grew drowsy again, and his little head dropped on to her shoulder. and so they sat for what seemed a terribly long time. it was more than half an hour, till at last mr. marton appeared again. "i've only just got out that luggage," he said. "what a detestable plan that registering it is! and now i've got it i don't know what to do with it, for----" "has he not come?" interrupted his wife. mr. marton glanced at gladys. she did not seem to be listening. "not a bit of him," he replied. "i've hunted right through the station half a dozen times, and it's an hour and a half since the train was due. it cannot be some little delay. it's a pretty kettle of fish and no mistake." mrs. marton's blue eyes gazed up in her husband's face with a look of the deepest anxiety. "what _is_ to be done?" she said. chapter iv. "what is to be done?" "that is the question." hamlet. yes, "what was to be done?" that was certainly the question. mr. marton looked at his wife for a moment or two without replying. then he seemed to take a sudden resolution. "we can't stay here all the morning, that's about all i can say at present," he said. "come along, we'd better go to the nearest hotel and think over matters." so off they all set again--mr. marton and the rugs, mrs. marton and gladys, léonie and roger--another porter being got hold of to bring such of the bags, etc., as were not left at the station with the big luggage. gladys walked along as if in a dream; she did not even wake up to notice the great wide street and all the carriages, and omnibuses, and carts, and people as they crossed to the hotel in front of the station. she hardly even noticed that all the voices about her were talking in a language she did not understand--she was completely dazed--the only words which remained clearly in her brain were the strange ones which mr. marton had made use of--"a pretty kettle of fish and no mistake." "no mistake," that must mean that papa's not coming to the station was not a mistake, but that there was some reason for it. but "a kettle of fish," what _could_ that have to do with it all? she completely lost herself in puzzling about it. why she did not simply ask mrs. marton to explain it i cannot tell. perhaps the distressed anxious expression on that young lady's own face had something to do with her not doing so. arrived at the hotel, and before a good fire in a large dining-room at that early hour quite empty, a slight look of relief came over all the faces. it was something to get warmed at least! and mr. marton ordered the hot chocolate for which roger had been pining, before he said anything else. it came almost at once, and léonie established the children at one of the little tables, drinking her own coffee standing, that she might attend to them and join in the talking of her master and mistress if they wished it. roger began to feel pretty comfortable. he had not the least idea where he was--he had never before in his life been at a hotel, and would not have known what it meant--but to find himself warmed and fed and gladys beside him was enough for the moment; and even gladys herself began to feel a very little less stupefied and confused. mr. and mrs. marton, at another table, talked gravely and in a low voice. at last mr. marton called léonie. "come here a minute," he said, "and see if you can throw any light on the matter. you are more at home in paris than we are. mrs. marton and i are at our wits' end. if we had a few days to spare it would not be so bad, but we have not. our berths are taken, and we cannot afford to lose three passages." "mine too, sir," said léonie. "is mine taken too?" "of course it is. you didn't suppose you were going as cabin-boy, did you?" said mr. marton rather crossly, though i don't think his being a little cross was to be wondered at. poor léonie looked very snubbed. "i was only wondering," she said meekly, "if i could have stayed behind with the poor children till----" "impossible," said mr. marton; "lose your passage for a day or two's delay in their father's fetching them. if i thought it was more than that i would send them back to england," he added, turning to his wife. "and poor mrs. lacy so ill! oh no, that would never do," she said. "and there's much more involved than our passages," he went on. "it's as much as my appointment is worth to miss this mail. it's just this--captain bertram is either here, or has been detained at marseilles. if he's still there, we can look him up when we get there to-morrow; if he's in paris, and has made some stupid mistake, we must get his address at marseilles, he's sure to have left it at the hotel there for letters following him, and telegraph back to him here. i never did know anything so senseless as susan lacy's not making him give a paris address," he added. "he was only to arrive here yesterday or the day before," said mrs. marton. "but the friends who were to have a nurse ready for the children? we should have had _some_ address." "yes," said mrs. marton self-reproachfully. "i wish i had thought of it. but susan was so _sure_ all would be right. and certainly, in case of anything preventing captain bertram's coming, it was only natural to suppose he would have telegraphed, or sent some one else, or done _something_." "well--all things considered," said mr. marton, "it seems to me the best thing to do is to leave the children here, _even_ if we had a choice, which i must say i don't see! for i don't know how i could send them back to england, nor what their friends there might find to say if i did--nor can we----" "take them on to marseilles with us?" interrupted mrs. marton. "oh, phillip, would not that be better?" "and find that their father had just started for paris?" replied her husband. "and then think of the expense. here, they are much nearer at hand if they have to be fetched back to england." mrs. marton was silent. suddenly another idea struck her. she started up. "supposing captain bertram has come to the station since we left," she exclaimed. "he may be there now." mr. marton gave a little laugh. "no fear," he said "every official in the place knows the whole story. i managed to explain it, and told them to send him over here." "and what are you thinking of doing, then? _where_ can we leave them?" mr. marton looked at his watch. "that's just the point," he said. "we've only three hours unless we put off till the night express, and that is running it too fine. any little detention and we might miss the boat." "we've run it too fine already, i fear," said mrs. marton dolefully. "it's been my fault, phillip--the wanting to stay in england till the last minute." "it's susan lacy's fault, or bertram's fault, or both our faults for being too good-natured," said mr. marton gloomily. "but that's not the question now. i don't think we _should_ put off going, for--another reason--it would leave us no time to look up bertram at marseilles. only if we had had a few hours, i could have found some decent people to leave the children with here, some good 'pension,' or----" "but such places are all so dear, and we have to consider the money too." "yes," said mr. marton, "we have _literally_ to do so. i've only just in cash what we need for ourselves, and i couldn't cash a cheque here all in a minute, for my name is not known. but something must be fixed, and at once. i wonder if it would be any good if i were to consult the manager of this hotel? i----" "pardon," said léonie, suddenly interrupting. "i have an idea. my aunt--she is really my cousin, but i call her aunt--you know her by name, madame?" she went on, turning to mrs. marton. "my mother often spoke of her"--for mrs. marton's family had known léonie's mother long ago when she had been a nurse in england--"madame nestor. they are upholsterers in the rue verte, not very far from here, quite in the centre of paris. they are very good people--of course, quite in a little way; but honest and good. they would do their best, just for a few days! it would be better than leaving the dear babies with those we knew nothing of. i think i could persuade them, if i start at once!" she began drawing her gloves on while she was speaking. and she had spoken so fast and confusedly that for a moment or two both mr. and mrs. marton stared at her, not clearly taking in what she meant. "shall i go, madame?" she said, with a little impatience. "there is no time to lose. of course if you do not like the idea--i would not have thought of it except that all is so difficult, so unexpected." "not like it?" said mr. marton; "on the contrary i think it's a capital idea. the children would be in safe hands, and at worst it can't be for more than a couple of days. if captain bertram has been detained at marseilles by illness or anything----" "that's not likely," interrupted mrs. marton, "he would have written or telegraphed." "well, then, if it's some stupid mistake about the day, he'll come off at once when we tell him where they are. i was only going to say that, at worst, if he _is_ ill, or anything wrong, we'll telegraph to susan lacy from marseilles and she'll send over for them somehow." "should we not telegraph to her at once from here?" mr. marton considered. "i don't see the use," he said at last. "we can tell her nothing certain, nothing that she should act on yet. and it would only worry the old lady for nothing." "i'm afraid she's too ill to be told anything about it," said mrs. marton. "then the more reason for waiting. but here we are losing the precious minutes, and léonie all ready to start. off with you, léonie, as fast as ever you can, and see what you can do. take a cab and make him drive fast," he called after her, for she had started off almost with his first words. "she's a very good sort of a girl," he added, turning to his wife. "yes, she always has her wits about her in an emergency," agreed mrs. marton. "i do hope," she went on, "that what we are doing will turn out for the best. i really never did know anything so unfortunate, and----" "is it all because of the kettle of fish? did papa tumble over it? oh, i _wish_ you'd tell me!" said a pathetic little voice at her side, and turning round mrs. marton caught sight of gladys, her hands clasped, her small white face and dark eyes gazing up beseechingly. it had grown too much for her at last, the bewilderment and the strangeness, and the not understanding. and the change from the cramped-up railway carriage and the warm breakfast had refreshed her a little, so that gradually her ideas were growing less confused. she had sat on patiently at the table long after she had finished her chocolate, though roger was still occupied in feeding himself by tiny spoonfuls. he had never had anything in the way of food more interesting than this chocolate, for it was still hot, and whenever he left it for a moment a skin grew over the top, which it was quite a business to clear away--catching now and then snatches of the eager anxious talk that was going on among the big people. and at last when léonie hurried out of the room, evidently sent on a message, gladys felt that she must find out what was the matter and what it all meant. but the topmost idea in her poor little brain was still the kettle of fish. "if papa has hurt himself," gladys went on, "i think it would be better to tell me. i'd so much rather know. i'm not so very little, mrs. marton, mrs. lacy used to tell me things." mrs. marton stooped down and put her arms round the pathetic little figure. "oh, i wish i could take you with me all the way. oh! i'm so sorry for you, my poor little pet," she exclaimed girlishly. "but indeed we are not keeping anything from you. i only wish we had anything to tell. we don't know ourselves; we have no idea why your father has not come." "but the kettle of fish?" repeated gladys. mrs. marton stared at her a moment, and then looked up at her husband. he grew a little red. "it must have been i that said it," he explained. "it is only an expression; a way of speaking, little gladys. it means when--when people are rather bothered, you know--and can't tell what to do. i suppose it comes from somebody once upon a time having had more fish than there was room for in their kettle, and not knowing what to do with them." "then we're the fish--roger and i--i suppose, that you don't know what to do with?" said gladys, her countenance clearing a little. "i'm very sorry. but i think papa'll come soon; don't you?" "yes, i do," replied mr. marton. "something must have kept him at marseilles, or else he's mistaken the day after all." "i thought you said it was 'no mistake!'" said gladys. mr. marton gave a little groan. "oh, you're a dreadful little person and no--there, i was just going to say it again! that's only an expression too, gladys. it means, 'to be sure,' or 'no doubt about it,' though i suppose it is a little what one calls 'slang.' but you don't know anything about that, do you?" "no," said gladys simply, "i don't know what it means." "and i haven't time to tell you, for we must explain to you what we're thinking of doing. you tell her, lilly. i'm going about the luggage," he added, turning to his wife, for he was dreadfully tender-hearted, though he was such a big strong young man, and he was afraid of poor gladys beginning to cry or clinging to them and begging them not to leave her and roger alone in paris, when she understood what was intended. but gladys was not the kind of child to do so. she listened attentively, and seemed proud of being treated like a big girl, and almost before mrs. marton had done speaking she had her sensible little answer ready. "yes, i see," she said. "it is much better for us to stay here, for papa might come _very_ soon, mightn't he? only, supposing he came this afternoon he wouldn't know where we were?" "mr. marton will give the address at the station, in case your papa inquires there, as he very likely would, if a lady and gentleman and two children arrived there from england this morning. and he will also leave the address _here_, for so many people come here from the station. and when we get to marseilles, we will at once go to the hotel where he was--where he is still, perhaps; if he has left, he is pretty sure to have given an address." "and if he's not there--if you can't find him--what will you do then?" said gladys, opening wide her eyes and gazing up in her friend's face. mrs. marton hesitated. "i suppose if we really could not find your father at once, we should have to write or telegraph to miss susan." gladys looked more distressed than she had yet done. "don't do that, please," she said, clasping her hands together in the way she sometimes did. "i'd much rather stay here a little longer till papa comes. it would be such a trouble to miss susan--i know she did think we were a great trouble sometimes--and it would make mrs. lacy cry perhaps to have to say good-bye again, and she's so ill." "yes, i know she is," said mrs. marton, surprised at the little girl's thoughtfulness. "but you know, dear, we'd have to let them know, and then most likely they'd send over for you." "but papa's _sure_ to come," said gladys. "it would only be waiting a little, and i don't mind much, and i don't think roger will, not if i'm with him. will they be kind to us, do you think, those friends of léonie's?" "i'm sure they will; otherwise you know, dear, we wouldn't leave you with them. of course it will only be for a day or two, for they are quite plain people, with quite a little house." "i don't mind, not if they're kind to us," said gladys. "but, oh! i do wish you weren't going away." "so do i," said mrs. marton, who felt really very nearly breaking down herself. the sort of quiet resignation about gladys was very touching, much more so than if she had burst out into sobs and tears. it was perhaps as well that just at that moment mr. marton came back, and saying something in a low voice to his wife, drew her out of the room, where in the passage stood léonie. "back already," exclaimed mrs. marton in surprise. "oh yes," léonie replied, "it was not far, and the coachman drove fast. but i thought it better not to speak before the children. it is a very little place, madame. i wonder if it will do." she seemed anxious and a little afraid of what she had proposed. "but can they take them? that is the principal question," said mr. marton. "oh yes," said léonie. "my aunt is goodness itself. she understands it all quite well, and would do her best; and it would certainly be better than to leave them with strangers, and would cost much less; only--the poor children!--all is so small and so cramped. just two or three little rooms behind the shop; and they have been used to an english nursery, and all so nice." "i don't think they have been spoilt in some ways," said mrs. marton. "poor little gladys seems to mind nothing if she is sure of kindness. besides, what else _can_ we do? and it is very kind of your aunt to consent, léonie." "yes, madame. it is not for gain that she does it. indeed it will not be gain, for she must find a room for her son, and arrange his room for the dear children. they have little beds among the furniture, so that will be easy; and all is very clean--my aunt is a good manager--but only----" léonie looked very anxious. "oh i'm sure it will be all right," said mr. marton. "i think we had better take them at once--i've got the luggage out--and then we can see for ourselves." the children were soon ready. gladys had been employing the time in trying to explain to poor little roger the new change that was before them. he did not find it easy to understand, but, as gladys had said, he did not seem to mind anything so long as he was sure he was not to be separated from his sister. a few minutes' drive brought them to the rue verte. it was a narrow street--narrow, at least in comparison with the wide new ones of the present day, for it was in an old-fashioned part of paris, in the very centre of one of the busiest quarters of the town; but it was quite respectable, and the people one saw were all well-dressed and well-to-do looking. still mr. marton looked about him uneasily. "dreadfully crowded place," he said; "must be very stuffy in warm weather. i'm glad it isn't summer; we _couldn't_ have left them here in that case." and when the cab stopped before a low door leading into a long narrow shop, filled with sofas and chairs, and great rolls of stuffs for making curtains and beds and mattresses in the background, mr. marton's face did not grow any brighter. but it did brighten up, and so did his wife's, when from the farther end of the shop, a glass door, evidently leading into a little sitting-room, opened, and an elderly woman, with a white frilled cap and a bright healthy face, with the kindliest expression in the world, came forward eagerly. "pardon," she said in french, "i had not thought the ladies would be here so soon. but all will be ready directly. and are these the dear children?" she went on, her pleasant face growing still pleasanter. "yes," said mrs. marton, who held gladys by one hand and roger by the other, "these are the two little strangers you are going to be so kind as to take care of for a day or two. it is very kind of you, madame nestor, and i hope it will not give you much trouble. léonie has explained all to you?" "oh yes," replied madame nestor, "poor darlings! what a disappointment to them not to have been met by their dear papa! but he will come soon, and they will not be too unhappy with us." mrs. marton turned to the children. "what does she say? is she the new nurse?" whispered roger, whose ideas, notwithstanding gladys's explanations, were still very confused. it was not a very bad guess, for madame nestor's good-humoured face and clean cap gave her very much the look of a nurse of the old-fashioned kind. mrs. marton stooped down and kissed the little puzzled face. "no, dear," she said, "she's not your nurse. she is léonie's aunt, and she's going to take care of you for a few days till your papa comes. and she says she will be very, very kind to you." but roger looked doubtful. "why doesn't she talk p'operly?" he said, drawing back. mrs. marton looked rather distressed. in the hurry and confusion she had not thought of this other difficulty--that the children would not understand what their new friends said to them! gladys seemed to feel by instinct what mrs. marton was thinking. "i'll try to learn french," she said softly, "and then i can tell roger." léonie pressed forward. "is she not a dear child?" she said, and then she quickly explained to her aunt what gladys had whispered. the old lady seemed greatly pleased. "my son speaks a little english," she said, with evident pride. "he is not at home now, but in the evening, when he is not busy, he must talk with our little demoiselle." "that's a good thing," exclaimed mr. marton, who felt the greatest sympathy with roger, for his own french would have been sadly at fault had he had to say more than two or three words in it. then madame nestor took mrs. marton to see the little room she was preparing for her little guests. it was already undergoing a good cleaning, so its appearance was not very tempting, but it would not have done to seem anything but pleased. "anyway it will be _clean_," thought mrs. marton, "but it is very dark and small." for though it was the best bedroom, the window looked out on to a narrow sort of court between the houses, whence but little light could find its way in, and mrs. marton could not help sighing a little as she made her way back to the shop, where mr. marton was explaining to léonie about the money he was leaving with madame nestor. "it's all i can possibly spare," he said, "and it is english money. but tell your aunt she is _sure_ to hear in a day or two, and she will be fully repaid for any other expense she may have." "oh dear, yes," said léonie, "my aunt is not at all afraid about that. she has heard too much of the goodness of madame's family to have any fears about anything madame wishes. her only trouble is whether the poor children will be happy." "i feel sure it will not be madame nestor's fault if they are not," said mrs. marton, turning to the kind old woman. it was all she could say, for she felt by no means sure that the poor little things would be able to be happy in such strange circumstances. the tears filled her eyes as she kissed them again for the last time, and it was with a heavy heart she got back into the cab which was to take her husband and herself and léonie to the marseilles station. mr. marton was very little happier than his wife. "i wish to goodness susan lacy had managed her affairs herself," he grumbled. "poor little souls! i shall be thankful to know that they are safe with their father." léonie was sobbing audibly in her pocket-handkerchief. "my aunt will be very kind to them, so far as she understands. that is the only consolation," she said, amidst her tears. chapter v. in the rue verte. "the city looked sad. the heaven was gray." songs in minor keys. "gladdie, are you awake?" these were the first words that fell on gladys's ears the next morning. i cannot say the first _sounds_, for all sorts of strange and puzzling noises had been going on above and below and on all sides since _ever_ so early, as it seemed to her--in reality it had been half-past six--she had opened her eyes in the dark, and wondered and wondered where she was! still in the railway carriage was her first idea, or on the steamer--once she had awakened enough to remember that she was _not_ in her own little bed at mrs. lacy's. but no--people weren't undressed in the railway, even though they did sometimes lie down, and then--though the sounds she heard were very queer--she soon felt she was not moving. and bit by bit it all came back to her--about the long tiring journey, and no papa at the station, and mr. and mrs. marton and léonie all talking together, and the drive in the cab to the crowded narrow street, and the funny old woman with the frilled cap, and the shop full of chairs and sofas, and the queer unnatural long afternoon after their friends went away, and how glad at last she and roger were to go to bed even in the little stuffy dark room. _how_ dark it was! it must still be the middle of the night, gladys thought for some time, only that everybody except herself and roger seemed to be awake and bustling about. for the workroom, as gladys found out afterwards, was overhead, and the workpeople came early and were not particular about making a noise. it was very dull, and in spite of all the little girl's courage, a few tears _would_ make their way up to her eyes, though she tried her best to force them back, and she lay there perfectly quiet, afraid of waking roger, for she was glad to hear by his soft breathing that he was still fast asleep. but she could not help being glad when through the darkness came the sound of his voice. "gladdie, are you awake?" "yes, dear," she replied, "i've been awake a long time." "so have i," said roger in all sincerity--he had been awake about three minutes. "it's very dark; is it the middle of the night?" "no, i don't think so," gladys replied. "i hear people making a lot of noise." "gladdie," resumed roger half timidly--gladys knew what was coming--"may i get into your bed?" "it's _very_ small," said gladys, which was true, though even if it had not been so, she would probably have tried to get out of roger's proposal, for she was not half so fond of his early morning visits as he was. in the days of old "nurse" such doings were not allowed, but after she left, gladys had not the heart to be very strict with roger, and now in spite of her faint objection, she knew quite well she would have to give in, in the end. "so's mine," observed roger, though gladys could not see what that had to do with it. but she said nothing, and for about half a minute there was silence in the dark little room. then again. "gladdie," came from the corner, "mayn't i come? if we squeezed ourselves?" "very well," said gladys, with a little sigh made up of many different feelings. "you can come and try." but a new difficulty arose. "i can't find my way in the dark. i don't 'amember how the room is in the light," said roger dolefully. "when i first waked i _couldn't_ think where we were. can't you come for me, gladdie?" "how can i find my way if you can't," gladys was on the point of replying, but she checked herself! she felt as if she could not speak the least sharply to her little brother, for he had nobody but her to take care of him, and try to make him happy. so she clambered out of her bed, starting with the surprise of the cold floor, which had no carpet, and trying to remember the chairs and things that stood in the way, managed to get across the room to the opposite corner where stood roger's bed, without any very bad knocks or bumps. "i'm here," cried roger, as if that was a piece of news, "i'm standing up in my bed jigging up and down. can you find me, gladdie?" "i'm feeling for you," gladys replied. "yes, here's the edge of your cot. i would have found you quicker if you had kept lying down." "oh, then, i'll lie down again," said roger, but a cry from gladys stopped him. "no, no, don't," she said. "i've found you now. yes, here's your hand. now hold mine tight, and see if you can get over the edge. that's right. now come very slowly, round by the wall is best. here's my bed. climb in and make yourself as little as ever you can. i'm coming. oh, roger, what a squeeze it is!" "i think it's littler than my bed," said roger consolingly. "it's not any bigger anyway," replied gladys, "we might just as well have stayed in yours." "is it because they're poor that the beds is so _very_ little?" asked roger in a low voice. "oh, no, i don't think so," said gladys gravely. "they've very nice beds; i think they're almost quite new." "mine was very comfitable," said roger. "do you think all poor childrens have as nice beds?" "i'm afraid not," said gladys solemnly. "i'm _afraid_ that some haven't any beds at all. but why do you keep talking about poor children, roger?" "i wanted to know about them 'cos, you see, gladys, if papa wasn't never finded and we had to stay here, _we'd_ be poor." "nonsense," said gladys rather sharply, in spite of her resolutions, "it _couldn't_ be like that; of course papa will come in a few days, and--and, even if he didn't, though that's quite nonsense, you know, i'm only saying it to make you see, _even_ if he didn't, we'd not stay here." "where would we go?" said roger practically. "oh, back to mrs. lacy perhaps. i wouldn't mind if miss susan was married." "_i_ would rather go to india with _them_," said roger. gladys knew whom he meant. "but we can't, they've gone," she replied. "are they _gone_, and léonie, that nice nurse--are they _gone_?" said roger, appalled. "yes, of course. they'll be nearly at india by now, i daresay." roger began to cry. "why, you _knew_ they were gone. why do you cry about it now--you didn't cry yesterday?" said gladys, a little sharply it must be confessed. "i thought," sobbed roger, "i thought they'd gone to look for papa, and that they'd come to take us a nice walk every day, and--and----" he did not very well know _what_ he had thought, but he had certainly not taken in that it was good-bye for good to the new friends he had already become fond of. "i'm _sure_ you said they were gone to look for papa," he repeated, rather crossly in his turn. "well, dear," gladys explained, her heart smiting her, "they _have_ gone to look for papa. they thought they'd find him at the big town at the side of the sea where the ships go to india from, and then they'd tell him where we were in paris, and he'd come quick for us." "is this paris?" asked roger. "yes, of course," replied gladys. "i don't like it," continued the little boy. "do you, gladys?" "it isn't like what i thought," said gladys; "nothing's like what i thought. i don't think when we go home again, roger, that i'll ever play at pretend games any more." "how do you mean when we go home?" said roger. "where's home?" "oh, i don't know; i said it without thinking. roger----" "what?" said roger. "are you hungry?" asked gladys. "a little; are you?" "yes, i think i am, a little," replied gladys. "i couldn't eat all that meat and stuff they gave us last night. i wanted our tea." "and bread and butter," suggested roger. "yes; at home i didn't like bread and butter much, but i think i would now. i daresay they'd give it us if i knew what it was called in their talking," said gladys. "it wouldn't be so bad if we knew their talking," sighed roger. "it wouldn't be so bad if it would get light," said his sister. "i don't know what to do, roger. it's _hours_ since they've all been up, and nobody's come to us. i wonder if they've forgotten we're here." "there's a little tiny, weeny _inch_ of light beginning to come over there. is that the window?" said roger. "i suppose so. as soon as it gets more light i'll get up and look if there's a bell," decided gladys. "and if there is?" "i'll ring it, of course." "but what would miss---- oh, gladys," he burst out with a merry laugh, the first gladys had heard from him since the journey. "isn't i silly? i was just going to say, 'what would miss susan say?' i quite forgot. i'm not sorry _she's_ not here. are you, gladdie?" "i don't know," the little girl answered. truth to tell, there were times when she would have been very thankful to see miss susan, even though she was determined not to ask to go back to england till all hope was gone. "i'm not----" but what she was going to say remained unfinished. the door opened at last, and the frilled cap, looking so exactly the same as yesterday that gladys wondered if madame nestor slept in it, only if so, how did she keep it from getting crushed, appeared by the light of a candle surrounding the kindly face. "_bon jour_, my children," she said. "_that_ means 'good-morning,'" whispered gladys, "i know that. say it, roger." why roger was to "say it" and not herself i cannot tell. some unintelligible sound came from roger's lips, for which gladys hastened to apologise. "he's trying to say 'good-morning' in french," she explained, completely forgetting that poor madame nestor could not understand her. "ah, my little dears," said the old woman--in her own language of course--"i wish i could know what you say. ah, how sweet they are! both together in one bed, like two little birds in a nest. and have you slept well, my darlings? and are you hungry?" the children stared at each other, and at their old hostess. "alas," she repeated, "they do not understand. but they will soon know what i mean when they see the nice bowls of hot chocolate." "chocolate!" exclaimed both children. at last there was a word they could understand. madame nestor was quite overcome with delight. "yes, my angels, chocolate," she repeated, nodding her head. "the little servant is bringing it. but it was not she that made it. oh, no! it was myself who took care it should be good. but you must have some light," and she went to the window, which had a curtain drawn before it, and outside heavy old-fashioned wooden shutters. no wonder in november that but little light came through. it was rather a marvel that at eight o'clock in the morning even a "tiny weeny _inch_" had begun to make its way. with some difficulty the old woman removed all the obstructions, and then such poor light as there was came creeping in. but first she covered the two children up warmly, so that the cold air when the window was opened should not get to them. [illustration: she placed the whole on a little table which she drew close to the bed.] "would not do for them to catch cold, that would be a pretty story," she muttered to herself, for she had a funny habit of talking away about everything she did. then, when all was air-tight again, there came a knock at the door. madame nestor opened it, and took from the hands of an invisible person a little tray with two steaming bowls of the famous chocolate and two sturdy hunches of very "hole-y" looking bread. no butter; that did not come within madame nestor's ideas. she placed the whole on a little table which she drew close to the bed, and then wrapping a shawl round the children, she told them to take their breakfast. they did not, of course, understand her words, but when she gave roger his bowl and a preliminary hunch of bread into his hands, they could not but see that they were expected to take their breakfast in bed. "but we're not ill," exclaimed gladys; "we never stay in bed to breakfast except when we're ill." madame nestor smiled and nodded. she had not a notion what gladys meant, and on her side she quite forgot that the children could not understand her any better than she understood them. "we never stay in bed to breakfast unless we're _ill_," repeated gladys more loudly, as if that would help madame nestor to know what she meant. "never mind, gladdie--the chocolate's very good," said roger. as before, "chocolate" was the only word madame nestor caught. "yes, take your chocolate," she repeated; "don't let it get cold," and she lifted gladys's bowl to give it to her. "stupid old thing," murmured gladys, "why doesn't she understand? i should like to throw the chocolate in her face." "oh, gladdie," said roger reproachfully, "_think_ what a mess it would make on the clean sheets!" "i was only in fun--you might know that," said gladys, all the same a little ashamed of herself. madame nestor had by this time left the room with a great many incomprehensible words, but very comprehensible smiles and nods. "i think breakfast in bed's very good," said roger. then came a sadder exclamation. "they've given me a pudding spoon 'stead of a teaspoon. it's _so_ big--it won't hardly go into my mouth." "and me too," said gladys. "how stupid french people are! we'll have to drink it out of the bowls, roger. how funny it is not to have tea-cups!" "_i_ think it's best to take it like soup," said roger; "you don't need to put the spoon so much in your mouth if you think it's soup." "i don't see what difference that makes," returned gladys. but anyhow the chocolate and the bread disappeared, and then the children began to wonder how soon they might get up. breakfast in bed wasn't so bad as long as there was the breakfast to eat, but when it was finished and there was no other amusement at hand they began to find it very tiresome. they had not so very long to wait, however, before madame nestor again made her appearance. "mayn't we get up?" cried both children, springing up in bed and jumping about, to show how ready they were. the old lady seemed to understand this time, but first she stood still for a moment or two with her head on one side admiring them. "the little angels!" she said to herself. "how charming they are. come now, my darlings, and get quickly dressed. it is cold this morning," and she took roger in her arms to lift him down, while gladys clambered out by herself. their clothes were neatly placed in two little heaps on the top of the chest of drawers, which, besides the two beds and two or three chairs, was the only furniture in the room. madame nestor sat down on one of the chairs with roger on her knee and began drawing on his stockings. "well done," she said, when one was safely in its place; "who would have thought i was still so clever a nurse!" and she surveyed the stockinged leg with much satisfaction. roger seemed quite of her opinion, and stuck out the other set of pink toes with much amiability. he greatly approved of this mode of being dressed. miss susan had told ellen he was big enough, at five years old, to put on his stockings himself, and she had also been very strict about sundry other nursery regulations, to which the young gentleman, in cold weather especially, was by no means partial. but he was not to get off as easily as he hoped. his silence, which with him always meant content, caught gladys's attention, which till now had been taken up with her own stockings, as she had a particular way of her own of arranging them before putting them on. "roger," she exclaimed when she turned round and saw him established on madame nestor's motherly lap; "what are you thinking of? you haven't had your bath." roger's face grew red, and the expression of satisfaction fled. "need i----?" he was beginning meekly, but gladys interrupted him indignantly: "you dirty little boy," she said. "what would miss susan say?" at which roger began to cry, and poor madame nestor looked completely puzzled. "we didn't have a bath last night, you know, because in winter miss susan thinks once a day is enough. but i did think we should have had one, after the journey too. and anyway this morning we _must_ have one." but madame nestor only continued to stare. "what shall i say? how _can_ i make her understand?" said gladys in despair. "where's the little basin we washed our faces and hands in yesterday, roger?" she went on, looking round the room. "oh, i forgot--it was downstairs. there's _no_ basin in this room! what dirty people!" then noticing the puzzled look on madame nestor's face, she grew frightened that perhaps she was vexed. "perhaps she knows what 'dirty' means," she half whispered to herself. "oh dear, i don't mean to be rude, ma'am," she went on, "but i suppose you don't know about children. how _can_ i explain?" a brilliant idea struck her. in a corner of the room lay the carpet-bag in which miss susan had packed their nightgowns and slippers, and such things as they would require at once. there were, too, their sponges; and, as miss susan had been careful to point out, a piece of _soap_, "which you never find in french hotels," she had explained to gladys. the little girl dived into the bag and drew out the sponges and soap in triumph. "see, see," she exclaimed, darting back again to the old lady, and flourishing her treasure-trove, "that's what i mean! we must have a _bath_," raising her voice as she went on; "we must be washed and _sponged_;" and suiting the action to the word she proceeded to pat and rub roger with the dry sponge, glancing up at madame nestor to see if the pantomime was understood. "ah, yes, to be sure," madame nestor exclaimed, her face lighting up, "i understand now, my little lady. all in good time--you shall have water to wash your face and hands as soon as you are dressed. but let me get this poor little man's things on quickly. it is cold this morning." she began to take off roger's nightgown and to draw on his little flannel vest, to which _he_ would have made no objection, but gladys got scarlet with vexation. "no, no," she cried, "he must be washed _first_. if you haven't got a bath, you might anyway let us have a basin and some water. roger, you _are_ a dirty boy. you might join me, and then perhaps she'd do it." thus adjured, roger rose to the occasion. he slipped off madame nestor's knee, and stepping out of his nightgown began an imaginary sponging of his small person. but it was cold work, and madame nestor seeing him begin to shiver grew really uneasy, and again tried to get him into his flannels. "no, no," said roger, in his turn--he had left off crying now--even the cold wasn't so bad as gladdie calling him a dirty boy. besides who could tell whether, somehow or other, miss susan might not come to hear of it? gladys might write her a letter. "no, no," repeated roger valorously, "we must be washed _first_." "you too," said madame nestor in despair; "ah, what children!" but her good-humour did not desert her. vaguely understanding what they meant--for recollections began to come back to her mind of what léonie's mother used to tell her of the manners and customs of _her_ nurseries--she got up, and smiling still, though with some reproach, at her queer little guests, she drew a blanket from the bed and wrapped it round them, and then opening the door she called downstairs to the little servant to bring a basin and towel and hot water. but the little servant did not understand, so after all the poor old lady had to trot downstairs again herself. "my old legs will have exercise enough," she said to herself, "if the papa does not come soon. however!" "i'm sure she's angry," whispered roger to gladys inside the blanket, "we needn't have a bath _every_ day, gladdie." "hush," said gladys sternly. "i'm _not_ going to let you learn to be a dirty boy. if we can't have a bath we may at least be _washed_." "but if papa's coming for us to-day or to-morrow," roger said, "the new nurse could wash us. i don't believe papa's coming for us," he went on as if he were going to cry again. "i believe we're going to stay here in this nugly little house _always_--and it's all a trick. i don't believe we've got any papa." poor gladys did not know what to say. her own spirits were going down again, for she too was afraid that perhaps madame nestor was vexed, and she began to wonder if perhaps it would have been better to let things alone for a day or two--"if i was sure that papa would come in a day or two," she thought! but she felt sure of nothing now--everything had turned out so altogether differently from what she had expected that her courage was flagging, and she too, for the first time since their troubles had begun, followed roger's example and burst into tears. chapter vi. among the sofas and chairs. "they wake to feel that the world is a changeful place to live in, and almost wonder if all is real." lavender lady. so it was rather a woe-begone looking little couple, crouching together in the blanket, that met old madame nestor's eyes when, followed by the little servant with the biggest basin the establishment boasted of, and carrying herself a queer-shaped tin jug full of hot water and with a good supply of nice white towels over her arm, she entered the room again. "how now, my little dears?" she exclaimed; "not crying, surely? why, there's nothing to cry for!" gladys wiped her eyes with the skirt of her little nightgown, and looked up. she did not know what the old woman was saying, but her tone was as kind as ever. it was very satisfactory, too, to see the basin, small as it was, and still more, the plentiful hot water. "thank you, ma'am," said gladys gravely, and nudging roger to do the same. everybody, she had noticed the day before, had called the old lady "madame," but that was the french for "ma'am" léonie had told her, so she stuck to her native colours. "thank you," repeated roger, but without the "ma'am." "it sounds so silly, nobody says it but servants," he maintained to gladys, and no doubt it mattered very little whether he said it or not, as madame nestor didn't understand, though she was quick enough to see that her little guests meant to say something civil and kind. and the washing was accomplished--i cannot say without difficulty, for roger tried to stand in the basin and very nearly split it in two, and there was a great splashing of water over the wooden floor--on the whole with success. poor madame nestor! when she had at last got her charges safely into their various garments, she sat down on a chair by the bed and fairly panted! "it's much harder than cooking a dinner," she said to herself. "i can't think how my cousin marie could stand it, if they have this sort of business every morning with english children. and five, six of them as there are sometimes! the english are a curious nation." but she turned as smilingly as ever to gladys and roger; and gladys, seeing that she was tired, and being sensible enough to understand that the kind old woman was really giving herself a great deal of trouble for their sake, went and stood close beside her, and gently stroked her, as she sometimes used to do--when miss susan was not there, be it remarked--to mrs. lacy. "i wish i knew how to say 'thank you' in french," said gladys to roger. but madame nestor had understood her. "little dear," she said in her own language, "she thinks i am tired." the word caught gladys's ear--"fatigued," she interrupted, "i know what that means. poor mrs. nest," she explained to her little brother, "she says she's fatigued. i think we should kiss her, roger," and both children lifted up their soft fresh rosy lips to the old woman, which was a language that needed no translation. "little dears," she repeated again, "but, all the same, i hope we shall soon have some news from the papa. ah!" she interrupted herself; "but there is the clock striking nine, and my breakfast not seen to. i must hasten, but what to do with these angels while i am in the kitchen?" "take them with you; children are very fond of being in a kitchen when they may," would have seemed a natural reply. but not to those who know what a paris kitchen is. even those of large grand houses would astonish many english children and big people, too, who have never happened to see them, and madame nestor's kitchen was really no better than a cupboard, and a cupboard more than half filled up with the stove, in and on which everything was cooked. there could be no question of taking the children into the kitchen, and the tiny room behind the shop was very dark and dull. still it was the only place, and thither their old friend led them, telling them she must now go to cook the breakfast and they must try to amuse themselves; in the afternoon she would perhaps send them out a walk. two words in this were intelligible to gladys. "we are to be amused, roger," she said, "and we are to promenade, that means a walk where the band plays like at whitebeach last summer. i wonder where it can be?" the glass door which led into the shop had a little curtain across it, but one corner was loose. this gladys soon discovered. "see here, roger," she said, "we can peep into the shop and see if any one comes in. won't that be fun?" roger took his turn of peeping. "it aren't a pretty shop," he said, "it's all chairs and tables. i'd like a toy-shop, gladdie, wouldn't you?" "it wouldn't be much good if we mightn't play with the toys," gladys replied. "but i'll tell you what, roger, we might play at beautiful games of houses in there. we could have that corner where there are the pretty blue chairs for our drawing-room, and we might pay visits. or i might climb in there behind that big sofa and be a princess in a giant's castle, and you might come and fight with the giant and get me out." "and who'd be the giant?" asked roger. "oh, we can _pretend_ him. i can make a dreadful _booing_ when i see you coming, and you can pretend you see him. but you must have a sword. what would do for a sword?" she went on, looking round. "they haven't even a poker! i wish we had miss susan's umbrella." "here's one!" exclaimed roger, spying the umbrella of monsieur adolphe, madame nestor's son, in a corner of the room. it was still rather damp, for poor adolphe had had to come over in the heavy rain early that morning from the neighbouring inn where he had slept, having, as you know, given up his room to the two little strangers, and his mother would have scolded him had she noticed that he had put it down all dripping, though as the floor was a stone one it did not much matter. and the children were not particular. they screwed up the wet folds and buttoned the elastic, and then shouldering it, roger felt quite ready to fight the imaginary giant. there was a little difficulty about opening the door into the shop, and rather _too_ little about shutting it, for it closed with a spring, and nearly snapped roger and his umbrella in two. but he was none the worse save a little bump on his head, which gladys persuaded him not to cry about. it would never do to cry about a knock when he was going to fight the giant, she assured him, and then she set to work, planning the castle and the way roger was to come creeping through the forest, represented by chairs and stools of every shape, so that he grew quite interested and forgot all his troubles. it really turned out a very amusing game, and when it was over they tried hide-and-seek, which would have been famous fun--there were so many hiding-holes among the bales of stuffs and pillows and uncovered cushions lying about--if they had had one or two more to play at it with them! but to playfellows they were little accustomed, so they did not much miss them, and they played away contentedly enough, though quietly, as was their habit. and so it came about that madame nestor never doubted that they were in the little back-room where she had left them, when a ring at the front door of the shop announced a customer. this door was also half of glass, and when it was opened a bell rang. gladys and roger were busy looking for new hiding-places when the sudden sound of the bell startled them. "somebody's coming in," whispered gladys; "roger, let's hide. don't let them see us; we don't know who they are," and quick as thought she stooped down in a corner, drawing her little brother in beside her. from where they were they could peep out. two ladies entered the shop, one young and one much older. the face of the older one gladys did not distinctly see, or perhaps she did not much care to look at it, so immediately did the younger one seize her fancy. she was very pretty and pleasant-looking, with bright brown hair and sweet yet merry eyes, and as she threw herself down on a seat which stood near the door, gladys was able to see that she was neatly and prettily dressed. "aren't you tired, auntie?" she said to the other lady. "a little. it is farther than i thought, and we have not much time. i wonder what colour will be prettiest for the curtains, rosamond?" "the shade of blue on that sofa over in the corner is pretty," said the young lady. gladys pinched roger. it was precisely behind the blue-covered sofa that they were hiding. "i wish they would be quick," said the elder lady. "perhaps they did not hear the bell." "shall i go to the door and ring it again?" asked the one called rosamond. "i don't know; perhaps it would be better to tap at the glass door leading into the house. madame nestor sits in there, i fancy. she generally comes out at that door." "i don't fancy she is there now," said the young lady. "you see we have come so early. it has generally been in the afternoon that we have come. madame nestor is probably busy about her 'household avocations' at this hour," she added, with a smile. "i wonder what that means," whispered gladys. "i suppose it means the dinner." just at that moment the door opened, and madame nestor appeared, rather in a flutter. she was so sorry to have kept the ladies waiting, and how unfortunate! her son had just gone to their house with the patterns for the curtains. he would have sent yesterday to ask at what hour the ladies would be at home, but they had all been so busy--an unexpected arrival--and madame nestor would have gone on to give all the story of léonie's sudden visit to beg a shelter for the two little waifs, had not the ladies, who knew of old the good dame's long stories, cut her short as politely as they could. "we are very hurried," said the one whom the young lady called "auntie." "i think the best thing to be done is to get home as quickly as we can, and perhaps we shall still find your son there; if not, he will no doubt have left the patterns, so please tell him to try to come this evening or to-morrow morning before twelve, for we must have the curtains this week." of course--of course--madame nestor agreed to everything as amiably as possible, and the ladies turned to go. "are you much troubled with mice?" said the younger lady as they were leaving. "i have heard queer little noises two or three times over in that corner near the blue sofa while we were speaking." old madame nestor started. "mice!" she exclaimed. "i hope not. it would be very serious for us--with so many beautiful stuffs about. i must make them examine, and if necessary get a cat. we have not had a cat lately--the last was stolen, she was such a beauty, and----" and on the old body would have chattered for another half-hour, i daresay, had not the ladies again repeated that they were very hurried and must hasten home. the idea of mice had taken hold of madame nestor's mind; it made her for the moment forget the children, though in passing through the little room where she had left them she had wondered where they were. she hurried into the workroom to relate her fears, and gladys and roger, as soon as she had left the shop, jumped up, not sorry to stretch their legs after having kept them still for nearly a quarter of an hour. "i wonder if she'd be angry at our playing here," said gladys. "what fun it was hiding and those ladies not knowing we were there! i think they were nice ladies, but i wish they had kept on talking properly. i liked to hear what they said." "why doesn't everybody talk properly here if some does?" asked roger. "i suppose," said gladys, though she had not thought of it before, it had seemed so natural to hear people talking as she had always heard people talk--"i suppose those ladies are english. i wish they had talked to _us_, roger. perhaps they know papa." "they couldn't talk to us when they didn't know us was there," said roger, with which gladys could not disagree. but it made her feel rather sorry not to have spoken to the ladies--it would have been very nice to have found some one who could understand what they said. "i wish we hadn't been hiding," she was going to say, but she was stopped by a great bustle which began to make itself heard in the sitting-room, and suddenly the door into the shop opened, and in rushed madame nestor, followed by the servant and two or three of the workpeople. "where are they, then? where can they have gone, the poor little angels?" exclaimed the old lady, while the servant and the others ran after her repeating: "calm yourself, madame, calm yourself. they cannot have strayed far--they will be found." though the children could not understand the words, they could not _mis_understand the looks and the tones, and, above all, the distress in their kind old friend's face. they were still half hidden, though they were no longer crouching down on the floor. out ran gladys, followed by roger. "are you looking for us, mrs. nest?" she said. "here we are! we've only been playing at hiding among the chairs and sofas." madame nestor sank down exhausted on the nearest arm-chair. "oh, but you have given me a fright," she panted out. "i could not imagine where they had gone," she went on, turning to the others. "i left them as quiet as two little mice in there," pointing to the sitting-room, "and the moment my back was turned off they set." "it is always like that with children," said mademoiselle anna, the forewoman. she was a young woman with very black hair and very black eyes and a very haughty expression. no one liked her much in the workroom--she was so sharp and so unamiable. but she was very clever at making curtains and covering chairs and sofas, and she had very good taste, so madame nestor, who was, besides, the kindest woman in the world, kept her, though she disliked her temper and pride. "poor little things--we have all been children in our day," said madame nestor. "that is possible," replied mademoiselle anna, "but all the same, there are children and children. i told you, madame, and you will see i was right; you do not know the trouble you will have with these two little foreigners--brought up who knows how--and a queer story altogether it seems to me," she added, with a toss of her head. gladys and roger had drawn near madame nestor. gladys was truly sorry to see how frightened their old friend had been, and she wished she knew how to say so to her. but when mademoiselle anna went on talking, throwing disdainful glances in their direction, the children shrank back. they could not understand what she was saying, but they _felt_ she was talking of them, and they had already noticed her sharp unkindly glances the evening before. "why is she angry with us?" whispered roger. but gladys shook her head. "i don't know," she replied. "she isn't as kind as mrs. nest and her son. oh i do wish papa would come for us, roger!" "so do i," said the little fellow. but five minutes after, he had forgotten their troubles, for madame nestor took them into the long narrow room where she and her son and some of their workpeople had their meals, and established them at one end of the table, to have what _she_ called their "breakfast," but what to the children seemed their dinner. she was very kind to them, and gave them what she thought they would like best to eat, and some things, especially an omelette, they found very good. but the meat they did not care about. "it's so greasy, i can't eat it," said gladys, after doing her best for fear madame nestor should think her rude. and roger, who did not so much mind the greasiness of the gravy, could not eat it either because it was cooked with carrots, to which he had a particular dislike. they were not dainty children generally, but the stuffy room, and the different kind of cooking, and above all, perhaps, the want of their usual morning walk, seemed to take away their appetite. and the sight of mademoiselle anna's sharp contemptuous face across the table did not mend matters. "i wish we had some plain cold meat and potatoes," said gladys, "like what we had at home. i could even like some nice plain bread and butter." "not _this_ bread," said roger, who was beginning to look doleful again. "i don't like the taste of this bread." so they both sat, watching all that was going on, but eating nothing themselves, till madame nestor, who had been busy carving, caught sight of them. "they do not eat, those poor dears," she said to her son; "i fear the food is not what they are accustomed to--but i cannot understand them nor they me. it is too sad! can you not try to find out what they would like, adolphe? you who speak english?" monsieur adolphe got very red; he was not generally shy, but his english, which he was rather given to boasting of when there was no need for using it, seemed less ready than his mother had expected. however, like her, he was very kind-hearted, and the sight of the two grave pale little faces troubled him. he went round to their side of the table. "you not eat?" he said. "miss and sir not eat nothing. find not good?" gladys's face brightened. it was something to have some one who understood a little, however little. "oh yes," she said, timidly afraid of appearing uncivil, "it is very good; but we are not hungry. we are not accustomed to rich things. might we--" she went on timidly, "do you think we might have a little bread and butter?" monsieur adolphe hesitated. he found it much more difficult than he had had any idea of to understand what gladys said, though she spoke very plainly and clearly. "leetle--leetle?" he repeated. "a little bread and butter," said gladys again. this time he understood. "bread and butter; i will go see," he answered, and then he hurried back to his mother, still busy at the side-table. "they do not seem accustomed to eat meat," he said, "they ask for bread and butter." "the greedy little things!" exclaimed mademoiselle anna, who had got up from her seat on pretence of handing a plate to madame nestor, but in reality to hear all that was going on. "how can they be so bold?" "it is the custom in england," said the old lady. "my cousin has often told me how the children there eat so much bread and butter. but i have no fresh butter in the house. would not preserves please them? here, françoise," she went on, calling to the little servant. "fetch some preserves from the cupboard, and give some with some bread to the poor little angels." "what a to-do to be sure!" muttered anna to adolphe. "i only hope your mother will be paid for the trouble she is giving herself, but i much doubt it. i believe it is all a trick to get rid of the two little plagues. english of the good classes do not leave their children to anybody's tender mercies in that way!" "that is true," said adolphe, who, though he had a good deal of his mother's kind-heartedness, was easily impressed by what anna said. "and they have certainly a curious accent. i had difficulty in understanding them. i never heard an accent like it in english." "exactly," said anna, tossing her head, "they are little cheats--no one will come for them, and no money will be sent. you will see--and so will your mother. but it will be too late. she should have thought twice before taking on herself such a charge." "i am quite of your opinion," said adolphe. "something must be done; my mother must be made to hear reason. if no one comes to fetch them in a day or two we must do something--even if i have to take them myself to the english embassy." "quite right, quite right, monsieur adolphe," said anna spitefully. but madame nestor heard nothing of what they were saying. she was seated quite contentedly beside the children, happy to see them enjoying the bread and jam which they much preferred to the greasy meat, even though the bread tasted a little sour, though she could not persuade them to take any wine. "it isn't good for children," said gladys gravely, looking up into her face. but poor madame nestor shook her head. "it is no use, my dears," she said in her own language. "i cannot understand! dear me--i do wish the papa would come. poor dear angels--i fear i cannot make them happy! but at least i can wash up the dishes for françoise and let her take them out a walk. you will like that--a nice promenade, will you not?" gladys jumped up joyfully. "the promenade, roger--we're going to hear the band play. won't that be nice? come let us go quick and get ready." madame nestor was enchanted. chapter vii. the kind-looking gentleman. "a friendly pleasant face he had, they really thought him very nice, and when adown the street he'd gone they nodded to him twice." chance acquaintances. they were soon ready, for though gladys had had vague thoughts of trying to explain that she would like the big trunk unfastened to get out their "best" things, she gave up the idea when madame nestor got down the new ulsters which she evidently thought quite good enough, and proceeded to wrap them both up warmly. it was cold, she said, and thanks to the way she glanced out-of-doors when she made this remark, at the same time carefully covering up their throats with the white silk handkerchiefs they had had for the journey, gladys understood her. "we don't look very nice, do we, roger?" said the little girl, as with her brother's hand in hers, and françoise, who was short and stout, and wore a big frilled cap, following close behind. "if there are a lot of children where the band plays we shall seem very plain. but i daresay it doesn't matter, and these ulsters are very warm." for it was very cold. it was one of those gray sunless days, less uncommon in paris than some people imagine, and the rue verte was narrow and the houses composing it very high, so that _stray_ gleams of sunshine did not very easily get into it. the children shivered a little as they stood for a moment hesitating as to which way françoise meant them to go, and one or two foot-passengers passing hurriedly, as most people do in that busy part of the town, jostled the two little people so that they shrank back frightened. "give me your hands, little sir and little miss," said the sturdy peasant girl, catching hold of them, placing one on each side of her as she spoke. it went rather against gladys's dignity, but still in her heart she was glad of françoise's protection, though even with that they were a good deal bumped and pushed as they made their way along the narrow pavement. "it will be nicer when we get to the boulevards," said françoise; "there the pavement is so much wider." but gladys did not understand. she thought the girl said something about _bulls_ and _large_, and she looked up half frightened, expecting to see a troop of cattle coming along the street. there was, however, nothing of the kind to be seen. "it's not like whitebeach," said gladys, trying to make roger hear across françoise's substantial person. but it was no use. narrow as the street was, great heavy waggons and lurries came constantly following each other over the stones, so that the noise was really deafening, and it was impossible to hear what was said. by peeping sometimes in front of françoise and sometimes behind her, gladys could catch sight of roger's little figure. he was looking solemn and grave; she could tell that by the way he was walking, even when she did not see his face. "i'm afraid he's very cold, poor little boy," thought gladys to herself, quite forgetting her own little red nose and nipped fingers in concern for her brother. it was a little better after a while when they got out of the narrow street into a much wider one. _too_ wide gladys thought it, for the rush of carts and carriages and omnibuses and cabs was really frightening. she saw some people venturing to cross over to the other side in the midst of it all--one lady with a little boy, not much bigger than roger, especially caught her attention. but she shut her eyes rather than watch them get across--which they did quite safely after all--so terrified was she of seeing them crushed beneath some of the monsters on wheels which seemed to the child's excited imagination to be pounding down one after the other on purpose to knock everything out of their way, like some great engines of war. and she squeezed françoise's hand so tight that the girl turned round in a fright to see if any one was hurting gladys, when a slight movement to one side made her fancy the little servant was intending to try to cross. [illustration: 'oh don't, don't cross that dreadful street,' gladys exclaimed.] "oh don't, don't cross that dreadful street," gladys exclaimed. and françoise understood what she meant, thanks to her tugs the other way, and set to work assuring her she had no such intention. "are you frightened of crossing?" said a voice close beside her--an english voice belonging to a gentleman who had heard her piteous entreaty. "yes, dreadfully. i'm sure we'll be killed if she takes us over," replied gladys, lifting her little white face and troubled eyes to the stranger. he turned to françoise and explained to her that it was hardly safe to attempt to cross, especially as the little girl was so frightened. he spoke, of course, in french, which seemed to him as easy as his own language, and françoise replied eagerly. then again the stranger turned to gladys: "you need not be afraid, my dear little girl," he said, and his kind voice somehow made the tears come to her eyes, "your nurse does not wish to cross. you have not been long here, i suppose--you don't understand french?" "no," said gladys, gulping down a sob, "we've--we've only just come." "ah well, you'll soon feel more at home, and be able to explain all you mean for yourself. good-bye," and raising his hat as perhaps an altogether englishman would not have done to so little a girl, he smiled again, and in another moment had disappeared in the crowd. "the nurse seems kind enough, but she's rather stupid--just a peasant. and those children look so refined. but they don't seem happy, poor little souls. i wonder who they can be," said the young man to himself as he walked away. "i wish he was our papa," said roger. "so do i," said gladys. and then a queer sort of regret came over her that she had not said more to him. "perhaps he knows papa, and could have helped us to find him," was the vague thought in her childish brain. it seemed to her that any english-speaking person in this great town of paris must know "papa," or something about him. françoise walked on; _she_ wished for nothing better than a stroll along the boulevards, even though this was by no means the best part of them, or containing the prettiest shops. but gladys kept wishing for the "promenade" and the band. at the corner of a side-street she caught sight of a church at a little distance with some trees and green not far from it. it looked quieter and less crowded, and gladys was seized with a wish to explore in that direction. she tugged at françoise. "mayn't we go up there?" she said, pointing in the direction of the trees. françoise understood her. she was a good-natured girl, and turned with the children as gladys wished, though it was against her liking to leave the noisy crowded boulevards for the quieter side-streets. when they got close to the trees they turned out to be in a little enclosure with railings, a very small attempt at a "square garden," for there were houses round it on all sides, and, cold as it was, a few nurses and children were walking about it and looking cheerful enough, though no doubt they wished they were not so far away from the prettier parts of paris where the parks and walks for children are so lively and amusing. gladys looked round with a mixture of approval and disappointment. "it must be here that the band plays," she said to roger; "but it isn't here to-day. and it's a very small place for a promenade; not nearly so pretty as it was at whitebeach. but we might play here if it wasn't so cold. and there are nice benches for sitting on, you see." "i don't like being here," said roger, shaking his head. "i'd like to go home." "home"--again the word fell sadly on the little mother-sister's ear. but she said nothing to remind roger of how homeless they were, though she could not help sighing when she thought of the only "going home" there was for them; the little dark bare cheerless bedroom, and the shop filled with sofas and chairs. poor madame nestor doing her best, but understanding so little what a nice bright cosy nursery was like, and still worse, mademoiselle anna's sharp eyes flashing angrily at them across the table at meat times! "wouldn't you like to have a run, roger?" said gladys suddenly. "it would make us feel warmer, and there's a nice straight bit of path here." roger made no objection. he let go of françoise's hand and took his sister's, and by signs gladys managed to explain to the girl what they meant to do. "one, two, three, and away," she called out with an attempt at merriment, and off they set. roger's stumpy little legs could not go as fast as gladys's longer and thinner ones, but she took care not to let him find that out, and she was rewarded by the colour in his cheeks, and the brighter look in his eyes when they got back to françoise again. "that's right," said she good-naturedly, and in her heart i think she too would have enjoyed a run, had it not been beneath her dignity to behave in so childish a manner within sight of the dignified nurses in their big cloaks and caps with streaming ribbons, who were strutting up and down the little enclosure. but it grew colder and grayer. "one could almost think it was going to snow," said françoise, looking up at the sky. gladys saw her looking up, but did not, of course, understand her words. "i wonder if she thinks it's going to rain," she said to roger. "anyway it's dreadfully cold," and she gave a little shiver. "we had better go home," said françoise, for she was so accustomed to talking about everything she did that even the knowledge that she was not understood did not make her silent. and taking a hand of each child, she turned to go. gladys and roger did not mind; they felt tired, though they had not walked nearly so far as they often did at home, and cold, and there had been nothing in their walk to raise their poor little spirits, except perhaps the momentary glance of the bright-faced young englishman. "that gentleman we met looked very kind, didn't he?" said gladys to roger, when they had got back to the rue verte, and françoise was helping them to take off their boots. "yes," said roger, in his sober little voice, "i wish----" "what?" said gladys. "i wish he was our papa!" said roger again, with a sigh. "he couldn't be," said gladys, "he's too young." "he was _much_ bigger than you; he was bigger than _her_," persisted roger, pointing to françoise, for like many little children he could not separate the idea of age from size, and gladys knew it was no use trying to explain to him his mistake. "anyway, he _isn't_ our papa," she said sadly. "i wonder what we shall do now," she went on. "isn't it tea time?" asked roger. "i'm afraid they don't have tea here," said gladys. "there's some wine and water and some bread on the table in the little room behind the shop. i'm afraid that's meant for our tea." she was right; for when françoise took them downstairs madame nestor immediately offered them wine and water, and when gladys did her best to make the old lady understand that they did not like wine, she persisted in putting two or three lumps of sugar into the water in the glasses, which roger did not object to, as he fished them out before they were more than half melted, and ate instead of drinking them, but which gladys thought very nasty indeed, though she did not like not to take it as she had already refused the wine. "i wish i could get out my doll," said she, "i don't know what to play with, roger." "i wish i could get my donkey," said roger. and madame nestor saw that they looked dull and dreary, though she did not know what they said. a brilliant idea struck her. "i will get them some of the packets of patterns to look at," she said, "that will amuse them," and off she trotted to the workroom. "find me the books of patterns, the prettiest ones, of the silky stuffs for curtains, and some of the cretonnes," she said to one of the young girls sewing there. mademoiselle anna looked up suspiciously. "is there some one in the shop?" she said. "shall i call monsieur adolphe? he has just gone to the other workroom." "no, no, do not trouble yourself," said madame nestor. "i only want the patterns to amuse my two little birds in there," and she nodded her head towards the room where the children were. anna gave her head a little toss. "there is no letter about them yet, i suppose," she said. "of course not. how could there be?" replied the old lady. "the poor things have been here but one night. i do not see why you should trouble yourself to be so cross about them. you are not _yet_ mistress of this house," upon which anna murmured something about being sorry to see madame nestor troubled about the children, that was her only reason, she knew madame to be so good, etc. madame nestor said no more, for it was seldom she spoke sharply to any one, and, to tell the truth, she was a little afraid of anna, who some time or other was to be married to adolphe, and take the place of the old lady, who looked forward then to having some rest in a little home of her own. she did not wish to quarrel with anna, for she knew she would make a clever and useful wife to her son, but still unkindness to any one, above all to these little helpless strangers, made her really angry. she made the young workwoman help her to carry the big books of patterns to the little sitting-room, and at sight of them gladys and roger started up. they were pleased at the prospect of anything to do, poor little things, even lessons would have been welcome, and they were greatly delighted when, as well as the books, madame nestor produced a lot of scraps of cretonne with gay flowers and birds in all colour, and made them understand they might do as they liked with them. "let's cut them out," exclaimed gladys, "we can cut out lovely things and then afterwards we can paste them on white paper and make all sorts of things with them." but there were no scissors! gladys opened and shut the middle and forefingers of her right hand repeating "scissors," till madame nestor understood and not only lent her a pair of her own, but sent a little way down the street to buy a little pair with blunt ends for roger, so afraid was she of his cutting himself. "oh, how nice," exclaimed both children, jumping up to kiss the kind old woman. "now we can cut out beautifully, and when we are tired of cutting out we can look at these lovely patterns," said gladys, as she settled herself and roger comfortably at the table, and madame nestor went off to the workroom again, quite satisfied about them for the time. "you see there are _some_ things to be got really very nice in paris, roger," said gladys in her prim old-fashioned way. "these scissors are really very nice, and i don't think they were dear. madame nestor gave the boy a piece like a small sixpence, and he brought her a halfpenny back. that isn't dear." "what did he bring her a halfpenny for? do they sell halfpennies in the shops here?" asked roger, looking very puzzled. "no, of course not. you're too little to understand. that's what they call 'giving change,'" replied gladys, wisely. "ellen told me that once when i went to a shop with her to buy something for miss susan. now, roger, will you cut out that blue bird, and i'll do these pinky flowers? then afterwards we can paste them as if the bird was flying out of the flowers; won't that be pretty?" "i'd rather do the flowers," said roger. "the bird's nose is so twisty--i can't do it." "very well," said gladys good-naturedly. "then i'll do it, and you take the flowers. see they go in nice big rounds--you can easily do them." and for an hour or two the children were as really happy as they had been for a good while, and when the thought of their father and what had become of him pressed itself forward on gladys, she pushed it back with the happy trust and hopefulness of children that "to-morrow" would bring good news. * * * * * in a part of paris, at some distance from the rue verte, that very afternoon three people were sitting together in a pretty drawing-room at "afternoon tea." they were two ladies--a young, quite young one, and an older. and the third person was a gentleman, who had just come in. "it's so nice to find you at home, and above all at tea, auntie," he said to the elder lady. "it is such a horrid day--as bad as london, except that there's no fog. you haven't been out, i suppose?" "oh yes, indeed we have," replied the young lady. "we went a long way this morning--walking--to auntie's upholsterer, quite in the centre of the town. it looks very grim and uninviting there, the streets are so narrow and the houses so high." "i've walked a good way too to-day," said the young man. "i am glad to hear it, my boy," said his aunt. "i have been a little afraid of your studying too hard this winter, at least not taking exercise enough, and you being so accustomed to a country life too!" "i don't look very bad, do i?" said the young man, laughing. he stood up as he spoke, and his aunt and sister glanced at him with pride, though they tried to hide it. he was tall and handsome, and the expression of his face was particularly bright and pleasant. "you are very conceited," said his sister. "i am not going to pay you any compliments." he sat down again, and a more serious look came into his face; for some moments he did not speak. "what are you thinking about, walter?" asked his sister. walter looked up. "i was thinking about two little children i met to-day," he said. "away over on the boulevard x---- ever so far." "that is not so very far from where we were this morning," interrupted the aunt. "they were such tiny things, and they looked so forlorn and so unhappy; i can't get them out of my head," said walter. "did you give them anything? did they seem quite alone?" asked rosamond. walter laughed. "you don't understand," he said; "they were not beggars. bless me! i shouldn't like to encounter that very imperious little lady if she thought i had made you think they were beggars." "'imperious little lady,' and 'poor forlorn little things;' what do you mean, walter?" said rosamond. "i mean what i say. they did look forlorn little creatures, and yet the small girl was as imperious as a princess. they were two little english children, newly arrived evidently, for they didn't understand a word of french. and they were being taken care of by a stupid sort of peasant girl turned into a 'bonne.' and the little girl thought the nurse was going to cross the street, and that she and the small boy would be killed, and she couldn't make the stupid owl understand, and i heard them talking english, and so i came to the rescue--that was all." "it isn't anything so very terrible," said the aunt. "no doubt they and their bonne will learn to understand each other in a little." "it wasn't that only," said walter reflectively; "there was something out of gear, i am sure. the children looked so superior to the servant, and so--so out of their element dragging up and down that rough crowded place, while she gaped at the shop windows. and there was something so pathetic in the little girl's eyes." "in spite of her imperiousness," said rosamond teasingly. "yes," said walter, without smiling. "it was queer altogether--the sending them out in that part of the town with that common sort of servant--and their not knowing any french. i suppose the days are gone by for stealing children or that sort of thing; but i could really have fancied there was something of the kind in this case." rosamond and her aunt grew grave. "poor little things!" they said. "why did you not ask them who they were or where they came from, or something?" added rosamond. "i don't know. i wish i had," said walter. "but i'm not sure that i would have ventured on such a freedom with the little girl. i'm not indeed." "then they didn't look _frightened_--the maid did not seem cross to them?" "oh no, she was good-natured enough. just a great stupid. no, they didn't look exactly frightened, except of the horses and carriages; but bewildered and unhappy, and out of their element. and yet so plucky! i'm certain they were well-bred children. i can't make it out." "nor can i," said rosamond. "i wonder if we shall ever hear any more about them." curiously enough she dreamt that night that she was again in the furniture shop in the rue verte, and that she heard again a noise which she thought to be mice, but that pulling back a chair to see, she came upon two little children, who at once started to their feet, crying: "we're the boy and girl he met. take us home, do. we're not mice, and we are _so_ unhappy." chapter viii. a fall downstairs. "oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?" goody blake. some days passed; they were much the same as the first, except that the children--children-like--grew used to a certain extent to the things and people and manners and ways of the life in which they found themselves. roger now and then seemed pretty contented, almost as if he were forgetting the strange changes that had come over them; so long as every one was kind to him, and he had gladys at hand ready, so far as was possible for her, to attend to his slightest wish, he did not seem unhappy. but on the other hand, the least cross word, or one of mademoiselle anna's sharp looks, or even the want of things that he liked to eat, would set him off crying in a way he had never done before, and which nearly broke gladys's heart. for she, though she seemed quiet and contented enough, was in reality very anxious and distressed. she was of an age to understand that something really serious must be the matter for her and roger to be left with strangers in this way--no letters coming, no inquiries of any kind being made, just as if she and her little brother were forgotten by all the world! she could write a little, and once or twice she said to herself that if it went on very long she would try to send a letter to miss susan; but then again, when she remembered how glad that young lady had been to get rid of them, how she had disliked the idea of their staying with mrs. lacy after her marriage--for all this by scraps of conversation, remarks of servants, and so on, gladys had been quick enough to find out--she felt as if she would rather do anything, stay anywhere, rather than ask miss susan to take them back. and then from time to time hope would rise strong in her, and she would wake in the morning firmly convinced that "papa would come to-day"--hopes, alas, only to be disappointed! she was beginning to understand a little of what was said by those about them. madame nestor was as kind as ever, and her son, who had taken a great fancy to roger, was decidedly kinder than he had been at first. with them alone gladys felt she would not have minded anything so much; but she could see that anna's dislike to them increased, and the child dreaded the hours of the meals, from the feeling of the hard scornful looks that anna was then sure to cast on her. one day she overheard some talking between her and madame nestor. the young woman seemed angry, and the old one was remonstrating with her. gladys heard that they were speaking about money, and also about some one going away, but that was all she could make out, though they were talking quite loud, and did not seem to mind her being there. "if only anna was going away," thought gladys, "i wouldn't mind anything. i wouldn't mind the not having baths, or tea, or bread and butter, or--or all the things we had at home, if only there was nobody to look so fierce at us. i'd almost rather be madame nestor's little servant, like françoise, if only anna would go away." it almost seemed as if her wishes had been overheard by some fairy, for the next morning, when they were called to the second breakfast--which the children counted their dinner--anna's place was empty! gladys squeezed roger's hand under the table, and whispered to him: "she's gone, i do believe she's gone." then looking up at madame nestor she saw her kind old face looking decidedly jollier than usual. "yes," she said, nodding her head; "anna is away. she has gone away for a few days." gladys understood her partly but not altogether, but she did not mind. she was only too pleased to find it true, and that was the happiest day they had since they came to the rue verte. madame nestor sent out to the pastry-cook's near by for some nice little cakes of a kind the children had never tasted before, and which they found delicious, and monsieur adolphe said he would get them some roasted chestnuts to eat if they liked them. he found the words in a dictionary which he showed gladys with great pride, and pointed them out to her, and was quite delighted when she told him how to pronounce them, and added: "i like roast chestnuts _very_ much." "mademoiselle shall give me some lessons of english," he said to his mother, his round face beaming with pleasure. "you are quite right, they are little gentlepeople, there is no doubt of it; and i feel sure the papa will come to fetch them in a few days. he will be very grateful to us for having taken such care of them--it may be a good thing in the end even from a business point of view, for i should have no objection to extend our english connection." no thought of gain to themselves in any way had entered madame nestor's head; but she was too pleased to see her son in such a good humour about the children to say anything to disagree with him. "he has a good heart, my adolphe," she said to herself. "it is only anna that makes him seem what he is not; if she would but stay away altogether! and yet, it would be difficult to find her equal in other ways." "speaking of english," she said aloud, "reminds me that those english ladies will be getting impatient for their curtains. and the trimming has not yet come; how slow those makers are! it is a fortnight since they promised it for the end of the week." "it does not matter much," said adolphe, "for no one can make them up properly except anna. she should not have gone away just now; she knows there are several things that require her." "that is true," said madame nestor, and so it was. mademoiselle anna seemed purposely to have chosen a most inconvenient time for going off on a visit to her family, and when madame nestor reproached her for this she had replied that with all the money the nestors had received for the two little strangers, they could well afford to engage for the time a first-rate workwoman to replace her. this was the conversation gladys had heard and a little understood. poor madame nestor, wishing to keep up the children's dignity, had told every one that mr. marton had left her plenty of money for them, making the most of the two or three pounds which was all he had been able to spare, and of which she had not as yet touched a farthing. but whether anna's absence was inconvenient or not, it was very pleasant to most people concerned. adolphe himself took the children out a walk, and though gladys was at first not quite sure that it was not a little beneath her dignity to let the young man be her "chaperon," she ended by enjoying it very much. thanks to his broken english and the few french words she was now beginning to understand, they got on very well; and when he had taken them some way out of paris--or out of the centre of the town rather--in an omnibus, she was obliged to own that it was by no means the gray, grim, crowded, noisy, stuffy place it had seemed to her those first days in the rue verte. poor little roger was delighted! the carriages and horses were to him the most beautiful sight the world could show; and as they walked home down the champs elysées it was quite difficult to get him along, he wanted so constantly to stand still and stare about him. "how glad i am we had on our best things!" said gladys, as she hung up her dark-blue braided serge jacket and dress--for long ago madame nestor had been obliged to open the big trunk to get out a change of attire for the children--"aren't you, roger?" she smoothed dawn the scarlet breast on her little black felt hat as she spoke. "this hat is very neat, and so is my dress; but still they are very plain compared to the things all the children that we saw had on. did you see that little girl in green velvet with a sort of very soft fur, like shaded gray fluff, all round it? and another one in a red silky dress, all trimmed with lace, and a white feather as long--as long as----" "was it in that pretty big wide street?" asked roger. "i saw a little boy like me with a 'plendid coat all over gold buttons." "that was a little page, not a gentleman," said gladys, rather contemptuously. "don't you remember mrs. ffolliot's page? only perhaps he hadn't so many buttons. i'd like to go a walk there every day, wouldn't you?" but their conversation was interrupted by madame nestor's calling them down to have a little roll and a glass of milk, which she had discovered they liked much better than wine and water. "if only there would come a letter, or if papa would come--oh, if papa would but come before that anna comes back again, everything would get all right! i do hope when he does come that papa will let me give a nice present to mrs. nest," thought gladys to herself as she was falling asleep that night. the next day was so bright and fine, that when the children saw monsieur adolphe putting on his coat to go out early in the morning they both wished they might go with him, and they told him so. he smiled, but told them in his funny english that it could not be. he was going out in a hurry, and only about business--some orders he was going to get from the english ladies. "english ladies," repeated gladys. "yes; have you not seen them? they were here one day." "we saw them," said gladys, smiling, "but they did not see _us_. they thought we were mice," but the dictionary had to be fetched before adolphe could make out what "mice" meant, even though roger turned it into "mouses" to make it plainer. and then he had to hurry off--it was a long way, he said, in the avenue gérard, close to the champs elysées, that these ladies lived. "avenue gérard," repeated gladys, in the idle way children sometimes catch up a name; "that's not hard to say. we say _avenue_ in english too. it means a road with lots of trees. are there lots of trees where those ladies live, mr. 'dolph?" but "mr. 'dolph" had departed. after these bright days came again some dreary autumn weather. the children "wearied," as scotch people say, a good deal. they were even glad on the fourth day to be sent out a short walk with françoise. "i wonder if we shall see that nice gentleman again if we go up that big street?" said roger. "i don't think we shall," said gladys. "most likely he doesn't live there. and it's a great many days ago. perhaps he's gone back to england." it was indeed by this time nearly a fortnight that the little waifs had found refuge in the rue verte. the walk turned out less disagreeable than their first one with françoise. they did go up the boulevard, where the servant had some commissions, but they did not meet the "nice gentleman." they came home, however, in very good spirits; for at the big grocer's shop, where françoise had bought several things, one of the head men had given them each an orange. and chattering together about how they should eat them--whether it was nicest to suck them, or to cut them with a knife, or to peel them and divide them into what are familiarly called "pigs"--the two children, with françoise just behind them, reached the shop in the rue verte. the door stood open--that was a little unusual, but they did not stay to wonder at it, but ran in quickly, eager to show their oranges to their kind old friend. the door leading to the room behind the shop stood open also, and the children stopped short, for the room was full of people, all talking eagerly and seemingly much excited. there were all the workpeople and one or two neighbours, but neither madame nestor nor her son. françoise, who had caught sight of the crowd and already overheard something of what they were saying, hurried forward, telling the children as she passed them to stay where they were, and frightened of they knew not what, the two little creatures took refuge in their old corner behind the blue sofa. "what can it be?" said gladys. "p'raps papa's come," suggested roger. gladys's heart gave a great leap, and she sprang up, glancing in the direction of the little crowd of people. but she quickly crouched down again. "oh no," she said. "it can't be that. françoise would not have told us to stay here. i'm afraid somebody's ill. it seems more like that." her instinct was right. by degrees the talking subsided, and one or two of the workpeople went off to their business, and a moment or two after, when adolphe nestor suddenly made his appearance, there was a general hush, broken only by one or two voices inquiring "how she was." "do you hear that, roger?" whispered gladys, nudging her brother; "they're asking how she is. that means mrs. nest, i'm sure. she must be ill." roger said nothing, but listened solemnly. "her was quite well when us went out," he observed, after a considerable pause. "yes, but sometimes people get ill all of a sudden," said gladys. then, after a moment, "roger," she said, "i think i'll go and ask. i shall be _so_ unhappy if poor mrs. nest is ill." "so will i," said roger. they got up from the floor, and hand in hand crept timidly towards the door. françoise was still standing there, listening to adolphe, who was talking to the two or three still standing there. françoise turned at the sound of the children's footsteps, and raised a warning finger. but gladys put her aside, with what "walter" would have called her imperious air. "let us pass," she said. "i want to speak to mr. 'dolph." the young man heard the sound of his own name. "what is it?" he said quickly, in french. "i want to know what's the matter. is mrs. nest ill?" asked gladys. but she had to repeat her question two or three times before adolphe understood it he was flurried and distressed--indeed, his eyes looked as if he had been crying--and that made it more difficult for him to catch the meaning of the child's words. but at last he did so. "ah!" he exclaimed. "yes, there is much the matter. my poor mother--she has fallen downstairs and broken her leg." gladys clasped her two hands together. "broken her leg," she repeated. "oh, poor mrs. nest! oh, it must hurt her dreadfully." at this roger burst out crying. adolphe turned round, and picked him up in his arms. "poor little fellow," he said, "yes, he, too, is very sorry. what we are to do i know not. anna away, too. i hope you will be very good and quiet children. françoise, too, will be so busy--you will do all you can to give no trouble, will you not? i wish we had news of the papa!" he added, as he turned away. he did not speak at all unkindly, but he seemed very much troubled, and with his broken english it was very difficult for gladys to follow all he said. "may i go and see poor mrs. nest?" she said timidly. "no, no; you cannot see her for a long time," replied adolphe hastily, as he left the room. "i must send a telegram to mademoiselle anna," he added to françoise, and unfortunately for her peace of mind, gladys understood him. she turned away, her lips quivering. "come upstairs, dear," she said to her little brother. "come to our room and i will take off your things." roger followed her obediently. françoise had disappeared into the kitchen, where more than ever she was needed, as there was no one else to see about the dinner--so the two little things climbed upstairs by themselves. it was already growing dusk--the dull little room looked cheerless, and felt chilly. roger looked up into gladys's eyes as she was unfastening his coat. "are you crying, gladdie?" he said, in his little soft sad tone. gladys turned away a moment to wipe her eyes. if she had not done so she would probably have burst into a terrible fit of tears, for never had she felt so miserable and desolate. her pride, too, was aroused, for she saw most plainly that she and roger were more than ever a sad burden and trouble. but what could she do? what could any little girl of seven years old have done in such a case? the sight of roger's meek sad face gave her a kind of strength. for his sake she must keep up anyway the appearance of cheerfulness. so she kissed him, and answered quietly: "i am very sorry for poor mrs. nest. she has been so kind to us." "yes," said roger. then a bright idea struck him. "i'll say my prayers for her to be made better to-night. will you, gladdie?" "yes," said gladys, and there was comfort in the thought to her, for it brought with it another. "i'll ask god to help _us_," she thought to herself, "and when i go to bed i'll think and think, and perhaps he'll put something in my head. _perhaps_ i must try to write to miss susan." the loss of madame nestor's constant kindness was quickly felt. no one came near the children, and when gladys crept downstairs there was no light in the little sitting-room--no glasses of milk and plate of rolls waiting for them on the table, as had become a habit. and roger was cold and hungry! he had asked gladys to go down and look if there was any "goûter," as they had learnt to call this afternoon luncheon, and when she came up again and told him "no," the poor little fellow, frightened, and cold, and hungry, burst into loud sobbing. gladys was so afraid it would be heard, and that they would be scolded for disturbing madame nestor, that she persuaded roger to get into bed, where she covered him up warmly, and promised to tell him a story if he would leave off crying. it was not easy to keep her promise--she felt so on the point of bursting into tears herself that she had to stop every now and then to clear her throat, and she was not sorry when, on one of these occasions, instead of roger's shrill little voice urging her to "go on. what do you stop for, gladdie?" she heard by his regular breathing that he had fallen asleep. she had no light, but she felt about to be sure he was well covered, and then, leaning her head on the side of his bed, she tried to "think." "i would not mind anything so much if anna was not coming back," she said to herself. "but if she is here, and poor mrs. nest shut up in her room, she can do anything she likes to us, for mr. 'dolph wouldn't know; and if i told him he'd think i was very naughty to bother him when his mother was ill. i think i must write to miss susan--at least, if anna is _very_ unkind, i will--unless--unless--oh, if it _would_ but happen for papa to come to-morrow, or a letter! i'll wait till to-morrow and see--and _perhaps_ anna won't come back, not--not if papa's in the train--she'd run away if she saw him, if he had mrs. nest's cap on, she'd"--and that was all, for before gladys had settled what she would do, she too, as you see, had fallen asleep. she slept some time--an hour or two--and she awoke, feeling cold and stiff, though what had awakened her she did not at first know, till again, bringing with it the remembrance of having heard it before, the sound of a voice calling her reached her ears. "mademoiselle--mademoiselle gladees," it said, "why do you not come? the dinner is all ready, and i have called you so many times." it was françoise, tumbling up the narrow stair in the dark. gladys heard her fumbling at the door, and called out "françoise!" then roger woke and started up, trembling. "what is it--what is the matter, gladdie?" he cried, and gladys had to soothe and pet him, and say it was only françoise; and françoise in the meantime had got into the room, exclaiming at their having no light, and pulling a box of matches from her pocket, struck one, and hunted about till she found a bit of candle. it was a rather melancholy scene that the end of candle lighted up. "so--you have been asleep!" exclaimed the servant; "well, perhaps it was the best thing. well, come down now, monsieur adolphe is asking for you," and she would scarcely let them wait to dip their hands in water and smooth their tumbled hair. "what will become of them when _she_ comes back and poor madame ill in bed, who can say?" the peasant girl muttered to herself as she led them downstairs. "i wish their friends would come to fetch them--i do. it's certainly very strange for rich people to leave their children like that," and françoise shook her head. monsieur adolphe received the children kindly. he had been a little alarmed when françoise had told him she could not find them in the sitting-room, for he knew it would trouble his poor mother greatly if she found her little favourites were neglected, for the thought of them was one of the things most troubling the poor woman in the middle of her suffering. "if but the papa would come for them," she had already said to her son. "i know not what to do. i think we must ask some advice. anna dislikes them so; and if she comes back to-morrow----" "she may not come till the day after," said adolphe. "do not trouble yourself about anything just now. the children are all right for the moment." "and you will be kind to them at dinner, and give them nice pieces. they do not eat much, but they are used to more delicate cooking than ours." "reassure yourself. i will do all as you would yourself. and if you keep quiet, my good mamma, perhaps in a day or two you can see them for yourself. the great thing is to keep quiet, and that will keep down the fever, the doctor says," repeated poor adolphe, who was really a good and affectionate son. "ah, yes," thought poor madame nestor, "that is all very well, but at my age," for she was really old--old to be the mother of adolphe, having married late in life, "at my age one does not break one's leg for nothing. but the good god knows best. if my time has come, so be it. i have no great anxiety to leave behind me, like some poor women, thank heaven! only these poor children!" and thanks to what madame nestor had said, and thanks in part, too, to his kind feelings, adolphe was very friendly to the children at dinner; and in reply to their timid inquiries about his mother, told them that the doctor thought she was going on well, and in a day or two they might see her, if they were very good and quiet. so the meal passed off peacefully. "after all," thought adolphe, "they do not cost one much. they eat like sparrows. still it is a great responsibility--poor little things!" he took roger in his arms and kissed him when he said good-night, and gladys would have gone to bed feeling rather less unhappy, for françoise put in her head to say she would come in half an hour to help to undress "monsieur roger," but for some words she overheard among some of the young workwomen, which she understood only too well--that mademoiselle anna was returning the next morning! "i _must_ write to miss susan," thought the little girl, as she at last fell asleep. chapter ix. from bad to worse. "their hearts were laden with sorrow, surprise, and fear." princess bopeep. nobody came to wake the children the next morning. they slept later than usual, and when gladys woke it was already as light as ever it was in the dull little room. but it was very cold--the weather had turned to frost in the night, which made the air clearer and brighter, and in their own warm rooms at mrs. lacy's the children would have rejoiced at the change. here it was very different. gladys lay waiting some time, wondering if no one was coming with their chocolate and bread, forgetting at first all that had happened the day before. by degrees it came back to her mind, and then she was no longer surprised at their being left alone. "anna has come back," she thought to herself, "and she won't let them bring us our breakfast." she got out of bed, glad to see that roger was still sleeping, and crossed the room, the cold wooden floor striking chill to her bare feet. she reached the door and opened it, peering down the narrow dark staircase. "françoise," she called softly, for the kitchen was nearer than the workroom, and she hoped perhaps françoise would come to her without anna knowing. but no one answered. she heard voices in the distance--in the kitchen they seemed to be--and soon she fancied that she distinguished the sharp tones of mademoiselle anna, ordering about the poor little cook. gladys quickly but softly shut the door and crossed the room again on tiptoes. she stood for a moment or two hesitating what to do. it was so cold that she felt half inclined to curl herself up in bed again and try to go to sleep! but if roger woke, as he was sure to do soon--no, the best thing was for her to get dressed as quickly as possible. she bravely sponged herself as well as she could with the cold water, which was now always left in the room in a little jug; "no chance of any _hot_ water to-day!" she thought to herself as she remembered how unhappy she had been that first morning at not having a bath, and then went on to dress, though not without a good deal of difficulty, as several of her little under-garments fastened behind. not till the last button was secured did roger wake. "gladdie," he said in a sleepy tone, "are you dressed. we haven't had our chocolate, gladdie." "never mind, roger dear," said gladys. "they're all very busy to-day, you know, so i've got up and dressed quickly, and now i'll go down and bring up your breakfast. unless you'd rather get up first?" roger considered. he was in rather a lazy mood, which was perhaps just as well. "no," he decided. "i'll have my breakfast first. and you can eat yours beside me, can't you, gladdie?" "yes," said gladys, "that will be very nice." she spoke with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling, for in her heart she felt by no means sure of getting any breakfast at all. but just as she was turning to go a slight knocking was heard at the door. it was more like a scratching indeed, as if the person were afraid of being heard outside as well as by those in the room. "mademoiselle," came in a loud whisper after the queer rapping had gone on for some time, "are you awake? open--i have the hands full." it was françoise. gladys opened. the little servant, her round red face rounder and redder than usual, for she had been all the morning at the kitchen fire, and had besides been passing through unusual excitement, stumped into the room, a bowl, from which the steam of some hot liquid was rising, in one hand, and a plate with a large hunch of bread in the other. she put them down on the little table and wiped her hot face with her apron. "ah, mademoiselle," she said, "no one would believe it--the trouble i have had to get some breakfast for you! _she_ would not have it--lazy little creatures, she called you--you might come down and get it for yourselves--a piece of dry bread and some dripping soup--that was all she would have given you, and i know you are not used to that. so what did i do but wait till her back was turned--the cross cat--and then in with the milk and a tiny bit of chocolate--all i could find, and here it is! hot, at any rate; but not very good, i fear." gladys did not, of course, understand a quarter of the words which françoise rattled off in her queer norman-french; but her wits were sharpened by anxiety, and she gathered quite enough of the sense of the little servant's long speech to feel very grateful to her. in her hurry françoise had poured all the chocolate--or hot milk rather, for there was very little chocolate in the composition--into one bowl; but the children were too hungry to be particular. they drank turn-about, and finished by crumbling up the remains of the bread in the remains of the milk and eating it with the spoon, turn-about also, françoise standing by, watching them with satisfaction! suddenly she started. "i must run down," she said, "or she will be after me again. i wish i could stay to help you to dress monsieur roger, but i dare not," and gathering up the dishes in her apron so that they could not be seen, she turned to go. "dress him as quickly as you can," she said to gladys, "and then she cannot say you have given any trouble. but stay--i will see if i cannot get you a little hot water for the poor bébé." and off she set, to appear again in a minute with a tin jug of hot water which she poured out into the basin at once for fear the absence of the tin jug should be discovered. "she has eyes on every side of her head," she whispered as she went off again. roger's toilet was accomplished more luxuriously than poor gladys's own, and he was quite bright and happy with no fear of mademoiselle anna or any one else, chirping like a little bird, as his sister took him down the narrow staircase to the room behind the shop where they spent the mornings. "hush, roger dear, we must be very quiet because poor mrs. nest is ill, you know," she said, when his shrill little voice rose higher and higher, for he had had an exceedingly good night and felt in excellent spirits. "she can't hear us down here," replied roger. but gladys still repeated her "hush," for, in reality, it was anna who she feared might overhear roger's chatter. she looked about for something to keep him quiet, but could see nothing. it was warm in the sitting-room--though if anna could have done so, she would have ordered françoise not to light the fire for the little plagues, as she called them--but except for that they would have been happier up in their bedroom, where gladys had discovered a few of roger's toys in a corner of the big trunk, which, however, madame nest had not allowed them to bring down. "when the papa comes, i wish him to find all your things in good order," she had said. "the toys might get broken, so while you are here i will find you things to amuse you." but this morning the bundle of cretonne and cut-out birds and flowers was not to be seen! "i must tell roger stories all the morning, i suppose," thought gladys, and she was just going to propose doing so, when roger, who had been standing peeping through the glass door which led into the shop, suddenly gave a cry of pleasure. "oh, gladdie," he said, "see what a pretty carriage and two prancey horses at the door!" gladys ran to look--the shop door was wide open, for one of the apprentice boys was sweeping it out, and they could see right into the street. the carriage had stopped, as roger said, and out of it stepped one of two people seated in it. it was the younger of the two ladies that the children had seen that first day in the rue verte when they were hidden behind the blue sofa in the corner. she came forward into the shop. "is there no one here?" she said in french. the apprentice, very dusty and looking rather ashamed, came out of a corner. it was not often that ladies in grand carriages came themselves to the little shop, for though the nestors had some very good customers, monsieur adolphe usually went himself to their houses for orders. "i will call some one," said the boy, "if mademoiselle will have the goodness to wait a moment," and he disappeared through a little door in the corner of the shop which led into the workroom another way. the young lady shivered a little--it was very cold--and then walked about, glancing at the furniture now and then. she seemed to think it too cold to sit down. there was certainly no dearth of chairs! "i wonder if we should ask her to come in here," said gladys. but before she had time to decide, the door by which the boy had gone out opened again and mademoiselle anna appeared. she came forward with the most gracious manner and sweetest smiles imaginable. gladys, who had never seen her like that, felt quite amazed. the young lady received anna's civilities very calmly. she had never seen her before, and thought her rather a vulgar young woman. but when anna begged her to come for a moment into the sitting-room while she went to fetch the patterns the young lady had come for she did not refuse. "it is certainly bitterly cold this morning," she said. "and we are all so upset--by the sad accident to our poor dear madame--mademoiselle must excuse us," said anna, leading the way to the sitting-room as she spoke. rosamond stopped short. "an accident to that good madame nestor. i am very sorry," she exclaimed. [illustration: anna opened the door sharply, as she did everything, and in so doing overthrew the small person of roger.] "ah, yes," anna went on in her honeyed tones, "it is really too sad. it was--but will not mademoiselle come out of the cold, and i will tell her about it," she went on, backing towards the glass door. it opened inwards; the children, very much interested in watching the little scene in the shop, and not quite understanding anna's intention, had not thought of getting out of the way. anna opened the door sharply, as she did everything, and in so doing overthrew the small person of roger, whose short fat legs were less agile than the longer and thinner ones of his sister. gladys sprang away like a kitten, but only to spring back again the next moment, as a doleful cry rose from poor roger. "you're not hurt, darling, are you?" she said, as she knelt down to pick him up. roger went on crying softly. he preferred to take his time about deciding that he wasn't hurt. and in the meantime the stranger young lady had come into the room and was looking round her in some surprise. "has the little boy fallen down?" she asked in french. "poor little fellow! are they madame nestor's grandchildren?" "oh dear, no," replied anna, casting a contemptuous glance at gladys and roger, who, crouching on the floor in a corner of the always dusky little room, could not be very clearly distinguished. "get up," continued she, turning to them, "get up at once and go to your own room." frightened by her tone and by roger's continued sobbing, gladys dragged him up from the floor as well as she could, and escaped with him by the door leading upstairs, near to which they happened to be. something in the sudden change of anna's tone roused the young lady's suspicions. "who are they, then?" she asked again. "and are you sure the little boy is not hurt?" "he cries for nothing, mademoiselle--he is always crying. they are children our good madame has taken in out of charity; it is very difficult to manage with them just now, poor little things. they have been so neglected and are so troublesome; but we must do our best till our dear madame gets better," and then she went on into a long description of the accident, how she herself had just gone to spend two days with her sister, whom she had not seen for years, when she had been recalled, etc., etc., all told so cleverly that rosamond went away, thinking that after all she must be a very good sort of young woman, and that it was not right to yield to prejudice. yet still she could not quite forget the glimpse she had had of the two little creatures taken in "out of charity," and the sound of roger's stifled sobs. gladys and he stayed upstairs till they were called down to "déjeûner." it was cold, but they minded the cold less than sharp words and unkind looks. gladys wrapped roger up in a shawl and pulled a blanket off the bed for herself, and then they both cuddled down together in a corner, and she told him all the stories she could think of. by twelve o'clock they were very hungry, for in spite of françoise's endeavours they had had much less breakfast than usual, but they had no idea what time it was, and were too frightened to go down, and there they would have stayed, all day perhaps, if adolphe, reminded of them by his poor mother's constant questions, had not sent one of the apprentice boys to fetch them down, and meek and trembling the two poor little things entered the long narrow room where all the members of the household were seated round the table. but there was no kindly welcome for them as at dinner the day before. monsieur adolphe's usually good-humoured face looked worried and vexed. "sit down and take your food," he said coldly. "i am very sorry to hear from mademoiselle anna how troublesome you have been this morning. i thought you, mademoiselle, as so much older than your brother, who is really only a baby, would have tried to keep him quiet for the sake of my poor mother." gladys's face turned scarlet; at first she could scarcely believe that she had heard aright, for it was very difficult to understand the young man's bad english, but a glance at his face showed her she was not mistaken. she clasped her hands in a sort of despair. "oh, mr. 'dolph," she said, "how can you think we would be so naughty? it was only that roger fell down, and that made him cry." "do not listen to her," said anna in a hard indifferent tone, "naughty children always make excuses." but the sight of the real misery in gladys's face was too much for kind-hearted adolphe. he noticed, too, that both she and roger were looking pale and pinched with cold, and he had his own doubts as to anna's truthfulness, though he was too much under her to venture to contradict her. "don't cry, my child," he said kindly. "try to be very good and quiet the rest of the day, and eat your déjeûner now." gladys made a valiant effort to choke down her tears. "is mrs. nest better to-day," she asked. the son shook his head. "i fear not," he replied sadly; "she has a great deal of fever. and i am, unfortunately, obliged to go into the country for a day or two about some important business." "you are going away! oh, mr. 'dolph, there will be no one to take care of us," cried gladys, the tears rushing to her eyes again. the young man was touched by her distress. "oh yes, yes," he said; "they will all be very kind to you. i will speak to them, and i shall be soon back again, and you and my little roger will be very good, i am sure." there was nothing more to be said. gladys tried to go on eating, though her hunger had quite left her, and it was difficult to swallow anything without crying again. only one thought grew clearer in her mind--"i must write to miss susan." during the rest of the meal adolphe kept talking to anna about the work and other things to be seen to while he was away. "you must be sure to send to-morrow early to put up those curtains at the english ladies'-- avenue gérard." " avenue gérard--that is their new house," said anna, and the address, which she had already heard twice repeated, caught gladys's ear. "and tell the one who goes to ask for the patterns back--those the young lady took away to-day. oh, by the bye, did she see the children?" asked adolphe. "no, you may be sure. that is to say, i hurried them out of the way, forward little things. it was just the moment she was here, that he, the bébé there, chose for bursting out crying," replied anna. "i hope she did not go away with the idea they were not kindly treated," said adolphe, looking displeased. "she thought nothing about them--she hardly caught sight of them." "she did not see that they were english--her country-people?" "certainly not," replied anna. "do you think i have no more sense than to bother all your customers with the history of any little beggars your mother chooses to take in?" "i was not speaking of all the customers--i was speaking of those english ladies who might have taken an interest in these children, because they too are english--or at least have given us some advice what to do. i have already been thinking of asking them. but now it may be too late if they saw the children crying and you scolding them; no doubt, they will either think they are naughty disagreeable children or that we are unkind to them. either will do harm. you have made a great mistake." he got up and left the room, afraid perhaps of saying more, for at this moment he could not afford to quarrel with anna. poor man, his troubles seemed to be coming on him all at once! gladys understood very little of what they were saying, but she saw that adolphe was not pleased with mademoiselle anna, and it made her fear that anna would be still crosser to roger or her. but she took no notice of them, and when they had finished she called françoise, and told her to take them into the sitting-room and make up the fire. "p'raps she's going to be kind now, gladdie," said roger, with the happy hopefulness of his age. but gladys shook her head. monsieur adolphe set off that afternoon. for the first day or two things went on rather better than gladys had expected. anna had had a fright, and did not dare actually to neglect or ill-treat the children. so gladys put off writing to miss susan, which, as you know, she had the greatest dislike to doing till she saw how things went on. besides this same writing was no such easy matter for her. she had neither pen, ink, nor paper--she was not sure how to spell the address, and she had not a halfpenny of money! very likely if she had spoken of her idea to adolphe he would have been only too glad for her to write, but anna was a very different person to deal with. "if i asked her for paper and a pen she would very likely scold me--very likely she wouldn't like me to write while mr. 'dolph is away, for fear he should think she had been unkind and that that had made me do it," reflected gladys, whose wits were much sharpened by trouble. "and i _daren't_ make her angry while we're alone with her." thus the letter was deferred. things might possibly have gone smoothly till adolphe's return, for anna _wished_ to avoid any upset now she saw how strongly the nestors felt on the subject. but unfortunately bad-tempered people cannot always control themselves to act as their common sense tells them would be best even for themselves. and mademoiselle anna had a very bad and violent temper, which often got quite the mastery of her. so the calm did not last long. chapter x. "avenue gÉrard, no. ." "one foot up and the other foot down, for that is the way to london town. and just the same, over dale and hill, 'tis also the way to wherever you will." old rhyme. it was a very cold day, colder than is usual in paris in november, where the winter, though intense while it lasts, seldom sets in before the new year. but though cold, there had been sufficient brightness and sunshine, though of a pale and feeble kind, to encourage the mammas of paris either to take out their darlings themselves or to entrust them to the nurses and maids, and nursery governesses of all nations who, on every fairly fine day, may be seen with their little charges walking up and down what roger called "the pretty wide street," which had so taken his fancy the day of the expedition with monsieur adolphe. among all the little groups walking up and down pretty steadily, for it was too cold for loitering, or whipping tops, or skipping-ropes, as in finer weather, two small figures hurrying along hand-in-hand, caught the attention of several people. had they been distinctly of the humbler classes nobody would have noticed them much, for even in this aristocratic part of the town one sometimes sees quite poor children threading their way among or standing to admire the little richly-dressed pets who, after all, are but children like themselves. and sometimes a burst of innocent laughter, or bright smiles of pleasure, will spread from the rich to the poor, at the sight of henri's top having triumphed over xavier's, or at the solemn dignity of the walking doll of five-year-old yvonne. but these two little people were evidently not of the lower classes. not only were they warmly and neatly dressed--though that, indeed, would hardly have settled the question, as it is but very seldom in paris that one sees the children of even quite humble parents ill or insufficiently clad--but even though their coats and hats were plain and unfashionable, there was about them a decided look of refinement and good-breeding. and yet they were alone! "who can they be?" said one lady to another. "just see how half-frightened and yet determined the little girl looks." "and how the boy clings to her. they are english, i suppose--english people are so eccentric, and let their children do all sorts of things _we_ would never dream of." "not the english of the upper classes," replied the first lady, with a slight shade of annoyance. "you forget i am half english myself by my mother's side, so i should know. you take your ideas of the english from anything but the upper classes. i am always impressing that on my friends. how would you like if the english judged _us_ by the french they see in leicester square, or by the dressmakers and ladies' maids who go over and call themselves governesses?" "i wouldn't _like_ it, but i daresay it is often done, nevertheless," said the other lady good-naturedly. "but very likely those children do _not_ belong to the upper classes." "i don't know," said the first lady. she stopped as she spoke and looked after the children, who had now passed them, thoughtfully. "no," she went on, "i don't think they are common children. i fancy there must be something peculiar about them. can they have lost their way? antoinette," she added suddenly, turning round. "you may think me very foolish and eccentric--'english,' if you like, but i am going to run after them and see if there is anything the matter. look after lili for a moment for me, please." antoinette laughed. "do as you please, my dear," she said. so off hastened, in her rich velvet and furs, the other lady. it was not difficult to overtake the children, for the two pairs of legs had trotted a long way and were growing weary. but when close behind them their new friend slackened her pace. how was she to speak to them? she did not know that they were english, or even strangers, and if they were the former that did not much mend matters, for, alas! notwithstanding the half british origin she was rather fond of talking about, the pretty young mother had been an idle little girl in her time, and had consistently declined to learn any language but her own. _now_, she wished for her lili's sake to make up for lost time, and was looking out for an english governess, but as yet she dared not venture on any rash attempts. she summoned up her courage, however, and gently touched the little girl on the shoulder, and all her suspicions that something unusual was in question were awakened again by the start of terror the child gave, and the pallid look of misery, quickly followed by an expression of relief, with which she looked up in her face. "i thought it was anna," she half whispered, clutching her little brother's hand more tightly than before. "mademoiselle--my child," said the lady, for the dignity on the little face, white and frightened as it was, made her not sure how to address her. "can i do anything to help you? you are alone--have you perhaps lost your way?" the last few words gladys, for she of course it was, did not follow. but the offer of help, thanks to the kind eyes looking down on her, she understood. she gazed for a moment into these same eyes, and then seeming to gather confidence she carefully drew out from the pocket of her ulster--the same new ulster she had so proudly put on for the first time the day of the journey which was to have ended with "papa" and happiness--a little piece of paper, rather smudgy-looking, it must be owned, which she unfolded and held up to the lady. on it were written the words-- " avenue gérard." "avenue gérard," repeated the lady; "is that where you want to go? it is not far from here." but seeing that the child did not take in the meaning of her words, she changed her tactics. taking gladys by the hand she led her to one side of the broad walk where they were standing, and pointing to a street at right angles from the rows of houses bordering the champs elysées. [illustration: "go along there," she said, "and then turn to the left and you will see the name, 'avenue gérard,' at the corner."] "go along there," she said, "and then turn to the left and you will see the name, 'avenue gérard,' at the corner." she pointed as she spoke; then she stooped, and with the sharp point of the tiny umbrella she carried, traced in lines the directions she had given, in the gravel on which they were standing. gladys considered for a moment in silence, then she lifted her head and nodded brightly. "i understand," she said, "and thank you _very_ much." then taking roger's hand, which, while speaking to the lady she had let go, she smiled again, and whispering something to her brother which made him pluck off his little cap, the two small pilgrims set off again on their journey. the lady stood for a moment looking after them, and i think there were tears in her eyes. "i wonder if i could have done more for them," she said to herself, "fancy lili and jean by themselves like that! but they know where they have to go to--they are not lost." "how kind she was," said gladys, as she led her little brother in the direction the lady had pointed out. "it is not far now, roger, dear--are you _very_ tired?" roger made a manful effort to step out more briskly. "not so _very_, gladdie. but oh, gladdie, i was so frightened when i felt you stop and when i saw your face. oh, gladdie, i thought it was _her_." "so did i," said gladys with a shiver. "would she have put us in prison?" he asked. "i don't know," said gladys. "i heard her say something to françoise about the police. i don't know if that means prison. but these ladies won't let her, 'cos you know, roger, they're _english_, like us." "is all french peoples naughty?" inquired roger meekly. "no, you silly little boy," giving him a small shake, "of course not. think of mrs. nest, and françoise, and even that lady--oh, i didn't mean to make you cry. you're not silly--i didn't mean it, dear." but roger could not at once stop his tears, for they were as much the result of tiredness and excitement as of gladys's words. "gladdie," he went on plaintively, "what will you do if those ladies aren't kind to us?" "they'll help me to send a tele--you know what i mean--a letter in that quick way, to miss susan," replied gladys confidently. "that's all i'm going to ask them. they'd never refuse that." "and could miss susan get here to-day, do you think?" gladys hesitated. "i don't quite know. i don't know how long it takes _people_ to come that way. but i'm afraid it costs a good deal. we must ask the ladies. perhaps they'll get us a little room somewhere, where anna can't find us, till miss susan sends for us." "but," continued roger, "what will you do if they're _out_, gladdie?" gladys did not answer. strange to say, practical as she was, this possibility had never occurred to her. her one idea had been to make her way to the avenue gérard at once, then it had seemed to her that all difficulties would be at an end. "what's the good of saying that, roger," she said at last. "if they're out we'll----" "what?" "wait till they come in, i suppose." "it'll be very cold waiting in the street--like beggars," grumbled roger. but he said it in a low tone, not particularly wishing gladys to hear. only he was so tired that he had to grumble a little. suddenly gladys pulled up. "there it is," she said. "look up there, roger; that's the name, 'av-e-nue gér-ard.' it's just a street. i thought an avenue would have been all trees, like in the country. nine--i wonder which is nine?" opposite to where they stood was no. . gladys led roger on a little bit and looked at the number on the other side. it was , and the next beyond that was . "it's this way. they get littler this way," she exclaimed. "come on, roger, darling--it's not far." "but if we've to wait in the street," repeated roger faintly, for he was now possessed by this new idea. gladys said nothing--perhaps she did not hear. "twenty-seven, twenty-five, twenty-three," she said, as they passed each house, so intent on reaching no. that she did not even feel frightened. between seventeen and fifteen there was a long space of hoardings shutting off unbuilt-upon ground--nine seemed a very long time of coming. but at last--at last! it was a large, very handsome house, and gladys, young as she was, said at once to herself that the english ladies, as she had got into the way of calling them, must be _very_ very rich. for she did not understand that in paris one enormous house, such as the one she was standing before, contains the dwellings of several families, each of which is often as large as a good-sized english house, only without stairs once you have entered, as all the rooms are on one floor. "i wonder which is the front door," said gladys. "there seem so many in there." for the great doors of the entrance-court stood open, and, peeping in, it seemed to her that there was nothing but doors on every side to be seen. "we must ask," she at last said resolutely, and foraging in her pocket she again drew forth the crumpled piece of paper with "no. avenue gérard," and armed with this marched in. a man started up from somewhere--indeed he had been already watching them, though they had not seen him. he was the porter for the whole house. "what do you want--whom are you looking for?" he said. at first, thinking they _were_ little beggars or something of the kind, for the courtyard was not very light, he had come out meaning to drive them away. but when he came nearer them he saw they were not what he had thought, and he spoke therefore rather more civilly. still, he never thought of saying "mademoiselle" to gladys--no children of the upper classes would be wandering about alone! gladys's only answer was to hold out the bit of paper. "avenue gérard, no. ," read the man. "yes, it is quite right--it is here. but there is no name. who is it you want?" "the english ladies," replied gladys in her own tongue, which she still seemed to think everybody should understand. she had gathered the meaning of the man's words, helped thereto by his gesticulations. "the english ladies--i don't know their name." only one word was comprehensible by the porter. "english," he repeated, using of course the french word for "english." "it must be the english ladies on the second floor they want. no doubt they are some of the poor english those ladies are so kind to. and yet--" he looked at them dubiously. they didn't quite suit his description. anyway, there was but one answer to give. "the ladies were out; the children must come again another day." gladys and roger, too, understood the first four words. their worst fears had come true! if gladys could have spoken french she would perhaps have found courage to ask the man to let them come in and wait a little; for as, speechless, still holding poor roger by the hand, she slowly moved to go, she caught sight of a cheerful little room where a bright fire was burning, the glass door standing half open, and towards which the porter turned. "that must be his house," thought gladys in a sort of half-stupid dreamy way. it was no use trying to ask him to let them go in and wait there. there was nowhere for them--he seemed to think they were beggars, and would perhaps call the police if they didn't go away at once. so she drew roger out into the street again, out of the shelter of the court, where the wind felt rather less piercing, and, without speaking, wandered a few steps down the street they had two minutes ago toiled along so hopefully. "where are you going, gladdie? what are you going to do? i knew they'd be out," said roger, breaking into one of his piteous fits of crying. gladys's heart seemed as if it was going to stop. what _was_ she going to do? wait in the street a little, she had said to roger. but how could they? the wind seemed to be getting colder and colder; the daylight even was beginning to fade a little; they were not only cold, they were desperately hungry, for they had had nothing to eat except the little bowl of milk and crust of bread--that was all françoise had been able to give them early that morning. she had been out at the market when the children ran away from anna in one of her terrible tempers, so gladys had not even been able to ask her for a few sous with which to get something to eat. indeed, had françoise been there, i daresay they would have been persuaded by her to wait till adolphe came home, for he was expected that evening, though they did not know it! "roger, _darling_, try not to cry so," said gladys, at last finding her voice. "wait a moment and i'll try to think. if only there was a shop near, perhaps they'd let us go in; but there are no shops in this street." no shops and very few passers-by, at this time of day anyway. a step sounded along the pavement just as gladys had drawn roger back to the wall of the house they were passing, meaning to wipe his eyes and turn up the collar of his coat to keep the wind from his throat. gladys looked up in hopes that possibly, in some wonderful way, the new-comer might prove a friend in need. but no--it was only a man in a sort of uniform, and with a black bag strapped in front. gladys had seen one like him at the rue verte; it was only the postman. he glanced at them as he passed; he was a kind-hearted little man, and would have been quite capable of taking the two forlorn "bébés" home to his good wife to be clothed and fed--for there are many kind samaritans even in careless, selfish big towns like paris--but how were they to guess that, or how was he to know their trouble? so he passed on; but a house or two farther on he stopped again, being accosted by a gentleman coming quickly up the street in the other direction, just as he was turning in to the courtyard of no. . "there is only a paper for you, sir," he said to the young man, whom he evidently knew, in answer to his inquiry. "will you take it?" "certainly," was the reply; and both, after a civil good-evening, were going on their way when a sound made them stop. it was roger--all gladys's efforts had been useless, and his temper as well as his courage giving way he burst into a loud roar. he was too worn out to have kept it up for long at such a pitch, but while it lasted it was very effective, for both the gentleman and the postman turned back. "i noticed these children a moment ago," said the latter. "i wondered if they had lost their way, but i dared not wait." "i'll see what it is," said the young man good-naturedly. but the postman lingered a moment. "what's the matter?" asked the young man in french. "what's the little boy crying for?" he went on, turning to gladys. but her answer astonished him not a little. she stared blankly up in his face without speaking for a moment. then with a sort of stifled scream she rushed forward and caught his hands. "oh you're the nice gentleman we met--you are--_don't_ say you're not. you're the english gentleman, aren't you? oh, will you take care of us--we're all alone--we've run away." walter kept her poor little hands in his, but for half a moment he did not speak. i think there were tears in his eyes. he had so often thought of the little pair he had met on the boulevards, that somehow he did not seem to feel surprised at this strange meeting. "my little girl," he said kindly, "who are you? where have you run away from? not from your home? i remember meeting you; but you must tell me more--you must tell me everything before i can help you or take you where you want to go." "no. avenue gérard; that's where we were going," replied gladys confusedly. "but they're out--the ladies are out." "and we have to wait in the stre-eet," sobbed roger. walter started. " avenue gérard," he said; "how can that be? whom do you know there?" "some ladies who'll be kind to us, and know what we say, for they're english. i don't know their name," answered gladys. walter saw there was but one thing to be done. he turned to the postman. "i know who they are," he said rapidly in french, with the instinctive wish to save this little lady, small as she was, from being made the subject of a sensational paragraph in some penny paper. "i have seen them before. they had come to see my aunt, who is very kind to her country-people, and were crying because she was out. it will be all right. don't let yourself be late. i'll look after them." and relieved in his mind the postman trotted off. walter turned to gladys again. "_i_ live at no. ," he said. "those ladies are my aunt and my sister. so the best thing you can do is to come in with me and get warm. and when my aunt comes home you shall tell us all your troubles, and we will see what to do." "and you won't give us to the police?" asked gladys, with a sudden misgiving. "we've _not_ done anything naughty. will the ladies come soon?" for though on the first impulse she had flown to walter with full confidence, she now somehow felt a little frightened of him. perhaps his being on such good terms with the postman, whose uniform vaguely recalled a policeman to her excited imagination, or his speaking french so easily and quickly, had made her feel rather less sure of him. "_you_ won't give us to the police?" she repeated. walter could hardly help smiling. "of _course_ not," he answered. "come now, you must trust me and not be afraid. give me your hand, my little man; or stay, he's very tired, i'll carry him in." and he lifted roger in his arms, while gladys, greatly to her satisfaction, walked quietly beside them, her confidence completely restored. "he's very polite, and he sees i'm _big_," she said to herself as she followed him into the court, past the porter's bright little room, from whence that person put out his head to wish walter a respectful "good-evening," keeping to himself the reflection which explains so many mysteries to our friends across the water, that "the english are really very eccentric. one never knows what they will be doing next." chapter xi. walter's tea-party. "they felt very happy and content and went indoors and sat to the table and had their dinner."--_the almond tree._ brothers grimm. rosamond and her aunt had a good many commissions to do that afternoon. they had not long before this changed their house, and there were still a great many pretty things to choose and to buy for the new rooms. but though it was pleasant work it was tiring, and it was, too, so exceedingly cold that even in the comfortable carriage with its hot-water bottles and fur rugs, the young girl shivered and said to her aunt she would be glad to be at home again, and to get a nice hot cup of tea. "yes," said her aunt, "and it is getting late. at this time of year the days seem to close in so suddenly." "i'm afraid it is going to be a severe winter. i do so dislike severe winters, auntie," said rosamond, who had spent some part of her life in a warm climate. "so do i," said her aunt, with a sigh, "it makes everything so much harder for the poor. i really think it is true that cold is worse to endure than hunger." "you are so kind, auntie dear," said rosamond. "you really seem as if you felt other people's sufferings your own self. i think it is the little children i am most sorry for. perhaps because i have been such a spoilt child myself! i cannot imagine how it would be possible to live through what some children have to live through. above all, unkindness and neglect. that reminds me----" she was going to tell her aunt of the children she had seen at madame nestor's, and of the sharp way the young woman in the shop had spoken to them, but just at that moment the carriage turned into the courtyard of their house, and the footman sprung down and opened the door. "i wonder what put those children in my head just now?" thought rosamond, as she followed her aunt slowly up the wide thickly-carpeted staircase. "i suppose it was talking of the poor people, though they were not exactly poor." but a moment or two later she really felt as if her thoughts had taken shape, or that she was dreaming, when she caught sight of the most unexpected picture that presented itself to herself and her aunt on opening the door of their pretty "little drawing-room." [illustration: walter was having a tea-party!] the room was brightly lighted, the fire was burning cheerily--not far from it stood the low afternoon tea-table covered with a white cloth and heaped up with plates of bread-and-butter and cakes--while the tea-urn sang its pleasant murmur. and the group round the table? that was the astonishing part of it. walter was having a tea-party! for an instant--they had opened the door softly and he was very much taken up with his guests--the aunt and niece stood looking on without any one's hearing them. walter was seated in a big arm-chair, and perched on his knee was a very tiny little boy in an english sailor dress. he was a pretty fair child, with a bright pink flush on his face, and he seemed exceedingly happy and to be thoroughly enjoying the cup of hot but mild tea and slice of cake which his host was pressing on him. and on a small chair just opposite sat a pale-faced dark-eyed little girl with an anxious look on her face, yet at the same time an expression of great content. no wonder; she was only seven years old! fancy the relief it must have been to delicate little gladys to find herself again in a room like this--to have the comfort of the delicious fire and the food even, to which she was accustomed--above all, to see roger safe and happy; if only it would last! "_this_ tea isn't too strong for him, is it, gladys?" walter said. and gladys leaning forward examined it with a motherly air, that was both pathetic and amusing. "no, that's quite right. that's just like what he had it at home." the aunt and niece looked at each other. "who _can_ they be?" whispered the aunt; but rosamond, though she had scarcely seen the faces of the children in the rue verte, seemed to know by instinct. but before she had time to speak, walter started up; the whisper, low as it was, had caught his ear and gladys's too. she too got up from her seat and stood facing the ladies, while her cheeks grew still paler, and the anxious look quite chased away the peaceful satisfaction from her poor little face. "auntie!" said walter, and in his voice too there was a little anxiety, not lost on gladys. for though he knew his aunt to be as kind as any one could be, still it _was_ a rather "cool" thing, he felt, to have brought in two small people he had found in the street without knowing anything whatever about them, and to be giving them tea in her drawing-room. "auntie," he repeated, "this young lady, miss gladys bertram, and her little brother had come to see you, to ask your help. i found them waiting in the street, the concierge had told them you were out; it was bitterly cold, and they had come a very long way. i brought them in and gave them tea, as you see." his face had flushed as he spoke, and there was a tone of appeal in his voice; he could not _before_ gladys add what was on his lips: "you are not vexed with me?" "you did quite right, my dear boy," said his aunt heartily. "rosamond and i are cold and tired too. we should like a cup of tea also, and then these little friends of ours will tell us all they have to tell." "i have seen them before," added walter in a lower tone, going nearer his aunt under pretext of getting her a chair. "you remember the children on the boulevards i told you about the other day? it is they." but gladys, who till then had stood still, gazing at the ladies without speaking, suddenly sprang forward and almost threw herself into "auntie's" arms. "oh, thank you, thank you!" she exclaimed, bursting into tears. "i was just thinking perhaps you'd be vexed with _him_," she pointed to walter, "and he's been so kind, and it _is_ so nice here. oh, we couldn't, we _couldn't_ go back there!" and clasping her new friend still more closely she sobbed as if her overcharged heart would break. auntie and rosamond soothed her with the kindest words they could find, and then auntie, who always had her wits about her, reminded gladys that they too were very anxious to have a cup of tea, would she help to pour it out? she evidently knew all about it, whereupon gladys's sobs and tears stopped as if by magic, and she was again the motherly capable little girl they had seen her on entering the room. tea over--before thinking of taking off their bonnets--auntie and rosamond, and walter too, made gladys tell them all she had to tell. it was a little difficult to follow at first, for, like a child she mixed up names and events in rather a kaleidoscope fashion. but at last by dint of patience and encouragement and several "beginnings again at the beginning," they got a clear idea of the whole strange and yet simple story, all of which that was known to gladys herself, you, my little readers, already know, except the history of the last miserable day in the rue verte, when anna's temper had got the better of her prudence to such an extent as to make gladys feel they could bear it no longer. she had struck them both in her passion that very morning when françoise was at the market, and wild with fear, more for roger than herself, gladys had set off to ask help and advice from the only people she knew of in all great paris who could understand her story. "except _him_," added gladys, nodding at walter, "but we didn't know where he lived. i couldn't write to miss susan, for i hadn't any paper or envelopes. i thought i'd wait till mr. 'dolph came home and that he'd let me write, but i don't know when he's coming, and i hadn't any money, and if _she_--oh! if she had struck roger again it might have killed him. he's so little, you know," and gladys shuddered. there was silence for a few moments. then auntie turned to walter. "the first thing to be done, it seems to me, is for you to go to the rue verte to tell the nestors--madame nestor, that is to say--where these little people are. she will be very uneasy, i fear, poor woman." "anna won't tell her, i don't think," said gladys. "poor mrs. nest--she is so kind. i shouldn't like her to be unhappy." "and," continued the lady, "you must ask for the children's clothes." gladys's eyes glistened. "do you mean, are you going to let us stay here?" she said; "i mean till to-morrow, perhaps, till miss susan can come?" "where else could you go, my dears?" said auntie kindly. "i don't know; i--i thought perhaps you'd get us a little room somewhere, and miss susan would pay it when she comes. i thought perhaps you'd send her a tele--, you know what i mean, and perhaps she could come for us that way. it's so quick, only it costs a great deal, doesn't it?" auntie and rosamond had hard work to prevent themselves laughing at this queer idea of gladys's, but when her mistake was explained to her, she took it very philosophically. "then do you think i should write to miss susan to-day?" said gladys. "_you'll_ help me, won't you?" she added, turning to rosamond. "i don't know very well how to write the address." "of course i will help you, dear," said rosamond, but her aunt interrupted. "i do not think little gladys need write to-night," she said. "indeed, perhaps it may be as well for me to write for her to the lady she speaks of. but now, walter, you had better go off at once, and bring back the children's belongings with you. what were you going to say, dear?" for gladys seemed as if she were going to speak. gladys's face grew red. "anna said once that she would sell our big trunk and all our best clothes--i mean she said mrs. nest would--to get money for all we had cost them. but i'm sure mrs. nest wouldn't. and when papa comes he'll pay everything." the elder lady looked at walter. "try and bring away everything with you," she said. "take louis, so that he may help to carry out the boxes. do your best anyway." it turned out easier than auntie had feared, for walter found adolphe nestor already returned, and in a state of frantic anxiety about the children. knowing that they could not be in better hands than those in which they had placed themselves, he was only too thankful to let them remain there, and gave walter all the information he could about mr. and mrs. marton, who had confided the children to his mother's care. "she can tell you all about the family better than i," he said. "i think even she has the address of madame marton's mother, where her cousin was so long nurse. oh, they are in every way most respectable, and indeed one can see by the children themselves that they are little gentlepeople. there must be something sadly amiss for the father not to have come for them. i fear even that he is perhaps dead." then he went on to tell walter that he had told anna he could no longer keep her in his employment, and that all was at an end with her. "and indeed," he said, his round face getting very red, "i think no man would be happy with a wife with such a temper," in which walter, who at eighteen considered himself very wise, cordially agreed. adolphe had not told his mother of the children's flight, for she was still very feverish and excitable; but he said she would be relieved to know where they had found refuge. and then he gave walter the english money which mr. marton had left for their use, and which his mother had kept unbroken. walter took it, though reluctantly, but he saw that it would have hurt adolphe to refuse it; and he also reflected that there were other ways in which the nestors could be rewarded for their kindness. and so he left the rue verte with all the children's belongings safely piled on the top of the cab, and with a much more friendly feeling to the upholsterer than he had expected to have, promising to let him know the result of the inquiries his aunt intended immediately to set on foot; and also assuring him that they should not leave paris without coming to say good-bye to him and his kind old mother. when the two tired but happy little people were safely in bed that night, their three new friends sat round the fire to have a good talk about them. "it is a very strange affair, really," said walter. "i'm more than half inclined to agree with nestor that the father must be dead." "but even then," said auntie, "the friends in england who had charge of them would have known it, and would have sent to inquire about them." "that 'miss susan,' as they call her, seems to me to have thought of nothing but the easiest way to get rid of them," said rosamond indignantly. "she should never have let them start without a letter or a telegram of captain bertram's being actually in paris, and, as far as i can make out from little gladys, she had not got that--only of his arrival at marseilles and his _intention_ of coming." "did gladys mention marseilles? does she know where it is?" asked walter. "yes, she said the old lady whom they were very fond of showed it to her on the map, and explained that it was the town in france 'at which the big ships from india stopped,' gladys is quite clear about all that. she is a very clever child in some ways, though in others she seems almost a baby." "nothing about her would surprise me after her managing to find her way here," said auntie. "just fancy her leading that baby, roger, all the way here from the rue verte!" "do you know how she did?" said rosamond. "she tore a little piece of paper off the edge of a newspaper and wrote the address, 'avenue gérard ,' on it with an end of pencil she found lying about; and she showed this bit of paper to anybody 'kind-looking' whom they met, and thus she got directed. was it not a good idea? she said if she had _asked_ the way the french people would not have understood her speaking." "then what do you decide to do, auntie?" said walter. "shall i telegraph in the morning to this miss susan, or will you write?" auntie hesitated. "_i_ don't see how you can do either with much chance of it reaching her," said rosamond. "gladys, you know, said she was going to be married." "well, supposing in the first place," said auntie, "we were to telegraph to the principal hotels at marseilles and ask if captain bertram is there--it would do no harm--it is just possible that by some mistake he is all this time under the belief that the children are still in england." "that's not likely," said walter; "no one would stay on at a hotel in marseilles all this time for no reason--three weeks, it must be. but it's not a bad idea to telegraph there first." "gladys would be so pleased if it proved not to be necessary to send to 'miss susan' at all," said rosamond, who seemed to have obtained the little girl's full confidence. "well, we shall see," said auntie. "in the meantime the children are safe, and i hope happy." "mr. and mrs. marton must be in india by this time," said walter. "_they_ don't seem to have been to blame in the least--they did the best they could. it might be as well to write to them if we had their address." "perhaps old madame nestor may have it," said rosamond. "the maid--her niece or cousin, whichever it is--may have left it with her." "we can ask," said auntie. "but it would take a good while to hear from india, and very likely they would have very little to tell, for there is one thing that strikes me," she went on thoughtfully, "which is, the _martons_ cannot have thought there was anything wrong when they got to marseilles, otherwise they would have written or telegraphed to the rue verte, and certainly to the friends in england." she looked up as if to read in the faces of her two young companions how this struck them. "that's true," said walter. "but it only adds to the mystery," said rosamond. "supposing," said walter, "that the address has been lost--that of the nestors, i mean--and that all this time captain bertram is hunting up and down paris for his children?" "that does not seem to me likely," said auntie. "he would have telegraphed back to england." "where it wouldn't have been known, rosamond," said walter. "rather to mr. marton in india." "if he had _his_ address," said walter again. "well, anyway _that_ could be got in england," said auntie, a little impatiently. "no, no, walter, it can't be that. why, supposing captain bertram were here looking for his children, the _police_ could have found them for him in a couple of days. no; i very much fear there is more wrong than a mere mistake. poor little dears--they still seem to have such unbounded faith in 'papa's coming.' i only trust no harm has come over him, poor man." walter telegraphed the next morning in his aunt's name to the two principal hotels at marseilles, to inquire if captain bertram was or had been there. from one came back the answer, "no such name known." from the other the information that captain bertram had not yet returned from nice, and that letters and his luggage were waiting for him at the hotel. "just read this, aunt," he said, hurrying into the drawing-room, and auntie did so. then she looked up. "it is as i feared, i feel sure," she said. "walter, you must go to nice yourself, and make inquiries." "i shall start to-night," said the young fellow readily. "stay a moment," said auntie again. "we have the _times_ advertisements for the last few days; it may be as well to look over them." "and the saturday papers, with all the births, marriages, and deaths of the week put in at once," said rosamond. "you take the _times_," she added to her brother, going to a side-table where all the papers were lying in a pile, "and i'll look through the others." for a few moments there was silence in the room. gladys and roger were very happy with some of their toys, which they had been allowed to unpack in the dining-room. "bertram, bertram, no, i see nothing. and there's no advertisement for two lost cherubs in the agony columns either," said walter. suddenly rosamond gave a little exclamation. "have you found anything?" asked auntie. "nothing about captain bertram," she replied. "but i think this must be the old lady they lived with. 'alicia, widow of the late major-general lacy,' etc., etc., 'at market-lilford on the th november, aged .' i am sure it is she, for gladys's second name is 'alicia,' and she told me it was 'after mrs. lacy.'" "poor old lady--she must have been very kind and good. that may explain 'miss susan's' apparent indifference. it was fully a fortnight ago, you see." "must i tell gladys?" said rosamond. "not yet, i think," said auntie. "we may have worse to tell her, poor child." "i don't know that it _would_ be worse," said the young girl. "they can't remember their father." "still, they have always been looking forward to his coming. if it ends in _good_ news, it will make them--gladys especially--very happy." "as for roger, perfect happiness is already his," said rosamond. "he asks no more than weak tea and bread-and-butter, gladys always at hand, a good fire, and nobody to scold him." chapter xii. papa at last. "and now, indeed, there lacked nothing to their happiness as long as they lived."--_the golden bird._ brothers grimm. walter went off to nice that night. the children were not told distinctly the object of his journey. they were allowed to know that he might be passing near "the big town by the sea," which poor mrs. lacy, in her kind anxiety to make all clear, had pointed out to gladys on the map; but that was all, for auntie wished to save them any more of the nervous suspense and waiting of which they had had so much. she wished, too, to save them any suffering that could be avoided, from the fear of the sorrow, really worse than any they had yet known, which she often dreaded might be in store for them. "let us make them as happy as ever we can for these few days," she said to rosamond. "nothing like happiness for making children strong and well, and they will soon forget all their past troubles." and rosamond was only too ready to give her assistance to the kind plan, so that in all their lives gladys and roger had never been so much made of. the ladies were too wise to overdo it; they found too that it was very easy to amuse these simple little creatures, who had never known since they were born the slightest approach to "spoiling" or indulgence. everything pleased them. the mere living in the pretty luxurious house--the waking up in the morning to the sight of the bright dainty room, where already a cheerful little fire would be blazing, for the weather continued exceedingly cold. the tempting "little breakfast" of real bread-and-butter and tea--for both gladys and roger found they had got very tired of chocolate--the capacious bath and abundance of hot water--above all, the kind and loving and gentle looks and words which surrounded them--all these would have been enough to make them happy. and a drive in auntie's beautiful carriage, either into the centre of the town "to see the shops," or now and then to visit one of the wonderful old churches with their mysterious height of roof and softly brilliant windows, and _sometimes_, still better, the beautiful swelling organ music which seemed to them to come from nowhere, yet to be everywhere. ah! those expeditions were a delight gladys had never even dreamt of, and which little roger could scarcely take in. they very much changed their opinion of paris in those days, and no longer called it "an ugly dirty town," as it had seemed to them in their first experience at the rue verte. "and when papa comes, we'll take him to see all these beautiful places, won't we?" said gladys, for with rest and peace of mind had come back all her pretty childish hope and trust in that "coming." "yes, dear," said rosamond. but then she began quickly to speak to the little girl of the pretty colours of the still remaining beech leaves in the bois de boulogne, through which for a change they were that day driving. for she could not reply with any confidence in her tone, and she did not want the child to find out her misgiving. walter had been gone three days and had written twice--once a hurried word to tell of his arrival, once the following day to tell of failure. he had been to two or three of the hotels but had found no traces of captain bertram, but there still remained several others, and he hoped to send by his next letter if not good yet anyway more certain news. so auntie still put off writing to "miss susan," for though since seeing the announcement of mrs. lacy's death she did not blame her as much as at first, she yet could not feel it probable that the young lady was suffering great anxiety. "in any case i had better wait till walter tells us _something_," she said to rosamond. "and when i do write i do not know how to address the letter. gladdie is sure she was to be married a very few days after they left, but she cannot remember the name of the gentleman, whom she has only seen once or twice, as he lived at a distance, and had made miss susan's acquaintance away from her home." "address to her maiden name--it would be sent after her," suggested rosamond. "but gladdie is not sure what that is," replied auntie, half laughing. "she doesn't know if it is 'lacy,' or if she had a different name from her aunt. she is such a baby in some ways. i am sure she has not the slightest idea what _our_ surnames are. you are 'rosamond' and i am 'auntie.'" "or 'madame' when she speaks of you to the servants. she is getting on so nicely with her french, auntie. that reminds me louis has been to the rue verte, and has brought back word that madame nestor is much better, and would be so delighted to see the children any day we can send them." "or take them," said auntie. "i would not like them to go without us the first time, for fear they should feel at all frightened. and yet it is right for them to go. they must always be grateful to madame nestor, who did her very best for them." "gladys confided to me she would be a little afraid of going back, though she knows that anna is no longer there. but she says she will feel as if they were going back to _stay_ there, and as if _this_ would turn out to be only a beautiful dream." "poor little dear," said auntie. "and she's going to take her new doll--both to show her off, and that she may feel _she_ isn't a dream! she has such funny ideas sometimes. auntie----" "what, dear?" "if walter can't find the father--i suppose i should say if he is dead--what is to be done?" "we must find out all we can--through that miss susan, i suppose--as to who are the children's guardians, and what money they have, and all about it." "i wish we could adopt them," said rosamond. "we're rich enough." "yes; but that is not the only question. you are almost sure to marry." "i don't know that," said rosamond, but her face flushed a little. "and walter, too, some day." "oh, auntie! walter! why he's only eighteen." "well, all the same, time goes on, and adopting children often causes complications. besides, it is not likely that they have _no_ relations." "well, we shall see what the next letter says," said rosamond. it was not a letter after all, but a telegram, and this was what it said:-- "found bertram. will explain all. returning to-morrow." the aunt and niece looked at each other. "he might have said a little more," said the latter. "this is only enough to rouse our curiosity." "we must say nothing to the children yet," decided auntie. "i do hope, as he is alive," said rosamond, "that he's a nice good sort of man. if he weren't, that would be worse than anything--having to give up the children to him," and she looked quite unhappy. "don't let your imagination run away with you so, my dear child," said auntie. "it's very unlikely that he's not nice in every way. remember what gladys says of his kind letters, and how fond mrs. lacy was of him, and how she always taught them to look forward to his return. no; _my_ fears are about his health, poor fellow." the children went the next morning with rosamond and her maid to see madame nestor, and rosamond brought back with her to show her aunt a letter madame nestor had just received, which threw a little light on one part of the subject. it was from léonie telling of mr. and mrs. marton's arrival at their destination, and alluding to the children as if she had no doubt that they had only been left two or three days at the rue verte. "monsieur," meaning mr. marton, "was so glad," she wrote, "to find at marseilles that the children's papa was going on to paris almost at once. he had left a letter for captain bertram at the hotel, as he had gone to nice for a day or two; and madame had only just had time to write to the ladies in england to tell how it had all been. and she was writing by this mail to ask for news of the "dear little things," as she called gladys and roger. they had thought of them all the way, and madame thanked madame nestor so much for her kindness. she--léonie--hoped very much she would see them again some day. then she presented her compliments to her cousin adolphe, and promised to write again soon--and that was all." "it is still mysterious enough," said auntie; "but it shows the martons were not to blame. as mr. marton has written to england again, we shall probably be hearing something from 'miss susan' before long. it _is_ strange she has not written before, as she has had the rue verte address all this time, i suppose." and here, perhaps, as 'miss susan' is not, to my mind nor to yours either, children, i feel sure, by any means the most interesting person in this little story, though, on the other hand, she was far from without good qualities, it may be as well to explain how it had come to pass that nothing had been heard of her. mrs. lacy grew rapidly worse after the children left, but with her gentle unselfishness she would not allow her niece's marriage to be put off, but begged her on the contrary to hasten it, which was done. two days after it had taken place, susan, who had gone away for a very short honeymoon, was recalled. she never left mrs. lacy again till she died. i think the saddest part of dying for the dear old lady was over when she had said good-bye to her little favourites. for some time susan felt no anxiety about the children, for, from marseilles, she had heard from young mrs. marton of captain bertram's not having met them in paris, and of the arrangement they had been obliged to make. but, that arrived at marseilles, they had found he had gone two days before to nice, to look for a house for his children, the landlord said, whom he was going to paris to fetch. he had left all his luggage there, and had intended to be back this day or the day before, the landlord was not sure which, and to go on to paris. no doubt he would be returning that same evening, only, unfortunately, his newly-arrived friends mr. and mrs. marton would have gone, but he faithfully promised to deliver to him at once the letter mr. marton wrote and left for him. "it seems the only thing to do," added young mrs. marton, "and i do hope it will be all right. captain bertram must have mistaken a day. anyway he will know where to find the children, i enclose their address to you too--at least i will get it from léonie before i shut this letter, for i do not remember it, so that in case you do not hear soon from captain bertram you can write there." but in her hurry--for just as she was finishing the letter, her husband called to her that they must be off--the young lady forgot to enclose the address! so there was nowhere for susan to write to, when, as the days went on and no letter came from captain bertram, she did begin to grow uneasy, not exactly about the children's safety, but about their father having gone for them. "still," she said to her husband, "if he had _not_ got them with him, he would have written to ask where they were. he was never a very good correspondent. but i wonder he hasn't written to ask how my aunt is. i hope there is nothing the matter. i _hope_ i did not do wrong in letting them go without actually knowing of his being in paris." of course her husband assured her she had not. but her conscience was not at rest, for susan had grown gentler now that she was happily married, and she was softened too by the thought of her kind aunt's state. all through the last sad days the children kept coming into her mind, and though mrs. lacy was too weak even to ask about them, susan felt almost guilty when she finally tried to thank her for her goodness. "i don't deserve it," she thought, "i was not kind to the two human beings she loved best," and she wrote over and over again to captain bertram at the marseilles hotel, begging him to send her news of the children, and when mrs. marton's letter came from india repeating what she had before written from marseilles, but with of course no further news, and no mention of the paris address, poor susan became so unhappy that her husband promised to take her over to make inquiries in person if no answer came to another letter he sent to marseilles to the landlord of the hotel, begging him to tell all he knew of captain bertram's movements. this letter brought a reply, as you will hear, from captain bertram himself. it was evening before walter arrived. gladys and roger were in bed and asleep. auntie and rosamond were waiting for him with the greatest anxiety to hear his news. he looked bright and cheery as he came into the room, still enveloped in his wraps, which he began to pull off. "it's nice and warm in here," he said; "but, oh, it's so cold outside. and it was so mild and sunny down there; i would have liked to stay a day or two longer. it was to please _him_ i hurried back so quickly--poor man, he is in _such_ a state about the children!" "but, walter, what is the meaning of it all? why has he not come himself?" "do you like him?" put in rosamond. "awfully," said walter boyishly. "he's just what you would expect their father to be. but i'm forgetting--i haven't told you. he's been dreadfully ill--he can only just crawl a step or two. and all this time he's not had the slightest misgiving about the children, except the fear of not living to see them again of course. he's not had the least doubt of their being safe in england; and only just lately, as he began to get well enough to think consecutively, he has wondered why he got no letters. he was just going to try to write to that place--market-lilford--when i got there. so he was mystified too! but we got to the bottom of it. this was how it was. he was feeling ill at marseilles--he had put off too long in india--and he thought it was the air of the place, and as he had some days to pass before he was due in paris, he went on to nice, thinking he'd get all right there and be able to look about for a house if he liked it. but instead of getting all right he broke down completely. he wrote out a telegram to tell miss susan that he was ill, and that she must not start the children. it would have been in plenty of time to stop them, had she got it, but she never did." "never got it," repeated both ladies. "no; the waiter told him it was all right, but it wasn't. his writing was so bad that at the office they couldn't read the address, and the message was returned from london the next day; and by that time he was so ill that the doctor wouldn't allow them to ask him a thing, and he probably wouldn't have understood them if they had. this, you see, he's only found out since i got there. the doctor was meaning to tell him, but he took his time about it, and he did not know how important it was. so, in a way, nobody was to blame except that miss susan. that's what bertram says himself; but while i was there he telegraphed to marseilles for his letters. there were several from her, and the last so frantic that he's writing to say it's all right; especially as she's been very cut up about the poor old lady's death. but she shouldn't have started the children till he telegraphed _from paris_. besides, he had told her to send a maid with them for the journey. it wasn't the martons' fault; they did their best." "was he distressed at hearing of mrs. lacy's death?" asked auntie. "_very_," said walter; "it put him back, the doctor said; but he'll be all right when he sees the children. if you had seen him when i told him about their finding their way to us, not even knowing our names, all over paris! he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. he's weak still, you know. and then he's so _dreadfully_ grateful to us! i was glad to get away." "and when does he want them?" said rosamond dolefully. "as soon as possible. he can't come north this winter. and he's not rich, i can see. so i was thinking----" "what, my boy?" "it _is_ so cold here," repeated walter; "it really feels terrible to come back to. supposing we all go down there for a couple of months or so, to escape the cold? we could keep the children till bertram is strong again and able to make his plans. i think we'd feel quite queer without them now. besides, i promised him to bring them back to him." "what do you say, rosamond?" said auntie. "i should like it very much. it would be so nice not to part with them just yet." so it was decided. you can imagine how much had to be told to the children the next day. mingled sadness and happiness--warp and woof of the web of life! but when they found themselves once more on the railway, with the kind friends they had learnt to know so well, really on the way to "papa," i think the happiness was uppermost. he proved to be the dearest of papas; not the very least like what they had imagined him. "of course not," gladys said; "people and things are never like what one fancies they will be." but though he was older and grayer, and perhaps at first sight a little _sadder_ than she had expected, he grew merry enough in the great happiness of having them with him, and as he gradually got strong and well again he seemed, too, to become younger. "anyway," said gladys, a few weeks after their arrival at nice, "he _couldn't_ be nicer, could he, roger?" in which opinion roger solemnly agreed. "and now he's getting better," she added; "it's not a bad thing he's been ill, for it's made the doctor say he must never go back to india again." * * * * * is that all there is to tell about the "two little waifs?" i think i must lift the curtain for an instant "ten years later," to show you little roger a tall strong schoolboy, rather solemn still, but bidding fair to be all his father could wish him, and very devoted to a tiny girl of about the age at which we first saw gladys, and who, as her mother is pretty rosamond, he persists in calling his "niece," and with some show of reason, for her _real_ uncle, "walter," is now the husband of his sister gladys! and long before this, by the bye, another marriage had come to pass which it may amuse you to hear of. there is a new madame nestor in the rue verte, as well as the cheery old lady who still hobbles about briskly, though with a crutch. and the second madame nestor's first name is "léonie." she is, i think, quite as clever as mademoiselle anna, and certainly _very_ much better tempered. and whenever any of the people you have heard of in this little book come to paris, you may be sure they pay a visit to the little old shop, which is as full as ever of sofas and chairs, and where they always receive the heartiest welcome from the nestor family. i wish, for my part, the histories of all "little waifs" ended as happily! the end. bedford street, covent garden, london. _october_, . _macmillan & co.'s catalogue of works in_ _belles lettres, including poetry, fiction, etc._ * * * * * =addison,= selections from. by john richard green, m.a., ll.d. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =adventures of a brownie, the.= by the author of "john halifax, gentleman." with illustrations by mrs. allingham. new edition. globe vo. _s_. _d_. =Æsop.=--some of Æsop's fables. with modern instances shown in designs by randolph caldecott. from new translations by alfred caldecott, m.a. the engraving by j. d. cooper. demy to. _s_. _d_. =allingham.=--the ballad book. edited by william allingham. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =alexander (c. f.).=--the sunday book of poetry for the young. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =a little pilgrim:= in the unseen. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =a passion flower.= a novel. two vols. crown vo. _s_. =an ancient city, and other poems.=--by a native of surrey. extra fcap. vo. _s_. =anderson.=--ballads and sonnets. by alexander anderson (surfaceman). extra fcap. vo. _s_. =ariosto.=--paladin and saracen. stories from ariosto. by h. c. hollway-calthrop. with illustrations by mrs. arthur lemon. crown vo. _s_. =arnold.=--the poetical works of matthew arnold. vol. i. early poems, narrative poems, and sonnets. vol. ii. lyric. dramatic, and elegiac poems. new and complete edition. two vols. crown vo. _s_. _d_. each. selected poems of matthew arnold. with vignette engraved, by c. h. jeens. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. merope. a tragedy. extra fcap. vo. _s_. =art at home series.=--edited by w. j. loftie, b.a. a plea for art in the house. with especial reference to the economy of collecting works of art, and the importance of taste in education and morals. by w. j. loftie, b.a. with illustrations. fifth thousand. crown vo. _s_. _d_. suggestions for house decoration in painting, woodwork, and furniture. by rhoda and agnes garrett. with illustrations. sixth thousand. crown vo. _s_. _d_. music in the house. by john hullah. with illustrations. fourth thousand. crown vo. _s_. _d_. the drawing-room; its decorations and furniture. by mrs. orrinsmith. illustrated. fifth thousand. crown vo. _s_. _d_. the dining-room. by mrs. loftie. illustrated. fourth thousand. crown vo. _s_. _d_. the bed-room and boudoir. by lady barker. illustrated. fourth thousand. crown vo. _s_. _d_. dress. by mrs. oliphant. illustrated. crown vo. _s_. _d_. amateur theatricals. by walter h. pollock and lady pollock. illustrated by kate greenaway. crown vo. _s_. _d_. needlework. by elizabeth glaister, author of "art embroidery." illustrated. crown vo. _s_. _d_. the minor arts-porcelain painting, wood carving, stencilling. modelling, mosaic work, &c. by charles g. leland. illustrated. crown vo. _s_. _d_. the library. by andrew lang. with a chapter on _english illustrated books_, by austin dobson. illustrated. crown vo. _s_. _d_. sketching from nature. by tristram ellis. with illustrations by h. s. marks, r.a., and the author. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =artevelde--james and philip von artevelde.= by w. j ashley, b.a., late scholar of palliol college, oxford. being the lothian prize essay for . crown vo. _s_. =atkinson.=--an art tour to the northern capitals of europe. by j. beavington atkinson. vo. _s_. =austin.=--works by alfred austin. savonarola. a tragedy. crown vo. _s_. _d_. soliloquies in song. crown vo. _s_. =awdry.=--the story of a fellow soldier. by frances awdry. (a life of bishop patteson for the young.) with a preface by charlotte m. yonge. globe vo. _s_. _d_. =bacon's essays.= edited by w. aldis wright. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =baker.=--works by sir samuel baker, m.a., f.r.s., f.r.g.s., &c., &c.: cast up by the sea; or, the adventures of ned grey. with illustrations by huard. new edition. crown vo, cloth gilt. _s_. true tales for my grandsons. with illustrations by w. j. hennessy. crown vo. [_just ready._] =ballad book.=--choicest anecdotes and sayings. edited by william allingham. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =barker (lady).=--works by lady barker: a year's housekeeping in south africa. with illustrations. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. _d_. station life in new zealand. with illustrations. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. _d_. the white rat and other stories. illustrated by w. j. hennessy. globe vo. _s_. _d_. =beesly.=--stories from the history of rome. by mrs. beesly. fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =bikÉlas.=--loukis laras; or, the reminiscences of a chiote merchant during the greek war of independence. from the greek of d. bikélas. translated, with introduction on the rise and development of modern greek literature, by j. gennadius, late chargé d'affaires at the greek legation in london. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =black (w.).=--works by w. black, author of "a daughter of heth": the strange adventures of a phaeton. illustrated. crown vo. _d_. a princess of thule. crown vo. _s_. the maid of killeena, and other stories. crown vo. _s_. madcap violet. crown vo. _s_. green pastures and piccadilly. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. macleod of dare. with illustrations. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. white wings. a yachting romance. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. the beautiful wretch: the four mac nicols: the pupil of aurelius. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. shandon bells. crown vo. cheaper edition _s_. adventures in thule: and other stories. a book for children. crown vo. [_just ready._] yolande. the story of a daughter. three vols. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =bjÖrnson.=--synnÖvË solbakken. translated from the norwegian of bjornstjerne bjÖrnson, by julie sutter. crown vo. _s_. =blackie.=--works by john stuart blackie, emeritus professor of greek in the university of edinburgh:-- the wise men of greece. in a series of dramatic dialogues. crown vo. _s_. lay sermons. crown vo. _s_. goethe's faust. translated into english verse, with notes and preliminary remarks. by j. stuart blackie, f.r.s.e. crown vo. _s_. =blakiston.=--modern society in its religious and social aspects. by peyton blakiston, m.d., f.r.s., crown vo. _s_. =bright.=--works by henry a. bright. a year in a lancashire garden. second edition. crown vo. _s_. _d_. the english flower garden. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =brimley.=--essays. by the late george brimley, m.a., librarian of trinity college, cambridge. edited by w. g. clark, m.a., late fellow and tutor of trinity college, cambridge. a new edition. globe vo. _s_. _contents_: tennyson's poems; wordsworth's poems; poetry and criticism; carlyle's life of sterling; "esmond": "westward ho!"; wilson's "noctes ambrosianæ"; comte's "positive philosophy," &c. =brooke.=--the fool of quality, or, the history of henry, earl of moreland. by henry brooke. newly revised, with a biographical preface by the rev. charles kingsley, m.a., late rector of eversley. crown vo. _s_. =brooke (s. a.).=--riquet of the tuft: a love drama. by the rev. stofford a. brooke, m.a. extra crown vo. _s_. =browne (sir thomas).=--religio medici; letter to a friend, &c., and christian morals. edited by w. a. greenhill, m.d. mo. _s_. _d_. (golden treasury series.) =bunce.=--fairy tales. their origin and meaning. with some account of the dwellers in fairy land. by j. thackray bunce. extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =bunyan's pilgrim's progress.= (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =burke.=--letters, tracts, and speeches on irish affairs. by edmund burke. arranged and edited by matthew arnold, with a preface. crown vo. _s_. =burnett.=--works by frances hodgson burnett, author of "that lass o' lowrie's":-- haworth's. a novel. crown vo. _s_. louisiana; and that lass o' lowrie's. two stories. illustrated. crown vo. _s_. louisiana. _popular edition._ sewed paper wrapper. crown vo. _s_. =burns.=--the poetical works of robert burns. edited from the best printed and manuscript authorities, with glossarial index and a biographical memoir, by alexander smith. with portrait of burns, and vignette of the twa dogs, engraved by shaw. two vols. fcap. vo. _s_. complete works of. edited with memoir by alexander smith. (globe edition.) globe vo. _s_. _d_. =butler's hudibras.= part i. edited, with introduction and notes, by alfred milnes, m.a. fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. parts ii. and iii. _s_. _d_. =byron.=--poetry of byron. chosen and arranged by matthew arnold. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. large paper edition. crown vo. _s_. =carroll.=--works by lewis carroll:-- alice's adventures in wonderland. with forty two illustrations by tenniel. st thousand. crown vo, cloth. _s_. =a german translation of the same.= with tenniel's illustrations. crown vo, gilt. _s_. a french translation of the same. with tenniel's illustrations. crown vo, gilt. _s_. an italian translation of the same. by t. p. rossette. with tenniel's illustrations. crown vo. _s_. through the looking-glass, and what alice found there. with fifty illustrations by tenniel. crown vo, gilt. _s_. nd thousand. rhyme? and reason? with sixty-five illustrations by arthur b. frost, and nine by henry holiday. crown vo. _s_. *** this book is a reprint, with a few additions, of the comic portion of "phantasmagoria and other poems," and of the "hunting of the snark." mr. frost's pictures are new. =cautley.=--a century of emblems. by g. s. cautley, vicar of nettleden, author of "the after glow," etc. with numerous illustrations by lady marion alford, rear-admiral lord w. compton, the ven. lord a. compton, r. barnes, j. d. cooper, and the author. pott to, cloth elegant, gilt elegant. _s_. _d_. =cavalier and his lady.= selections from the works of the first duke and duchess of newcastle. with an introductory essay by e. jenkins. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =children's poetry.= by the author of "john halifax, gentleman." extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =christmas carol (a).= printed in colours from original designs by mr. and mrs. trevor crispin, with illuminated borders from mss. of the th and th centuries. imp. to, cloth elegant. cheaper edition. _s_. =church (a. j.).=--horÆ tennysonianÆ, sive eclogæ e tennysono latine redditæ. cura a. j. church. a.m. extra fcap. vo. _s_. =clifford.=--anyhow stories--moral and otherwise. by mrs. w. k. clifford. with illustrations by dorothy tennant. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =clough (arthur hugh).=--the poems and prose remains of arthur hugh clough. with a selection from his letters, and a memoir. edited by his wife. with portrait. two vols. crown vo. _s_. the poems of arthur hugh clough, sometime fellow of oriel college, oxford. ninth edition. fcap. vo. _s_. =clunes.=--the story of pauline: an autobiography. by g. c. clunes. crown vo. _s_. =coleridge.=--hugh crichton's romance. a novel. by christabel r. coleridge. second edition. crown vo. _s_. =collects of the church of england.= with a beautifully coloured floral design to each collect, and illuminated cover. crown vo. _s_. also kept in various styles of morocco. =collier.=--a primer of art. by john collier. mo. _s_. =colquhoun.=--rhymes and chimes. by f. s. colquhoun (née f. s. fuller maitland). extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =cowper.=--poetical works. edited, with biographical introduction, by rev. w. benham, b.d. (globe edition.) globe vo. _s_. _d_. the task: an epistle to joseph hill, esq.; tirocinium; or, a review of the schools: and the history of john gilpin. edited, with notes, by william benham, b.d. (globe readings edition.) globe vo. _ _s. selections from cowper's letters. edited by rev. w. benham, b.d. mo. _s_. _d_. (golden treasury series.) [_in the press._] selections from cowper's poems. with an introduction by mrs. oliphant. mo. _s_. _d_. (golden treasury series.) =crane.=--grimm's fairy tales: a selection from the household stories. translated from the german by lucy crane, and done into pictures by walter crane. crown vo. _s_. =crane (lucy).=--lectures on art and the formation of taste. by lucy crane. with illustrations by thomas and walter crane. crown vo. _s_. =crawford.=--works by f. marion crawford. mr. isaacs. a tale of modern india. crown vo. _s_. _d_. doctor claudius. a true story. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =dante:= an essay. by the very rev. r. w. church, d.c.l., dean of st. paul's. with a translation of the "de monarchiâ." by f. j. church. crown vo. _s_. the "de monarchia." separately. vo. _s_. _d_. the purgatory. edited, with translation and notes, by a. j. butler. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =day.=--works by the rev. lal behari day. bengal peasant life. new edition. crown vo. _s_. folk-tales of bengal. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =democracy.=--an american novel. crown vo. _s_. _d_. also a popular edition, in paper wrapper, crown vo. _s_. =de morgan (mary).=--the necklace of the princess fiorimonde, and other stories. with illustrations by walter crane. extra fcap. vo. _s_. *** also an edition printed by messrs. r. and r. clark, on hand-made paper, the plates initial letters, head and tail pieces being printed on indian paper and mounted in the text. fcap. to. the edition is limited to one hundred copies. =deutsche lyrik.= by dr. buchheim. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =dickens's dictionary of paris, .= an unconventional handbook. with maps, plans, &c. mo paper cover, _s_. cloth, _s_. _d_. =dickens's dictionary of london, .= (fourth year) an unconventional handbook. with maps, plans, &c. mo. paper cover. _s_. cloth, _s_. _d_. =dickens's dictionary of the thames, .= an unconventional handbook. with maps, plans, &c. paper cover, _s_. cloth, _s_. _d_. =dickens's continental a.b.c. railway guide.= published on the first of each month. mo. _s_. =dillwyn (e. a.).=--the rebecca rioter. a story of killay life. two vols. crown vo. s. =doyle.=--poems. collected edition. by sir francis hastings doyle. crown vo. [_just ready._] =dotty,= and other poems. by j. l. extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =dryden.=--poetical works of. edited, with a memoir, by w. d. christie, m.a. (globe edition.) globe vo. _s_. _d_. =duff (grant).=--miscellanies. political and literary by the right hon. m. e. grant duff, m.p. vo. _s_. _d_. =dunsmuir (amy).=--vida; study of a girl. new edition. crown vo. _s_. =ebers.=--works by dr. georg ebers. the burgomaster's wife; a tale of the siege of leyden. translated by clara bell. crown vo. _s_. _d_. only a word. translated by clara bell. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =emerson.=--the collected works of ralph waldo emerson. uniform with the eversley edition of charles kingsley's novels. globe vo., price _s_. each volume. . miscellanies. with an introductory essay by john morley. [_in preparation._] . essays. [_ready._] . poems. [_ready._] . english traits: and representative men. [_ready._] . conduct of life: and society and solitude. [_ready._] . letters: social aims &c. [_ready._] =english men of letters.= edited by john morley. crown vo. _s_. _d_. each. johnson. by leslie stephen. scott. by r. h. hutton. gibbon. by j. cotter morison. shelley. by j. a. symonds. hume. by professor huxley, p.r.s. goldsmith. by william black. defoe. by w. minto. burns. by principal shairp. spenser. by the very rev. r. w. church, dean of st paul's. thackeray. by anthony trollope. burke. by john morley. milton. by mark pattison. hawthorne. by henry james. southey. by professor dowden. chaucer. by a. w. ward. cowper. by goldwin smith. bunyan. by j. a. froude. locke. by professor fowler. byron. by professor nichol. wordsworth. by f. w. h. myers. dryden. by george saintsbury. landor. by professor sidney colvin. de quincey. by professor masson. charles lamb. by rev. alfred ainger. bentley. by professor r. c. jebb. charles dickens. by a. w. ward. gray. by e. w. gosse. swift. by leslie stephen. sterne. by h. d. traill. macaulay. by j. cotter morison. fielding. by austin dobson. sheridan. by mrs. oliphant. addison. by w. j. courthope. [_in the press._] [other volumes to follow.] =evans.=--works by sebastian evans. brother fabian's manuscript, and other poems. fcap. vo. _s_. in the studio; a decade of poems. extra fcap. vo. _s_. =fairy book.= by the author of "john halifax, gentleman." (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =fawcett.=--tales in political economy. by millicent g. fawcett, author of "political economy for beginners." globe vo. _s_. =fleming.=--works by george fleming. a nile novel. new edition. crown vo. _s_. mirage. a novel. new edition. crown vo. _s_. the head of medusa. new edition. crown vo. _s_. =fo'c's'le yarns.=-including "betsy lee" and other poems. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =fraser-tytler.=--songs in minor keys. by c. c. fraser-tytler (mrs. edward liddell). mo. _s_. =freeman.=--works by e. a. freeman, d.c.l., ll.d. historical and architectural sketches; chiefly italian. with illustrations by the author. crown vo. _s_. _d_. subject and neighbour lands of venice. being a companion volume to "historical and architectural sketches." with illustrations. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =garnett.=--idylls and epigrams. chiefly from the greek anthology. by richard garnett. fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =geddes.=--flosculi graeci boreales sive anthologia graeca aberdonensis. contexuit gulielmus d. geddes. crown vo. _s_. =gilmore.=--storm warriors; or, life-boat work on the goodwin sands. by the rev. john gilmore, m.a., vicar of st. luke's, lower norwood, surrey, author of "the ramsgate life-boat," in "macmillan's magazine." second edition. crown vo. _s_. globe library.--globe vo. cloth. _s_. _d_. each. shakespeare's complete works. edited by w. g. clark, m.a., and w. aldis wright, m.a., of trinity college, cambridge. editors of the "cambridge shakespeare." with glossary. spenser's complete works. edited from the original editions and manuscripts, by r. morris, with a memoir by j. w. hales, m.a. with glossary. sir walter scott's poetical works. edited with a biographical and critical memoir by francis turner palgrave, and copious notes. complete works of robert burns.--the poems, songs, and letters, edited from the best printed and manuscript authorities, with glossarial index, notes, and a biographical memoir by alexander smith. robinson crusoe. edited after the original editions, with a biographical introduction by henry kingsley. goldsmith's miscellaneous works. edited, with biographical introduction by professor masson. pope's poetical works. edited, with notes and introductory memoir, by adolphus william ward, m.a., fellow of st. peter's college, cambridge, and professor of history in owens college, manchester. dryden's poetical works. edited, with a memoir, revised text and notes, by w. d. christie, m.a., of trinity college, cambridge. cowper's poetical works. edited, with notes and biographical introduction, by rev. william benham, b.d. morte d'arthur.--sir thomas malory's book of king arthur and of his noble knights of the round table. the original edition of caxton, revised for modern use. with an introduction by sir edward strachey, bart. the works of virgil. rendered into english prose, with introductions, notes, running analysis, and an index. by james londsdale, m.a., late fellow and tutor of balliol college, oxford, and classical professor in king's college, london; and samuel lee, m.a., latin lecturer at university college, london. the works of horace. rendered into english prose with introductions, running analysis, notes and index. by john lonsdale, m.a., and samuel lee, m.a. milton's poetical works. edited, with introductions, by professor masson. =golden treasury series.=--uniformly printed in mo., with vignette titles by j. e. millais, r.a., t. woolner, w. holman hunt, sir noel paton, arthur hughes, &c. engraved on steel by jeens, &c. bound in extra cloth. _s_. _d_. each volume. the golden treasury of the best songs and lyrical poems in the english language. selected and arranged, with notes, by francis turner palgrave. the children's garland from the best poets. selected and arranged by coventry patmore. the book of praise. from the best english hymn writers. selected and arranged by lord selborne. _a new and enlarged edition._ the fairy book; the best popular fairy stories. selected and rendered anew by the author of "john halifax, gentleman." the ballad book, a selection of the choicest british ballads. edited by william allingham. the jest book. the choicest anecdotes and sayings. selected and arranged by mark lemon. bacon's essays and colours of good and evil. with notes and glossarial index. by w. aldis wright, m.a. the pilgrim's progress from this world to that which is to come. by john bunyan. the sunday book of poetry for the young. selected and arranged by c. f. alexander. a book of golden deeds of all times and all countries gathered and narrated anew. by the author of "the heir of redclyffe." the adventures of robinson crusoe. edited from the original edition by j. w. clark, m.a., fellow of trinity college, cambridge. the republic of plato. translated into english, with notes, by j. ll. davies, m.a. and d. j. vaughan, m.a. the song book. words and tunes from the best poets and musicians. selected and arranged by john hullah, professor of vocal music in king's college, london. la lyre franÇaise. selected and arranged, with notes, by gustave masson, french master in harrow school. tom brown's schooldays. by an old boy. a book of worthies. gathered from the old histories and written anew by the author of "the heir of redclyffe." with vignette. guesses at truth. by two brothers. new edition. the cavalier and his lady. selections from the works of the first duke and duchess of newcastle. with an introductory essay by edward jenkins, author of "ginx's baby," &c. scottish song. a selection of the choicest lyrics of scotland. compiled and arranged, with brief notes, by mary carlyle aitken. deutsche lyrik. the golden treasury of the best german lyrical poems, selected and arranged with notes and literary introduction. by dr. buchheim. robert herrick.--selections from the lyrical poems of. arranged with notes by f. t. palgrave. poems of places. edited by h. w. longfellow. england and wales. two vols. matthew arnold's selected poems. the story of the christians and moors in spain. by charlotte m. yonge. with a vignette by holman hunt. lamb's tales from shakespeare. edited, with preface, by the rev. alfred ainger, reader at the temple. wordsworth's select poems. chosen and edited, with preface, by matthew arnold. also a large paper edition. crown vo. _s_. shakespeare's songs and sonnets. edited, with notes, by francis turner palgrave. selections from addison. edited by john richard green. selections from shelley. edited by stopford a. brooke. also large paper edition. crown vo. s. d. poetry of byron. chosen and arranged by matthew arnold. also a large paper edition. crown vo. _s_. sir thomas browne's religio medici; letter to a friend, &c., and christian morals. edited by w. a. greenhill, m.d., oxon. mohammad, the speeches and table-talk of the prophet. chosen and translated by stanley lane-poole. walter savage landor, selections from the writings of. arranged and edited by professor sidney colvin. cowper--selections from cowper's poems. with an introduction by mrs. oliphant. cowper.--selections from cowper's letters. by rev. w. benham, b.d. mo. [_in the press._] =goldsmith.=--miscellaneous works. edited with biographical introduction, by professor masson. (globe edition.) globe vo. _s_. _d_. =goldsmith's vicar of wakefield.= with a memoir of goldsmith by professor masson. globe readings edition. globe vo. _s_. =goethe's faust.= translated into english verse, with notes and preliminary remarks, by john stuart blackie, f.r.s.e., emeritus professor of greek in the university of edinburgh. crown vo. _s_. =grimm's fairy tales.= a selection from the household stories. translated from the german by lucy crane, and done into pictures by walter crane. crown vo. _s_. =guesses at truth.= by two brothers. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =hamerton.=--works by p. g. hamerton. etching and etchers. illustrated with forty-eight new etchings. third edition, revised. columbier vo. a painter's camp in the highlands. second and cheaper edition. one vol. extra fcap. vo. _s_. the intellectual life. with portrait of leonardo da vinci, etched by leopold flameng. second edition. crown vo. _s_. _d_. thoughts about art. new edition, revised, with notes and introduction. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =hardy.=--but yet a woman. a novel. by arthur sherburne hardy. crown vo. _s_. _d_. also a popular edition, paper covers, _s_. harry. a poem. by the author of "mrs. jerningham's journal." extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =hawthorne (julian).=--the laughing mill; and other stories. by julian hawthorne. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. =heine.=--selections from the poetical works of heinrich heine. translated into english. crown vo. _s_. _d_. a trip to the brocken. by heinrich heine. translated by r. mclintock. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =herrick (robert).=--selections from the lyrical poems of. arranged with notes by f. t. palgrave. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =higginson.=--malbone; an oldport romance. by t. w. higginson. fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =hilda among the broken gods.= by the author of "olrig grange." extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =hollway-calthrop.=--paladin and saracen: stories from ariosto. by h. c. hollway-calthrop. with illustrations by mrs. arthur lemon, engraved by o. lacour. crown vo. _s_. =homer.=--the odyssey of homer done into english prose. by s. h. butcher, m.a., professor of greek in the university of edinburgh: sometime fellow and prælector of university college, oxford, late fellow of trinity college, cambridge; and a. lang, m.a., late fellow of merton college, oxford. with steel vignette. third edition. revised and corrected. with new introduction and additional notes. crown vo. _s_. _d_. the iliad of homer. translated into english prose. by andrew lang, m.a., walter leaf, m.a., and ernest myers, m.a. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =hooper and phillips.=--a manual of marks on pottery and porcelain. a dictionary of easy reference. by w. h. hooper and w. c. phillips. with numerous illustrations. second edition, revised. mo. _s_. _d_. =hope.=--notes and thoughts on gardens and woodlands. written chiefly for amateurs. by the late frances jane hope, wardie lodge, near edinburgh. edited by anne j. hope johnstone. crown vo. _s_. =hopkins.=--works by ellice hopkins. rose turquand. a novel. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. autumn swallows: a book of lyrics. extra fcap. vo. _s_. =hoppus.=--a great treason: a story of the war of independence. vols. crown vo. _s_. =horace.=--word for word from horace. the odes literally versified. by w. t. thornton, c.b. crown vo. _s_. _d_. works of. rendered into english prose by john lonsdale, m.a. and samuel lee, m.a. (globe edition.) globe vo. _s_. _d_. =hunt.=--talks about art. by william hunt. with a letter by j. e. millais, r.a. new edition. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =irving.=--works by washington irving. old christmas. from the sketch book. with upwards of illustrations by randolph caldecott, engraved by j. d. cooper. new edition. crown vo. cloth elegant. _s_. people's sixpenny edition. illustrated. medium to. _d_. bracebridge hall. with illustrations by r. caldecott. new edition. crown vo, cloth gilt. _s_. people's sixpenny edition. illustrated. medium to. _d_. =james.=--works by henry james. the portrait of a lady. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. washington square; the pension beaurepas; a bundle of letters. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. the europeans: a novel. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. the american. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. daisy miller: an international episode: four meetings. crown vo. _s_. roderick hudson. crown vo. _s_. the madonna of the future; and other tales. crown vo. _s_. french poets and novelists. new edition. crown vo. _s_. _d_. portraits of places. crown vo. _s_. _d_. [_in the press._] =james.=--novels and tales. by henry james. _in mo, paper covers, s. each volume. cloth binding, s. d. each volume._ the portrait of a lady. vols. roderick hudson. vols. the american. vols. washington square. vol. the europeans. vol. confidence. vol. the siege of london: madame de mauves. vol. an international episode: the pension beaurepas: the point of view. vol. daisy miller, a study: four meetings: longstaff's marriage: benvolio. vol. the madonna of the future: a bundle of letters; the diary of a man of fifty: eugene pickering. =joubert.=--pensÉes of joubert. selected and translated with the original french appended, by henry attwell, knight of the order of the oak crown. crown vo. _s_. =keary.=-a memoir of annie keary. by her sister. with a portrait. third thousand. new and cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =keary (a.).=--works by annie keary. castle daly; the story of an irish home thirty years ago. new edition. crown vo. _s_. janet's home. new edition. crown vo. _s_. clemency franklyn. new edition. crown vo. _s_. oldbury. new and cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. a york and a lancaster rose. crown vo. _s_. a doubting heart. new edition crown vo. _s_. the heroes of asgard. globe vo. _s_. _d_. =keary (e.).=--works by eliza keary. the magic valley; or, patient antoine. with illustrations by e. v. b. globe vo. gilt. _s_. _d_. memoir of annie keary. with a portrait. new edition. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =kingsley's (charles) novels.=--eversley edition. westward ho! vols. globe vo. _s_. two years ago. vols. globe vo. _s_. hypatia. vols. globe vo. _s_. yeast. vol. globe vo. _s_. alton locke. vols. globe vo. _s_. hereward the wake. vols. globe vo. _s_. =kingsley.=--works by the rev. charles kingsley, m.a., late rector of eversley, and canon of westminster. collected edition. _s_. each. poems; including the saint's tragedy, andromeda, songs, ballads, &c. complete collected edition. yeast; a problem. alton locke. new edition. with a prefatory memoir by thomas hughes, q.c., and portrait of the author. hypatia; or, new foes with an old face. glaucus; or, the wonders of the sea-shore. with coloured illustrations. westward ho! or, the voyages and adventures of sir amyas leigh. the heroes; or, greek fairy tales for my children. with illustrations. two years ago. the water babies. a fairy tale for a land baby. with illustrations by sir noel paton, r.s.a., and p. skelton. the roman and the teuton. a series of lectures delivered before the university of cambridge. with preface by professor max mÜller. hereward the wake--last of the english. the hermits. madam how and lady why; or, first lessons in earthlore for children. at last; a christmas in the west indies. illustrated. prose idylls. new and old. plays and puritans; and other historical essays. with portrait of sir walter raleigh. historical lectures and essays. sanitary and social lectures and essays. scientific lectures and essays. literary and general lectures. health and education. new edition. crown vo. _s_. selections from some of the writings of the rev. charles kingsley. crown vo. _s_. out of the deep. words for the sorrowful, from the writings of charles kingsley. extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =kingsley (h.).=--tales of old travel. re-narrated by henry kingsley. with eight full-page illustrations by huard. fifth edition. crown vo. cloth, extra gilt. _s_. =knox.=--songs of consolation. by isa craig knox. extra fcap. vo, cloth extra, gilt edges. _s_. _d_. =lamb.=--works by charles lamb. tales from shakespeare. edited, with preface, by alfred ainger, m.a. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. globe readings edition for schools. globe vo, _s_. essays of elia. edited, with introduction and notes, by alfred ainger, m.a. globe vo. _s_. poems, plays, essays, &c. edited by alfred ainger, m.a. globe vo. [_in preparation._] =landor (walter savage).=--selections from the writings of walter savage landor. arranged and edited by professor sidney colvin. with portrait. mo. _s_. _d_. (golden treasury series.) =lectures on art.=--delivered in support of the society for protection of ancient buildings. by regd. stuart poole, professor w. b. richmond, e. j. poynter, r.a., j. t. micklethwaite, and william morris. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =lemon (mark).=--the jest book. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =little estella,= and other fairy tales for the young. mo, cloth extra. _s_. _d_. =little sunshine's holiday.=--by the author of "john halifax, gentleman." with illustrations. globe vo. _s_. _d_. =lorne.=--guido and lita: a tale of the riviera. a poem. by the marquis of lorne. third edition. small to, cloth elegant. with illustrations. _s_. _d_. =lowell.=--complete poetical works of james russell lowell. with portrait, engraved by jeens. mo, cloth extra. _s_. _d_. =lyttelton.=--works by lord lyttelton. the "comus" of milton, rendered into greek verse. extra fcap. vo. _s_. the "samson agonistes" of milton, rendered into greek verse. extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =maclaren.=--the fairy family. a series of ballads and metrical tales illustrating the fairy mythology of europe. by archibald maclaren. with frontispiece, illustrated title, and vignette. crown vo, gilt _s_. =macmillan.=--memoir of daniel macmillan. by thomas hughes, q.c. with a portrait engraved on steel by c. h. jeens, from a painting by lowes dickinson. fifth thousand. crown vo. _s_. _d_. popular edition, paper covers, s. =macmillan's books for the young.=--in glove vo, cloth elegant. illustrated, _s_. _d_. each:-- wandering willie. by the author of "conrad the squirrel." with a frontispiece by sir noel paton. the white rat, and other stories. by lady barker. with illustrations by w. j. hennessy. pansie's flour bin. by the author of "when i was a little girl." with illustrations by adrian stokes. milly and olly; or, a holiday among the mountains. by mrs. t. h. ward. with illustrations by mrs. alma tadema. the heroes of asgard; tales from scandinavian mythology. by a. and e. keary. when i was a little girl. by the author of "st. olave's," "nine years old," &c. a storehouse of stories. edited by charlotte m. yonge, author of "the heir of redclyffe." two vols. the story of a fellow soldier. by frances awdry. (a life of bishop patteson for the young.) with preface by charlotte m. yonge. agnes hopetoun's schools and holidays. by mrs. oliphant. ruth and her friends. a story for girls. the runaway. by the author of "mrs. jerningham's journal." our year. a child's book in prose and verse. by the author of "john halifax, gentleman." little sunshine's holiday. by the author of "john halifax, gentleman." nine years old. by the author of "when i was a little girl." =macmillan's magazine.=--published monthly. price _s_. vols. i. to xlviii. are now ready, _s_. _d_. each. =macmillan's popular novels.=--in crown vo, cloth. price _s_. each volume:-- by william black. a princess of thule. madcap violet. the maid of killeena; and other tales. the strange adventures of a phaeton. illustrated. green pastures and piccadilly. macleod of dare. illustrated. white wings. a yachting romance. the beautiful wretch: the four mac nicols: the pupil of aurelius. shandon bells. by charles kingsley. two years ago. "westward ho!" alton locke. with portrait. hypatia. yeast. hereward the wake. by the author of "john halifax, gentleman." the head of the family. illustrated. the ogilvies, illustrated. agatha's husband. illustrated. olive. illustrated. my mother and i. illustrated. by charlotte m. yonge. the heir of redclyffe. with illustrations. heartsease. with illustrations. the daisy chain. with illustrations. the trial: more links in the daisy chain. with illustrations. hopes and fears. illustrated. dynevor terrace. with illustrations. my young alcides. illustrated. the pillars of the house. two vols. illustrated. clever woman of the family. illustrated. the young stepmother. illustrated. the dove in the eagle's nest. illustrated. the caged lion. illustrated. the chaplet of pearls. illustrated. lady hester, and the danvers papers. illustrated. the three brides. illustrated. magnum bonum. illustrated. love and life. illustrated. uv known to history. illustrated. [_in the press._] by frances h. burnett. haworth's "louisiana" and "that lass o' lowrie's." two stories. illustrated. by annie keary. castle daly. oldbury. janet's home. clemency franklyn. a york and a lancaster rose. a doubting heart. by henry james. the europeans. the american. daisy miller: an international episode: four meetings. roderick hudson. the madonna of the future, and other tales. washington square: the pension beaurepas: a bundle of letters. the portrait of a lady. * * * * * tom brown's schooldays. tom brown at oxford. the fool of quality. by h. brooke. realmah. by the author of "friends in council." hugh crichton's romance. by c. r. coleridge. rose turquand. by ellice hopkins. old sir douglas. by the hon. mrs. norton. a beleaguered city. by mrs. oliphant. john inglesant. a romance. by j. h. shorthouse. the laughing mill; and other tales. by julian hawthorne. the harbour bar. bengal peasant life. by lal behari day. virgin soil. by tourgÉnief. vida. the study of a girl. by amy dunsmuir. =macmillan's two shilling novels:--= by the author of "john halifax, gentleman." the ogilvies. the head of the family. olive. agatha's husband. two marriages. by mrs. oliphant. the curate in charge. a son of the soil. young musgrave. he that will not when he may. by mrs. macquoid. patty. by george fleming. a nile novel. mirage. the head of medusa. by the author of "hogan, m.p." hogan, m.p. the honourable miss ferrard. flitters, tatters, and the counsellor: weeds, and other sketches. christy carew. macmillan's one shilling volumes:-- crown vo, sewed, _s_. each. democracy. an american novel. louisiana. by frances hodgson burnett, author of "that lass o' lowrie s," &c. but yet a woman. a novel. by arthur sherburne hardy. memoir of daniel macmillan. by thomas hughes, q.c. hints to housewives on several points, particularly on the preparation of economical and tasteful dishes. by mrs. frederick. =macquoid.=--patty. new edition. by katharine s. macquoid. crown vo. _s_. =madoc.=--the story of melicent. by fayr madoc. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =maguire.=--young prince marigold, and other fairy stories. by the late john francis maguire, m.p. illustrated by s. e. waller. globe vo, gilt. _s_. _d_. =mahaffy.=--works by j. p. mahaffy, m.a., fellow of trinity college, dublin:-- social life in greece from homer to menander. fourth edition, enlarged, with new chapter on greek art. crown vo. _s_. rambles and studies in greece. illustrated. second edition, revised and enlarged, with map. crown vo. _s_. _d_. the decay of modern preaching. an essay. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =malet.=--mrs. lorimer. a novel. by lucas malet. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. [_in the press._] =masson (gustave).=--la lyre franÇaise. selected and arranged with notes. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =masson (mrs.).=--three centuries of english poetry: being selections from chaucer to herrick, with introductions and notes by mrs. masson and a general introduction by professor masson. extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =masson (professor).=--works by david masson, m.a., professor of rhetoric and english literature in the university of edinburgh. wordsworth, shelley, keats, and other essays. crown vo. _s_. chatterton: a story of the year . crown vo. _s_. the three devils: luther's, milton's and goethe's; and other essays. crown vo. _s_. =mazini.=--in the golden shell: a story of palermo. by linda mazini. with illustrations. globe vo, cloth gilt. _s_. _d_. =meredith.=--poems and lyrics of the joy of earth. by george meredith. extra fcap. vo. _s_. =merivale.=--keats' hyperion, rendered into latin verse. by c. merivale, b.d. second edition. extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =milner.=--the lily of lumley. by edith milner. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =milton's poetical works.= edited with text collated from the best authorities, with introductions and notes, by david masson. (uniform with the cambridge shakespeare.) with three portraits engraved by jeens. three volumes. vo. _s_. fcap. vo edition. by the same editor. with portraits. three vols. _s_. (globe edition.) by the same editor. globe vo. _s_. _d_. =mistral (f.).=--mirelle, a pastoral epic of provence. translated by h. crichton. extra fcap. vo. _s_. =mitford (a. b.).=--tales of old japan. by a. b. mitford, second secretary to the british legation in japan. with illustrations drawn and cut on wood by japanese artists. new and cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. =mohammad,= speeches and table-talk of the prophet. chosen and translated by stanley lane-poole. mo. _s_. _d_. (golden treasury series.) =molesworth.=--works by mrs. molesworth (ennis graham). two little waifs. illustrated by walter crane. crown vo. _s_. _d_. rosy. illustrated by walter crane. globe vo. _s_. _d_. summer stories for boys and girls. crown vo. _s_. _d_. the adventures of herr baby. with twelve full-page pictures by walter crane. globe to. _s_. grandmother dear. illustrated by walter crane. globe vo. _s_. _d_. tell me a story. illustrated by walter crane. globe vo. _s_. _d_. "carrots"; just a little boy. illustrated by walter crane. globe vo. _s_. _d_. the cuckoo clock. illustrated by walter crane. globe vo. _s_. _d_. the tapestry room. illustrated by walter crane. globe vo. _s_. _d_. a christmas child. illustrated by walter crane. globe vo. _s_. _d_. =more excellent way, the.= a poem. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =morte d'arthur.=--sir thomas malory's book of king arthur and of his noble knights of the round table. (globe edition.) globe vo. _s_. _d_. moulton.--swallow flights. poems by louise chandler moulton. extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =moultrie.=--poems by john moultrie. complete edition. two vols. crown vo. s. each. vol. i. my brother's grave, dream of life, &c. with memoir by the rev. prebendary coleridge. vol. ii. lays of the english church, and other poems. with notices of the rectors of rugby, by m. h. bloxham, f.r.a.s. =mrs. gander's story.= by h. a. h. with twenty-four full-page illustrations by n. huxley. demy oblong. _s_. _d_. =mudie.=--stray leaves. by c. e. mudie. new edition. extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. contents:--"his and mine"--"night and day"--"one of many," &c. =murray.=--round about france. by e. c. grenville murray. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =myers (ernest).=--works by ernest myers. the puritans. extra fcap. vo, cloth. _s_. _d_. poems. extra fcap. vo. s. d. =myers (f. w. h.).=--works by f. w. h. myers. st. paul. a poem. new edition. extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. the renewal of youth, and other poems. crown vo. _s_. _d_. essays. vols. i. classical. ii. modern. crown vo. _s_. _d_. each. =nadal.=--essays at home and elsewhere. by e. s. nadal. crown vo. _s_. =nichol.=--works by john nichol, b.a., oxon., regius professor of english language and literature in the university of glasgow. hannibal, a historical drama. extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. the death of themistocles, and other poems. extra fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =nine years old.=--by the author of "st. olave's," "when i was a little girl," &c. illustrated by frÖlich. new edition. globe vo. _s_. _d_. =noel.=--beatrice and other poems, by the hon. roden noel. fcap. vo. _s_. =norton.=--works by the hon. mrs. norton. the lady of la garaye. with vignette and frontispiece. eighth edition. fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. old sir douglas. new edition. crown vo. _s_. =oliphant.=--works by mrs. oliphant. the literary history of england in the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the nineteenth century. cheaper issue. with a new preface. vols. demy vo. _s_. agnes hopetoun's schools and holidays. new edition, with illustrations. globe vo. _s_. _d_. the son of the soil. new edition. crown vo. _s_. the curate in charge. new edition. crown vo. _s_. young musgrave. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. he that will not when he may. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. the makers of florence: dante, giotto, savonarola, and their city. with illustrations from drawings by professor delamotte, and a steel portrait of savonarola, engraved by c. h. jeens. new and cheaper edition with preface. crown vo. cloth extra. _s_. _d_. the beleaguered city. cheaper edition. crown vo. _s_. dress. illustrated. crown vo. _s_. _d_. [_art at heme series._] =our year.= a child's book, in prose and verse. by the author of "john halifax, gentleman." illustrated by clarence dobell. royal mo. _s_. _d_. =page.=--the lady resident, by hamilton page. three vols. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =palgrave.=--works by francis turner palgrave, m.a., late fellow of exeter college, oxford. the five days' entertainments at wentworth grange. a book for children. with illustrations by arthur hughes, and engraved title-page by jeens. small to, cloth extra. _s_. lyrical poems. extra fcap. vo. _s_. original hymns. third edition, enlarged mo. _s_. _d_. visions of england; being a series of lyrical poems on leading events and persons in english history. with a preface and notes. crown vo. _s_. _d_. golden treasury of the best songs and lyrics. edited by f. t. palgrave. mo. _s_. _d_. shakespeare's sonnets and songs. edited by f. t. palgrave. with vignette title by jeens. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. the children's treasury of lyrical poetry. selected and arranged with notes by f. t. palgrave. mo. _s_. _d_. and in two parts, _s_. each. herrick: selections from the lyrical poems. with notes. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =pansie's flour bin.= by the author of "when i was a little girl," "st. olave's," &c. illustrated by adrian stokes. globe vo. _s_. _d_. =pater.=--the renaissance. studies in art and poetry. by walter pater, fellow of brasenose college, oxford. second edition, revised, with vignette engraved by c. h. jeens. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =patmore.=--the children's garland, from the best poets. selected and arranged by coventry patmore. new edition. with illustrations by j. lawson. (golden treasury edition.) mo. _s_. _d_. globe readings edition for schools, globe vo, _s_. =peel.=--echoes from horeb, and other poems. by edmund peel, author of "an ancient city," &c. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =pember.=--the tragedy of lesbos. a dramatic poem. by e. h. pember. fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =people's editions.= profusely illustrated, medium to, _d_. each; or complete in one vol., cloth, s. tom brown's school days. by an old boy. waterton's wanderings in south america. washington irving's old christmas. washington irving's bracebridge hall. =phillips (s. k.).=--on the seaboard; and other poems. by susan k. phillips. second edition. crown vo. _s_. =plato.=--the republic of. translated into english with notes by j. ll. davies, m.a., and d. j. vaughan, m.a. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =poems of places.=--(england and wales). edited by h. w. longfellow. (golden treasury series.) mo. _s_. _d_. =poets (english).=--selections, with critical introduction by various writers, and a general introduction by matthew arnold. edited by t. h. ward, m.a. four vols. new edition. crown vo. _s_. _d_. each. vol. i. chaucer to donne. vol ii. ben jonson to dryden. vol iii. addison to blake. vol. iv. wordsworth to rossetti. =poole.=--pictures of cottage life in the west of england. by margaret e. poole. new and cheaper edition. with frontispiece by r. farren. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =pope.=--poetical works of. edited with notes and introductory memoir by adolphus william ward, m.a. (globe edition.) globe vo. _s_. _d_. =population of an old pear tree.= from the french of e. van bruyssel. edited by the author of "the heir of redclyffe." with illustrations by becker. cheaper edition. crown vo, gilt. _s_. _d_. =potter.=--lancashire memories. by louisa potter. crown vo. _s_. =prince florestan of monaco, the fall of.= by himself. new edition, with illustration and map. vo. cloth extra, gilt edges. _s_. a french translation. _s_. also an edition for the people. crown vo. _s_. =pushkin.=--eugÈne onÉguine. a romance of russian life in verse. by alexander pushkin. translated from the russian by lieut.-col. spalding. crown vo. _s_. =rachel olliver.=--a novel. three vols. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =realmah.=--by the author of "friends in council." crown vo. _s_. =reed.=--memoir of sir charles reed. by his son, charles e. b. reed, m.a. with a portrait. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =rhoades.=--poems. by james rhoades. fcap. vo. _s_. _d_. =richardson.=--the iliad of the east. a selection of legends drawn from valmiki's sanskrit poem, "the ramayana." by frederika richardson. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =robinson crusoe.= edited, with biographical introduction, by henry kingsley. (globe edition.) globe vo. _s_. _d_.--golden treasury edition. edited by j. w. clark, m.a. mo. _s_. _d_. =ross.=--a misguidit lassie. by percy ross. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =rossetti.=--works by christina rossetti. poems. complete edition, containing "goblin market," "the prince's progress," &c. with four illustrations by d. g. rossetti. extra fcap. vo. _s_. speaking likenesses. illustrated by arthur hughes. crown vo, gilt edges. _s_. _d_. a pageant, and other poems. extra fcap. vo. _s_. =rossetti (d. g.).=--dante gabriel rossetti: a record and a study. by william sharp. with an illustration after dante gabriel rossetti. crown vo. _s_. _d_. =ruth and her friends.= a story for girls. with a frontispiece. new edition. globe vo. _s_. _d_. =scouring of the white horse;= or, the long vacation ramble of a london clerk. by the author of "tom brown's school days." illustrated by doyle. imp. mo. cloth gilt. _s_. =scott (sir walter).=--poetical works of. edited with a biographical and critical memoir by francis turner palgrave. 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"it is undoubtedly the best of the sixpenny illustrated magazines."--_the athenæum._ "the new venture is a very excellent return for sixpence.... there has never been anything seen like it for the money."--_the world._ "it is wonderfully cheap and it is good ... in all respects most excellent."--_st. james's gazette._ * * * * * now publishing, the english illustrated magazine. * * * * * single numbers, price sixpence, by post, eightpence. yearly subscription, post-free, s. d. * * * * * the price at which the english illustrated magazine is issued justifies the belief that it will appeal to a large and varied circle of readers, and an endeavour will be made in the choice and arrangement of its contents to satisfy the tastes of all who are interested in literature and art. the english illustrated magazine is designed for the entertainment of the home, and for the instruction and amusement of young and old, and it will be conducted in the belief that every section of its readers, in whatever direction their tastes and interests may tend, are prepared to demand and to appreciate the best that can be offered to them. the prominent place assigned to illustration will demand the exercise of special care in the preparation of the engravings for the magazine, and in this department no pains will be spared to secure satisfactory results. * * * * * the following, among others, are contributors to the current volume:-- _writers._ grant allen. bernard h. becker. william black. j. comyns carr. austin dobson. archibald geikie, f.r.s. a. j. hipkins. professor huxley, p.r.s. richard jefferies. f. w. maitland. frederick pollock. j. h. shorthouse. r. l. stevenson. a. c. swinburne. the author of "john halifax, gentleman." charlotte m. yonge. _artists._ harry furniss. c. napier hemy. burne jones. robert macbeth. a. morrow. j. w. north. l. r. o'brien. alfred parsons. d. g. rossetti. l. alma tadema. charles whymper. _engravers._ j. d. cooper. w. & j. cheshire. theodor knesing. o. lacour. r. paterson. w. quick. macmillan & co., bedford street, london, w.c. * * * * * london: r. clay, sons, and taylor, printers. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) the girls of hillcrest farm or the secret of the rocks by amy bell marlowe author of the oldest of four, a little miss nobody, the girl from sunset ranch, etc. [illustration: lucas tore down the bank and waded right into the stream. frontispiece (page .)] new york grosset & dunlap publishers made in the united states of america copyright, , by grosset & dunlap _the girls of hillcrest farm_ contents chapter page i. everything at once! ii. aunt jane proposes iii. the doctor disposes iv. the pilgrimage v. lucas pritchett vi. neighbors vii. hillcrest viii. the whisper in the dark ix. morning at hillcrest x. the venture xi. at the schoolhouse xii. the green-eyed monster xiii. lyddy doesn't want it xiv. the colesworths xv. another boarder xvi. the ball keeps rolling xvii. the runaway grandmother xviii. the queer boarder xix. widow harrison's troubles xx. the temperance club again xxi. caught xxii. the hidden treasure xxiii. the vendue xxiv. professor spink's bottles xxv. in the old doctor's office xxvi. a blow-up xxvii. they lose a boarder xxviii. the secret revealed xxix. an automobile race xxx. the hillcrest company, limited the girls of hillcrest farm chapter i everything at once! whenever she heard the siren of the ladder-truck, as it swung out of its station on the neighboring street, lydia bray ran to the single window of the flat that looked out on trimble avenue. they were four flights up. there were twenty-three other families in this "double-decker." a fire in the house was the oldest bray girl's nightmare by night and haunting spectre by day. lydia just couldn't get used to these quarters, and they had been here now three months. the old, quiet home on the edge of town had been so different. to it she had returned from college so short a time ago to see her mother die and find their affairs in a state of chaos. for her father was one of those men who leave everything to the capable management of their wives. euphemia, or "'phemie," was only a schoolgirl, then, in her junior year at high school; "lyddy" was a sophomore at littleburg when her mother died, and she had never gone back. she couldn't. there were two very good reasons why her own and even 'phemie's education had to cease abruptly. their mother's income, derived from their grandmother's estate, ceased with her death. they could not live, let alone pursue education "on the heights," upon mr. bray's wages as overseer in one of the rooms of the hat factory. "mother's hundred dollars a month was just the difference between poverty and comfort," lyddy had decided, when she took the strings of the household into her own hands. "i haven't that hundred dollars a month; father makes but fifteen dollars weekly; _you_ will have to go to work at something, 'phemie, and so will i." and no longer could they pay twenty-five dollars a month house rent. lyddy had first placed her sister with a millinery firm at six dollars weekly, and had then found this modest tenement about half-way between her father's factory and 'phemie's millinery shop, so that it would be equally handy for both workers. as for herself, lyddy wished to obtain some employment that would occupy only a part of her day, and in this she had been unsuccessful as yet. she religiously bought a paper every morning, and went through the "help wanted" columns, answering every one that looked promising. she had tried many kinds of "work at home for ladies," and canvassing, and the like. the latter did not pay for shoe-leather, and the "work at home" people were mostly swindlers. lyddy was no needle-woman, so she could not make anything as a seamstress. she had promised her mother to keep the family together and make a home for her father. mr. bray was not well. for almost two years now the doctor had been warning him to get out of the factory and into some other business. the felt-dust was hurting him. he had come in but the minute before and had at once gone to lie down, exhausted by his climb up the four flights of stairs. 'phemie had not yet returned from work, for it was nearing easter, despite the rawness of the days, and the millinery shop was busy until late. they always waited supper for 'phemie. now, when lyddy ran to the window at the raucous shriek of the ladder-truck siren, she hoped she would see her sister turning the corner into the avenue, where the electric arc-light threw a great circle of radiance upon the wet walk. but although there was the usual crowd at the corner, and all seemed to be in a hurry to-night, lyddy saw nothing of either her sister or the ladder-truck. she went back to the kitchen, satisfied that the fire apparatus had not swung into their street, so the tenement must be safe for the time being. she finished laying the table for supper. once she looked up. there was that man at the window again! that is, he _would_ be a man some day, lyddy told herself. but she believed, big as he was, he was just a hobbledehoy-boy. he was a boy who, if one looked at him, just _had_ to smile. and he was always working in a white apron and brown straw cuff-shields at that window which was a little above the level of lyddy's kitchen window. lyddy bray abominated flirting and such silly practises. and although the boy at the window was really good to look upon--cleanly shaven, rosy-cheeked, with good eyes set wide apart, and a firm, broad chin--lyddy did not like to see him every time she raised her eyes from her own kitchen tasks. often, even on dark days, she drew the shade down so that she should have more privacy. for sometimes the young man looked idly out of the window and lyddy believed that, had she given him any encouragement, he would have opened his own window and spoken to her. the place in which he worked was a tall loft building; she believed he was employed in some sort of chemical laboratory. there were retorts, and strange glass and copper instruments in partial view upon his bench. now, having lighted the gas, lyddy stepped to the window to pull down the shade closely and shut the young man out. he was staring with strange eagerness at her--or, at least, in her direction. "master impudence!" murmured lyddy. he flung up his window just as she reached for the shade. but she saw then that he was looking above her story. "it's those smith girls, i declare," thought lyddy. "aren't they bold creatures? and--really--i thought he was too nice a boy----" that was the girl of it! she was shocked at the thought of having any clandestine acquaintance with the young man opposite; yet it cheapened him dreadfully in lyddy's eyes to see him fall prey to the designing girls in the flat above. the smith girls had flaunted their cheap finery in the faces of lyddy and 'phemie bray ever since the latter had come here to live. she did not pull the shade down for a moment. that boy certainly was acting in a most outrageous manner! his body was thrust half-way out of the window as he knelt on his bench among the retorts. she saw several of the delicate glass instruments overturned by his vigorous motions. she saw his lips open and he seemed to be shouting something to those in the window above. "how rude of him," thought the disappointed lyddy. he had looked to be _such_ a nice young man. again she would have pulled down the shade, but the boy's actions stayed her hand. he leaped back from the window and disappeared--for just a moment. then he staggered into view, thrust a long and wide plank through his open window, and, bearing down upon it, shoved hard and fast, thrusting the novel bridge up to the sill of the window above lyddy's own. "what under the sun does that fellow mean to do?" gasped the girl, half tempted to raise her own window so as to look up the narrow shaft between the two buildings. "he never would attempt to cross over to their flat," thought lyddy. "that would be quite too--ri--dic--u--lous----" the youth was adjusting the plank. at first he could not steady it upon the sill above lyddy's kitchen window. and how dangerous it would be if he attempted to "walk the plank." and then there was a roaring sound above, a glare of light, a crash of glass and a billow of black smoke suddenly--but only for a moment--filled the space between the two buildings! the girl almost fell to the floor. she had always been afraid of fire, and it had been ever in her mind since they moved into this big tenement house. and now it had come without her knowing it! while she thought the young man to be trying to enter into a flirtation with the girls in the flat above, the house was afire! no wonder so many people had seemed running at the corner when she looked out of the front window. the ladder-truck had swung around into the avenue without her seeing it. doubtless the street in front of the tenement was choked with fire-fighting apparatus. "oh, dear me!" gasped lyddy, reeling for the moment. then she dashed for the bedroom where her father lay. smoke was sifting in from the hall through the cracks about the ill-hung door. "father! father!" she gasped. he lay on the bed, as still as though sleeping. but the noise above should have aroused him by this time, had her own shrill cry not done so. yet he did not move. lyddy leaped to the bedside, seizing her father's shoulder with desperate clutch. she shook his frail body, and the head wagged from side to side on the pillow in so horrible a way--so lifeless and helpless--that she was smitten with terror. was he dead? he had never been like this before, she was positive. she tore open his waistcoat and shirt and placed her hand upon his heart. it was beating--but, oh, how feebly! and then she heard the flat door opened with a key--'phemie's key. her sister cried: "dear me, lyddy! the hall is full of smoke. it isn't your stove that's smoking so, i hope? and here's aunt jane hammond come to see us. i met her on the street, and these four flights of stairs have almost killed her----why! what's happened, lyddy?" the younger girl broke off to ask, as her sister's pale face appeared at the bedroom door. "everything--everything's happened at once, i guess," replied lyddy, faintly. "father's sick--we've got company--and the house is afire!" chapter ii aunt jane proposes aunt jane hammond stalked into the meagerly furnished parlor, and looked around. it was the first time she had been to see the bray girls since their "come down" in the world. she was a tall, gaunt woman--their mother's half-sister, and much older than mrs. bray would have been had she lived. aunt jane, indeed, had been married herself when her father, dr. "polly" phelps, had married his second wife. "i must--say i--expected to--see some--angels sit--ting a--round--when i got up here," panted aunt jane, grimly, and dropping into the most comfortable chair. "couldn't you have got a mite nearer heaven, if you'd tried, lyddy bray?" "ye-es," gasped lyddy. "there's another story on top of this; but it's afire just now." "_what?_" shrieked aunt jane. "do you really mean it, lyddy?" cried her sister. "and that's what the smoke means?" "well," declared their aunt, "them firemen will have to carry me out, then. i couldn't walk downstairs again right now, for no money!" 'phemie ran to the hall door. but when she opened it a great blast of choking smoke drove in. "oh, oh!" she cried. "we can't escape by the stairway. what'll we do? what _shall_ we do?" "there's the fire-escape," said lyddy, trembling so that she could scarcely stand. "what?" cried aunt jane again. "_me_ go down one o' them dinky little ladders--and me with a hole as big as a half-dollar in the back of my stockin'? i never knowed it till i got started from home; the seam just gave." "i'd look nice going down that ladder. i guess not, says con!" and she shook her head so vigorously that all the little jet trimmings upon her bonnet danced and sparkled in the gaslight just as her beadlike, black eyes snapped and danced. "we--we're in danger, lyddy!" cried 'phemie, tremulously. "oh, the boy!" exclaimed lyddy, and flew to the kitchen, just in time to see the smith family sliding down the plank into the laboratory--the two girls ahead, then mother smith, then johnny smith, and then the father. and all while the boy next door held the plank firmly in place against the window-sill of the burning flat. lyddy threw up the window and screamed something to him as the last smith passed him and disappeared. she couldn't have told what she said, for the very life of her; but the young man across the shaft knew what she meant. he drew back the plank a little way, swung his weight upon the far end of it, and then let it drop until it was just above the level of her sill. "grab it and pull, miss!" he called across the intervening space. lyddy obeyed. there was great confusion in the hall now, and overhead the fire roared loudly. the firemen were evidently pressing up the congested stairway with a line or two of hose, and driving the frightened people back into their tenements. if the fire was confined to the upper floor of the double-decker there would be really little danger to those below. but lyddy was too frightened to realize this last fact. she planted the end of the plank upon her own sill and saw that it was secure. but it sloped upward more than a trifle. how would they ever be able to creep up that inclined plane--and four flights from the bottom of the shaft? but to her consternation, the young fellow across the way deliberately stepped out upon the plank, sat down, and slid swiftly across to her. lyddy sprang back with a cry, and he came in at the window and stood before her. "i don't believe you're in any danger, miss," he said. "the firemen are on the roof, and probably up through the halls, too. the fire has burned a vent through the roof and----yes! hear the water?" she could plainly hear the swish of the streams from the hosepipes. then the water thundered on the floor above their heads. almost at once small streams began to pour through the ceiling. "oh, oh!" cried lyddy. "right on the supper table!" a stream fell hissing on the stove. the big boy drew her swiftly out of the room into her father's bedroom. "that ceiling will come down," he said, hastily. "i'm sorry--but if you're insured you'll be all right." lyddy at that moment remembered that she had never taken out insurance on the poor sticks of furniture left from the wreck of their larger home. yet, if everything was spoiled---- "what's the matter with him?" asked the young fellow, looking at the bed where mr. bray lay. he had wonderfully sharp eyes, it seemed. "i don't know--i don't know," moaned lyddy. "do you think it is the smoke? he has been ill a long time--almost too sick to work----" "your father?" "yes, sir," said the girl. "i'll get an ambulance, if you say so--and a doctor. are you afraid to stay here now? are you all alone but for him?" "my sister--and my aunt," gasped lyddy. "they're in the front room." "keep 'em there," said the young man. "maybe they won't pour so much water into those front rooms. look out for the ceilings. you might be hurt if they came down." he found the key and unlocked and opened the door from the bedroom to the hall. the smoke cloud was much thinner. but a torrent of water was pouring down the stairs, and the shouting and stamping of the firemen above were louder. two black, serpent-like lines of hose encumbered the stairs. "take care of yourself," called the young man. "i'll be back in a jiffy with the doctor," and, bareheaded, and in shirt-sleeves as he was, he dashed down the dark and smoky stairway. lyddy bent over her father again; he was breathing more peacefully, it seemed. but when she spoke to him he did not answer. 'phemie ran in, crying. "what is the matter with father?" she demanded, as she noted his strange silence. then, without waiting for an answer, she snapped: "and aunt jane's got her head out of the window scolding at the firemen in the street because they do not come up and carry her downstairs again." "oh, the fire's nearly out, i guess," groaned lyddy. then the girls clutched each other and were stricken speechless as a great crash sounded from the kitchen. as the young man from the laboratory had prophesied, the ceiling had fallen. "and i had the nicest biscuits for supper i ever made," moaned lyddy. "they were just as fluffy----" "oh, bother your biscuits!" snapped 'phemie. "have you had the doctor for father?" "i--i've sent for one," replied lyddy, faintly, suddenly conscience-stricken by the fact that she had accepted the assistance of the young stranger, to whom she had never been introduced! "oh, dear! i hope he comes soon." "how long has he been this way, lyd? why didn't you send for me?" demanded the younger sister, clasping her hands and leaning over the unconscious man. "why, he came home from work just as usual. i--i didn't notice that he was worse," replied the older girl, breathlessly. "he said he'd lie down----" "you should have called the doctor then." "why, dear, i tell you he seemed just the same. he almost always lies down when he comes home now. you know that." "forgive me, lyddy!" exclaimed 'phemie, contritely. "of course you are just as careful of father as you can be. but--but it's so _awful_ to see him lie like this." "he fainted without my knowing a thing about it," moaned lyddy. "oh! if it's only just a faint----" "he couldn't even have heard the noise upstairs over the fire." just then a stream of water descended through the cracked bedroom ceiling, first upon the back of 'phemie's neck, and then upon the drugget which covered the floor. "suppose _this_ ceiling falls, too?" wailed lyddy, wringing her hands. "i hope not! and we'll have to pay the doctor when he comes, lyd. have you got money enough in your purse?" "i--i guess so." "i'll not have any more after this week," broke out 'phemie, suddenly. "they told me to-day the rush for easter would be over saturday night and they would have to let me go till next season. isn't that mean?" lydia bray had sat down upon the edge of their father's bed. "i guess everything _has_ happened at once," she sighed. "i don't see what we shall do, 'phemie." there came a scream from aunt jane. she charged into the bedroom wildly, the back of her dress all wet and her bonnet dangling over one ear. "why, your parlor ceiling is just spouting water, girls!" she cried. then she turned to look closely at the man on the bed. "john bray looks awful bad, lyddy. what does the doctor say?" before her niece could reply there came a thundering knock at the hall door. "the doctor!" cried 'phemie. lyddy feared it was the young stranger returning, and she could only gasp. what should she say to him if he came in? how introduce him to aunt jane? but the latter lady took affairs into her own hands at this juncture and went to the door. she unlocked and threw it open. several helmets and glistening rubber coats appeared vaguely in the hall. "getting wet down here some; aren't you?" asked one of the firemen. "we'll spread some tarpaulins over your stuff. fire's out--about." "and the water's _in_," returned aunt jane, tartly. "nice time to come and try to save a body's furniture----" "get it out of the adjusters. they'll be around," said the fireman, with a grin. "how much insurance have you, lyddy?" demanded the aunt, when the firemen, after covering the already wet and bedraggled furniture, had clumped out in their heavy boots. "not a penny, aunt jane!" cried her niece, wildly. "i never thought of it!" "ha! you're not so much like your mother, then, as i thought. _she_ would never have overlooked such a detail." "i know it! i know it!" moaned lyddy. "now, you stop that, aunt jane!" exclaimed the bolder 'phemie. "don't you hound lyd. she's done fine--of course she has! but anybody might forget a thing like insurance." "humph!" grunted the old lady. then she began again: "and what's the matter with john?" "it's the shop, aunt," replied lyddy. "he cannot stand the work any longer. i wish he might never go back to that place again." "and how are you going to live? what's 'phemie getting a week?" "nothing--after this week," returned the younger girl, shortly. "i sha'n't have any work, and i've only been earning six dollars." "humph!" observed aunt jane for a second time. there came a light tap on the door. they could hear it, for the confusion and shouting in the house had abated. the fire scare was over; but the floor above was gutted, and a good deal of damage by water had been done on this floor. it was a physician, bag in hand. 'phemie let him in. lyddy explained how her father had come home and lain down and she had found him, when the fire scare began, unconscious on the bed--just as he lay now. a few questions explained to the physician the condition of mr. bray, and his own observation revealed the condition of the tenement. "he will be better off at the hospital. you are about wrecked here, i see. that young man who called me said he would ring up the city hospital." the girls were greatly troubled; but aunt jane was practical. "of course, that's the best place for him," she said. "why! this flat isn't fit for a well person to stay in, let alone a sick man, until it is cleared up. i shall take you girls out with me to my boarding house for the night. then--we'll see." the physician brought mr. bray to his senses; but the poor man knew nothing about the fire, and was too weak to object when they told him he was to be removed to the hospital for a time. the ambulance came and the young interne and the driver brought in the stretcher, covered mr. bray with a gray blanket, and took him away. the interne told the girls they could see their father in the morning and he, too, said it was mainly exhaustion that had brought about the sudden attack. aunt jane had been stalking about the sloppy flat--from the ruined kitchen to the front window. "shut and lock that kitchen window, and lock the doors, and we'll go out and find a lodging," she said, briefly. "you girls can bring a bag for the night. mine's at the station hard by; i'm glad i didn't bring it up here." it was when lyddy shut and locked the kitchen window that she remembered the young man again. the plank had been removed, the laboratory window was closed, and the place unlighted. "i guess he has some of the instincts of a gentleman, after all," she told herself. "he didn't come back to bother me after doing what he could to help." two hours later the bray girls were seated in their aunt's comfortable room at a boarding house on a much better block than the one on which the tenement stood. aunt jane had ordered up tea and toast, and was sipping the one and nibbling the other contentedly before a grate fire. "this is what i call comfort," declared the old lady, who still kept her bonnet on--nor would she remove it save to change it for a nightcap when she went to bed. "this is what i call comfort. a pleasant room in a house where i have no responsibilities, and enough noise outside to assure me that i am in a live town. my goodness me! when hammond came along and wanted to marry me, and i knew i could leave hillcrest and never have to go back----well, i just about jumped down that man's throat i was so eager to say 'yes!' marry him? i'd ha' married a choctaw injun, if he'd promised to take me to the city." "why, aunt jane!" exclaimed lyddy. "hillcrest farm is a beautiful place. mother took us there once to see it. don't you remember, 'phemie? _she_ loved it, too." "and i wish she'd had it as a gift from the old doctor," grumbled aunt jane. "but it wasn't to be. it's never been anything but a nuisance to me, if i _was_ born there." "why, the view from the porch is the loveliest i ever saw," said lyddy. "and all that romantic pile of rocks at the back of the farm!" exclaimed 'phemie. "ha! what's a view?" demanded the old lady, in her brusk way. "just dirt and water. and that's what they say _we're_ made of. i like to study human bein's, i do; so i'd ruther have my view in town." "but it's so pretty----" "fudge!" snapped aunt jane. "i've seen the time, when i was a growin' gal, and the old doctor was off to see patients, that i've stood on that same porch at hillcrest and just _cried_ for the sight of somethin' movin' on the face of natur' besides a cow. "view, indeed!" she pursued, hotly. "if i've got to look at views, i want plenty of 'life' in 'em; and i want the human figgers to be right up close in the foreground, too!" 'phemie laughed. "and i think it would be just _blessed_ to get out of this noisy, dirty city, and live in a place like hillcrest. wouldn't you like it, lyd?" "i'd love it!" declared her sister. "well, i declare!" exclaimed aunt jane, sitting bolt upright, and looking actually startled. "ain't that a way out, mebbe?" "what do you mean, aunt jane?" asked lydia, quickly. "you know how i'm fixed, girls. hammond left me just money enough so't i can live as i like to live--and no more. the farm's never been aught but an expense to me. cyrus pritchett is supposed to farm a part of it on shares; but my share of the crops never pays more'n the taxes and the repairs to the roofs of the old buildings. "it'd be a shelter to ye. the furniture stands jest as it did in the old doctor's day. ye could move right in--and i expect it would mean a lease of life to your father. "a second-hand man wouldn't give ye ten dollars for your stuff in that flat. it's ruined. ye couldn't live comfortable there any more. but if ye wanter go to hillcrest i'm sure ye air more than welcome to the use of the place, and perhaps ye might git a bigger share of the crops out of cyrus if ye was there, than i've been able to git. "what d'you say, girls--what d'you say?" chapter iii the doctor disposes the bray girls scarcely slept a wink that night. not alone were they excited by the incidents of the evening, and the sudden illness of their father; but the possibilities arising out of aunt jane hammond's suggestion fired the imagination of both lyddy and 'phemie. these sisters were eminently practical girls, and they came of practical stock--as note the old-fashioned names which their unromantic parents had put upon them in their helpless infancy. yet there is a dignity to "lydia" and a beauty to "euphemia" which the thoughtless may not at once appreciate. practical as they were, the thought of going to the old farmhouse to live--if their father could be moved to it at once--added a zest to their present situation which almost made their misfortune seem a blessing. their furniture was spoiled, as aunt jane had said. and father was sick--a self-evident fact. this sudden ill turn which mr. bray had suffered worried both of his daughters more than any other trouble--indeed, more than all the others in combination. their home was ruined--but, somehow, they would manage to find a shelter. 'phemie would have no more work in her present position after this week, and lyddy had secured no work at all; but fortune must smile upon their efforts and bring them work in time. these obstacles seemed small indeed beside the awful thought of their father's illness. how very, very weak and ill he had looked when he was carried out of the flat on that stretcher! the girls clung together in their bed in the lodging house, and whispered about it, far into the night. "suppose he never comes out of that hospital?" suggested 'phemie, in a trembling voice. "oh, 'phemie! don't!" begged her sister. "he _can't_ be so ill as all that. it's just a breakdown, as that doctor said. he has overworked. he--he mustn't ever go back to that hat shop again." "i know," breathed 'phemie; "but what _will_ he do?" "it isn't up to him to do anything--it's up to _us_," declared lyddy, with some measure of her confidence returning. "why, look at us! two big, healthy girls, with four capable hands and the average amount of brains. "i know, as city workers, we are arrant failures," she continued, in a whisper, for their room was right next to aunt jane's, and the partition was thin. "do you suppose we could do better in the country?" asked 'phemie, slowly. "and if i am not mistaken the house is full of old, fine furniture," observed lyddy. "well!" sighed the younger sister, "we'd be sheltered, anyway. but how about eating? lyddy! i have _such_ an appetite." "she says we can have her share of the crops if we will pay the taxes and make the necessary repairs." "crops! what do you suppose is growing in those fields at this time of the year?" "nothing much. but if we could get out there early we might have a garden and see to it that mr. pritchett planted a proper crop. and we could have chickens--i'd love that," said lyddy. "oh, goodness, gracious me! wouldn't we _all_ love it--father, too? but how can we even get out there, much more live till vegetables and chickens are ripe, on nothing a week?" "that--is--what--i--don't--see--yet," admitted lyddy, slowly. "it's very kind of aunt jane," complained 'phemie. "but it's just like opening the door of heaven to a person who has no wings! we can't even reach hillcrest." "you and i could," said her sister, vigorously. "how, please?" "we could walk." "why, lyd! it's fifty miles if it's a step!" "it's nearer seventy. takes two hours on the train to the nearest station; and then you ride up the mountain a long, long way. but we could walk it." "and be tramps--regular tramps," cried 'phemie. "well, i'd rather be a tramp than a pauper," declared the older sister, vigorously. "but poor father!" "that's just it," agreed lydia. "of course, we can do nothing of the kind. we cannot leave him while he is sick, nor can we take him out there to hillcrest if he gets on his feet again----" "oh, lyddy! don't talk that way. he _is_ going to be all right after a few days' rest." "i do not think he will ever be well if he goes back to work in that hat factory. if we could only get him to hillcrest." "and there we'd all starve to death in a hurry," grumbled 'phemie, punching the hard, little boarding-house pillow. "oh, dear! what's the use of talking? there is no way out!" "there's always a way out--if we think hard enough," returned her sister. "wish you'd promulgate one," sniffed 'phemie. "i am going to think--and you do the same." "i'm going to----" "snore!" finished 'phemie. that ended the discussion for the time being. but lydia lay awake and racked her tired brain for hours. the pale light of the raw march morning streaked the window-pane when lydia was awakened by her sister hurrying into her clothes for the day's work at the millinery store. there would be but two days more for her there. and then? it was a serious problem. lydia had perhaps ten dollars in her reserve fund. father might not be paid for his full week if he did not go back to the shop. his firm was not generous, despite the fact that mr. bray had worked so long for them. a man past forty, who is frequently sick a day or two at a time, soon wears out the patience of employers, especially when there is young blood in the firm. 'phemie would get her week's pay saturday night. altogether, lyddy might find thirty dollars in her hand with which to face the future for all three of them! what could she get for their soaked furniture? these thoughts were with her while she was dressing. 'phemie had hurried away after making her sister promise to telephone as to her father's condition the minute they allowed lyddy to see him at the hospital. aunt jane was a luxurious lie-abed, and had ordered tea and toast for nine o'clock. her oldest niece put on her shabby hat and coat and went out to the nearest lunch-room, where coffee and rolls were her breakfast. then she walked down to trimble avenue and approached the huge, double-decker where they had lived. salvage men were already carrying away the charred fragments of the furniture from the top floor. lyddy hoped that, unlike herself, the smiths and the others up there had been insured against fire. she plodded wearily up the four flights and unlocked one of the flat doors and entered. two of the salvage men followed her in and removed the tarpaulins--which had been worse than useless. "no harm done but a little water, miss," said one of them, consolingly. "but you talk up to the adjuster and he'll make it all right." they all thought, of course, that the brays' furniture was insured. lyddy closed the door and looked over the wrecked flat. the parlor furniture coverings were all stained, and the carpet's colors had "run" fearfully. many of their little keepsakes and "gim-cracks" had been broken when the tarpaulins were spread. the bedrooms were in better shape, although the bedding was somewhat wet. but the kitchen was ruined. "of course," thought lyddy, "there wasn't much to ruin. everything was cheap enough. but what a mess to clean up!" she looked out of the window across the air-shaft. there was the boy! he nodded and beckoned to her. he had his own window open. lydia considered that she had no business to talk with this young man; yet he had played the "friend in need" the evening before. "how's your father?" he called, the moment she opened her window. "i do not know yet. they told me not to come to the hospital until nine-thirty." "i guess you're in a mess over there--eh?" he said, with his most boyish smile. but lyddy was not for idle converse. she nodded, thanked him for his kindness the evening before, and firmly shut the window. she thought she knew how to keep _that_ young man in his place. but she hadn't the heart to do anything toward tidying up the flat now. and how she wished she might not _have_ to do it! "if we could only take our clothing and the bedding and little things, and walk out," she murmured, standing in the middle of the little parlor. to try to "pick up the pieces" here was going to be dreadfully hard. "i wish some fairy would come along and transport us all to hillcrest farm in the twinkling of an eye," said lyddy to herself. "i--i'd rather starve out there than live as we have for the past three months here." she went to the door of the flat just as somebody tapped gently on the panel. a poorly dressed jewish man stood hesitating on the threshold. "i'm sorry," said lyddy, hastily; "but we had trouble here last night--a fire. i can't cook anything, and really haven't a thing to give----" her mother had boasted that she had never turned away a beggar hungry from her door, and the oldest bray girl always tried to feed the deserving. the man shook his head eagerly. "you ain't de idee got, lady," he said. "i know dere vas a fire. i foller de fires, lady." "you follow the fires?" returned lyddy, in wonder. "yes, lady. don'dt you vant to sell de house-holdt furnishings? i pay de highest mar-r-ket brice for 'em. yes, lady--i pay cash." "why--why----" "you vas nodt insured--yes?" "no," admitted lyddy. "den i bay you cash for de goots undt you go undt puy new--ain'dt idt?" but lyddy wasn't thinking of buying new furniture--not at all. she opened the door wider. "come in and look," she invited. "what will you pay?" "clodings, too?" he asked, shrewdly. "no, no! we will keep the clothing, bedding and kitchenware, and the like. just the furniture." the man went through the flat quickly, but his bright, beady eyes missed nothing. finally he said: "i gif you fifteen tollar, lady." "oh, no! that is too little," gasped lyddy. she had begun to figure mentally what it would cost to replace even the poor little things they had. and yet, if she could get any fair price for the goods she was almost tempted to sell out. "lady! believe me, i make a goot offer," declared the man. "but i must make it a profit--no?" "i couldn't sell for so little." "how much you vant, den?" he asked shrewdly. "oh! a great deal more than that. ten dollars more, at least." "twenty-fife tollars!" he cried, wringing his hands. "belief me, lady, i shouldt be shtuck!" his use of english would have amused lyddy at another time; but the girl's mind was set upon something more important. if she only _could_ get enough money together to carry them all to hillcrest farm--and to keep them going for a while! "fifteen dollars would not do me much good, i am afraid," the girl said. "oh, lady! you could buy a whole new house-furnishings mit so much money down--undt pay for de rest on de installment." "no," replied lyddy, firmly. "i want to get away from here altogether. i want to get out into the country. my father is sick; we had to send him to the hospital last night." the second-hand man shook his head. "you vas a kindt-hearted lady," he said, with less of his professional whine. "i gif you twenty." and above that sum lyddy could not move him. but she would not decide then and there. she felt that she must see her father, and consult with 'phemie, and possibly talk to aunt jane, too. "you come here to-morrow morning and i'll tell you," she said, finally. she locked the flat again and followed the man down the long flights to the street. it was not far to the hospital and lyddy did not arrive there much before the visitors' hour. the house physician called her into his office before she went up to the ward in which her father had been placed. already she was assured that he was comfortable, so the keenness of her anxiety was allayed. "what are your circumstances, miss bray?" demanded the medical head of the hospital, bluntly. "i mean your financial circumstances?" "we--we are poor, sir. and we were burned out last night, and have no insurance. i do not know what we really shall do--yet." "you are the house-mother--eh?" he demanded. "i am the oldest. there are only euphemia and me, beside poor papa----" "well, it's regarding your father i must speak. he's in a bad way. we can do him little good here, save that he will rest and have nourishing food. but if he goes back to work again----" "i know it's bad for him!" cried lyddy, with clasped hands. "but what can we do? he _will_ crawl out to the shop as long as they will let him come----" "he'll not crawl out for a couple of weeks--i'll see to that," said the doctor, grimly. "he'll stay here. but beyond that time i cannot promise. our public wards are very crowded, and of course, you have no relatives, nor friends, able to furnish a private room----" "oh, no, sir!" gasped lyddy. "nor is _that_ the best for him. he ought to be out of the city altogether--country air and food--mountain air especially----" "hillcrest!" exclaimed lyddy, aloud. "what's that?" the doctor snapped at her, quickly. she told him about the farm--where it was, and all. "that's a good place for him," replied the physician, coolly. "it's three or four hundred feet higher above sea-level than the city. it will do him more good to live in that air than a ton of medicine. and he can go in two weeks, or so. good-morning, miss bray," and the busy doctor hurried away to his multitude of duties, having disposed of mr. bray's case on the instant. chapter iv the pilgrimage lydia bray was shocked indeed when they allowed her in the ward to see her father. a nurse had drawn a screen about the bed, and nodded to her encouragingly. the pallor of mr. bray's countenance, as he lay there with his eyes closed, unaware of her presence, frightened the girl. she had never seen him utterly helpless before. he had managed to get around every day, even if sometimes he could not go to work. but now the forces of his system seemed to have suddenly given out. he had overtaxed nature, and she was paying him for it. "lyddy!" he whispered, when finally his heavy-lidded eyes opened and he saw her standing beside the cot. the girl made a brave effort to look and speak cheerfully; and mr. bray's comprehension was so dulled that she carried the matter off very successfully while she remained. she spoke cheerfully; she chatted about their last night's experiences; she even laughed over some of aunt jane's sayings--aunt jane was always a source of much amusement to mr. bray. but the nurse had warned her to be brief, and soon she was beckoned away. she knew he was in good hands at the hospital, and that they would do all that they could for him. but what the house physician had told her was uppermost in her mind as she left the institution. how were they to get to hillcrest--and live after arriving there? "if that man paid me twenty dollars for our furniture, i might have fifty dollars in hand," she thought. "it will cost us something like two dollars each for our fares. and then there would be the freight and baggage, and transportation for ourselves up to hillcrest from the station. "and how would it do to bring father to an old, unheated house--and so early in the spring? i guess the doctor didn't think about that. "and how will we live until it is time for us to go--until father is well enough to be moved? all our little capital will be eaten up!" lyddy's practical sense then came to her aid. saturday night 'phemie would get through at the millinery shop. they must not remain dependent upon aunt jane longer than over sunday. "the thing to do," she decided, "is for 'phemie and me to start for hillcrest immediately--on monday morning at the latest. if one of us has to come back for father when he can be moved, all right. the cost will not be so great. meanwhile we can be getting the old house into shape to receive him." she found aunt jane sitting before her fire, with a tray of tea and toast beside her, and her bonnet already set jauntily a-top of her head, the strings flowing. "you found that flat in a mess, i'll be bound!" observed aunt jane. lydia admitted it. she also told her what the second-hand man had offered. "twenty dollars?" cried aunt jane. "take it, quick, before he has a change of heart!" but when lyddy told her of what the doctor at the hospital had said about mr. bray, and how they really seemed forced into taking up with the offer of hillcrest, the old lady looked and spoke more seriously. "you're just as welcome to the use of the old house, and all you can make out of the farm-crop, as you can be. i stick to what i told you last night. but i dunno whether you can really be comfortable there." "we'll find out; we'll try it," returned lyddy, bravely. "nothing like trying, aunt jane." "humph! there's a good many things better than trying, sometimes. you've got to have sense in your trying. if it was me, i wouldn't go to hillcrest for any money you could name! "but then," she added, "i'm old and you are young. i wish i could sell the old place for a decent sum; but an abandoned farm on the top of a mountain, with the railroad station six miles away, ain't the kind of property that sells easy in the real estate market, lemme tell you! "besides, there ain't much of the two hundred acres that's tillable. them romantic-looking rocks that 'phemie was exclaimin' over last night, are jest a nuisance. humph! the old doctor used to say there was money going to waste up there in them rocks, though. i remember hearing him talk about it once or twice; but jest what he meant i never knew." "mineral deposits?" asked lyddy, hopefully. "not wuth anything. time an' agin there's been college professors and such, tappin' the rocks all over the farm for 'specimens.' but there ain't nothing in the line of precious min'rals in that heap of rocks at the back of hillcrest farm--believe me! "dr. polly useter say, however, that there was curative waters there. he used 'em some in his practise towards the last. but he died suddent, you know, and nobody ever knew where he got the water--'nless 'twas jud spink. and jud had run away with a medicine show years before father died. "well!" sighed aunt jane. "if you can find any way of makin' a livin' out of hillcrest farm, you're welcome to it. and--just as that hospital doctor says--it may do your father good to live there for a spell. but _me_--it always give me the fantods, it was that lonesome." it seemed, as aunt jane said, "a way opened." yet lyddy bray could not see very far ahead. as she told 'phemie that night, they could get to the farm, bag and baggage; but how they would exist after their arrival was a question not so easy to answer. lyddy had gone to one of the big grocers and bought and paid for an order of staple groceries and canned goods which would be delivered at the railroad station nearest to hillcrest on monday morning. thus all their possessions could be carted up to the farm at once. she had spent the afternoon at the flat collecting the clothing, bedding, and other articles they proposed taking with them. these goods she had taken out by an expressman and shipped by freight before six o'clock. in the morning she met the second-hand man at the ruined flat and he paid her the twenty dollars as promised. and lyddy was glad to shake the dust of the trimble avenue double-decker from her feet. as she turned away from the door she heard a quick step behind her and an eager voice exclaimed: "i say! i say! you're not moving; are you?" lydia was exceedingly disturbed. she knew that boy in the laboratory window had been watching closely what was going on in the flat. and now he had _dared_ follow her. she turned upon him a face of pronounced disapproval. "i--i beg your pardon," he stammered. "but i hope your father's better? nothing's happened to--to him?" "we are going to take him away from the city--thank you," replied lyddy, impersonally. she noted with satisfaction that he had run out without his cap, and in his work-apron. he could not follow her far in such a rig through the public streets, that was sure. "i--i'm awful sorry to have you go," he said, stammeringly. "but i hope it will be beneficial to your father. i--i---- you see, my own father is none too well and we have often talked of his living out of town somewhere--not so far but that i could run out for the week-end, you know." lyddy merely nodded. she would not encourage him by a single word. "well--i wish you all kinds of luck!" exclaimed the young fellow, finally, holding out his hand. "thank you," returned the very proper lyddy, and failed to see his proffered hand, turning promptly and walking away, not even vouchsafing him a backward look when she turned the corner, although she knew very well that he was still standing, watching her. "he may be a very nice young man," thought lyddy; "but, then----" sunday the two girls spent a long hour with their father. they found him prepared for the move in prospect for the family--indeed, he was cheerful about it. the house physician had evidently taken time to speak to the invalid about the change he advised. "perhaps by fall i shall be my own self again, and we can come back to town and all go to work. we'll worry along somehow in the country for one season, i am sure," said mr. bray. but that was what troubled lyddy more than anything else. they were all so vague as to what they should do at hillcrest--how they would be able to live there! father said something about when he used to have a garden in their backyard, and how nice the fresh vegetables were; and how mother had once kept hens. but lyddy could not see yet how they were to have either a garden or poultry. they were all three enthusiastic--to each other. and the father was sure that in a fortnight he would be well enough to travel alone to hillcrest; they must not worry about him. aunt jane was to remain in town all that time, and she promised to report frequently to the girls regarding their father's condition. "i certainly wish i could help you gals out with money," said the old lady that evening. "you're the only nieces i've got, and i feel as kindly towards you as towards anybody in this wide world. "maybe we can get a chance to sell the farm. if we can, i'll help you then with a good, round sum. now, then! you fix up the old place and make it look less like the wrath o' fate had struck it and maybe some foolish rich man will come along and want to buy it. if you find a customer, i'll pay you a right fat commission, girls." but this was "all in the offing;" the bray girls were concerned mostly with their immediate adventures. to set forth on this pilgrimage to hillcrest farm--and alone--was an event fraught with many possibilities. both lyddy and 'phemie possessed their share of imagination, despite their practical characters; and despite the older girl's having gone to college for two years, she, or 'phemie, knew little about the world at large. so they looked forward to monday morning as the great adventure. it was a moist, sweet morning, even in the city, when they betook themselves early to the railway station, leaving aunt jane luxuriously sipping tea and nibbling toast in bed--_this_ time with her nightcap on. march had come in like a lion; but its lamblike qualities were now manifest and it really did seem as though the breath of spring permeated the atmosphere--even down here in the smoky, dirty city. the thought of growing things inspired 'phemie to stop at a seed store near the station and squander a few pennies in sweet-peas. "i know mother used to put them in just as soon as she could dig at all in the ground," she told her sister. "i don't believe they'll be a very profitable crop," observed lyddy. "my goodness me!" exclaimed 'phemie, "let's retain a little sentiment, lyd! we can't eat 'em--no; but they're sweet and restful to look at. i'm going to have moon-flowers and morning-glories, too," and she recklessly expended more pennies for those seeds. their train was waiting when they reached the station and the sisters boarded it in some excitement. 'phemie's gaiety increased the nearer they approached to bridleburg, which was their goal. she was a plump, rosy girl, with broad, thick plaits of light-brown hair ("molasses-color" she called it in contempt) which she had begun to "do up" only upon going to work. she had a quick blue eye, a laughing mouth, rather wide, but fine; a nose that an enemy--had laughing, good-natured euphemia bray owned one--might have called "slightly snubbed," and her figure was just coming into womanhood. lydia's appearance was entirely different. they did not look much like sisters, to state the truth. the older girl was tall, straight as a dart, with a dignity of carriage beyond her years, dark hair that waved very prettily and required little dressing, and a clear, colorless complexion. her eyes were very dark gray, her nose high and well chiseled, like aunt jane's. she was more of a phelps. aunt jane declared lyddy resembled dr. apollo, or "polly," phelps more than had either of his own children. the train passed through a dun and sodden country. the late thaw and the rains had swept the snow from these lowlands; the unfilled fields were brown and bare. here and there, however, rye and wheat sprouted green and promising, and in the distance a hedge of water-maples along the river bank seemed standing in a purple mist, for their young leaves were already pushing into the light. "there will be pussy-willows," exclaimed 'phemie, "and hepaticas in the woods. think of _that_, lyddy bray!" "and the house will be as damp as the tomb--and not a stick of wood cut--and no stoves," returned the older girl. "oh, dear, me! you're such an old grump!" ejaculated 'phemie. "why try to cross bridges before you come to them?" "lucky for you, miss, that i _do_ think ahead," retorted lyddy with some sharpness. there was a grade before the train climbed into bridleburg. back of the straggling old town the mountain ridge sloped up, a green and brown wall, breaking the wind from the north and west, thus partially sheltering the town. there was what farmers call "early land" about bridleburg, and some trucking was carried on. but the town itself was much behind the times--being one of those old-fashioned new england settlements left uncontaminated by the mill interests and not yet awakened by the summer visitor, so rife now in most of the quiet villages of the six pilgrim states. the rambling wooden structure with its long, unroofed platform, which served bridleburg as a station, showed plainly what the railroad company thought of the town. many villages of less population along the line boasted modern station buildings, grass plots, and hedges. all that surrounded bridleburg's barrack-like depôt was a plaza of bare, rolled cinders. on this were drawn up the two 'buses from the rival hotels--the "new brick hotel," built just after the civil war, and the eagle house. their respective drivers called languidly for customers as the passengers disembarked from the train. most of these were traveling men, or townspeople. it was only mid-forenoon and lyddy did not wish to spend either time or money at the local hostelries, so she shook her head firmly at the 'bus drivers. "we want to get settled by night at hillcrest--if we can," she told 'phemie. "let's see if your baggage and freight are here, first of all." she waited until the station agent was at leisure and learned that all their goods--a small, one-horse load--had arrived. "you two girls goin' up to the old polly phelps house?" ejaculated the agent, who was a "native son" and knew all about the "old doctor," as dr. apollo phelps had been known throughout two counties and on both sides of the mountain ridge. "why, it ain't fit for a stray cat to live in, i don't believe--that house ain't," he added. "more'n twenty year since the old doctor died, and it's been shut up ever since. "what! you his grandchildren? sho! mis' bray--i remember. she was the old doctor's daughter by his secon' wife. ya-as. "well, if i was you, i'd go to pritchett's house to stop first. can't be that the old house is fit to live in, an' pritchett is your nighest neighbor." "thank you," lyddy said, quietly. "and can you tell me whom we could get to transport our goods--and ourselves--to the top of the ridge?" "huh? why! i seen pritchett's long-laiged boy in town jest now--lucas pritchett. he ain't got away yet," responded the station agent. "i ventur' to say you'll find him up market street a piece--at birch's store, or the post-office. this train brung in the mail. "if he's goin' up light he oughter be willin' to help you out cheap. it's a six-mile tug, you know; you wouldn't wanter walk it." he pointed up the mountainside. far, far toward the summit of the ridge, nestling in a background of brown and green, was a splash of vivid white. "that's pritchett's," vouchsafed the station agent. "if dr. polly phelps' house had a coat of whitewash you could see it, too--jest to the right and above pritchett's. highest house on the ridge, it is, and a mighty purty site, to my notion." chapter v lucas pritchett the bray girls walked up the village street, which opened directly out of the square. it might have been a quarter of a mile in length, the red brick courthouse facing them at the far end, flanked by the two hotels. when "court sat" bridleburg was a livelier town than at present. on either hand were alternately rows of one, or two-story "blocks" of stores and offices, or roomy old homesteads set in the midst of their own wide, terraced lawns. there were a few pleasant-looking people on the walks and most of these turned again to look curiously after the bray girls. strangers--save in court week--were a novelty in bridleburg, that was sure. market street was wide and maple-shaded. here and there before the stores were "hitching racks"--long wooden bars with iron rings set every few feet--to which a few horses, or teams, were hitched. many of the vehicles were buckboards, much appreciated in the hill country; but there were farm wagons, as well. it was for one of these latter the bray girls were in search. the station agent had described lucas pritchett's rig. "there it is," gasped the quick-eyed 'phemie, "oh, lyd! _do_ look at those ponies. they're as ragged-looking as an old cowhide trunk." "and that wagon," sighed lyddy. "shall we ride in it? we'll be a sight going through the village." "we'd better wait and see if he'll take us," remarked 'phemie. "but i should worry about what people here think of us!" as she spoke a lanky fellow, with a lean and sallow face, lounged out of the post-office and across the walk to the heads of the disreputable-looking ponies. he wore a long snuff-colored overcoat that might have been in the family for two or three generations, and his overalls were stuck into the tops of leg-boots. "that's lucas--sure," whispered 'phemie. but she hung back, just the same, and let her sister do the talking. and the first effect of lyddy's speech upon lucas pritchett was most disconcerting. "good morning!" lyddy said, smiling upon the lanky young farmer. "you are mr. lucas pritchett, i presume?" he made no audible reply, although his lips moved and they saw his very prominent adam's apple rise and fall convulsively. a wave of red suddenly washed up over his face like a big breaker rolling up a sea-beach; and each individual freckle at once took on a vividness of aspect that was fairly startling to the beholder. "you _are_ mr. pritchett?" repeated lyddy, hearing a sudden half-strangled giggle from 'phemie, who was behind her. "ya-as--i be," finally acknowledged the bashful lucas, that adam's apple going up and down again like the slide on a trombone. "you are going home without much of a load; aren't you, mr. pritchett?" pursued lyddy, with a glance into the empty wagon-body. "ya-as--i be," repeated lucas, with another gulp, trying to look at both girls at once and succeeding only in looking cross-eyed. "we are going to be your nearest neighbors, mr. pritchett," said lyddy, briskly. "our aunt, mrs. hammond, has loaned us hillcrest to live in and we have our baggage and some other things at the railway station to be carted up to the house. will you take it--and us? and how much will you charge?" lucas just gasped--'phemie declared afterward, "like a dying fish." this was altogether too much for lucas to grasp at once; but he had followed lyddy up to a certain point. he held forth a broad, grimed, calloused palm, and faintly exclaimed: "you're mis' hammon's nieces? do tell! maw'll be pleased to see ye--an' so'll sairy." he shook hands solemnly with lyddy and then with 'phemie, who flashed him but a single glance from her laughing eyes. the "italian sunset effect," as 'phemie dubbed lucas's blushes, began to fade out of his countenance. "can you take us home with you?" asked lyddy, impatient to settle the matter. "i surely can," exclaimed lucas. "you hop right in." "no. we want to know what you will charge first--for us and the things at the depôt?" "not a big load; air they?" queried lucas, doubtfully. "you know the hill's some steep." lyddy enumerated the packages, lucas checking them off with nods. "i see," he said. "we kin take 'em all. you hop in----" but 'phemie was pulling the skirt of her sister's jacket and lyddy said: "no. we have some errands to do. we'll meet you up the street. that is your way home?" and she indicated the far end of market street. "ya-as." "and what will you charge us?" "not more'n a dollar, miss," he said, grinning. "i wouldn't ax ye nothin'; but this is dad's team and when i git a job like this he allus expects his halvings." "all right, mr. pritchett. we'll pay you a dollar," agreed lyddy, in her sedate way. "and we'll meet you up the street." lucas unhitched the ponies and stepped into the wagon. when he turned them and gave them their heads the ragged little beasts showed that they were a good deal like the proverbial singed cat--far better than they looked. "i thought you didn't care what people thought of you here?" observed lyddy to her sister, as the wagon went rattling down the street. "yet it seems you don't wish to ride through bridleburg in mr. pritchett's wagon." "my goodness!" gasped 'phemie, breathless from giggling. "i don't mind the wagon. but _he's_ a freak, lyd!" "sh!" "did you ever see such a face? and those freckles!" went on the girl, heedless of her sister's admonishing voice. "somebody may hear you," urged lyddy. "what if?" "and repeat what you say to him." "and _that_ should worry me!" returned 'phemie, gaily. "oh, dear, lyd! don't be a grump. this is all a great, big joke--the people and all. and lucas is certainly the capsheaf. did you ever in your life before even imagine such a freak?" but lyddy would not join in her hilarity. "these country people may seem peculiar to us, who come fresh from the city," she said, with some gravity. "but i wonder if we don't appear quite as 'queer' and 'green' to them as they do to us?" "we couldn't," gasped 'phemie. "hurry on, lyd. don't let him overtake us before we get to the edge of town." they passed the courthouse and waited for lucas and the farm wagon on the outskirts of the village--where the more detached houses gave place to open fields. no plow had been put into these lower fields as yet; still, the coming spring had breathed upon the landscape and already the banks by the wayside were turning green. 'phemie became enthusiastic at once and before lucas hove in view, evidently anxiously looking for them, the younger girl had gathered a great bunch of early flowers. "they're mighty purty," commented the young farmer, as the girls climbed over the wheel with their muddy boots and all. 'phemie, giggling, took her seat on the other side of him. she had given one look at the awkwardly arranged load on the wagon-body and at once became helpless with suppressed laughter. if the girls she had worked with in the millinery store for the last few months could see them and their "lares and penates" perched upon this farm wagon, with this son of jehu for a driver! "i reckon you expect to stay a spell?" said lucas, with a significant glance from the conglomerate load to lyddy. "yes--we hope to," replied the oldest bray girl. "do you think the house is in very bad shape inside?" "i dunno. we never go in it, miss," responded lucas, shaking his head. "mis' hammon' never left us the key--not to upstairs. dad's stored cider and vinegar in the cellar under the east ell for sev'ral years. it's a better cellar'n we've got. "an' i dunno what dad'll say," he added, "to your goin' up there to live." "what's he got to do with it?" asked 'phemie, quickly. "why, we work the farm on shares an' we was calc'latin' to do so this year." "our living in the house doesn't interfere with that arrangement," said lyddy, quietly. "aunt jane told us all about that. i have a letter from her for your father." "aw--well," commented lucas, slowly. the ponies had begun to mount the rise in earnest now. they tugged eagerly at the load, and trotted on the level stretches as though tireless. lyddy commented upon this, and lucas flushed with delight at her praise. "they're hill-bred, they be," he said, proudly. "tackle 'em to a buggy, or a light cart, an' up hill or down hill means the same to 'em. they won't break their trot. "when it comes plowin' time we clip 'em, an' then they don't look so bad in harness," confided the young fellow. "if--if you like, i'll take you drivin' over the hills some day--when the roads git settled." "thank you," responded lyddy, non-committally. but 'phemie giggled "how nice!" and watched the red flow into the young fellow's face with wicked appreciation. the roads certainly had not "settled" after the winter frosts, if this one they were now climbing was a proper sample. 'phemie and lyddy held on with both hands to the smooth board which served for a seat to the springless wagon--and they were being bumped about in a most exciting way. 'phemie began to wonder if lucas was not quite as much amused by their unfamiliarity with this method of transportation as she was by his bashfulness and awkward manners. lyddy fairly wailed, at last: "wha--what a dread--dreadful ro-o-o-ad!" and she seized lucas suddenly by the arm nearest to her and frankly held on, while the forward wheel on her side bounced into the air. "oh, this ain't bad for a mountain road," the young farmer declared, calmly. "oh, oh!" squealed 'phemie, the wheel on her side suddenly sinking into a deep rut, so that she slid to the extreme end of the board. "better ketch holt on me, miss," advised lucas, crooking the arm nearest 'phemie. "you city folks ain't useter this kind of travelin', i can see." but 'phemie refused, unwilling to be "beholden" to him, and the very next moment the ponies clattered over a culvert, through which the brown flood of a mountain stream spurted in such volume that the pool below the road was both deep and angry-looking. there was a washout gullied in the road here. down went the wheel on 'phemie's side, and with the lurch the young girl lost her insecure hold upon the plank. with a screech she toppled over, plunging sideways from the wagon-seat, and as the hard-bitted ponies swept on 'phemie dived into the foam-streaked pool! chapter vi neighbors lucas pritchett was not as slow as he seemed. in one motion he drew in the plunging ponies to a dead stop, thrust the lines into lyddy's hands, and vaulted over the wheel of the farm wagon. "hold 'em!" he commanded, pulling off the long, snuff-colored overcoat. flinging it behind him he tore down the bank and, in his high boots, waded right into the stream. poor 'phemie was beyond her depth, although she rose "right side up" when she came to the surface. and when lucas seized her she had sense enough not to struggle much. "oh, oh, oh!" she moaned. "the wa--water is s-so cold!" "i bet ye it is!" agreed the young fellow, and gathering her right up into his arms, saturated as her clothing was, he bore her to the bank and clambered to where lyddy was doing all she could to hold the restive ponies. "whoa, spot and daybright!" commanded the young farmer, soothing the ponies much quicker than he could his human burden. "now, miss, you're all right----" "all r-r-right!" gasped 'phemie, her teeth chattering like castanets. "i--i'm anything _but_ right!" "oh, 'phemie! you might have been drowned," cried her anxious sister. "and now i'm likely to be frozen stiff right here in this road. mrs. lot wasn't a circumstance to me. she only turned to salt, while i am be-be-coming a pillar of ice!" but lucas had set her firmly on her feet, and now he snatched up the old overcoat which had so much amused 'phemie, and wrapped it about her, covering her from neck to heel. "in you go--sit 'twixt your sister and me this time," panted the young man. "we'll hustle home an' maw'll git you 'twixt blankets in a hurry." "she'll get her death!" moaned lyddy, holding the coat close about the wet girl. "look out! we'll travel some now," exclaimed lucas, leaping in, and having seized the reins, he shook them over the backs of the ponies and shouted to them. the remainder of that ride up the mountain was merely a nightmare for the girls. lucas allowed the ponies to lose no time, despite the load they drew. but haste was imperative. a ducking in an icy mountain brook at this time of the year might easily be fraught with serious consequences. although it was drawing toward noon and the sun was now shining, there was no great amount of warmth in the air. lucas must have felt the keen wind himself, for he was wet, too; but he neither shivered nor complained. luckily they were well up the mountainside when the accident occurred. the ponies flew around a bend where a grove of trees had shut off the view, and there lay the pritchett house and outbuildings, fresh in their coat of whitewash. "maw and sairy'll see to ye now," cried lucas, as he neatly clipped the gatepost with one hub and brought the lathered ponies to an abrupt stop in the yard beside the porch. "hi, maw!" he added, as a very stout woman appeared in the doorway--quite filling the opening, in fact. "hi, maw! here's mis' hammon's nieces--an' one of 'em's been in pounder's brook!" "for the land's sake!" gasped the farmer's wife, pulling a pair of steel-bowed spectacles down from her brows that she might peer through them at the bray girls. "ain't it a mite airly for sech didoes as them?" "why, maw!" sputtered lucas, growing red again. "she didn't _go_ for to do it--no, ma'am!" "wa-al! i didn't know. city folks is funny. but come in--do! mis' hammon's nieces, d'ye say? then you must be john horrocks bray's gals--ain't ye?" "we are," said lyddy, who had quickly climbed out over the wheel and now eased down the clumsy bundle which was her sister. "can you stand, 'phemie?" "ye-es," chattered her sister. "i hope you can take us in for a little while, mrs. pritchett," went on the older girl. "we are going up to hillcrest to live." "take ye in? sure! an' 'twon't be the first city folks we've harbored," declared the lady, chuckling comfortably. "they're beginnin' to come as thick as spatters in summer to bridleburg, an' some of 'em git clear up this way---- for the land's sake! that gal's as wet as sop." "it--it was wet water i tumbled into," stuttered 'phemie. mrs. pritchett ushered them into the big, warm kitchen, where the table was already set for dinner. a young woman--not so _very_ young, either--as lank and lean as lucas himself, was busy at the stove. she turned to stare at the visitors with near-sighted eyes. "this is my darter, sairy," said "maw" pritchett. "she taught school two terms to pounder's school; but it was bad for her eyes. i tell her to git specs; but she 'lows she's too young for sech things." "the oculists advise glasses nowadays for very young persons," observed lyddy politely, as sairy pritchett bobbed her head at them in greeting. "so i tell her," declared the farmer's wife. "but she won't listen to reason. ye know how young gals air!" this assumption of sairy's extreme youth, and that lyddy would understand her foibles because she was so much older, amused the latter immensely. sairy was about thirty-five. meanwhile mrs. pritchett bustled about with remarkable spryness to make 'phemie comfortable. there was a warm bedroom right off the kitchen--for this was an old-fashioned new england farmhouse--and in this the younger bray girl took off her wet clothing. lyddy brought in their bag and 'phemie managed to make herself dry and tidy--all but her great plaits of hair--in a very short time. she would not listen to mrs. pritchett's advice that she go to bed. but she swallowed a bowl of hot tea and then declared herself "as good as new." the bray girls had now to tell mrs. pritchett and her daughter their reason for coming to hillcrest, and what they hoped to do there. "for the land's sake!" gasped the farmer's wife. "i dunno what cyrus'll say to this." it struck lyddy that they all seemed to be somewhat in fear of what mr. pritchett might say. he seemed to be a good deal of a "bogie" in the family. "we shall not interfere with mr. pritchett's original arrangement with aunt jane," exclaimed lyddy, patiently. "well, ye'll hafter talk to cyrus when he comes in to dinner," said the farmer's wife. "i dunno how he'll take it." "_we_ should worry about how he 'takes it,'" commented 'phemie in lyddy's ear. "i guess we've got the keys to hillcrest and aunt jane's permission to live in the house and make what we can off the place. what more is there to it?" but the older bray girl caught a glimpse of cyrus pritchett as he came up the path from the stables, and she saw that he was nothing at all like his rotund and jolly wife--not in outward appearance, at least. the pritchett children got their extreme height from cyrus--and their leanness. he was a grizzled man, whose head stooped forward because he was so tall, and who looked fiercely on the world from under penthouse brows. every feature of his countenance was grim and forbidding. his cheeks were gray, with a stubble of grizzled beard upon them. when he came in and was introduced to the visitors he merely grunted an acknowledgment of their names and immediately dropped into his seat at the head of the table. as the others came flocking about the board, cyrus pritchett opened his lips just once, and not until the grace had been uttered did the visitors understand that it was meant for a reverence before meat. "for wha' we're 'bout to r'ceive make us tru' grat'ful--pass the butter, sairy," and the old man helped himself generously and began at once to stow the provender away without regard to the need or comfort of the others about his board. but maw pritchett and her son and daughter seemed to be used to the old man's way, and they helped each other and the bray girls with no niggard hand. nor did the shuttle of conversation lag. "why, i ain't been in the old doctor's house since he died," said mrs. pritchett, reflectively. "mis' hammon', she's been up here two or three times, an' she allus goes up an' looks things over; but i'm too fat for walkin' up to hillcrest--i be," concluded the lady, with a chuckle. she seemed as jolly and full of fun as her husband was morose. cyrus pritchett only glowered on the bray girls when he looked at them at all. but lyddy and 'phemie joined in the conversation with the rest of the family. 'phemie, although she had made so much fun of lucas at first, now made amends by declaring him to be a hero--and sticking to it! "i'd never have got out of that pool if it hadn't been for lucas," she repeated; "unless i could have drunk up the water and walked ashore that way! and o-o-oh! wasn't it cold!" "hope you're not going to feel the effects of it later," said her sister, still anxious. "i'm all right," assured the confident 'phemie. "i dunno as it'll be fit for you gals to stay in the old house to-night," urged mrs. pritchett. "you'll hafter have some wood cut." "i'll do that when i take their stuff up to hillcrest," said lucas, eagerly, but flushing again as though stricken with a sudden fever. "there are no stoves in the house, i suppose?" lyddy asked, wistfully. "bless ye! dr. polly wouldn't never have a stove in his house, saving a cook-stove in the kitchen, an' of course, that's ate up with rust afore this," exclaimed the farmer's wife. "he said open fireplaces assured every room its proper ventilation. he didn't believe in these new-fangled ways of shuttin' up chimbleys. my! but he was powerful sot on fresh air an' sunshine. "onct," pursued mrs. pritchett, "he was called to see mis' fibbetts--she that was a widder and lived on 'tother side of the ridge, on the road to adams. she had a mis'ry of some kind, and was abed with all the winders of her room tight closed. "'open them winders,' says dr. polly to the neighbor what was a-nussin' of mis' fibbetts. "next time he come the winders was down again. dr. polly warn't no gentle man, an' he swore hard, he did. he flung up the winders himself, an' stamped out o' the room. "it was right keen weather," chuckled mrs. pritchett, her double chins shaking with enjoyment, "and mis' fibbetts was scart to death of a leetle air. minute dr. polly was out o' sight she made the neighbor woman shet the winders ag'in. "but when dr. polly turned up the ridge road he craned out'n the buggy an' he seen the winders shet. he jerked his old boss aroun', drove back to the house, stalked into the sick woman's room, cane in hand, and smashed every pane of glass in them winders, one after another. "'now i reckon ye'll git air enough to cure ye 'fore ye git them mended,' says he, and marched him out again. an' sure 'nough old mis' fibbetts got well an' lived ten year after. but she never had a good word for dr. polly phelps, jest the same," chuckled the narrator. "well, we'll make out somehow about fires," said lyddy, cheerfully, "if lucas can cut us enough wood to keep them going." "i sure can," declared the ever-ready youth, and just here cyrus pritchett, having eaten his fill, broke in upon the conversation in a tone that quite startled lyddy and 'phemie bray. "i wanter know what ye mean to do up there on the old polly phelps place?" he asked, pushing back his chair, having set down his coffee-cup noisily, and wiped his cuff across his lips. "i gotta oral contract with jane hammon' to work that farm. it's been in force year arter year for more'n ten good year. an' that contract ain't to be busted so easy." "now, father!" admonished mrs. pritchett; but the old man glared at her and she at once subsided. cyrus pritchett certainly was a masterful man in his own household. lucas dropped his gaze to his plate and his face flamed again. but sairy turned actually pale. somehow the cross old man did not make lyddy bray tremble. she only felt angry that he should be such a bully in his own home. "suppose you read aunt jane's letter, mr. pritchett," she said, taking it from her handbag and laying it before the farmer. the old man grunted and slit the flap of the envelope with his greasy tableknife. he drew his brows down into even a deeper scowl as he read. "so she turns her part of the contract over to you two chits of gals; does she?" said mr. pritchett, at last. "humph! i don't think much of that, now i tell ye." "mr. pritchett," said lyddy, firmly, "if you don't care to work the farm for us on half shares, as you have heretofore with aunt jane, pray say so. i assure you we will not be offended." "and what'll you do then?" he growled. "if you refuse to put in a crop for us?" "ya-as." "get some other neighboring farmer to do so," replied lyddy, promptly. "oh, you will, eh?" growled cyrus pritchett, sitting forward and resting his big hands on his knees, while he glared like an angry dog at the slight girl before him. the kitchen was quite still save for his booming voice. the family was evidently afraid of the old man's outbursts of temper. but lyddy bray's courage rose with her indignation. this cross old farmer was a mere bully after all, and there was never a bully yet who was not a moral coward! "mr. pritchett," she told him, calmly, "you cannot frighten me by shouting at me. i may as well tell you right now that the crops you have raised for aunt jane of late years have not been satisfactory. we expect a better crop this year, and if you do not wish to put it in, some other neighbor will. "this is a good time to decide the matter. what do you say?" chapter vii hillcrest mrs. pritchett and sairy really were frightened by lyddy bray's temerity. as for lucas, he still hung his head and would not look at his father. cyrus pritchett had bullied his family so long that to be bearded in his own house certainly amazed him. he glared at the girl for fully a minute, without being able to formulate any reply. then he burst out with: "you let me ketch any other man on this ridge puttin' a plow inter the old doctor's land! i've tilled it for years, i tell ye----" "and you can till it again, mr. pritchett," said lyddy, softly. "you needn't holler so about it--we all hear you." the coolness of the girl silenced him. "so, now it's understood," she went on, smiling at him brightly. "and we'll try this year to make a little better crop. we really must get something more out of it than the taxes." "jane hammon' won't buy no fertilizer," growled mr. pritchett, put on the defensive--though he couldn't tell why. "an' ye can't grow corn on run-down land without potash an' kainit, and the like." "well, you shall tell us all about that later," declared lyddy, "and we'll see. i understand that you can't get blood from a turnip. we want to put hillcrest in better shape--both in and out of the house--and then there'll be a better chance to sell it." cyrus pritchett's eyes suddenly twinkled with a shrewd light. "does jane hammon' really want to sell the farm?" he queried. "if she gets a good offer," replied lyddy. "that's what we hope to do while we're at hillcrest--make the place more valuable and more attractive to the possible buyer." "ha!" grunted cyrus, sneeringly. "she'll get a fancy price for hillcrest--not!" but that ended the discussion. "maw" pritchett looked on in wonder. she had seen her husband beaten in an argument by a "chit of a girl"--and really, cyrus did not seem to be very ugly, or put out about it, either! he told lucas to put the ponies to the wagon again, and to take the bray girls and their belongings up to hillcrest; and to see that they were comfortable for the night before he came back. this encouraged mrs. pritchett, when lyddy took out her purse to pay for their entertainment, to declare: "for the good land, no! we ain't goin' to charge ye for a meal of vittles--and you gals dr. polly phelps's own grandchildren! b'sides, we want ye to be neighborly. it's nice for sairy to have young companions, too. i tell her she'll git to be a reg'lar old maid if she don't 'sociate more with gals of her own age." sairy bridled and blushed at this. but she wasn't an unkind girl, and she helped 'phemie gather their possessions--especially the latter's wet clothing. "i'm sure i wish ye joy up there at the old house," said sairy, with a shudder. "but ye wouldn't ketch me." "catch you doing what?" asked 'phemie, wonderingly. "stayin' in dr. phelps's old house over night," explained sairy. "why not?" the farmer's daughter drew close to 'phemie's ear and whispered: "it's ha'nted!" "_what?_" cried 'phemie. "ghosts," exclaimed sairy, in a thrilling voice. "all old houses is ha'nted. and that's been give up to ghosts for years an' years." "oh, goody!" exclaimed 'phemie, clasping her hands and almost dancing in delight. "do you mean it's a really, truly haunted house?" sairy pritchett gazed at her with slack jaw and round eyes for a minute. then she sniffed. "wa-al!" she muttered. "i re'lly thought you was _bright_. but i see ye ain't got any too much sense, after all," and forthwith refused to say anything more to 'phemie. but the younger bray girl decided to say nothing about the supposed ghostly occupants of hillcrest to her sister--for the present, at least. there was still half a mile of road to climb to hillcrest, for the way was more winding than it had been below; and as the girls viewed the summit of the ridge behind aunt jane's old farm they saw that the heaped-up rocks were far more rugged than romantic, after all. "there's two hundred acres of it," lucas observed, chirruping to the ponies. "but more'n a hundred is little more'n rocks. and even the timber growin' among 'em ain't wuth the cuttin'. ye couldn't draw it out. there's firewood enough on the place, and a-plenty! but that's 'bout all--'nless ye wanted to cut fence rails, or posts." "what are those trees at one side, near the house?" queried lyddy, interestedly. "the old orchard. _there's_ your nearest firewood. ain't been much fruit there since i can remember. all run down." and, indeed, hillcrest looked to be, as they approached it, a typical run-down farm. tall, dry weed-stalks clashed a welcome to them from the fence corners as the ponies turned into the lane from the public road. the sun had drawn a veil of cloud across his face and the wind moaned in the gaunt branches of the beech trees that fringed the lane. the house was set upon a knoll, with a crumbling, roofed porch around the front and sides. there were trees, but they were not planted near enough to the house to break the view on every side but one of the sloping, green and brown mountainside, falling away in terraced fields, patches of forest, tablelands of rich, tillable soil, and bush-cluttered pastures, down into the shadowy valley, through which the river and the railroad wound. behind hillcrest, beyond the outbuildings, and across the narrow, poverty-stricken fields, were the battlements of rock, shutting out all view but that of the sky. lonely it was, as aunt jane had declared; but to the youthful eyes of the bray girls the outlook was beautiful beyond compare! "our land jines this farm down yonder a piece," explained lucas, drawing in the ponies beside the old house. "ye ain't got nobody behind ye till ye git over the top of the ridge. your line follers the road on this side, and on the other side of the road is eben brewster's stock farm of a thousand acres--mostly bush-parsture an' rocks, up this a-way." the girls were but momentarily interested in the outlook, however. it was the old house itself which their bright eyes scanned more particularly as they climbed down from the wagon. there were two wings, or "ells." in the west wing was the kitchen and evidently both sitting and sleeping rooms, upstairs and down--enough to serve all their present needs. aunt jane had told them that there were, altogether, twenty-two rooms in the old house. lucas hitched his horses and then began to lift down their luggage. lyddy led the way to the side door, of which she had the key. the lower windows were defended by tight board shutters, all about the house. the old house had been well guarded from the depredations of casual wayfarers. had tramps passed this way the possible plunder in the old house had promised to be too bulky to attract them; and such wanderers could have slept as warmly in the outbuildings. lyddy inserted the key and, after some trouble, for the lock was rusty, turned it. there was an ancient brass latch, and she lifted it and pushed the door open. "my! isn't it dark--and musty," the older sister said, hesitating on the threshold. "welcome to the ghosts of hillcrest," spoke 'phemie, in a sepulchral voice. "oh, don't!" gasped lyddy. she had not been afraid of cyrus pritchett, but 'phemie's irreverence for the spirits of the old house shocked her. "all right," laughed the younger girl. "we'll cut out the ghosts, then." "we most certainly _will_. if i met a ghost here i'd certainly cut him dead!" 'phemie went forward boldly and opened the door leading into the big kitchen. it was gloomy there, too, for the shutters kept out most of the light. the girls could see, however, that it was a well-furnished room. they were delighted, too, for this must be their living-room until they could set the house to rights. "dust, dust everywhere," said 'phemie, making a long mark in it with her finger on the dresser. "but _only_ dust. we can get cleaned up here all right by evening. come! unhook the shutters and let in the light of day." the younger girl raised one of the small-paned window sashes, unbolted the shutter, and pushed both leaves open. the light streamed in and almost at once lucas's head appeared. "how does it look to ye--eh?" he asked, grinning. "gee! the hearth's all cleared and somebody's had a fire here." "it must have been a long time ago," returned lyddy, noting the crusted ashes between the andirons. "wa-al," said lucas, slowly. "i'll git to work with the axe an' soon start ye a fire there, b-r-r-r! it's cold as a dog's nose in there," and he disappeared again. but the sunlight and air which soon flooded the room through all the windows quickly gave the long-shut-up kitchen a new atmosphere. 'phemie already had on a working dress, having changed at the pritchett house after her unfortunate ducking; lyddy soon laid aside her own better frock, too. then they found their bundle of brooms and brushes, and set to work. there was a pump on the back porch and a well in the yard. during all these empty years the leather valve of the pump had rotted away; but lucas brought them water from the well. "i kin git the shoemaker in town to cut ye out a new leather," said the young farmer. "he's got a pattern. an' i can put it in for ye. the pump'll be a sight handier than the well for you two gals." "now, isn't he a nice boy?" demanded lyddy of her sister. "and you called him a freak." "don't rub it in, lyd," snapped 'phemie. "but it is hard to have to accept a veritable gawk of a fellow like lucas--for that's what he _is_!--as a sure-enough hero." this was said aside, of course, and while lucas was doing yeoman's work at the woodpile. he had brought in a huge backlog, placed it carefully, laid a forestick and the kindling, and soon blue and yellow flames were weaving through the well-built structure of the fire. there was a swinging crane for the kettle and a long bar with hooks upon it, from which various cooking pots could dangle. built into the chimney, too, was a brick oven with a sheet-iron door. the girls thought all these old-fashioned arrangements delightful, whether they proved convenient, or not. they swept and dusted the old kitchen thoroughly, and cleaned the cupboards and pantry-closet. then they turned their attention to the half bedchamber, half sitting-room that opened directly out of the kitchen. in these two rooms they proposed to live at first--until their father could join them, at least. there was an old-time high, four-post bed in this second room. it had been built long before some smart man had invented springs, and its frame was laced from side to side, and up and down, like the warp and woof of a rug, with a "bedrope" long since rotted and moth-eaten. "my goodness me!" exclaimed 'phemie, laughing. "that will never hold you and me, lyd. we'll just have to stuff that old tick with hay and sleep on the floor." but lucas heard their discussion and again came to their help. lyddy had bought a new clothesline when she purchased her food supplies at the city department store, and the clever lucas quickly roped the old bedstead. "that boy certainly is rising by leaps and bounds in my estimation," admitted 'phemie, in a whisper, to her sister. then came the problem of the bed. lyddy had saved their pillows from the wreck of the flat; but the mattresses had gone with the furniture to the second-hand man. there might be good feather beds in the farmhouse attic; aunt jane had said something about them, lyddy believed. but there was no time to hunt for these now. "here is a tick," 'phemie said again. "what'll we fill it with?" "give it to me," volunteered lucas. "one of the stable lofts is half full of rye straw. we thrashed some rye on this place last year. it's jest as good beddin' for humans as it is for cattle, i declare." "all right," sighed 'phemie. "we'll bed down like the cows for a while. i don't see anything better to do." but really, by sunset, they were nearly to rights and the prospect for a comfortable first night at hillcrest was good. lucas's huge fire warmed both the kitchen and the bedroom, despite the fact that the evening promised to be chilly, with the wind mourning about the old house and rattling the shutters. the girls closed the blinds, made all cozy, and bade young pritchett good-night. lyddy had paid him the promised dollar for transporting their goods, and another half-dollar for the work he had done about the house that afternoon. "and i'll come up in the mornin' an' bring ye the milk an' eggs maw promised ye," said lucas, as he drove away, "and i'll cut ye some more wood then." there was already a great heap of sticks beside the hearth, and in the porch another windrow, sheltered from any possible storm. "we're in luck to have such good neighbors," sighed lyddy, as the farm wagon rattled away. "my! but we're going to have good times here," declared 'phemie, coming into the house after her and closing and locking the door. "it's a long way off from everybody else," observed the older sister, in a doubtful tone. "but i don't believe we shall be disturbed." "nonsense!" cried 'phemie. "let's have supper. i'm starved to death." she swung the blackened old tea-kettle over the blaze, and moved briskly about the room laying the cloth, while lyddy got out crackers and cheese and opened a tin of meat before she brewed the comforting cup of tea that both girls wanted. however, they _were_ alone--half a mile from the nearest habitation--and if nothing else, they could not help secretly comparing their loneliness with the tenement in the city from which they had so recently graduated. chapter viii the whisper in the dark 'phemie was very bold--until something really scared her--and then she was quite likely to lose her head altogether. lyddy was timid by nature, but an emergency forced her courage to high pressure. they both, however, tried to ignore the fact that they were alone in the old house, far up on the mountainside, and a considerable distance from any neighbor. that was why they chattered so all through supper--and afterward. neither girl cared to let silence fall upon the room. the singing of the kettle on the crane was a blessing. it made music that drove away "that lonesome feeling." and when it actually bubbled over and the drip of it fell hissing into the fire, 'phemie laughed as though it were a great joke. "such a jolly thing as an open fire is, i declare," she said, sitting down at last in one of the low, splint-bottomed chairs, when the supper dishes were put away. "i don't blame grandfather phelps for refusing to allow stoves to be put up in his day." "i fancy it would take a deal of wood to heat the old house in real cold weather," lyddy said. "but it _is_ cheerful." "woo-oo! woo-oo-oo!" moaned the wind around the corner of the house. a ghostly hand rattled a shutter. then a shrill whistle in the chimney startled them. at such times the sisters talked all the faster--and louder. it was really quite remarkable how much they found to say to each other. they wondered how father was getting along at the hospital, and if aunt jane would surely see him every day or two, and write them. then they exchanged comments upon what they had seen of bridleburg, and finally fell back upon the pritchetts as a topic of conversation--and that family seemed an unfailing source of suggestion until finally 'phemie jumped up, declaring: "what's the use of this, lyd? let's go to bed. we're both half scared to death, but we'll be no worse off in bed----and, b-r-r-r! the fire's going down." they banked the fire as lucas had advised them, put out the lamp, and retired with the candle to the bedroom. the straw mattress rustled as though it were full of mice, when the sisters had said their prayers and climbed into bed. 'phemie blew out the candle; but she had laid matches near it on the high stand beside her pillow. "i hope there _are_ feather beds in the garret," she murmured, drowsily. "this old straw is _so_ scratchy." "we'll look to-morrow," lyddy said. "aunt jane said we could make use of anything we found here. but, my! it's a big house for only three people." "it is," admitted 'phemie. "i'd feel a whole lot better if it was full of folks." "i have it!" exclaimed lyddy, suddenly. "we might take boarders." "summer boarders?" asked her sister, curiously. "i--i s'pose so." "that's a long way ahead. it's winter yet," and 'phemie snuggled down into her pillow. "folks from the city would never want to come to an old house like this--with so few conveniences in it." "_we_ like it; don't we?" demanded lyddy. "i don't know whether we do yet, or not," replied 'phemie. "let's wait and see." 'phemie was drowsy, yet somehow she couldn't fall asleep. usually she was the first of the two to do so; but to-night lyddy's deeper breathing assured the younger sister that she alone was awake in all the great, empty house. and sairy pritchett had intimated that hillcrest was haunted! now, 'phemie didn't believe in ghosts--not at all. she would have been very angry had anyone suggested that there was a superstitious strain in her character. yet, as she lay there beside her sleeping sister she began to hear the strangest sounds. it wasn't the wind; nor was it the low crackling of the fire on the kitchen hearth. she could easily distinguish both of these. soon, too, she made out the insistent gnawing of a rat behind the mopboard. that long-tailed gentleman seemed determined to get in; but 'phemie was not afraid of rats. at least, not so long as they kept out of sight. but there were other noises. once 'phemie had all but lost herself in sleep when--it seemed--a voice spoke directly in her ear. it said: "_i thought i'd find you here._" 'phemie started into a sitting posture in the rustling straw bed. she listened hard. the voice was silent. the fire was still. the wind had suddenly dropped. even the rat had ceased his sapping and mining operations. what had frightened mr. rat away? he, too, must have heard that mysterious voice. 'phemie could not believe she had imagined it. was that a rustling sound? were those distant steps she heard--somewhere in the house? did she hear a door creak? she slipped out of bed, drew on her woollen wrapper and thrust her feet into slippers. she saw that it was bright moonlight outside, for a pencil of light came through a chink in one of the shutters. lyddy slept as calmly as a baby--and 'phemie was glad. of course, it was all foolishness about ghosts; but she believed there was somebody prowling about the house. she lit the candle and after the flame had sputtered a bit and began to burn clear she carried it into the kitchen. their little round alarm clock ticked modestly on the dresser. it was not yet ten o'clock. "not the 'witching hour of midnight, when graveyards yawn'--and other people do, too," thought 'phemie, giggling nervously. "surely ghosts cannot be walking yet." indeed, she was quite assured that what she had heard--both the voice and the footsteps--were very much of the earth, earthy. there was nothing supernatural in the mysterious sounds. and it seemed to 'phemie as though the steps had retreated toward the east ell--the other wing of the rambling old farmhouse. what was it lucas pritchett had said about his father using the cellar under the east wing at hillcrest? yet, what would bring cyrus pritchett--or anybody else--up here to the vinegar cellar at ten o'clock at night? 'phemie grew braver by the minute. she determined to run this mystery down, and she was quite sure that it would prove to be a very human and commonplace mystery after all. she opened the door between the kitchen and the dark side hall by which they had first entered the old house that afternoon. although she had never been this way, 'phemie knew that out of this square hall opened a long passage leading through the main house to the east wing. and she easily found the door giving entrance to this corridor. but she hesitated when she stood on the threshold, and almost gave up the venture altogether. a cold, damp breath rushed out at her--just as though some huge, subterranean monster lay in wait for her in the darkness--a darkness so dense that the feeble ray of her candle could only penetrate it a very little way. "how foolish of me!" murmured 'phemie. "i've come so far--i guess i can see it through." she certainly did not believe that the steps and voice were inside the house. the passage was empty before her. she refused to let the rising tide of trepidation wash away her self-control. so she stepped in boldly, holding the candle high, and proceeded along the corridor. there were tightly closed doors on either side, and behind each door was a mystery. she could not help but feel this. every door was a menace to her peace of mind. "but i will _not_ think of such things," she told herself. "i know if there _is_ anybody about the house, it is a very human somebody indeed--and he has no business here at this time of night!" in her bed-slippers 'phemie's light feet fell softly on the frayed oilcloth that carpeted the long hall. dimly she saw two or three heavy, ancient pieces of furniture standing about--a tall escritoire with three paneled mirrors, which reflected herself and her candle dimly; a long davenport with hungry arms and the dust lying thick upon its haircloth upholstery; chairs with highly ornate spindles in their perfectly "straight up and down," uncomfortable-looking backs. she came to the end of the hall. a door faced her which she was sure must lead into the east wing. there, aunt jane had said, old dr. polly phelps had had his office, consultation room, and workshop, or laboratory. 'phemie's hand hesitated on the latch. should she venture into the old doctor's rooms? the greater part of his long and useful life had been spent behind this green-painted door. 'phemie, of course, had never seen her grandfather; but she had seen his picture--that of a tall, pink-faced, full-bodied man, his cheeks and lips cleanly shaven, but with a fringe of silvery beard under his chin, and long hair. it seemed to her for a moment as though, if she opened this door, the apparition of the old doctor, just as he was in his picture, would be there to face her. "you little fool!" whispered the shaken 'phemie to herself. "go on!" she lifted the latch. the door seemed to stick. she pressed her knee against the panel; it did not give at all. and then she discovered that the door was locked. but the key was there, and in a moment she turned it creakingly and pushed the door open. the air in the corridor had been still; but suddenly a strong breeze drew this green door wide open. the wind rushed past, blew out the candle, and behind her the other door, which she had left ajar, banged heavily, echoing and reechoing through the empty house. 'phemie was startled, but she understood at once the snuffing of her candle and the closing of the other door. she only hoped lyddy would not be frightened by the noise--or by her absence from her side. "i'll see it through, just the same," declared the girl, her teeth set firmly on her lower lip. "ha! driven away by a draught--not i!" she groped her way into the room and closed the green door. there was a match upon her candlestick and she again lighted the taper. quickly the first room in this east wing suite was revealed to her gaze. this had been the anteroom, or waiting-room for the old doctor's patients. there was a door opening on the side porch. a long, old-fashioned settee stood against one wall, and some splint-bottomed chairs were set stiffly about the room, while a shaky mahogany table, with one pedestal leg, occupied the center of the apartment. 'phemie was more careful of the candle now and shielded the flame with her hollowed palm as she pushed open the door of the adjoining room. here was a big desk with a high top and drop lid, while there were rows upon rows of drawers underneath. a wide-armed chair stood before the desk, just as it must have been used by the old doctor. the room was lined to the ceiling with cases of books and cupboards. nobody had disturbed the doctor's possessions after his death. no younger physician had "taken over" his practice. 'phemie went near enough to see that the desk, and the cupboards as well, were locked. there was a long case standing like an overgrown clock-case in one corner. the candle-light was reflected in the front of this case as though the door was a mirror. but when 'phemie approached it she saw that it was merely a glass door with a curtain of black cambric hung behind it. she was curious to know what was in the case. it had no lock and key and she stretched forth a tentative hand and turned the old-fashioned button which held it closed. the door seemed fairly to spring open, as though pushed from within, and, as it swung outward and the flickering candle-light penetrated its interior, 'phemie heard a sudden surprising sound. somewhere--behind her, above, below, in the air, all about her--was a sigh! nay, it was more than a sigh; it was a mighty and unmistakable yawn! and on the heels of this yawn a voice exclaimed: "i'm getting mighty tired of this!" 'phemie flashed her gaze back to the open case. fear held her by the throat and choked back the shriek she would have been glad to utter. for, dangling there in the case, its eyeless skull on a level with her own face, hung an articulated skeleton; and to 'phemie bray's excited comprehension it seemed as though both the yawn and the apt speech which followed it, had proceeded from the grinning jaws of the skull! chapter ix morning at hillcrest the bang of the door, closed by the draught when 'phemie had opened the way into the east wing, _had_ aroused lyddy. she came to herself--to a consciousness of her strange surroundings--with a sharpness of apprehension that set every nerve in her body to tingling. "'phemie! what is it?" she whispered. then, rolling over on the rustling straw mattress, she reached for her sister's hand. but 'phemie was not there. "'phemie!" lyddy cried loudly, sitting straight up in bed. she knew she was alone in the room, and hopped out of bed, shivering. she groped for her robe and her slippers. then she sped swiftly into the kitchen. she knew where the lamp and the match-box were. quickly she had the lamp a-light and then swept the big room with a startled glance. 'phemie had disappeared. the outside door was still locked. it seemed to lyddy as though the echoing slam of the door that had awakened her was still ringing in her ears. she ran to the hall door and opened it. dark--and not a sound! where could 'phemie have gone? the older sister had never known 'phemie to walk in her sleep. she had no tricks of somnambulism that lyddy knew anything about. and yet the older bray girl was quite sure her sister had come this way. the lamplight, when the door was opened wide, illuminated the square hall quite well. lyddy ran across it and pushed open the door of the long corridor. there was no light in it, yet she could see outlined the huge pieces of furniture, and the ugly chairs. and at the very moment she opened this door, the door at the far end was flung wide and a white figure plunged toward her. "'phemie!" screamed the older sister. "lyddy!" wailed 'phemie. and in a moment they were in each other's arms and lyddy was dragging 'phemie across the entrance hall into the lighted kitchen. "what is it? what _is_ it?" gasped lyddy. "oh, oh, oh!" was all 'phemie was able to say for the moment; then, as she realized how really terrified her sister was, she continued her series of "ohs" while she thought very quickly. she knew very well what had scared her; but why add to lyddy's fright? she could not explain away the voice she had heard. of course, she knew very well it had _not_ proceeded from the skeleton. but why terrify lyddy by saying anything about that awful thing? "what scared you so?" repeated lyddy, shaking her a bit. "i--i don't know," stammered 'phemie--and she didn't! "but why did you get up?" "i thought i heard something--voices--people talking--steps," gasped 'phemie, and now her teeth began to chatter so that she could scarcely speak. "foolish girl!" exclaimed lyddy, rapidly recovering her own self-control. "you dreamed it. and now you've got a chill, wandering through this old house. here! sit down there!" she drove her into a low chair beside the hearth. she ran for an extra comforter to wrap around her. she raked the ashes off the coals of the fire, and set the tea-kettle right down upon the glowing bed. in a minute it began to steam and gurgle, and lyddy made her sister an old-fashioned brew of ginger tea. when the younger girl had swallowed half a bowlful of the scalding mixture she ceased shaking. and by that time, too, she had quite recovered her self-control. "you're a very foolish little girl," declared lyddy, warningly, "to get up alone and go wandering about this house. why, _i_ wouldn't do it for--for the whole farm!" "i--i dropped my candle. it went out," said 'phemie, quietly. "i guess being in the dark scared me more than anything." "now, that's enough. forget it! we'll go to bed again and see if we can't get some sleep. why! it's past eleven." so the sisters crept into bed again, and lay in each other's arms, whispering a bit and finally, before either of them knew it, they were asleep. and neither ghosts, nor whispering voices, nor any other midnight sounds disturbed their slumbers for the remainder of that first night at hillcrest. they were awake betimes--and without the help of the alarm clock. it was pretty cold in the two rooms; but they threw kindling on the coals and soon the flames were playing tag through the interlacing sticks that 'phemie heaped upon the fire. the kettle was soon bubbling again, while lyddy mixed batter cakes. a little bed of live coals was raked together in front of the main fire and on this a well greased griddle was set, where the cakes baked to a tender brown and were skillfully lifted off by 'phemie and buttered and sugared. what if a black coal or two _did_ snap over the cakes? and what if 'phemie's hair _did_ get smoked and "smelly?" both girls declared cooking before an open fire to be great fun. they had yet, however, to learn a lot about "how our foremothers cooked." "i don't for the life of me see how they ever used that brick oven," said lyddy, pointing to the door in the side of the chimney. "surely, that hole in the bricks would never heat from _this_ fire." "ask lucas," advised 'phemie, and as though in answer to that word, lucas himself appeared, bearing offerings of milk, eggs, and new bread. "huh!" he said, in a gratified tone, sniffing in the doorway. "i told maw you two gals wouldn't go hungry. ye air a sight too clever." "thank you, lucas," said lyddy, demurely. "will you have a cup of tea!" "no'm. i've had my breakfast. it's seven now and i'll go right t' work cutting wood for ye. that's what ye'll want most, i reckon. and i want to git ye a pile ready, for it won't be many days before we start plowin', an' then dad won't hear to me workin' away from home." lyddy went out of doors for a moment and spoke to him from the porch. "don't do too much trimming in the orchard, lucas, till i have a look at the trees. i have a book about the care of an old orchard, and perhaps i can make something out of this one." "plenty of other wood handy, miss lyddy," declared the lanky young fellow. "and it'll be easier to split than apple and peach wood, too." 'phemie, meanwhile, had said she would run in and find the candle she had dropped in her fright the night before; but in truth it was more for the purpose of seeing the east wing of the old house by daylight--and that skeleton. "no need for lyddy to come in here and have a conniption fit, too," thought the younger sister, "through coming unexpectedly upon that thing in the case. "and, my gracious! he might just as well have been the author of that mysterious speech i heard. i should think he _would_ be tired of staying shut up in that box," pursued the girl, giggling nervously, as she stood before the open case in which the horrid thing dangled. light enough came through the cracks in the closed shutters to reveal to her the rooms that the old doctor had so long occupied. 'phemie closed the skeleton case and picked up her candle. then she continued her investigation of the suite to the third room. here were shelves and work-benches littered with a heterogeneous collection of bottles, tubes, retorts, filters, and other things of which 'phemie did not even know the names or uses. there was a door, too, that opened directly into the back yard. but this door was locked and double-bolted. she was sure that the person, or persons, whom she had heard talking the night before had not been in this room. when she withdrew from the east wing she locked the green-painted door as she had found it; but in addition, she removed the key and hid it where she was sure nobody but herself would be likely to find it. later she tackled lucas. "i don't suppose you--or any of your folks--were up here last night, lucas?" she asked the young farmer, out of her sister's hearing. "me, miss? i should say not!" replied the surprised lucas. "but i heard voices around the house." "do tell!" exclaimed he. "who would be likely to come here at night?" "why, i never heard the beat o' that," declared lucas. "no, ma'am!" "sh! don't let my sister hear," whispered 'phemie. "she heard nothing." "air you sure----" began lucas, but at that the young girl snapped him up quick enough: "i am confident i even heard some things they said. they were men. it sounded as though they spoke over there by the east wing--_or in the cellar_." "ye don't mean it!" exclaimed the wondering lucas, leading the way slowly to the cellar-hatch just under the windows of the old doctor's workshop. this hatch was fastened by a big brass padlock. "dad's got the key to that," said lucas. "jest like i told you, we have stored vinegar in it, some. ain't many barrels left at this time o' year. dad sells off as he can during the winter." "and, of course, your father didn't come up here last night?" "shucks! o' course not," replied the young farmer. "ain't no vinegar buyer around in this neighborhood now--an' 'specially not at night. dad ain't much for goin' out in the evenin', nohow. he does sit up an' read arter we're all gone to bed sometimes. but it couldn't be dad you heard up here--no, miss." so the puzzle remained a puzzle. however, the bray girls had so much to do, and so much to think of that, after all, the mystery of the night occupied a very small part of 'phemie's thought. lyddy had something--and a very important something, she thought--on her mind. it had risen naturally out of the talk the girls had had when they first went to bed the evening before. 'phemie had wished for a houseful of company to make hillcrest less lonely; the older sister had seized upon the idea as a practical suggestion. why not fill the big house--if they could? why not enter the lists in the land-wide struggle for summer boarders? of course, if aunt jane would approve. first of all, however, lyddy wanted to see the house--the chambers upstairs especially; and she proposed to her sister, when their morning's work was done, that they make a tour of discovery. "lead on," 'phemie replied, eagerly. "i hope we find a softer bed than that straw mattress--and one that won't tickle so! aunt jane said we could do just as we pleased with things here; didn't she?" "within reason," agreed lyddy. "and that's all very well up to a certain point, i fancy. but i guess aunt jane doesn't expect us to make use of the whole house. we will probably find this west wing roomy enough for our needs, even when father comes." they ventured first up the stairs leading to the rooms in this wing. there were two nice ones here and a wide hall with windows overlooking the slope of the mountainside toward bridleburg. they could see for miles the winding road up which they had climbed the day before. "yes, this wing will do very nicely for _us_," lyddy said, thinking aloud. "we can make that room downstairs where we're sleeping, our sitting-room when it comes warm weather; and that will give us all the rest of the house----" "all but the old doctor's offices," suggested 'phemie, doubtfully. "there are three of them." "well," returned lyddy, "three and four are seven; and seven from twenty-two leaves fifteen. some of the first-floor rooms we'll have to use as dining and sitting-rooms for the boarders----" "my goodness me!" exclaimed her sister, again breaking in upon her ruminations. "you've got the house full of boarders already; have you? what will aunt jane say?" "that we'll find out. but there ought to be at least twelve rooms to let. if there's as much furniture and stuff in all as there is in these----" "but how'll we ever get the boarders? and how'd we cook for 'em over that open fire? it's ridiculous!" declared 'phemie. "_that_ is yet to be proved," returned her sister, unruffled. they pursued their investigation through the second-floor rooms. there were eight of them in the main part of the house and two in the east wing over the old doctor's offices. the last two were only partially furnished and had been used in their grandfather's day more for "lumber rooms" than aught else. it was evident that dr. phelps had demanded quiet and freedom in his own particular wing of hillcrest. but the eight rooms in the main part of the house on this second floor were all of good size, well lighted, and completely furnished. some of them had probably not been slept in for fifty years, for when the girls' mother, and even aunt jane, were young, dr. apollo phelps's immediate family was not a large one. "the furniture is all old-fashioned, it is true," lyddy said, reflectively. "there isn't a metal bed in the whole house----" "and i had just as lief sleep in a coffin as in some of these high-headed carved walnut bedsteads," declared 'phemie. "you don't have to sleep in them," responded her sister, quietly. "but some people would think it a privilege to do so." "they can have _my_ share, and no charge," sniffed the younger girl. "that bed downstairs is bad enough. and what would we do for mattresses? that's _one_ antique they wouldn't stand for--believe me! straw beds, indeed!" "we'll see about that. we might get some cheap elastic-felt mattresses, one at a time, as we needed them." "and springs?" "some of the bedsteads are roped like the one we sleep on. others have old-fashioned spiral springs--and there are no better made to-day. the rust can be cleaned off and they can be painted." "i see plainly you're laying out a lot of work for us," sighed 'phemie. "well, we've got to work to live," responded her sister, briskly. "ya-as," drawled 'phemie, in imitation of lucas pritchett. "but i don't want to feel as though i was just living to work!" "lazybones!" laughed lyddy. "you know, if we really got started in this game----" "a game; is it? keeping boarders!" "well?" "i fancy it's downright hard work," quoth 'phemie. "but if it makes us independent? if it will keep poor father out of the shop? if it can be made to support us?" cried lyddy. 'phemie flushed suddenly and her eyes sparkled. she seized her more sedate sister and danced her about the room. "oh, i don't care how hard i work if it'll do all that!" she agreed. "come on, lyd! let's write to aunt jane right away." chapter x the venture but lyddy bray never made up her mind in a hurry. perhaps she was inclined to err on the side of caution. whereas 'phemie eagerly accepted a new thing, was enthusiastic about it for a time, and then tired of it unless she got "her second wind," as she herself laughingly admitted, lyddy would talk over a project a long time before she really decided to act upon it. it was so in this case. once having seen the vista of possibilities that lyddy's plan revealed, the younger girl was eager to plunge into the summer-boarder project at once. but lyddy was determined to know just what they had to work with, and just what they would need, before broaching the plan to aunt jane. so she insisted upon giving a more than cursory examination to each of the eight chambers on this second floor. some of the pieces of old furniture needed mending; but most of the mending could be done with a pot of glue and a little ingenuity. furthermore, a can of prepared varnish and some linseed oil and alcohol would give most of the well-made and age-darkened furniture the gloss it needed. there were old-style stone-china toilet sets in profusion, and plenty of mirrors, while there was closet room galore. the main lack, as 'phemie had pointed out, was in the mattress line. but when the girls climbed to the garret floor they found one finished room there--a very good sleeping-room indeed--and on the bedstead in this room were stacked, one on top of another, at least a dozen feather beds. each bed was wrapped in sheets of tarred paper--hermetically sealed from moths or other insect life. "oh, for goodness sake, lyd!" cried 'phemie, "let's take one of these to sleep on. there are pillows, too; but we've got _them_. say! we can put one of these beds on top of the straw tick and be in comfort at last." "all right. but the feather bed would be pretty warm for summer use," sighed lyddy, as she helped her sister lift down one of the beds--priceless treasures of the old-time housewife. "country folk--some of them--sleep on feathers the year 'round," proclaimed 'phemie. "perhaps your summer boarders can be educated up to it--or _down_ to it." "well, we'll try the 'down' and see how it works," agreed lyddy. "my! these feathers are pressed as flat as a pancake. the bed must go out into the sun and air and be tossed once in a while, so that the air will get through it, before there'll be any 'life' in these feathers. now, don't try to do it all, 'phemie. i'll help you downstairs with it in a minute. i just want to look into the big garret while we're up here. dear me! isn't it dusty?" such an attractive-looking assortment of chests, trunks, old presses, boxes, chests of drawers, decrepit furniture, and the like as was set about that garret! there was no end of old clothing hanging from the rafters, too--a forest of garments that would have delighted an old clo' man; but---- "oo! oo! ooo!" hooted 'phemie. "look at the spider webs. why, i wouldn't touch those things for the whole farm. i bet there are fat old spiders up there as big as silver dollars." "well, we can keep away from that corner," said lyddy, with a shudder. "i don't want old coats and hats. but i wonder what _is_ in those drawers. we shall want bed linen if we go into the business of keeping boarders." she tried to open some of the nearest presses and bureaus, but all were locked. so, rather dusty and disheveled, they retired to the floor below, between them managing to carry the feather bed out upon the porch where the sun could shine upon it. at noon lyddy "buzzed" lucas, as 'phemie called it, about the way folk in the neighborhood cooked with an open fire, and especially about the use of the brick oven that was built into the side of the chimney. "that air contraption," confessed the young farmer, "ain't much more real use than a fifth leg on a caow--for a fac'. but old folks used 'em. my grandmaw did. "she useter shovel live coals inter the oven an' build a reg'lar fire on the oven bottom. arter it was het right up she'd sweep aout the brands and ashes with long-handled brushes, an' then set the bread, an' pies, an' injun puddin' an' the like--sometimes the beanpot, too--on the oven floor. ye see, them bricks will hold heat a long time. "but lemme tell ye," continued lucas, shaking his head, "it took the _know how_, i reckon, ter bake stuff right by sech means. my maw never could do it. she says either her bread would be all crust, or 'twas raw in the middle. "but now," pursued lucas, "these 'ere what they call 'dutch ovens' ain't so bad. i kin remember before dad bought maw the stove, she used a dutch oven--an' she's got it yet. i know she'd lend it to you gals." "that's real nice of you, lucas," said 'phemie, briskly. "but what is it?" "why, it's a big sheet-iron pan with a tight cover. you set it right in the coals and shovel coals on top of it and all around it. things bake purty good in a dutch oven--ya-as'm! beans never taste so good to my notion as they useter when maw baked 'em in the old dutch oven. an' dad says they was 'nough sight better when _he_ was a boy an' grandmaw baked 'em in an oven like that one there," and lucas nodded at the closet in the chimney that 'phemie had opened to peer into. "ye see, it's the slow, steady heat that don't die down till mornin'--that's what bakes beans nice," declared this yankee epicure. lucas had a "knack" with the axe, and he cut and piled enough wood to last the girls at least a fortnight. lyddy felt as though she could not afford to hire him more than that one day at present; but he was going to town next day and he promised to bring back a pump leather and some few other necessities that the girls needed. before he went home lucas got 'phemie off to one side and managed to stammer: "if you gals air scart--or the like o' that--you jest say so an' i'll keep watch around here for a night or two, an' see if i kin ketch the fellers you heard talkin' last night." "oh, lucas! i wouldn't trouble you for the world," returned 'phemie. lucas's countenance was a wonderful lobster-like red, and he was so bashful that his eyes fairly watered. "'twouldn't be no trouble, miss 'phemie," he told her. "'twould be a pleasure--it re'lly would." "but what would folks say?" gasped 'phemie, her eyes dancing. "what would your sister and mother say?" "they needn't know a thing about it," declared lucas, eagerly. "i--i could slip out o' my winder an' down the shed ruff, an' sneak up here with my shot-gun." "why, mr. pritchett! i believe you are in the habit of doing such things. i am afraid you get out that way often, and the family knows nothing about it." "naw, i don't--only circus days, an' w'en the wild west show comes, an'--an' fourth of july mornin's. but don't you tell; will yer?" "cross my heart!" promised 'phemie, giggling. "but suppose you should shoot somebody around here with that gun?" "sarve 'em aout jest right!" declared the young farmer, boldly. "b'sides, i'd only load it with rock-salt. 'twould pepper 'em some." "salt and pepper 'em, lucas," giggled the girl. "and season 'em right, i expect, for breaking our rest." "i'll do it!" declared lucas. "don't you dare!" threatened 'phemie. "why--why----" lucas was swamped in his own confusion again. "not unless i tell you you may," said 'phemie, smiling on him dazzlingly once more. "wa-al." "wait and see if we are disturbed again," spoke the girl, more kindly. "i really am obliged to you, lucas; but i couldn't hear of your watching under our windows these cold nights--and, of course, it wouldn't be proper for us to let you stay in the house." "wa-al," agreed the disappointed youth. "but if ye need me, ye'll let me know?" "sure pop!" she told him, and was only sorry when he was gone that she could not tell lyddy all about it, and give her older sister "an imitation" of lucas as a cavalier. the girls wrote the letter to aunt jane that evening and the next morning they watched for the rural mail-carrier, who came along the highroad, past the end of their lane, before noon. he brought a letter from aunt jane for lyddy, and he was ready to stop and gossip with the girls who had so recently come to hillcrest farm. "i'm glad to see some life about the old doctor's house again," declared the man. "i can remember dr. polly--everybody called him that--right well. he was a queer customer some ways--brusk, and sort of rough. but he was a good deal like a chestnut burr. his outside was his worst side. he didn't have no soothing bedside mannerisms; but if a feller was real _sick_, it was a new lease of life to jest have the old doctor come inter the room!" it made the girls happy and proud to have people speak this way of their grandfather. "he warn't a man who didn't make enemies," ruminated the mail-carrier. "he was too strong a man not to be well hated in certain quarters. he warn't pussy-footed. what he meant he said out square and straight, an' when he put his foot down he put it down emphatic. yes, sir! "but he had a sight more friends than enemies when he died. and lots o' folks that thought they hated dr. polly could look back--when he was dead and gone--an' see how he'd done 'em many a kind turn unbeknownst to 'em at the time. "why," rambled on the mail-carrier, "i was talkin' to jud spink in birch's store only las' night. jud ain't been 'round here for some time before, an' suthin' started talk about the old doctor. jud, of course, sailed inter him." "why?" asked 'phemie, trying to appear interested, while lyddy swiftly read her letter. "oh, i reckon you two gals--bein' only granddaughters of the old doctor--never heard much about jud spink--lemuel judson spink he calls hisself now, an' puts a 'professor' in front of his name, too." "is he a professor?" asked 'phemie. "i dunno. he's been a good many things. injun doctor--actor--medicine show fakir--patent medicine pedlar; and now he owns 'diamond grits'--the greatest food on airth, _he_ claims, an' i tell him it's great all right, for man _an'_ beast!" and the mail-carrier went off into a spasm of laughter over his own joke. "diamond grits is a breakfast food," chuckled 'phemie. "do you s'pose horses would eat it, too?" "mine will," said the mail-carrier. "jud sent me a case of grits and i fed most of it to this critter. sassige an' buckwheats satisfy me better of a mornin', an' i dunno as this hoss has re'lly been in as good shape since i give it the grits. "wa-al, jud's as rich as cream naow; but the old doctor took him as a boy out o' the poorhouse." "and yet you say he talks against grandfather?" asked 'phemie, rather curious. "ain't it just like folks?" pursued the man, shaking his head. "yes, sir! dr. polly took jud spink inter his fam'bly and might have made suthin' of him; but jud ran away with a medicine show----" "he's made a rich man of himself, you say?" questioned 'phemie. "ya-as," admitted the mail-carrier. "but everybody respected the old doctor, an' nobody respects jud spink--they respect his money. "las' night jud says the old doctor was as close as a clam with the lockjaw, an' never let go of a dollar till the eagle screamed for marcy. but he done a sight more good than folks knowed about--till after he died. an' d'ye know the most important clause in his will, miss?" "in grandfather's will?" "ya-as. it was the instructions to his execketer to give a receipted bill to ev'ry patient of his that applied for the same, free gratis for nothin'! an' lemme tell ye," added the mail-carrier, preparing to drive on again, "there was some folks on both sides o' this ridge that was down on the old doctor's books for sums they could never hope to pay." as he started off 'phemie called after him, brightly: "i'm obliged to you for telling me what you have about grandfather." "beginning to get interested in neighborhood gossip already; are you?" said her sister, when 'phemie joined her, and they walked back up the lane. "i believe i am getting interested in everything folks can tell us about grandfather. in his way, lyddy, dr. apollo phelps must have been a great man." "i--i always had an idea he was a little _queer_," confessed lyddy. "his name you know, and all----" "but people really _loved_ him. he helped them. he gave unostentatiously, and he must have been a very, very good doctor. i--i wonder what aunt jane meant by saying that grandfather used to say there were curative waters on the farm?" "i haven't the least idea," replied lyddy. "sulphur spring, perhaps--nasty stuff to drink. but listen here to what aunt jane says about father." "he's better?" cried 'phemie. the older girl's tone was troubled. "i can't make out that he is," she said, slowly, and then she began to read aunt jane's disjointed account of her visit the day before to the hospital: * * * * * "i never _do_ like to go to such places, girls; they smell so of ether, and arniky, and collodion, and a whole lot of other unpleasant things. i wonder what makes drugs so nasty to smell of? "but, anyhow, i seen your father. john bray is a sick man. maybe he don't know it himself, but the doctors know it, and you girls ought to know it. i'm plain-spoken, and there isn't any use in making you believe he is on the road to recovery when he's going just the other way. "this head-doctor here, says he has no chance at all in the city. of course, for me, if i was sick with anything, from housemaid's knee to spinal mengetus, going into the country would be my complete finish! but the doctors say it's different with your father. "and just as soon as john bray can ride in a railroad car, i am going to see that he joins you at hillcrest." "bully!" cried 'phemie, the optimistic. "oh, lyddy! he's bound to get well up here." for this chanced to be a very beautiful spring day and the girls were more than ever enamored of the situation. "i am not so sure," said lyddy, slowly. "don't be a grump!" commanded her sister. "he's just _got_ to get well up here." but lyddy wondered afterward if 'phemie believed what she said herself! they finished cleaning thoroughly the two rooms they were at present occupying and began on the chambers above. dust and the hateful spiderwebs certainly had collected in the years the house had been unoccupied; but the bray girls were not afraid of hard work. indeed, they enjoyed it. toward evening lucas and his sister appeared, and the former set to work to repair the old pump on the porch, while sairy sat down to "visit" with the girls of hillcrest farm. "it's goin' to be nice havin' you here, i declare," said miss pritchett, who had arranged two curls on either side of her forehead, which shook in a very kittenish manner when she laughed and bridled. "i guess, as maw says, i'm too much with old folks. fust i know they'll be puttin' me away in the home for indignant old maids over there to adams--though why 'indignant' i can't for the life of me guess, 'nless it's because they're indignant over the men's passin' of 'em by!" and miss pritchett giggled and shook her curls, to 'phemie's vast amusement. indeed, the younger bray girl confessed to her sister, after the visitors had gone, that sairy was more fun than lucas. "but i'm afraid she's far on the way to the home for indigent spinsters, and doesn't know it," chuckled 'phemie. "what a freak she is!" "that's what you called lucas--at first," admonished lyddy. "and they're both real kind. lucas wouldn't take a cent for mending the pump, and sairy came especially to invite us to the temperance club meeting, at the schoolhouse saturday night, and to go to church in their carriage with her and her mother on sunday." "yes; i suppose they _are_ kind," admitted 'phemie. "and they can't help being funny." "besides," said the wise lyddy, "if we _do_ try to take boarders we'll need lucas's help. we'll have to hire him to go back and forth to town for us, and depend on him for the outside chores. why! we'd be like two marooned sailors on a desert island, up here on hillcrest, if it wasn't for lucas pritchett!" the girls spent a few anxious days waiting for aunt jane's answer. and meantime they discussed the project of taking boarders from all its various angles. "of course, we can't get boarders yet awhile," sighed 'phemie. "it's much too early in the season." "why is it? aren't _we_ glad to be here at hillcrest?" demanded lyddy. "but see what sort of a place we lived in," said her sister. "and lots of other people live hived up in the cities just as close, only in better houses. there isn't much difference between apartment-houses and tenement-houses except the front entrance!" "that may be epigrammatical," chuckled 'phemie, "but you couldn't make many folks admit it." "just the same, there are people who need just this climate we've got here at this time of year. it will do them as much good as it will father." "you'd make a regular sanitarium of hillcrest," cried 'phemie. "well, why not?" retorted lyddy. "i guess the neighbors wouldn't object." 'phemie giggled. "advertise to take folks back to old-fashioned times and old-fashioned cooking." "why not?" "sleeping on feather beds; cooking in a brick oven like our great-great-grandmothers used to do! open fireplaces. great!" "plain, wholesome food. they won't have to eat out of cans. no extras or luxuries. we could afford to take them cheap," concluded lyddy, earnestly. "and we'll get a big garden planted and feed 'em on vegetables through the summer." "oh, lyddy, it _sounds_ good," sighed 'phemie. "but do you suppose aunt jane will consent to it?" they received aunt jane's letter in reply to their own, on saturday. * * * * * "you two girls go ahead and do what you please inside or outside hillcrest," she wrote, "only don't disturb the old doctor's stuff in the lower rooms of the east ell. as long as you don't burn the house down i don't see that you can do any harm. and if you really think you can find folks foolish enough to want to live up there on the ridge, six miles from a lemon, why go ahead and do it. but i tell you frankly, girls, i'd want to be paid for doing it, and paid high!" then the kind, if brusk, old lady went on to tell them where to find many things packed away that they would need if they _did_ succeed in getting boarders, including stores of linen, and blankets, and the like, as well as some good china and old silver, buried in one of the great chests in the attic. however, nothing aunt jane could write could quench the girls' enthusiasm. already lyddy and 'phemie had written an advertisement for the city papers, and five dollars of lyddy's fast shrinking capital was to be set aside for putting their desires before the newspaper-reading public. they could feel then that their new venture was really launched. chapter xi at the schoolhouse it was scarcely dusk on saturday when lucas drove into the side yard at hillcrest with the ponies hitched to a double-seated buckboard. entertainments begin early in the rural districts. the ponies had been clipped and looked less like animated cowhide trunks than they had when the bray girls had first seen them and their young master in bridleburg. "school teacher came along an' maw made sairy go with him in his buggy," exclaimed lucas, with a broad grin. "if sairy don't ketch a feller 'fore long, an' clamp to him, 'twon't be maw's fault." lucas was evidently much impressed by the appearance of lyddy and 'phemie when they locked the side door and climbed into the buckboard. because of their mother's recent death the girls had dressed very quietly; but their black frocks were now very shabby, it was coming warmer weather, and the only dresses they owned which were fit to wear to an evening function of any kind were those that they had worn "for best" the year previous. but the two girls from the city had no idea they would create such a sensation as they did when lucas pulled in the ponies with a flourish and stopped directly before the door of the schoolhouse. the building was already lighted up and there was quite an assemblage of young men and boys about the two front entrances. on the girls' porch, too, a number of the feminine members of the temperance club were grouped, and with them sairy pritchett. her own arrival with the schoolmaster had been an effective one and she had waited with the other girls to welcome the newcomers from hillcrest farm, and introduce them to her more particular friends. but the bray girls looked as though they were from another sphere. not that their frocks were so fanciful in either design or material; but there was a style about them that made the finery of the other girls look both cheap and tawdry. "so _them_ stuck-up things air goin' to live 'round here; be they?" whispered one rosy-cheeked, buxom farmer's daughter to sairy pritchett--and her whisper carried far. "well, i tell you right now i don't like their looks. see that joe badger; will you? he's got to help 'em down out o' lucas's waggin'; has he? well, i declare!" "an' hen jackson, too!" cried another girl, shrilly. "they'd let airy one of us girls fall out on our heads." "huh!" said sairy, airily, "if you can't keep joe an' hen from shinin' around every new gal that comes to the club, i guess you ain't caught 'em very fast." "he, he!" giggled another. "sairy thinks she's hooked the school teacher all right, and that he won't get away from her." "cat!" snapped miss pritchett, descending the steps in her most stately manner to meet her new friends. "cat yourself!" returned the other. "i guess you'll show your claws, miss, if you have a chance." perhaps sairy did not hear all of this; and surely the bray girls did not. sairy pritchett was rather proud of counting these city girls as her particular friends. she welcomed lydia and euphemia warmly. "i hope lucas didn't try to tip you into the brook again, miss bray," sairy giggled to 'phemie. "oh, yes! miss lydia bray, mr. badger; mr. jackson, miss bray. and this is miss euphemia, mr. badger--_and_ mr. jackson. "now, that'll do very well, joe--and hen. you go 'tend to your own girls; we can git on without you." sairy deliberately led the newcomers into the schoolhouse by the boys' entrance, thus ignoring the girls who had roused her ire. she introduced lyddy and 'phemie right and left to such of the young fellows as were not too bashful. sairy suddenly arrived at the conclusion that to pilot the sisters from hillcrest about would be "good business." the newcomers attracted the better class of young bachelors at the club meeting and sairy--heretofore something of a "wall flower" on such occasions--found herself the very centre of the group. lyddy and 'phemie were naturally a little disturbed by the prominent position in which they were placed by sairy's manoeuvring; but, of course, the sisters had been used to going into society, and lyddy's experience at college and her natural sedateness of character enabled her to appear to advantage. as for the younger girl, she was so much amused by sairy, and the others, that she quite forgot to feel confused. indeed, she found that just by looking at most of these young men, and smiling, she could throw them into spasms of self-consciousness. they were almost as bad as lucas pritchett, and lucas was getting to be such a good friend now that 'phemie couldn't really enjoy making him feel unhappy. she was, indeed, particularly nice to him when young pritchett struggled to her side after the girls were settled in adjoining seats, half-way up the aisle on the "girls' side" of the schoolroom. these young girls and fellows had--most of them--attended the district school, or were now attending it; therefore, they were used to being divided according to the sexes, and those boys who actually had not accompanied their girlfriends to the club meeting, sat by themselves on the boys' side, while the girls grouped together on the other side of the house. there were a few young married couples present, and these matrons made their husbands sit beside them during the exercises; but for a young man and young girl to sit together was almost a formal announcement in that community that they "had intentions!" all this was quite unsuspected by lyddy and 'phemie bray, and the latter had no idea of the joy that possessed lucas pritchett's soul when she allowed him to take the seat beside her. her sister sat at her other hand, and sairy was beyond lyddy. no other young fellow could get within touch of the city girls, therefore, although there was doubtless many a swain who would have been glad to do so. this club, the fundamental idea of which was "temperance," had gradually developed into something much broader. while it still demanded a pledge from its members regarding abstinence from alcoholic beverages, including the bane of the countryside--hard cider--its semimonthly meetings were mainly of a literary and musical nature. the reigning school teacher for the current term was supposed to take the lead in governing the club and pushing forward the local talent. mr. somers was the name of the young man with the bald brow and the eyeglasses, who was presiding over the welfare of pounder's district school. the bray girls thought he seemed to be an intelligent and well-mannered young man, if a trifle self-conscious. and he evidently had an element that was difficult to handle. soon after the meeting was called to order it became plain that a group of boys down in the corner by the desk were much more noisy than was necessary. the huge stove, by which the room was overheated, was down there, its smoke-pipe crossing, in a l-shaped figure, the entire room to the chimney at one side, and it did seem as though none of those boys could move without kicking their boots against this stove. these uncouth noises interfered with the opening address of the teacher and punctuated the "roll call" by the secretary, who was a small, almost dwarf-like young man, out of whose mouth rolled the names of the members in a voice that fairly shook the casements. such a thunderous tone from so puny a source was in itself amazing, and convulsed 'phemie. "ain't he got a great voice?" asked lucas, in a whisper. "he sings bass in the church choir and sometimes, begum! ye can't hear nawthin' but elbert hooker holler." "is _that_ his name?" gasped 'phemie. "yep. elbert hooker. 'yell-bert' the boys call him. he kin sure holler like a bull!" and at that very moment, as the bombastic elbert was subsiding and the window panes ceased from rattling with the reverberations of his voice, one of the boys in the corner fell more heavily than before against the stove--or, it might have been elbert hooker's tones had shaken loose the joints of stovepipe that crossed the schoolroom; however, there was a yell from those down front, the girls scrambled out of the way, the smoke began to spurt from between the joints, and it was seen that only the wires fastened to the ceiling kept the soot-laden lengths of pipe from falling to the floor. chapter xii the green-eyed monster the soot began sifting down in little clouds; but the sections of pipe had come apart so gently that no great damage was done immediately. the girls sitting under the pipe, however, were thrown into a panic, and fairly climbed over the desks and seats to get out of the way. besides, considerable smoke began to issue from the stove. one of the young scamps to whose mischievousness was due this incident, had thrown into the fire, just as the pipe broke loose, some woolen garment, or the like, and it now began to smoulder with a stench and an amount of smoke that frightened some of the audience. "don't you be skeert none," exclaimed lucas, to 'phemie and her sister, and jumping up from his seat himself. "'taint nothin' but them buckley boys and ike hewlett. little scamps----" "but we don't want to get soot all over us, lucas!" cried his sister. "or be choked by smoke," coughed 'phemie. there was indeed a great hullabaloo for a time; but the windows were opened, the teacher rescued the burning woolen rag from the fire with the tongs and threw it out of the window, and several of the bigger fellows swooped down upon the malicious youngsters and bundled them out of the schoolhouse in a hurry--and in no gentle manner--while others, including lucas, stripped off their coats and set to work to repair the stovepipe. an hour was lost in repairs and airing the schoolhouse, and then everybody trooped back. meanwhile, the bray girls had made many acquaintances among the young folk. mr. somers, the teacher, was plainly delighted to meet lyddy--a girl who had actually spent two years at littleburg. he was seminary-bred himself, with an idea of going back to take the divinity course after he had taught a couple of years. but it suddenly became apparent to 'phemie--who was observant--that sairy looked upon this interest of the school teacher in lyddy with "a green eye." mr. somers, who allowed the boys and young men to repair the damage created by his pupils while he rested from his labors, sat by lyddy all the time until the meeting was called to order once more. sairy, who had begun by bridling and looking askance at the two who talked so easily about things with which she was not conversant, soon tossed her head and began to talk with others who gathered around. and when mr. somers went to the desk to preside again sairy was not sitting in the same row with the bray girls and left them to their own devices for the rest of the evening. lucas, the faithful, came back to 'phemie's side, however. some of the other girls were laughing at sairy pritchett and their taunts fed her ire with fresh fuel. she talked very loud and laughed very much between the numbers of the program, and indeed was not always quiet while the entertainment itself was in progress. this she did as though to show the company in general that she neither cared for the schoolmaster's attentions nor that she considered her friendship with the bray girls of any importance. of course, the girls with whom she had wrangled on the schoolhouse steps were delighted with what they considered sairy's "let-down." if a girl really came to an evening party with a young man, he was supposed to "stick" and to show interest in no other girl during the evening. when the intermission came mr. somers deliberately took a seat again beside lyddy. "well, i never!" shrilled sairy. "some folks are as bold as brass. humph!" now, as it happened, both lyddy and the school teacher were quite ignorant of the stir they were creating. the green-eyed monster roared right in their ears without either of them being the wiser. lyddy was only sorry that sairy pritchett proved to be such a loud-talking and rather unladylike person. but 'phemie, who was younger, and observant, soon saw what was the matter. she wished to warn lyddy, but did not know how to do so. and, of course, she knew her sister and the school teacher were talking of quite impersonal things. these girls expected everybody to be of their own calibre. 'phemie had seen the same class of girls in her experience in the millinery shop. but it was quite impossible for lyddy to understand such people, her experience with young girls at school and college not having prepared her for the outlook on life which these country girls had. 'phemie turned to lucas--who stuck to her like a limpet to a rock--for help. "lucas," she said, "you have been very kind to bring us here; but i want to ask you to take us home early; will you?" "what's the matter--ye ain't sick; be you?" demanded the anxious young farmer. "no. but your sister is," said 'phemie, unable to treat the matter with entire seriousness. "sairy?" "yes." "what's the matter with _her_?" grunted lucas. "don't you _see_?" exclaimed 'phemie, in an undertone. "by cracky!" laughed lucas. "ye mean because teacher's forgot she's on airth?" "yes," snapped 'phemie. "you know lyddy doesn't care anything about that mr. somers. but she has to be polite." "why--why----" "will you take us home ahead of them all?" demanded the girl. "then your sister can have the schoolmaster." "by cracky! is that it?" queried lucas. "why--if you say so. i'll do just like you want me to, miss 'phemie." "you are a good boy, lucas--and i hope you won't be silly," said 'phemie. "we like you, but we have been brought up to have boy friends who don't play at being grown up," added 'phemie, as earnestly as she had ever spoken in her life. "we like to have _friends_, not _beaux_. won't you be our friend, lucas?" she said this so low that nobody else could hear it but young pritchett; but so emphatically that the tears came to her eyes. lucas gaped at her for a moment; then he seemed to understand. "i get yer, 'phemie," he declared, with emphasis, "an' you kin bank on me. sairy's foolish--maw's made her so, i s'pose. but i ain't as big a fool as i look." "you don't look like a fool, lucas," said 'phemie, faintly. "you've been brought up different from us folks," pursued the young farmer. "and i can see that we look mighty silly to you gals from the city. but i'll play fair. you let me be your friend, 'phemie." the young girl had to wink hard to keep back the tears. there was "good stuff" in this young farmer, and she was sorry she had ever--even in secret--made fun of him. "lucas, you are a good boy," she repeated, "and we both like you. you'll get us away from here and let sairy have her chance at the schoolmaster?" "you bet!" he said. "though i don't care about sairy. she's old enough to know better," he added, with the usual brother's callousness regarding his sister. "she feels neglected and will naturally be mad at lyddy," 'phemie said. "but if we slip out during some recitation or song, it won't be noticed much." "all right," agreed lucas. "i'll go out ahead and unhitch the ponies and get their blankets off. you gals can come along in about five minutes. now! mayme lowry is going to read the 'club chronicles'--that's a sort of history of neighborhood doin's since the last meetin'. she hits on most ev'rybody, and they will all wanter hear. we'll git aout quiet like." so, when miss lowry arose to read her manuscript, lucas left his seat and 'phemie whispered to lyddy: "get your coat, dear. i want to go home. lucas has gone out to get the team." "why--what's the matter, child?" demanded the older sister, anxiously. "nothing. only i want to go." "we-ell--if you must----" "don't say anything more, but come on," commanded 'phemie. they arose together and tiptoed out. if sairy saw them she made no sign, nor did anybody bar their escape. lucas had got his team into the road. "here ye be!" he said, cheerfully. "but--but how about sairy?" cried the puzzled lyddy. "oh, she'll ride home with the school teacher," declared lucas, chuckling. "but i really am surprised at you, 'phemie," said the older sister. "it seems rather discourteous to leave before the entertainment was over--unless you are ill?" "i'm sorry," said the younger girl, demurely. "but i got _so_ nervous." "i know," whispered lyddy. "some of those awful recitations _were_ trying." and 'phemie had to giggle at that; but she made no further explanation. the ponies drew them swiftly over the mountain road and under the white light of a misty moon they quickly turned into the lane leading to hillcrest. as the team dropped to a walk, 'phemie suddenly leaned forward and clutched the driver's arm. "look yonder, lucas!" she whispered. "there, by the corner of the house." "whoa!" muttered lucas, and brought the horses to a halt. the girls and lucas all saw the two figures. they wavered for a moment and then one hurried behind the high stone wall between the yard and the old orchard. the other crossed the front yard boldly toward the highroad. "they came from the direction of the east wing," whispered 'phemie. "who do you suppose they are?" asked lyddy, more placidly. "somebody who tried to call on us?" "that there feller," said lucas, slowly, his voice shaking oddly, as he pointed with his whip after the man who just then gained the highroad, "that there feller is lem judson spink--i know his long hair and broad-brimmed hat." "what?" cried 'phemie. "the man who lived here at hillcrest when he was a boy?" "so they say," admitted lucas. "dad knew him. they went to school together. he's a rich man now." "but what could he possibly want up here?" queried lyddy, as the ponies went on. "and who was the other man?" "i--i dunno who he was," blurted out lucas, still much disturbed in voice and appearance. but after the girls had disembarked, and bidden lucas good night, and the young farmer had driven away, 'phemie said to her sister, as the latter was unlocking the door of the farmhouse: "_i_ know who that other man was." "what other man?" "the one who ran behind the stone wall." "why, who was it, 'phemie?" queried her sister, with revived interest. "cyrus pritchett," stated 'phemie, with conviction, and nothing her sister could say would shake her belief in that fact. chapter xiii lyddy doesn't want it "who is this mr. spink?" asked lydia bray the following morning, as they prepared for church. it was a beautiful spring morning. there had been a pattering shower at sunrise and the eaves were still dripping, while every blade of the freshly springing grass in the side yard--which was directly beneath the girls' window--sparkled as though diamond-decked over night. the old trees in the orchard were pushing both leaf and blossom--especially the plum and peach trees. in the distance other orchards were blowing, too, and that spattered the mountainside with patches of what looked to be pale pink mist. the faint tinkling of the sheep-bells came across the hills to the ears of lyddy and 'phemie. the girls were continually going to the window or door to watch the vast panorama of the mountainside and valley, spread below them. "who _is_ this mr. spink?" repeated lyddy. her sister explained what she knew of the man who--once a poorhouse boy--was now counted a rich man and the proprietor of diamond grits, the popular breakfast food. "he lived here at hillcrest as a boy, with grandfather," 'phemie said. "but what's _that_ got to do with his coming up here now--and at night?" "and with mr. pritchett?" finished 'phemie. "yes. i am going to ask mr. pritchett about it. they surely weren't after vinegar so late at night," lyddy observed. but 'phemie did not prolong the discussion. in her secret thoughts the younger bray girl believed that it was cyrus pritchett and mr. spink whom she had heard about the old house the night she and lyddy had first slept at hillcrest. there was no use worrying lyddy about it, she told herself. a little later the roan ponies appeared with the pritchett buckboard. instead of mrs. pritchett and her daughter, however, the good lady's companion on the front seat was lucas, who drove. "oh, dear me!" cried lyddy. "i hope we haven't turned miss pritchett out of her seat. surely we three girls could have squeezed in here on the back seat." "nope," said mrs. pritchett. "that ain't it, at all. sairy ain't goin' to church this mornin'." "she's not ill?" asked lyddy. "i dunno. she ain't got no misery as i can find out; but she sartainly has a grouch! a bear with a sore head in fly time would be a smilin' work of grace 'side of sairy pritchett ever since she come home from the temperance club las' night." "oh!" came from 'phemie. "why----she surely isn't angry because we went home early?" cried lyddy. "my sister, you see, got nervous----" "i reckon 'taint that," lucas hastened to say. "more likely she's sore on me." "'tain't nawthin' of the kind, an' you know it, lucas," declared his mother. "though ye might have driven 'round by the schoolhouse ag'in and brought her home." "wal, i thought she'd ride back with school teacher. she went with him," returned lucas, on the defensive. "she walked home," said mrs. pritchett, shortly. "i dunno why. she won't tell _me_." "i hope she isn't ill," remarked the unconscious lyddy. but lucas cast a knowing look over his shoulder at 'phemie and the latter had hard work to keep her own countenance straight. "well," said mrs. pritchett, more briskly, "ye can't always sometimes tell what the matter is with these young gals. they gits crotchets in their heads." she kept up the fiction that sairy was a young and flighty miss; but even 'phemie could no longer laugh at her for it. it was the mother's pitiful attempt to aid her daughter's chances for that greatly-to-be-desired condition--matrimony. the roads were still muddy; nevertheless the drive over the ridge to cornell chapel was lovely. for some time the girls had been noting the procession of carriages and wagons winding over the mountain roads, all verging upon this main trail over the ridge which passed so close to hillcrest. lucas, driving the ponies at a good clip, joined the procession. lyddy and 'phemie recognized several of the young people they had met the night before at the temperance club--notably the young men. joe badger flashed by in a red-wheeled buggy and beside him sat the buxom, red-faced girl who had voiced her distaste for the city-bred newcomers right at the start. badger bowed with a flourish; but his companion's nose was in the air. "i never did think that nettie meyers had very good manners," announced mrs. pritchett. they overtook the schoolmaster jogging along behind his old gray mare. he, likewise, bowed profoundly to the bray girls. "i am afraid you did not enjoy yourself last night at the club, miss bray," he said to lyddy, who was on his side of the buckboard, as lucas pulled out to pass him. "you went home so early. i was looking for you after it was all over." "oh, but you are mistaken," declared lyddy, pleasantly. "i had a very nice time." as they drove on mrs. pritchett's fat face became a study. "and he never even asked arter sairy!" she gasped. "and he let her come home alone last night. humph! he must ha' been busy huntin' for _you_, miss bray." lucas cast oil on the troubled waters by saying: "an' i carried miss lyddy and miss 'phemie away from all of 'em. i guess _all_ the pritchetts ain't so slow, maw." "humph! wa-al," admitted the good lady, somewhat mollified, "you _hev_ seemed to 'woke up lately, lucas." the chapel was built of graystone and its north wall was entirely covered with ivy. it nestled in a grove of evergreens, with the tidy fenced graveyard behind it. the visitors thought it a very beautiful place. everybody was rustling into church when they arrived, so there were no introductions then. the pastor was a stooped, gray old man, who had been the incumbent for many years, and to the bray girls his discourse seemed as helpful as any they had ever heard. after service the girls of hillcrest farm were introduced to many of the congregation by mrs. pritchett. naturally these were the middle-aged, or older, members of the flock--mostly ladies who knew, or remembered, the girls' mother and aunt jane. indeed, it was rather noticeable that the young women and girls did not come forward to meet lyddy and 'phemie. not that either of the sisters cared. they liked the matrons who attended cornell chapel much better than they had most of the youthful members of the temperance club. some of the young men waited their chance in the vestibule to get a bow and a smile of recognition from the newcomers; but only the schoolmaster dared attach himself for any length of time to the pritchett party. and mrs. pritchett could not fail to take note of this at length. the teacher was deep in some unimportant discussion with lyddy, who was sweetly unconscious that she was fanning the fire of suspicion in mrs. pritchett's breast. that lady finally broke in with a loud "ahem!" following it with: "i re'lly don't know what's happened to my sairy. she's right poorly to-day, mr. somers." "why--i--i'm sorry to hear it," said the startled, yet quite unsuspicious teacher. "she seemed to be in good health and spirits when we were on our way to the club meeting last evening." "ya-as," agreed mrs. pritchett, simpering and looking at him sideways. "she seems to have changed since then. she ain't been herself since she walked home from the meeting." "perhaps she has a cold?" suggested the teacher, blandly. "oh, sairy is not subject to colds," declared mrs. pritchett. "but she is easily chilled in other ways--yes, indeed! i don't suppose there is a more sensitive young girl on the ridge than my sairy." mr. somers began to wake up to the fact that the farmer's wife was not shooting idly at him; there was "something behind it!" "i am sorry if miss sairy is offended, or has been hurt in any way," he said, gravely. "it was a pity she had to walk home from the club. if i had known----" "wa-al," drawled mrs. pritchett, "_you_ took her there yourself in your buggy." "indeed!" he exclaimed, flushing a little. "i had no idea that bound me to the necessity of taking her home again. her brother was there with your carriage. i am sure i do not understand your meaning, mrs. pritchett." "oh, i don't mean anything!" exclaimed the lady, but very red in the face now, and her bonnet shaking. "come, gals! we must be going." both lyddy and 'phemie had begun to feel rather unhappy by this time. mrs. pritchett swept them up the aisle ahead of her as though she were shooing a flock of chickens with her ample skirts. they went through the vestibule with a rush. lucas was ready with the ponies. mrs. pritchett was evidently very angry over her encounter with the teacher; and she could not fail to hold the bray girls somewhat accountable for her daughter's failure to keep the interest of mr. somers. she said but little on the drive homeward. there had been something said earlier about the girls going down to the pritchett farm for dinner; but the angry lady said nothing more about it, and lyddy and 'phemie were rather glad when hillcrest came into view. "ye better stop in an' go along down to the house with us," said the good-natured lucas, hesitating about turning the ponies' heads in at the lane. "oh, we could not possibly," lyddy replied, gracefully. "we are a thousand times obliged for your making it possible for us to attend church. you are all so kind, mrs. pritchett. but this afternoon i must plead the wicked intention of writing letters. i haven't written a line to one of my college friends since i came to hillcrest." mrs. pritchett merely grunted. lucas covered his mother's grumpiness by inconsequential chatter with 'phemie while he drove in and turned the ponies so that the girls could get out. "a thousand thanks!" cried 'phemie. "good-day!" exclaimed lyddy, brightly. mrs. pritchett's bonnet only shook the harder, and she did not turn to look at the girls. lucas cast a very rueful glance in their direction as he drove hastily away. "now we've done it!" gasped 'phemie, half laughing, half in disgust. "why! whatever is the matter, do you suppose?" demanded her sister. "well, if you can't see _that_----" "i see she's angry over sairy and the school teacher--poor man! but what have we to do with that?" "it's your fatal attractiveness," sighed 'phemie. then she began to laugh. "you're a very innocent baby, lyd. don't you see that maw pritchett thought--or hoped--that she had mr. somers nicely entangled with sairy? and he neglected her for you. bing! it's all off, and we're at outs with the pritchett family." "what awful language!" sighed lyddy, unlocking the door. "i am sorry you ever went to work in that millinery shop, 'phemie. it has made your mind--er--almost common!" but 'phemie only laughed. if the pritchett females were "at outs" with them, the men of the family did not appear to be. at least, cyrus and his son were at hillcrest bright and early on monday morning, with two teams ready for plowing. lyddy had a serious talk with mr. pritchett first. "ya-as. that's good 'tater and truckin' land behind the barn. it's laid out a good many years now, for it's only an acre, or so, and we never tilled it for corn. it's out o' the way, kinder," said the elder pritchett. "then i want that for a garden," lyddy declared. "it don't pay me to work none of this 'off' land for garden trucks," said cyrus, shortly. "not 'nless ye want a few rows o' stuff in the cornfield jest where i can cultivate with the hosses." "but if you plant corn here, you must plant my garden, too," insisted lyddy, who was quite as obstinate as the old farmer. "and i'd like to have a big garden, and plenty of potatoes, too. i am going to keep boarders this summer, and i want to raise enough to feed them--or partly feed them, at least." "huh! boarders, eh? a gal like you!" "we're not rich enough to sit with idle hands, and i mean to try and earn something," lyddy declared. "and we'll want vegetables to carry us over winter, too." lucas had been listening with flushed and anxious face. now he broke in eagerly: "you said i could till a piece for myself this year, dad. lemme do it up here. there's a better chance to sell trucks in bridleburg than there has been. i'll plow and take care of two acres up here, if miss lyddy says so, for half the crops, she to supply seed and fertilizer." "will--will it cost much, lucas?" asked lyddy, doubtfully. "that land's rich, but it may be sour. ain't that so, dad? it won't take so very much phosphate; will it?" cyrus was slower mentally than these eager young folk. he had to think it over and discuss it from different angles. but finally he gave his consent to the plan and advised his son and lyddy how to manage the matter. "you kin git your fertilizer on time--six or nine months--right here in bridleburg. that gives you a chance to raise your crop and market it before paying for the fertilizer," he said. "you'll have to get corn fertilizer, too, in the same way. but 'most ev'rybody else on the ridge does the same. we ain't a very fore-handed community, and that's a fac'." at noon lyddy and 'phemie talked over the garden project more fully with lucas. they planned what early seeds should be planted, and lucas began plowing that particular piece behind the barn right after dinner. lyddy had very little money to work with, but she believed in "nothing ventured, nothing gained." she told lucas to purchase a bag of potatoes for planting the next day when he went to town, and he was to buy a few papers of early garden seeds, too. and when lucas came back with the potatoes he brought a surprise for the bray girls. he drove into the yard with a flourish. 'phemie looked out of the window, uttered a scream of joy and surprise, and rushed out to receive her father in her strong young arms as he got down from the seat. how feeble and tired he looked! 'phemie began to cry; but lyddy "braced up" and declared he looked a whole lot better already and that hillcrest would cure him in just no time. "and that foolish 'phemie is only crying for joy at seeing you so unexpectedly, father," said lyddy, scowling frightfully at her sister over their father's bowed head as they helped him into the house. lucas hovered in the background; but he could not help them. 'phemie saw, however, that the young farmer fully appreciated the situation and was truly sympathetic. the change in mr. bray's appearance was a great shock to both girls. of course, the doctor at the hospital had promised lyddy no great improvement in the patient until he could be got up here on the hills, where the air was pure and healing. aunt jane had come as far as the junction with him; but he had come on alone to bridleburg from there, and the agent at the station had telephoned uptown to tell lucas that the invalid wished to get to hillcrest. "i'm all right; i'm all right!" he kept repeating. but the girls almost carried him between them into the house. "the doctors said you could do more for me up here than they could do for me there," panted mr. bray, smiling faintly at his daughters, who hovered about him as he sat before the crackling wood fire in the kitchen. "and aunt jane never told us you were coming!" gasped lyddy. "what's the odds, as long as he's here?" demanded 'phemie. "why, i shall soon be my old self again up here," mr. bray declared, hopefully. "now, don't fuss over me, girls. you've got other things to do. that young fellow who brought me up here seems to be your chief cook and bottle-washer, and he wants to speak to you, i reckon," for lucas was waiting to learn where he should put the potatoes and other things. mr. bray knew all about the boarding house project and approved of it. "why, i can soon help around myself. and i must do something," he told them, that evening, "or i shall go crazy. i couldn't endure the rest cure." but it was complete rest that he had to endure for several days after his unexpected arrival. the girls gave up their room to their father, and went upstairs to sleep. 'phemie had to admit that even _she_ was glad there was at last somebody else in the house. especially a man! "but i never have thought to ask mr. pritchett about his being up here with that spink man last saturday night," lyddy said, sleepily. "you'd better let it drop," advised 'phemie. "we don't want to get the whole pritchett family down on us." "what nonsense! of course i shall ask him," declared her sister. but as it happened something occurred the following day to quite put this small matter out of lyddy's mind. the postman brought the first letter in answer to their advertisement. lyddy was about to tear open the envelope when she halted in amazement. the card printed in the corner included the number of trimble avenue right next to the big tenement house in which the brays had lived before coming here to hillcrest. "isn't that strange?" she murmured, and read the card again: _commonwealth chemical company_ _ trimble avenue_ _easthampton_ "right from the very next door!" sparkled 'phemie. "don't that beat all!--as lucas says." but lyddy had now opened the letter and read as follows: "l. bray, hillcrest farm, bridleburg p. o. "dear madam: i have read your advertisement and believe that you offer exactly what my father and i have been looking for--a quiet, homelike boarding house in the hills, and not too far away for me to get easily back and forth. if agreeable, we shall come to bridleburg saturday and would be glad to have you meet the : train on its arrival. if both parties are suited we can then discuss terms. "respectfully, "harris colesworth." "why, what's the matter, lyd?" demanded her sister, in amazement. but lyddy bray did not explain. in her own mind she was much disturbed. she was confident that the writer of this note was the "fresh" young fellow who had always been at work in the chemical laboratory right across the air-shaft from her kitchen window! of course, it was quite by chance--in all probability--that he had answered her advertisement. yet lyddy bray had an intuition that if she answered the letter, and the colesworths came here to hillcrest, trouble would ensue. she had hoped very much to obtain boarders, and to get even one thus early in the season seemed too good to be true. yet, now that she had got what she wanted, lyddy was doubtful if she wanted it after all. chapter xiv the colesworths mr. bray fell in with the boarder project, as we have seen, with enthusiasm. although he could do nothing as yet, his mind was active enough and he gaily planned with 'phemie what they should do and how they should arrange the rooms for the horde of visitors who were, they were sure, already on their way to hillcrest. "though lyd won't show the very first letter she's received in answer to our ad.," complained the younger sister. "what's the matter with those folks, lyddy? do they actually live right there near where we did on trimble avenue?" "that was a loft building next to us," said their father, curiously. "who are the people, daughter?" "somebody by the name of colesworth. the commonwealth chemical company office. it's about an old man to stay here." "one man only!" exclaimed 'phemie. "with a young man--the one who writes--to come up over sundays, i suppose," acknowledged lyddy, doubtfully. "goody!" cried her sister. "_that_ sounds better." "aren't you ashamed of yourself, 'phemie!" chided lyddy, with some asperity. but mr. bray only laughed. "i guess i can play 'he-chaperon' for all the young men who come here," he said. "your sister is only making fun, lydia." but lyddy was more worried in secret about the colesworth proposition than she was ready to acknowledge. she "just felt" that harris colesworth was the young man who had helped them the evening of the fire in the trimble avenue tenement. "he found out our name, of course, and when he saw my advertisement he knew who it was. he may even have found out where we were going when we left for the country. in some way he could have done so," thought lyddy, putting the young man's character before her mind in the very worst possible light. "he is altogether too persistent. i hope he is as energetic in a better way--i hope he attends to his business as faithfully as he seems to attend to _our_ affairs," continued lyddy, bitterly. "i don't suppose this idea of his father coming up here into the hills is entirely an excuse for him to become familiar with--with _us_. but it looks very much like it. i--i wonder what kind of a man old mr. colesworth can be?" lyddy ruminated upon the letter she had received all that day and refused to answer it right away. indeed, as far as she could see, the letter did not really need an answer. this harris colesworth spoke just as though he expected they would be only too glad to meet him on saturday with a rig. "and, if it were anybody else, i suppose i would be glad to do so," lyddy finally had to admit. "i suppose that 'beggars mustn't be choosers'; and if this harris colesworth isn't a perfectly proper young man to have about, father will very quickly attend to _his_ case." really, lyddy bray thought much more about the colesworths than her sister and father thought she did. after being urged by 'phemie several times she finally allowed her sister to reply to the letter, promising to have a carriage at the station for the train mentioned in harris colesworth's letter. of course, this meant hiring lucas pritchett and the buckboard. lucas was at hillcrest a good deal of the time that week. he got the garden plowed and the early potatoes planted, as well as some few other seeds which would not be hurt by the late frosts. mr. bray got around very slowly; at first he could only walk up and down in the sun, or sit on the porch, well wrapped up. like most men born in the country and forced to be city dwellers for many years, john bray had longed more deeply than he could easily express for country living. he appreciated the sights and sounds about him--the mellow, refreshing air that blew over the hills--the sunshine and the pattering rain which, on these early spring days, drifted alternately across the fields and woods. with the girls he planned for the future. some day they would have a cow. there was pasture on the farm for a dozen. and already lyddy was studying poultry catalogs and trying to figure out a little spare money to purchase some eggs for hatching. of course they had no hens and at this time of the year the neighbors were likely to want their own setting hens for incubating purposes. lyddy sounded silas trent, the mail-carrier, about this and mr. trent had an offer to make. "i tell ye what it is," said the garrulous silas, "the chicken business is a good business--if ye kin 'tend to it right. i tried it--went in deep for incubator, brooders, and the like; and it would have been all right if i didn't hafter be away from home so much durin' the day. "my wife's got rheumatiz, and she can't git out to 'tend to little chicks, and for a few weeks they need a sight of attention--that's right. they'd oughter be fed every two hours, or so, and watched pretty close. "so i had ter give it up last year, an' this year i ain't put an egg in my incubator. "but if i could git 'em growed to scratchin' state--say, when they're broiler-size--i sartainly would like it. tell ye what i'll do, miss. i'll let ye have my incubator. it's -egg size. in course, ye don't hafter fill it first time if ye don't wanter. put in a hundred eggs and see how ye come out." "but how could i pay you?" asked lyddy. "i'll sell ye the incubator outright, if ye want to buy. and i'll take my pay in chickens when they're broiler-size--say three months old." "what do you want for your incubator?" queried lyddy, thoughtfully. "ten dollars. it's a good one. and i'll take a flock of twenty three-months-old chicks in pay for it--fifteen pullets and five cockerels. what kind of hens do you favor, miss bray?" lyddy told him the breed she had thought of purchasing--and the strain. "them's fine birds," declared mr. trent. "for heavy fowl they are good layers--and when ye butcher one of 'em for the table, ye got suthin' to eat. now, you think my offer over. i'll stick to it. and i'll set the incubator up and show ye how to run it." lyddy was very anxious to venture into the chicken business--and here was a chance to do it cheaply. it was the five dollars for a hundred hatching eggs that made her hesitate. but aunt jane had shown herself to be more than a little interested in the girls' venture at hillcrest farm, and when she expressed the keys of the garret chests and bureaus to lyddy--so that the girl could get at the stores of linen left from the old doctor's day--she sent, too, twenty-five dollars. "keep it against emergencies. pay it back when you can. and don't let's have no talk about it," was the old lady's characteristic note. lyddy was only doubtful as to whether this desire of hers to raise chickens was really "an emergency." but finally she decided to venture, and she wrote off for the eggs, sending the money by a post-office order, and lucas brought up silas trent's incubator. friday night trent drove up to hillcrest and spent the evening with the brays. he set the incubator up in the little washhouse, which opened directly off the back porch. it was a small, tight room, with only one window, and was easily heated by an oil-lamp. the lamp of the incubator itself would do the trick, trent said. he leveled the machine with great care, showed lyddy all about the trays, the water, the regulation of heat, and gave her a lot of advice on various matters connected with the raising of chicks with the "wooden hen." they were all vastly interested in the new vocation and the evening passed pleasantly enough. just before trent went, he asked: "by the way, what's jud spink doing up this way so much? i seen him again to-day when i came over the ridge. he was crossin' the back of your farm. he didn't have no gun; and, at any rate, there ain't nothin' in season jest now--'nless it's crows," and the mail-carrier laughed. "spink?" asked mr. bray, who had not yet gone to bed. "who is he?" "lemuel judson spink," explained 'phemie. "he's a man who used to live here with grandfather when he was a boy--when _spink_ was a boy; not grandfather." "he's a rich man now," said lyddy. "he owns a breakfast food." "diamond grits," added 'phemie. "he's rich enough," grunted trent. "rich enough so't he can loaf around bridleburg for months at a time. been here now for some time." "why, could that be the spink your aunt jane told me once made her an offer for the farm?" asked mr. bray, thoughtfully. "for hillcrest?" cried 'phemie. "oh, i hope not." "well, child, if she could sell the place it would be a good thing for jane. she has none too much money." "but why didn't she sell to him?" asked lyddy, quite as anxious as her sister. "he didn't offer her much, if anything, for it." "ain't that like jud?" cackled trent. "he is allus grouching about the old doctor for being as tight as the bark to a tree; but when it comes to a bargain, jud spink will wring yer nose ev'ry time--if he can. glad mis' hammon' didn't sell to him." "perhaps he didn't want hillcrest very much," said mr. bray, quietly. "he don't want nothin' 'nless it's cheap," declared trent. "he's picked up some mortgage notes, and the like, on property he thinks he can foreclose on. got a jedgment against the widder harrison's little place over the ridge, i understand. but jud spink wouldn't pay more'n ha'f price for a gold eagle. he'd claim 'twas second-hand, if it warn't fresh from the mint," and the mail-carrier went off, chuckling over his own joke. both lyddy and 'phemie forgot, however, about the curious actions of mr. spink, or his desire to buy hillcrest, in their interest in the coming of the only people who had, thus far, answered their advertisement for boarders. lucas met the : train on saturday morning, and before noon he drove into the side yard with an old gentleman and a young man on the rear seat of the buckboard. before this the two girls, working hard, had swept and garnished the whole lower floor of the big farmhouse, save the east wing, which was locked. indeed, lyddy had never ventured into the old doctor's suite of offices, for she couldn't find the key. a fire had been laid and was burning cheerfully in the dining-room--that apartment being just across the square side entrance hall from the kitchen. lyddy was busy over the cooking arrangements when the visitors arrived, and 'phemie was giving the finishing touches to the table in the dining-room. but mr. bray, leaning on his cane, met the colesworths as they alighted from the buckboard. lucas drove away at once, promising to return again with the team in time to catch the four-fifty train back to town. lyddy found time to peep out of the kitchen window. yes! there was that very bold young man who had troubled her so much--at times--while they lived in trimble avenue. he met mr. bray with a warm handshake, and he helped his father up the wide stone steps with a delicacy that would have pleased lyddy in anybody else. but she had made up her mind that harris colesworth was going to be a very objectionable person to have about, and so she would not accept his friendly attitude or thoughtfulness as real virtues. he might attract the rest of the family--already 'phemie was standing in the door, smiling and with her hand held out; but lyddy bray proposed to watch this young man very closely! chapter xv another boarder lyddy heard her sister and harris colesworth in the hall, and then in the dining-room. the girls had not made a fire in any other room in the house. it took too much wood, and the dining-room was large enough to be used as a sitting-room "for company," too. and with the fresh maple branches and arbutus decorating the space over the mantel, and the great dish of violets on the table, and the odorous plum branches everywhere, that dining-room was certainly an attractive apartment. the old-fashioned blue-and-white china and the few pieces of heavy silverware "dressed" the table very nicely. the linen was yellow with age, but every glass and spoon shone. the sun streamed warmly in at the windows, the view from which was lovely. lyddy heard the appreciative remarks of the young man as 'phemie ushered him in. but she ran out to greet the old gentleman. the elder colesworth was sixty or more--a frail, scholarly-looking man, with a winning smile. he, like mr. bray, leaned on a cane; but mr. bray was at least fifteen years mr. colesworth's junior. "so _you_ are 'l. bray'; are you?" asked the old gentleman, shaking hands with her. "you are the elder daughter and head of the household, your father tells me." "i am older than 'phemie--yes," admitted lyddy, blushing. "but we have no 'head' here. i do my part of the work, and she does hers." "and, please god," said mr. bray, earnestly, "i shall soon be able to do mine." "work is the word, then!" cried the old gentleman. "i tell harris that's all that is the matter with me. i knocked off work too early. 'retired,' they call it. but it doesn't pay--it doesn't pay." "there will be plenty for you to do up here, mr. colesworth," suggested lyddy, laughing. "we'll let you chop your own wood, if you like. but perhaps picking flowers for the table will be more to your taste--at first." "i don't know--i don't know," returned the old gentleman. "i was brought up on a farm. i used to know how to swing an axe. and i can remember yet how i hated a buck-saw." they went into the house; but lyddy slipped back to the kitchen and allowed her father to follow harris colesworth and 'phemie, with the old gentleman, into the dining-room. 'phemie soon came out to help, leaving their father to entertain the visitors while dinner was being served. lyddy had prepared a simple meal, of which the staple was the new england standby--baked beans. she had been up before light, had built a huge fire in the brick oven, had heated it to a high temperature, and had then baked her pies, a huge pan of gingerbread, her white bread, and potatoes for dinner. she had steamed her "brown loaf" in a kettle hanging from the crane, and the sealed beanpot had been all night in the ashes on the hearth, the right "finish" being given in the brick oven as it gradually cooled off. the girl had had wonderfully good luck with her baking. the bread was neither "all crust" nor was it dough in the middle. the pies were flaky as to crust and the apples which filled them were tender. when lyddy brought in the beanpot, wrapped in a blue and white towel to retain the heat, she met harris colesworth for the first time. to her surprise he did not attempt to appear amazed to see her. "miss bray!" he cried, coming forward to shake hands with her. "i have been telling your father that we are already acquainted. but i never _did_ expect to see you again when you sold out and went away from trimble avenue that morning." "shows how small the world is," said mr. bray, smiling. "we lived right beside the building in which mr. colesworth works, and he saw our advertisement in the paper----" "oh, i was sure it was miss bray," interrupted young colesworth, openly acknowledging his uncalled-for interest (so lyddy expressed it to herself) in their affairs. "you see," said this very frank young man, "i knew your name was bray. and i knew you were going into the country for mr. bray's health. i--i even asked at the hospital about you several times," he added, flushing a little. "how very kind!" murmured lyddy, but without looking at him, as 'phemie brought in some of the other dishes. "not at all; i was interested," said the young man, laughing. "you always were afraid of getting acquainted with me when i used to watch you working about your kitchen. but now, miss bray, if father decides to come out here to board with you, you'll just _have_ to be acquainted with me." mr. bray laughed at this, and 'phemie giggled. lyddy's face was a study. it did seem impossible to keep this very presuming young man at a proper distance. but they gathered around the table then, and lyddy had another reason for blushing. the visitors praised her cooking highly, and when they learned of the old-fashioned means by which the cooking was done, their wonder grew. and lyddy deserved some praise, that was sure. the potatoes came out of their crisp skins as light as feathers. the thickened pork gravy that went with them was something mr. colesworth the elder declared he had not tasted since he was a boy. and when the beans were ladled from the pot--brown, moist, every bean firm in its individual jacket, but seasoned through and through--the colesworths fairly reveled in them. the fresh bread and good butter, and the flaky wedges of apple pie, each flanked by its pilot of cheese, were likewise enjoyed. "if you can put us up only half comfortably," declared the elder colesworth, bowing to lyddy, "i can tell you right now, young lady, that we will stay. let us see your rooms, we will come to terms, and then i'll take a nap, if you will allow me. i need it after this heavy dinner. why, harris! i haven't eaten so heartily for months." "never saw you sail into the menu with any more enjoyment, dad," declared his son, in delight. but lyddy made her sister show them over the house. they were some time in making up their minds regarding the choice of apartments; but finally they decided upon one of the large rooms the girls proposed making over into bed-chambers on the ground floor. this room was nearest the east wing, had long windows opening upon the side porch, and with the two small beds removed from the half-furnished rooms on the second floor of the east wing, and brought downstairs, together with one or two other pieces of furniture, the colesworths declared themselves satisfied with the accommodations. young colesworth would come out on saturdays and return monday mornings. he would arrange with lucas to drive him back and forth. and the old gentleman would come out, bag and baggage, on the coming monday to take possession of the room. to bind the bargain harris handed lyddy fifteen dollars, and asked for a receipt. fifteen dollars a week! lyddy had scarcely dared ask for it--had done so with fear and trembling, in fact. but the colesworths seemed to consider it quite within reason. "oh, 'phemie!" gasped lyddy, hugging her sister tight out in the kitchen. "just think of _fifteen dollars_ coming in every week. why! we can all _live_ on that!" "m--m; yes," said 'phemie, ruminatively. "but hasn't he a handsome nose?" "who--what---- 'phemie bray! haven't you anything else in your head but young men's noses?" cried her sister, in sudden wrath. but it was a beginning. they had really "got into business," as their father said that night at the supper table. "i only fear that the work will be too much for us," he observed. "for 'phemie and me, you mean, father," said lyddy, firmly. "you are not to work. you're to get well. _that_ is your business--and your only business." "you girls will baby me to death!" cried mr. bray, wiping his eyes. "i refuse to be laid on the shelf. i hope i am not useless----" "my goodness me! far from it," cried 'phemie. "but you'll be lots more help to us when you are perfectly well and strong again." "there'll be plenty you can do without taxing your strength--and without keeping you indoors," lyddy added. "just think if we get the chicken business started. you can do all of that--after the biddies are hatched." "i feel so much better already, girls," declared their father, gravely, "that i am sure i shall have a giant's strength before fall." aunt jane had written them, however, certain advice which the doctor at the hospital had given to her regarding mr. bray. he was to be discouraged from performing any heavy tasks of whatsoever nature, and his diet was to consist mainly of milk and eggs--tissue-building fuel for the system. he had worked so long in the hat shop that his lungs were in a weakened state, if not actually affected. for months they would have to watch him carefully. and to return to his work in the city would be suicidal. therefore were lyddy and 'phemie more than ever anxious to make the boarders' project pay. and with the colesworths' fifteen dollars a week it seemed as though a famous start had been made in that direction. by serving simple food, plainly cooked, lyddy was confident that she could keep the table for all five from the board paid by mr. colesworth and his son. if they got other boarders, a goodly share of _their_ weekly stipends could be added on the profit side of the ledger. lucas helped them for a couple of hours monday morning, and the girls managed to put the room the newcomers had chosen into readiness for the old gentleman. lucas drove to town to meet mr. colesworth. lucas was beginning to make something out of the bray girls' project, too, and he grinned broadly as he said to 'phemie: "i'm goin' to be able to put up for a brand new buggy nex' fall, miss 'phemie--a better one than joe badger's got. what 'twixt this cartin' boarders over the roads, and makin' miss lyddy's garden, i'm going to be well fixed." "on the road to be a millionaire; are you, lucas?" suggested 'phemie, laughing. "nope. jest got one object in view," grinned lucas. "what's that?" "i wanter drive you to church in my new buggy, and make joe badger an' that nettie meyers look like thirty cents. that's what _i_ want." "oh, lucas! _that_ isn't a very high ambition," she cried. "but it's goin' to give me an almighty lot of satisfaction," declared the young farmer. "you won't go back on me; will yer, miss 'phemie?" "i'll ride with you--of course," replied 'phemie. "but i'd just as lief go in the buckboard." "now _that_," said the somewhat puzzled lucas, "is another thing that makes you gals diff'rent from the gals around here." old mr. colesworth came and made himself at home very quickly. he played cribbage with mr. bray in the evening while the girls did up the work and sewed; and during the early days of his stay with them he proved to be a very pleasant old gentleman, with few crotchets, and no special demands upon the girls for attention. he walked a good deal, proved to be something of a geologist, and pottered about the rocky section of the farm with a little hammer and bag for hours together. as mr. bray could walk only a little way, mr. colesworth did most of his rambling about hillcrest alone. and he grew fonder and fonder of the place as the first week advanced. as far as his entertainment went, he could have no complaint as to that, for he was getting all that lyddy had promised him--a comfortable bed, a fire on his hearth when he wanted it, and the same plain food that the family ate. the girls of hillcrest farm had received no further answer to their advertisement, but the news that they were keeping boarders had gone broadcast over the ridge, of course. silas trent would have spread this bit of news, if nobody else. but on saturday morning, soon after breakfast, mr. somers's old gray mare turned up their lane, and lyddy put on a clean apron and rolled down her sleeves to go out and speak to the school teacher. "that's a very good thing about that lane," 'phemie remarked, aside. "it is just long enough so that, if we see anybody turn in, we can primp a little before they get to the house." "miss bray," said the teacher, hopping out of his buggy and shaking hands, "you see me here, a veritable beggar." "a beggar?" queried lyddy, in surprise. "yes, i have come to beg a favor. and a very great one, too." "why--i----" he laughed and went on to explain--yet his explanation at first puzzled her. "where do you suppose i slept last night, miss bray?" he asked. "in your bed," she returned. "wrong!" "is it a joke--or a puzzle?" "why, i had to sleep in the barn. you see, thus far this term i have boarded with sam larribee. but yesterday his boy came down with the measles. he had been out of school for several days--had been visiting the other side of the ridge. they think he caught it there--at his cousin's. "however," continued mr. somers, "that does not help me. when i came home from school and heard the doctor's report, i refused to enter the house. we don't want an epidemic of measles at pounder's school. "so i slept in the barn with old molly, here. and now i must find another boarding place. they--er--tell me, miss bray, that you intend to take boarders?" "why--er--yes," admitted lyddy, faintly. "you have some already?" "mr. colesworth and his son. they have just come." "couldn't you put me--and molly--up for the rest of the term?" asked the school teacher, laughing. "why, i don't know but i could," said lyddy, her business sense coming to her aid. "i--why, yes! i am quite sure about _you_; but about the horse, i do not know." "you surely have a stall to spare?" "plenty; but no feed." "oh, i will bring my own grain; and i'll let her pasture in your orchard. she doesn't work hard and doesn't need much forage except what she can glean at this time of year for herself." "well, then, perhaps it can be arranged," said lyddy. "will you come in and see what our accommodations are?" and so that is how another boarder came to hillcrest farm. mr. somers chose one of the smaller rooms upstairs, and agreed to pay for his own entertainment and pasturage for his horse--six dollars and a half a week. it was a little more than he had been paying at larribee's, he said--but then, mr. somers wanted to come to hillcrest. he drove away to get his trunk out of the window of his bedroom at the measles-stricken farmhouse down the hill; he would not risk entering by the door for the sake of his other pupils. a little later lucas drove up from town with harris colesworth and his bag. "say!" whispered the lanky farmer, leaning from his seat to whisper to 'phemie. "i hear tell you've got school teacher for a boarder, too? is that so?" "what of it?" demanded 'phemie, somewhat vexed. "oh, nawthin'. only ye oughter seen sairy's face when maw told her!" chapter xvi the ball keeps rolling the school teacher pressingly invited the bray girls to accompany him to the temperance meeting that evening; his buggy would hold the three, he declared. but both lyddy and 'phemie had good reason for being excused. there was now work for them--and plenty of it. they had to disappoint lucas in this matter, too; but harris colesworth laughingly accepted the teacher's later proposal that _he_ attend, and the two young men drove off together, leaving the girls in the kitchen and old mr. colesworth and mr. bray playing cribbage in the dining-room. it was while 'phemie was clearing the supper table that her attention was caught by something that mr. colesworth said. "who is your neighbor that i see so much up yonder among the rocks, at the back of this farm, mr. bray?" he asked. "mr. pritchett?" suggested mr. bray. "cyrus pritchett. the long-legged boy's father. he farms a part of these acres----" "no. it is not cyrus pritchett i mean. and he is no farmer." "i couldn't tell you," said mr. bray. "a rather peculiar-looking man--long hair, black coat, broad-brimmed hat. i have frequently come upon him during the last few days. he always walks off as though in haste. i never have got near enough to speak to him." "why," responded mr. bray, thoughtfully scanning his hand, and evidently giving little attention to mr. colesworth's mystery, "why, i'm sure i don't know what would attract anybody up in that part of the farm." "saving a man interested in breaking open rocks to see what's in them," chuckled mr. colesworth. "but this fellow is no geologist." 'phemie, however, decided that she knew who it was. silas trent had mentioned seeing the man, spink, up that way; and, on more than one occasion, 'phemie was sure the owner of the diamond grits breakfast food had been lurking about hillcrest. "lyddy has never asked cyrus pritchett about that evening he and spink were up here--two weeks ago this very night. i almost wish she'd do so. this mystery is getting on my nerves!" and yet 'phemie was not at all sure that there was any mystery about it. lyddy, on the strength of getting her first boarders, renewed her advertisement in the easthampton papers. at once she received half a dozen inquiries. it was yet too early in the season to expect many people to wish to come to the country to board; yet lyddy painstakingly answered each letter, and in full. but she really did not see how she would be able to get on over the summer with the open fire and the brick oven. it would be dreadfully hot in that kitchen. and she would have been glad to use mrs. pritchett's dutch oven that lucas had told her about. but since the first sunday neither mrs. pritchett or sairy had been near hillcrest. now that mr. somers had established himself here, the bray girls did not expect to ever be forgiven by "maw" pritchett and her daughter. "it's too bad people are so foolish," said lyddy, wearily. "i haven't done anything to sairy." "but she and her mother think you have. by your wiles you have inveigled mr. somers away from sairy," giggled 'phemie. "'phemie!" gasped her sister. "if you say such a thing again, i'll send mr. somers packing!" "oh, shucks! can't you see the fun of it!?" "there is no fun in it," declared the very proper lyddy. "it is only disgraceful." "i'd like to tell that young mr. colesworth about it," laughed 'phemie. "he'd just be tickled to death." lyddy looked at her haughtily. "you _dare_ include me in any gossip of such a character, and i--" "well? you'll what?" demanded the younger girl, saucily. "i shall feel very much like spanking you!" declared lyddy. "and that is just what you would deserve." "oh, now--don't get mad, lyd," urged 'phemie. "you take things altogether too seriously." "well," responded the older girl, going back to the main subject, "the problem of how we are to cook when it comes warm weather is a very, very serious matter." "we've just got to have a range--ought to have one with a tank, on the end in which to heat water. i've seen 'em advertised." "but how can we? i've gone into debt now for more than thirty dollars' worth of commercial fertilizer. i don't dare get deeper into the mire." "but," cried the sanguine 'phemie, "the crops will more than pay for _that_ outlay." "perhaps." "you're a born grump, lyddy bray!" "somebody has to look ahead," sighed lyddy. "the crops may fail. such things happen. or we may get no more boarders. or father may get worse." "_don't_ say such things, lyddy!" cried her sister, stamping her foot. "especially about father." the older girl put her arms about 'phemie and the latter began to weep on her shoulder. "don't let us hide our true beliefs from each other," whispered lyddy, brokenly. "father is _not_ mending--not as we hoped he would, at least. and yet the hospital doctor told aunt jane that there was absolutely nothing medicine could do for him." "i know! i know!" sobbed 'phemie. "but don't let's talk about it. he is so brave himself. he talks just as though he was gaining every day; but his step is so feeble----" "and he has no color," groaned lyddy. "but, anyhow," 'phemie pursued, wiping her eyes, her flurry of tears quickly over, as was her nature, "there is one good thing." "what is that?" "he doesn't lose hope himself. and _we_ mustn't lose it, either. of course things will come out right--even the boarders will come." "we don't know that," said lyddy, shaking her head again. "how about the woman who wrote you a second time?" queried 'phemie. "mrs. castle. i bet _she_ comes next week." and 'phemie was right in _that_ prophecy. they had lucas meet the train for mrs. castle on saturday, and 'phemie went with him. there were supplies to buy for the house and the young girl made her purchases before train time. a little old lady in a paisley shawl and black, close bonnet, got out of the train. the porter lifted down an ancient carpet-bag--something 'phemie had never in her life seen before. even lucas was amazed by the little old woman's outfit. "by cracky!" he whispered to 'phemie. "you reckon _that's_ the party? why, she's dressed more behind the times than my grandmother useter be. guess there must be places on this airth more countrified than bridleburg." but 'phemie knew that mrs. castle's letter had come from an address in easthampton which the brays knew to be in a very good neighborhood. nobody but wealthy people lived on that street. yet mrs. castle--aside from the valuable but old-fashioned shawl--did not look to be worth any great fortune. "are you the girl who wrote to me?" asked the old lady, briskly, when 'phemie came forward to take the carpet-bag. mrs. castle's voice was very resonant; she had sharp blue eyes behind her gold-bowed spectacles; and she clipped her words and sentences in a manner that belied her age and appearance. "no, ma'am," said 'phemie, doubtfully. "it was my sister who wrote. _i_ am euphemia bray." "ha! and what is your sister's name? what does the 'l' stand for?" "lydia." "good!" ejaculated this strange old lady. "then i'll ride out to the farm with you. such good, old-fashioned names promise just what your sister said: an old-fashioned house and old-time ways. if 'l!' had meant 'lillie,' or 'luella,' or 'lilas'--and if _you_, young lady, had been called 'marie'--i'd have taken the very next train back to town." 'phemie could only stare and nod. in her secret thoughts she told herself that this queer old woman was doubtless a harmless lunatic. she did not know whether it was quite best to have lucas drive them to hillcrest or not. "you got a trunk, ma'am?" asked the long-legged youth, as the old lady hopped youthfully into the buckboard, and 'phemie lifted in the heavy carpet-bag. "no, i haven't. this is no fashionable boarding house i'm going to, i s'pose?" she added, eyeing 'phemie sternly. "oh, no, ma'am!" returned the girl. "then i've got enough with me in this bag, and on my back, to last me a fortnight. if i like, i'll send for something more, then." she certainly knew her own mind, this old lady. 'phemie had first thought her to be near the three-score-and-ten mark; but every moment she seemed to get younger. her face was wrinkled, but they were fine wrinkles, and her coloring made her look like a withered russet apple. out of this golden-brown countenance the blue eyes sparkled in a really wonderful way. "but i don't care," thought 'phemie, as they clattered out of town. "crazy or not, if she can pay her board she's so much help. let the ball keep on rolling. it's getting bigger and bigger. perhaps we _shall_ have a houseful at hillcrest, after all." chapter xvii the runaway grandmother but 'phemie was immensely curious about this strange little old lady who was dressed so oddly, yet who apparently came from the wealthiest section of the city of easthampton. the young girl could not bring herself to ask questions of their visitor--let lyddy do that, if she thought it necessary. but, as it chanced, up to a certain point mrs. castle was quite open of speech and free to communicate information about herself. as soon as they had got out of town she turned to 'phemie and said: "i expect you think i'm as queer as dick's hat-band, euphemia? i am quite sure you never saw a person like me before?" "why--mrs. castle--not _just_ like you," admitted the embarrassed 'phemie. "i expect not! well, i presume there are other old women, who are grandmothers, and have got all tangled up in these new-fangled notions that women have--laws' sake! i might as well tell you right off that i've run away!" "run away?" gasped 'phemie, with a vision of keepers from an asylum coming to hillcrest to take away their new boarder. "that's exactly what i have done! none of my folks know where i have gone. i just wrote a note, telling them not to look for me, and that i was going back to old-fashioned times, if i could find 'em. then i got this bag out of the cupboard--i'd kept it all these years--packed it with my very oldest duds, and--well, here i am!" and the old lady's laugh rang out as shrill and clear as a blackbird's call. "i have astonished you; have i?" she pursued. "and i suppose i have astonished my folks. but they know i'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. i ought to be. why, i'm a grandmother three times!" "'three times?'" repeated the amazed 'phemie. "yes, miss euphemia bray. three grandchildren--two girls and a boy. and they are always telling folks how up-to-date grandma is! i'm sick of being up-to-date. i'm sick of dressing so that folks behind me on the street can't tell whether i'm a grandmother or my own youngest grandchild! "we just live in a perfect whirl of excitement. 'pleasure,' they call it. but it's gotten to be a nuisance. my daughter-in-law has her head full of society matters and club work. the girls and tom spend all but the little time they are obliged to give to books in the private schools they attend, in dancing and theatre parties, and the like. "and here a week ago i found my son--their father--a man forty-five years old, and bald, and getting fat, being taught the tango by a french dancing professor in the back drawing-room!" exclaimed mrs. castle, in a tone of disgust that almost convulsed 'phemie. "that was enough. that was the last straw on the camel's back. i made up my mind when i read your sister's advertisement that i would like to live simply and with simple people again. i'd like really to _feel_ like a grandmother, and _dress_ like one, and _be_ one. "and if i like it up here at your place i shall stay through the summer. no hunting-lodge in the adirondacks for me this spring, or newport, or the pier later, or anything of that kind. i'm going to sit on your porch and knit socks. my mother did when _she_ was a grandmother. this is her shawl, and mother and father took this old carpet-bag with them when they went on their honeymoon. "mother enjoyed her old age. she spent it quietly, and it was _lovely_," declared mrs. castle, with a note in her voice that made 'phemie sober at once. "i am going to have quiet, and repose, and a simple life, too, before i have to die. "it's just killing me keeping up with the times. i don't want to keep up with 'em. i want them to drift by me, and leave me stranded in some pleasant, sunny place, where i only have to look on. and that's what i am going to get at hillcrest--just that kind of a place--if you've got it to sell," completed this strange old lady, with emphasis. 'phemie bray scarcely knew what to say. she was not sure that mrs. castle was quite right in her mind; yet what she said, though so surprising, sounded like sense. "i'll leave it to lyddy; she'll know what to say and do," thought the younger sister, with faith in the ability of lyddy to handle any emergency. and lyddy handled the old lady as simply as she did everything. she refused to see anything particularly odd in mrs. castle's dress, manner, or outlook on life. the old lady chose one of the larger rooms on the second floor, considered the terms moderate, and approved of everything she saw about the house. "make no excuses for giving me a feather bed to sleep on. i believe it will add half a dozen years to my life," she declared. "feather beds! my! i never expected to see such a joy again--let alone experience it." "our circle is broadening," said old mr. colesworth, at supper that evening. "come! i have a three-handed counter for cribbage. shall we take mrs. castle into our game, mr. bray?" "if she will so honor us," agreed the girls' father, bowing to the little old lady. "well! that's hearty of you," said the brisk mrs. castle. "i'll postpone beginning knitting my son a pair of socks that he'd never wear, until to-morrow." for she had actually brought along with her knitting needles and a hank of grey yarn. it grew into a nightly occurrence, this three-handed cribbage game. when mr. somers had no lessons to "get up," or no examination papers to mark, he spent the evening with lyddy and 'phemie. he even helped with the dish-wiping and helped to bring in the wood for the morning fires. fire was laid in the three chambers, as well as the dining-room, to light on cold mornings, or on damp days; lucas had spent a couple more days in chopping wood. but as the season advanced there was less and less need of these in the sleeping rooms. there were, of course, wet and gloomy days, when the old folks were glad to sit over the dining-room fire, the elements forbidding outdoors to them. but they kept cheerful. and not a little of this cheerfulness was spread by lyddy and 'phemie. the older girl's thoughtfulness for others made her much beloved, while 'phemie's high spirits were contagious. on saturday, when harris colesworth arrived from town to remain over sunday, hillcrest was indeed a lively place. this very self-possessed young man took a pleasant interest in everything that went on about the house and farm. lyddy was still inclined to snub him--only, he wouldn't be snubbed. he did not force his attentions upon her; but while he was at hillcrest it seemed to lyddy as though he was right at her elbow all the time. "he pervades the whole place," she complained to 'phemie. "why--he's under foot, like a kitten!" "huh!" exclaimed the younger sister. "he's hanging about you no more than the school teacher--and mr. somers has the best chance, too." "'phemie!" "oh, don't be a grump! mr. colesworth is ever so nice. he's worth any _two_ of your somerses, too!" and at that lyddy became so indignant that she would not speak to her sister for the rest of the day. but _that_ did not solve the problem. there was harris colesworth, always doing something for her, ready to do her bidding at any time, his words cheerful, his looks smiling, and, as lyddy declared in her own mind, "utterly unable to keep his place." there never _was_ so bold a young man, she verily believed! chapter xviii the queer boarder spring marched on apace those days. the garden at hillcrest began to take form, and the green things sprouted beautifully. lucas pritchett was working very hard, for his father did not allow him to neglect any of his regular work to keep the contract the young man had made with lyddy bray. in another line the prospect for a crop was anxiously canvassed, too. the eggs lyddy had sent for had arrived and, after running the incubator for a couple of days to make sure that they understood it, the girls put the hundred eggs into the trays. the eggs were guaranteed sixty per cent. fertile and after eight days they tested them as trent had advised. they left eighty-seven eggs in the incubator after the test. but the incubator took an enormous amount of attention--at least, the girls thought it did. this was not so bad by day; but they went to bed tired enough at night, and lyddy was sure the lamp should be looked to at midnight. it was three o'clock the first night before 'phemie awoke with a start, and lay with throbbing pulse and with some sound ringing in her ears which she could not explain immediately. but almost at once she recalled another night--their first one at hillcrest--when she had gone rambling about the lower floor of the old house. but she thought of the incubator and leaped out of bed. the lamp might have flared up and cooked all those eggs. or it might have expired and left them to freeze out there in the washhouse. she did not arouse lyddy, but slipped into her wrapper and slippers and crept downstairs with her candle. there _had_ been a sound that aroused her. she heard somebody moving about the kitchen. "surely father hasn't got up--he promised he wouldn't," thought 'phemie. she was not afraid of outside marauders now. both mr. somers and young mr. colesworth were in the house. 'phemie went boldly into the kitchen from the hall. the porch door opened and a wavering light appeared--another candle. there was harris colesworth, in _his_ robe and slippers, coming from the direction of the washhouse. 'phemie shrank back and hid by the foot of the stairs. but she was not quick enough in putting her light out--or else he heard her giggle. "halt! who goes there?" demanded colesworth, in a sepulchral voice. "a--a fr-r-riend," chattered 'phemie. "advance, friend, and give the countersign," commanded the young man. "chickens!" gasped 'phemie, convulsed with laughter. "you'd have had fried eggs, maybe, for all your interest in the incubator," said harris, with a chuckle. "so 'chickens' is no longer the password." "oh, they didn't get too hot?" pleaded the girl, in despair. "nope. this is the second time i've been out. to tell you the truth," said harris, laughing, "i think the incubator is all right and will work like a charm; but i understand they're a good deal like ships--likely to develop some crotchet at almost any time." "but it's good of you to take the trouble to look at it for us." "sure it is!" he laughed. "but that's what i'm on earth for--to do good--didn't you know that, miss 'phemie?" she told her sister about harris colesworth's kindness in the morning. but lyddy took it the other way about. "i declare! he can't keep his fingers out of our pie at any stage of the game; can he?" she snapped. "why, lyd!" "oh--don't talk to me!" returned her older sister, who seemed to be rather snappish this morning. "that young man is getting on my nerves." it was sunday and the colesworths had engaged a two-seated carriage in town to take mrs. castle and mr. bray with them to church. there was a seat beside mr. somers, behind old molly, for one of the girls. the teacher plainly wanted to take lyddy, but that young lady had not recovered from her ill-temper of the early morning. "lyd got out of bed on the wrong side this morning," said 'phemie. however, she went with mr. somers in her sister's stead. and lyddy bray was glad to be left alone. no one could honestly call hillcrest farm a lonesome place these days! "i'm not sure that i wouldn't be glad to be alone here again, with just 'phemie and father," the young girl told herself. "there is one drawback to keeping a boarding house--one has no privacy. in trying to make it homelike for the boarders, we lose all our own home life. ah, dear, well! at least we are earning our support." for lyddy bray kept her books carefully, and she had been engaged in this new business long enough to enable her to strike a balance. from her present boarders she was receiving thirty-one and a half dollars weekly. at least ten of it represented her profit. but the two young girls were working very hard. the cooking was becoming a greater burden because of the makeshifts necessary at the open fire. and the washing of bed and table linen was a task that was becoming too heavy for them. "if we had a couple of other good paying boarders," mused lyddy, as she sat resting on the side porch, "we might afford to take somebody into the kitchen to help us. it would have to be somebody who would work cheap, of course; we could pay no fancy wages. but we need help." as she thus ruminated she was startled by seeing a figure cross the field from behind the barn. it was not cyrus pritchett, although the farmer spent most of his sabbaths wandering about the fields examining the crops. corn had not yet been planted, anyway--not here on the hillcrest farm. but this was a man fully as large as cyrus pritchett. as he drew nearer, lyddy thought that he was a man she had never seen before. he wore a broad-brimmed felt hat--of the kind affected by western statesmen. his black hair--rather oily-looking it was, like an indian's--flowed to the collar of his coat. that coat was a frock, but it was unbuttoned, displaying a pearl gray vest and trousers of the same shade. he even wore gray spats over his shoes and was altogether more elaborately dressed than any native lyddy had heretofore seen. he came across the yard at a swinging stride, and took off his hat with a flourish. she saw then that his countenance was deeply tanned, that he had a large nose, thick, smoothly-shaven lips, and heavy-lidded eyes. "miss bray, i have no doubt?" he began, recovering from his bow. lyddy had risen rather quickly, and only nodded. she scarcely knew what to make of this stranger--and she was alone. "pray sit down again," he urged, with a wave of his hand. "and allow me to sit here at your feet. it is a lovely day--but warm." "it is, indeed," admitted lyddy, faintly. "you have a beautiful view of the valley here." "yes, sir." "i am told below," said the man, with a free gesture taking in bridleburg and several square miles of surrounding country, "that you take boarders here at hillcrest?" "yes, sir," said lyddy again. "good! your rooms are not yet all engaged, my dear young lady?" said the man, who seemed unable to discuss the simplest subject without using what later she learned to call "his platform manner." "oh, no; we haven't many guests as yet." "good!" he exclaimed again. then, after a moment's pursing of his lips, he added: "this is not strictly speaking a legal day for making bargains. but we may _talk_ of an arrangement; mayn't we?" "i do not understand you, sir," said lyddy. "ah! no! i am referring to the possibility of my taking board with you, miss bray." "i see," responded the girl, with sudden interest. "do you think you would be suited with the accommodations we have to offer?" "ah, my dear miss!" he exclaimed, with a broad smile. "i am an old campaigner. i have slept gypsy-fashion under the stars many and many a night. a straw pallet has often been my lot. indeed, i am naturally simple of taste and habit." he said all this with an air as though entirely different demands might reasonably be expected of such as he. he evidently had a very good opinion of himself. lyddy did not much care for his appearance; but he was respectably--if strikingly--dressed, and he was perfectly respectful. "i will show you what we have," said lyddy, and rose and accompanied him through the house. "you do not let any of the rooms in the east wing?" he asked, finally. "no, sir. neither upstairs nor down. we probably shall not disturb those rooms at all." finally they talked terms. the stranger seemed to forget all his scruples about doing business on sunday, for he was a hard bargainer. as a result he obtained from lyddy quite as good accommodations as mrs. castle had--and for two dollars less per week. not until they had come downstairs did lyddy think to ask him his name. "and one not unknown to fame, my dear young lady," he said, drawing out his cardcase. "famous in more than one field of effort, too--as you may see. "your terms are quite satisfactory, i will have my trunk brought up in the morning, and i will do myself the honor to sup with you to-morrow evening. good-day, miss bray," and he lifted his hat and went away whistling, leaving lyddy staring in surprise at the card in her hand: prof. lemuel judson spink, m.d. proprietor: stonehedge bitters likewise of the world famous diamond grits "_the breakfast of the million_" "why! it's the spink man we've heard so much about--the boy who was taken out of the poorhouse by grandfather. i--i wonder if i have done right to take him as a boarder?" murmured lyddy at last. chapter xix the widow harrison's troubles later lyddy bray had more than "two minds" about taking professor lemuel judson spink to board. and 'phemie's "you never took him!" when she first heard the news on her return from church, was not the least of the reasons for lyddy's doubts. but 'phemie denied flatly--the next minute--that she had any real and sensible reason for opposing mr. spink's coming to hillcrest to board. indeed, she said emphatically that she had never yet expressed any dislike for the proprietor of diamond grits--the breakfast of the million. "my goodness me! why _not_ take him?" she said. "as long as we don't have to eat his breakfast food, i see no reason for objecting." but in her secret heart 'phemie was puzzled by what "jud spink," as he was called by his old associates, was up to! she believed cyrus pritchett knew; but 'phemie stood rather in fear of the stern farmer, as did his whole household. only lyddy had faced the bullying old man and seemed perfectly fearless of him; but 'phemie shrank from adding to the burden on lyddy's mind by explaining to her all the suspicions _she_ held of this spink. the man had tried to purchase hillcrest of aunt jane for a nominal sum. he had been lurking about the old house--especially about the old doctor's offices in the east wing--more than once, to 'phemie's actual knowledge. and spink was interested in something at the back of hillcrest farm. he had been hunting among the rocks there until old mr. colesworth's presence had driven him away. what was he after on the old farm where he had lived for some years as a boy? what was the secret of the rocks? and had the mystery finally brought professor lemuel judson spink to the house itself as a boarder? these questions puzzled 'phemie greatly. but she wouldn't put them before her sister. if lyddy was not suspicious, let her remain so. it was their duty to take all the boarders they could get. mr. spink added his quota to their profits. 'phemie was just as eager as lyddy to keep father on the farm and out of the shop that had so nearly proved fatal to him. "so there's no use in refusing to swallow the breakfast food magnate," decided 'phemie. "we'll down him, and if we have to make a face at the bitter dose, all right!" professor spink came the very next evening. he was a distinct addition to the party at supper. indeed, his booming voice, his well rounded periods, his unctuous manner, his frock coat, and his entire physical and mental make-up seemed to dominate the dining-room. mr. colesworth listened to his supposedly scientific jargon with a quiet smile; the geologist plainly sized up professor spink for the quack he was. mr. bray tried to be a polite listener to all the big man said. the girls were utterly silenced by the ever-flowing voice of the ex-medicine show lecturer; but mr. somers was inclined to argue on a point or two with professor spink. this, however, only made the man "boom" the louder. mrs. castle seemed willing to listen to the professor's verbosity and agreed with all he said. she was willing after supper to withdraw from the usual cribbage game and play "enthralled audience" for the ex-lecturer's harangues. he boomed away at her upon a number of subjects, while she placidly nodded acquiescence and made her knitting needles flash--and he talked, and talked, and talked. when the little old lady retired to bed lyddy went to her room, as she usually did, to see if she was comfortable for the night. "i am afraid our new guest rather bored you, mrs. castle?" lyddy ventured. "on the contrary, lydia," replied the old lady, promptly, "his talk is very soothing; and i can knit with perfect assurance that i shall not miss count while he is talking--for i don't really listen to a word he says!" professor spink did not, however, make himself offensive. he only seemed likely to become a dreadful bore. during the day he wandered about the farm--a good deal like mr. colesworth. only he did not carry with him a little hammer and bag. 'phemie wondered if the professor had not come here to board for the express purpose of continuing his mysterious search at the back of the farm without arousing either objection or comment. he watched mr. colesworth, too. there could be no doubt of that. when the old geologist started out with his hammer and bag, the professor trailed him. but the two never went together. mr. colesworth often brought in curious specimens of rock; but he said frankly that he had come across no mineral of value on the farm in sufficient quantities to promise the owner returns for mining the ore. aunt jane, too, had said that the rocks back of hillcrest had been examined by geologists time and again. there was no mineral treasure on the farm. _that_ was surely not the secret of the rocks--and it wasn't mineral professor spink was after. but the week passed without 'phemie's having studied out a single sensible idea about the matter. friday was a very hard and busy day for the girls. it was the big baking day of the week. they made a fire twice in the big brick oven, and left two pots of beans in it over night. "but there's enough in the larder to last over sunday, thanks be!" sighed 'phemie, when she and lyddy crept to bed. "i hope so. what a lot they do eat!" said lyddy, sleepily. "a double baking of bread. a dozen apple pies; four squash pies; and an extra lemon-meringue for sunday dinner. oh, dear, lyd! i wish you'd let me go and ask maw pritchett for her dutch oven." "no," replied the older sister, drowsily. "we will not risk a refusal. besides, mr. somers said something about an old lady over the ridge--beyond the chapel--who is selling out--or being sold out--mrs. harrison. maybe she has something of the kind that she will sell cheap." "well--that--old--brick--oven--is--kill--ing--me!" yawned 'phemie, and then was sound asleep in half a minute. the next morning, however, the girls hustled about as rapidly as possible and when lucas drove up with young mr. colesworth they were ready to take a drive with the young farmer over the ridge. "we want to see what this mrs. harrison has to sell," explained lyddy to lucas. "you see, we need some things." "all right," he agreed. "i'll take ye. but whether the poor old critter is let to sell anything private, or not, i dunno. they sold her real estate last week, and this sale of household goods is to satisfy the judgment. the farm wasn't much, and it went for a song. poor old critter! she is certainly getting the worst end of it, and after putting up with bob harrison's crotchets so many years." 'phemie was interested in mrs. harrison and wanted to ask lucas about her; but just as they started harris colesworth darted out of the house again, having seen his father. "hold on! don't be stingy!" he cried. "there's a seat empty beside you, miss lyddy. can't i go, too?" now, how could you refuse a person as bold as that? besides, harris was a "paying guest" and she did not want to offend him! so lyddy bowed demurely and young colesworth hopped in. "let 'em go, lucas!" he cried. "now, this is what _i_ call a mighty nice little family party--i don't see somers in it." at that lucas laughed so he could scarcely hold the reins. but lyddy only looked offended. "stop your silly giggling, lucas," commanded 'phemie, fearful that her sister would become angry and "speak out in meeting." "i want to know all about this mrs. harrison." "is that where you're bound--to the widow harrison's?" asked harris. "i have been told that our new friend, professor spink, has sold her out--stock, lock, and barrel." "is _that_ who is making her trouble?" demanded 'phemie, hotly. "i _knew_ he was a mean man." "well, he was a bad man to go to for money, i reckon," agreed harris. "bob harrison didn't mortgage his place to jud spink," explained lucas. "no sir! he got the money of reuben smiles, years ago. and he and his widder allus paid the intrust prompt." "well--how did it come into spink's hands?" "why--i dunno. guess spink offered smiles a bonus. at any rate, the original mortgage had long since run out, and was bein' renewed from year to year. when it come time for renewal, jud spink showed his hand and foreclosed. they had a sale, and it didn't begin to pay the face of the mortgage. you see, the place had all run down. bob hadn't turned a stroke of work on it for years before he died, and the widder'd only made shift to make a garden. "wal, there was a clause covering all personal property--and the widder had subscribed to it. so now the sheriff is going to have a vendue an' see if he kin satisfy jud spink's claim in full. dunno what _will_ become of mis' harrison," added lucas, shaking his head. "she's quite spry, if she is old; but she ain't got a soul beholden to her, an' i reckon she'll be took to the poor farm." chapter xx the temperance club again the boys sat in the buckboard and talked earnestly while lyddy and 'phemie bray "visited" with the widow harrison. she was a tall, gaunt, sad woman--quite "spry," as lucas had said; but she was evidently troubled about her future. her poor sticks of furniture could not bring any great sum at the auction, which was slated for the next monday. she admitted to the bray girls that she expected the money raised would all have to go to the mortgagee. "i _did_ 'spect i'd be 'lowed to live here in bob's place till i died," she sighed. "bob was hard to git along with. i paid dear for my home, i did. and now it's goin' to be took away from me." "and you have no relatives, mrs. harrison? nobody whose home you would be welcome in?" asked lyddy, thoughtfully. "not a soul belongin' to me," declared mrs. harrison. "an' i wouldn't ask charity of nobody--give me my way." "you think you could work yet?" ventured lyddy. "why, bless ye! i've gone out washin' an' scrubbin' when i could. but folks on this ridge ain't able to have much help. still, them i've worked for will give me a good word. no _young_ woman can ekal me, i'm proud to say. i was brought up to work, i was, an' i ain't never got rusty." lyddy looked at 'phemie with shining eyes. at first the younger sister didn't comprehend what lyddy was driving at. but suddenly a light flooded her mind. "goody! that's just the thing!" cried 'phemie, clasping her hands. "what might ye be meanin'?" demanded the puzzled mrs. harrison, looking at the girls alternately. "you are just the person we want, mrs. harrison," lyddy declared, "and we are just the persons _you_ want. it is a mutual need, and for once the two needs have come together." "i don't make out what ye mean, child," returned the old woman. "why, you want work and a home. we need somebody to help us, and we have plenty of space so that you can have a nice big room to yourself at hillcrest, and i _know_ we shall get along famously. do, _do_, mrs. harrison! let's try it!" a blush rose slowly into the old woman's face. her eyes shone with sudden unshed tears as she continued to look at lyddy. "you don't know what you're saying, child!" she finally declared, hoarsely. "yes, dear mrs. harrison! we need you--and perhaps you need us." "need ye!" the stern new england nature of the woman could not break up easily. her face worked as she simply repeated the words, in a tone that brought a choking feeling into 'phemie's throat: "_need ye!_" but lyddy went on to explain details, and bye-and-bye mrs. harrison gained control of her emotions. lyddy told her what she felt she could afford to pay. "it isn't great pay, i know; but we're not making much money out of the boarders yet; if we fill the house, you shall have more. and we will be sure to treat you nicely, mrs. harrison." "stop, child! don't say another word!" gasped the old woman. "of course, i'll come. why--you don't know what you're doing for me----" "no; we're doing for ourselves," laughed lyddy. "you're givin' me a chance to be independent," cried mrs. harrison. "that's the greatest thing in the world." "isn't it?" returned lyddy, sweetly. "i think so. that's what we are trying to do ourselves. so you'll come?" "sure as i'm alive, miss," declared the old woman. "ye need have no fear i won't. i'll be over in time to help ye with supper monday night. and wait till tuesday with your washin'. i'm a good washer, if i _do_ say it as shouldn't." the young folks drove back to hillcrest much more gaily than they had come. at least, 'phemie and lucas were very gay on the front seat. harris colesworth said to lyddy: "lucas has been giving me the full history of the widow harrison's troubles. and her being sold out of house and home isn't the worst she's been through." "no?" "the man she married--late in life--was a tartar, i tell you! just as cranky and mean as he could be. everybody thought he was an old soldier. he was away from here all during the civil war--from ' to ' --and folks supposed he'd get a pension, and that his widow would have _something_ for her trouble of marrying and living with the old grouch. "but it seems he never enlisted at all. he was just a sutler, or camp follower, or something. he couldn't get a pension. and he let folks think that he had brought home a lot of money, and had hidden it; but when he died two years ago mrs. harrison didn't find a penny. he'd just mortgaged the old place, and they'd been living on the money he got that way." "it seems too bad she should lose everything," agreed lyddy. "i am going to stay over monday and go to the vendue," said harris. "lucas says she has a few pieces of furniture that maybe i'd like to have--a chest of drawers, and a desk----" "oh, yes! i saw them," responded lyddy, "and she's got some kitchen things i'd like to have, too. i _need_ her dutch oven." "oh, i say, miss lyddy!" he exclaimed, eagerly, yet bashfully, "you're not going to try to cook over that open fire all this summer? it will kill you." "i _do_ need a stove--a big range," admitted the young girl. "but i don't see how----" "let me lend you the money!" exclaimed harris. "see! i'll pay you ahead for father and me as many weeks as you like----" "i most certainly shall not accept your offer, mr. colesworth!" declared lyddy, immediately on guard again with this too friendly young man. "of course, i am obliged to you; but i could not think of it." she chilled his ardor on this point so successfully that harris scarcely dared suggest that they four go to the temperance club meeting at the schoolhouse that night. evidently lucas and he had talked it over, and were anxious to have the girls go. 'phemie welcomed the suggestion gladly, too. and feeling that she had too sharply refused mr. colesworth's kindly suggestion regarding the kitchen range, lyddy graciously agreed to go. mr. somers, the school teacher, was possibly somewhat offended because lyddy had refused to accompany _him_ to the club meeting; but for once lyddy took her own way without so much regard for the possible "feelings" of other people. the teacher could not comfortably take both her and 'phemie in his buggy; and why offend lucas pritchett, who was certainly their loyal friend and helper? so when the ponies and buckboard appeared after supper the two girls were in some little flutter of preparation. old mr. colesworth and grandma castle (as she loved to have the girls call her) were on the porch to see the party off. the girls had worked so very hard these past few weeks that they were both eager for a little fun. even lyddy admitted that desire now. since their first venture to the schoolhouse and to the chapel, lyddy had met very few of the young people. and 'phemie had not been about much. since sairy pritchett and her mother had put their social veto on the bray girls the young people of the community--the girls, at least--acted very coldly toward lyddy and 'phemie. the latter saw this more clearly than her sister, for she had occasion to meet some of them both at chapel and in bridleburg, where she had gone with lucas several times for provisions. indeed she had heard from lucas that quite a number of the neighbors considered 'phemie and her sister "rather odd," to put it mildly. the larribees were angry because mr. somers, the school teacher, had left them to board at hillcrest. "measles," they said, "was only an excuse." and there were other taxpayers in the district who thought mr. somers ought to have boarded with _them_, if he had to leave sam larribee's! and of course, the way that oldest bray girl had taken the school teacher right away from sairy pritchett---- 'phemie thought all this was funny. yet she was glad lyddy had not heard much of it, for lyddy's idea of fun did not coincide with such gossip and ill-natured criticisms. 'phemie was not, however, surprised by the cold looks and lack of friendly greeting that met them when they came to the schoolhouse this evening. mr. somers had got there ahead of them. there was much whispering when the bray girls came in with harris colesworth, and 'phemie overheard one girl whisper: "guess mr. somers got throwed down, too. i see she's got a new string to her bow!" "now, if lyddy hears such talk as that she'll be really hurt," thought 'phemie. "i really wish we hadn't come." but they were in their seats then, with harris beside lyddy and lucas beside herself. there didn't seem to be any easy way of getting out of the place. chapter xxi caught nettie meyers was there--joe badger's buxom friend. she stared hard at 'phemie and her sister, and then tossed her head. but mr. badger came over particularly to speak to the girls. sairy pritchett was very much in evidence. she sat with half a dozen other young women and by their looks and laughter they were evidently commenting unfavorably upon the bray girls' appearance and character. lyddy bowed pleasantly to mr. badger and the other young men who spoke to her; but she gave her main attention to harris. but 'phemie noted all the sidelong glances, the secret whispering, the bold and harsh words. she was very sorry they had come. alone, 'phemie could have given these girls "as good as they sent." young as she was, her experience among common-minded girls like these had prepared her to hold her own with them. there had been many unpleasant happenings in the millinery shop where she had worked, of which she had told lyddy nothing. mr. somers came down from the desk to speak to the party from hillcrest before the meeting opened. but everybody turned around to stare when he did so, and the teacher grew red to his very ears and remained but a moment under fire. "hul-_lo_!" exclaimed harris colesworth, under his breath, and 'phemie knew that he immediately realized the situation. the whole membership--at least, the female portion of it--was hostile to the party from hillcrest. while the entertainment was proceeding, however, the bray girls and their escorts were left in peace. sairy pritchett sat where she could stare at lyddy and 'phemie, and they were conscious of her antagonistic gaze all the time. but lucas was quite undisturbed by his sister's ogling and when there came a break in the program he leaned over and demanded of her in a perfectly audible voice: "i say, sairy! you keep on starin' like that and you'll git suthin' wuss'n a squint--you'll git cross-eyed, and it'll stay fixed! anything about _me_ you don't like the look of? is my necktie crooked?" some of the others laughed--and at sairy. it made the spinster furious. "you're a perfect fool, lucas pritchett!" she snapped. "if you ever _did_ have any brains, you've addled 'em now over certain folks that i might mention." "go it, old gal!" said the slangy lucas. "ev'ry knock's a boost--don't forgit that!" "hush!" commanded 'phemie, in a whisper. "huh! that cat's goin' to do somethin' mean. i can see it," growled lucas. "she is your sister," admonished 'phemie. "that's how i come to know her so well," returned lucas, calmly. "if she'd only been a boy i'd licked her aout o' this afore naow!" "about _what_?" asked the troubled 'phemie. "oh, just over her 'tarnal meanness. and maw's so foolish, too; _she_ could stop her." "i'm sorry we came here to-night, lucas," 'phemie whispered. and at the same moment lyddy was saying exactly the same thing to harris colesworth. "pshaw!" said the young chemist, in return, "don't give 'em the satisfaction of seeing we're disturbed. they know no better. i can't understand why they should be so nasty to us." "it's lucas's sister," sighed lyddy. "she thinks she has reason for being offended with me. but i _did_ hope that feeling had died out by this time." "you say the word and we'll get out of here, miss lydia," urged harris. "sh! no," she whispered, for somebody was painfully playing a march on the tin-panny old piano, and mr. somers was scowling directly down upon the hillcrest party to obtain silence. "say! what's the matter with that somers chap, too?" muttered harris. but lyddy feared that the teacher felt he had cause for offence, and she certainly _was_ uncomfortable. the recess--or intermission--between the two halves of the literary and musical program, was announced. this was a time always given to social intercourse. the company broke up into groups and chattered and laughed in a friendly--if somewhat boisterous--way. newcomers and visitors were made welcome at this time. nobody now came near the bray girls--not even mr. somers. whether this was intentional neglect on his part or not they did not know, for the teacher seemed busy at the desk with first one and then another. sairy pritchett and the club historian had their heads together, and the latter, mayme lowry, was evidently adding several items to her "club chronicles," which amused the two immensely. and there was a deal of nudging and tittering over this among the other girls who gathered about the arch-plotters. "i'm glad they've got something besides us to giggle about," lyddy confided to her sister. but 'phemie was not sure that the ill-natured girls were not hatching up some scheme to offend the hillcrest party. "i believe i'd like to go home," ventured 'phemie. "aw! don't let 'em chase you away," exclaimed the young farmer. "oh, i know: 'sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me!' but being called names--or, even having names _looked_ at one--isn't pleasant." lyddy heard her and said quickly, her expression very decided indeed: "we're not going--yet. let us stay until the finish." "yes, by jove!" muttered harris. "i'd just like to see what these rubes would dare do!" but girls are not like boys--at least, some girls are not. they won't fight fair. the hillcrest party need not have expected an attack in any way that could be openly answered--no, indeed. but they did not escape. mr. somers rang his desk bell at last and called the company to order. after a song from the school song-book, in which everybody joined, the "club chronicles" were announced. this "history"--being mainly hits on what had happened in the community since the last meeting of the temperance club--was very popular. mayme lowry was a more than ordinarily bright girl, and had a gift for composition. it was whispered that she wrote the "pounder's brook items" for the bridleburg _weekly clarion_. miss lowry rose and unfolded her manuscript. it was written in a somewhat irreverent imitation of the scriptural "chronicles;" but that seemed to please the young folks here gathered all the more. she began: "and it came to pass in the reign of king westerville somers, who was likewise a seer and a prophet, and in the fourth month of the second year of his reign over the pounder's school district, that a certain youth whose name rhymes with 'hitch it,' hitched himself to the apron-strings of a maid, who was at that time sojourning at the top of the hill--and was hitched so tight that you couldn't have pried the two apart with a crowbar!" "oh, by cracky!" gasped the suddenly ruddy-faced lucas. "what a wallop!" the paragraph was punctuated with a general titter from the girls all over the room, while some of the boys hooted at lucas in vast joy. lyddy turned pale; 'phemie's countenance for once rivalled lucas's own in hue. but miss lowry went on to the next paragraph, which was quite as severe a slap at somebody else. "don't get mad with _me_, miss 'phemie," begged lucas, in a whisper. "oh, you can't help it, lucas," she said. "but i'll never come to this place with you again. don't expect it!" the amusing but sometimes merely foolish paragraphs were reeled off, one after the other. sometimes the crowd shouted with laughter; sometimes there was almost dead silence as miss lowry delivered a particularly hard hit, or one that was not entirely understood at first. "and it came to pass in those days that certain damsels of the pounder's brook temperance club gathered themselves together in one place, and saith, the one to the other: "is it not so that the young men of pounder's brook are no longer attracted by our girls? they no longer care to listen to our songs, or when we play upon the harp or psaltery. they pass us by with unseeing vision. verily an easter bonnet no longer catcheth the eye of the wayward youth, and holdeth his attention. selah. "therefore spake one damsel to the others gathered together, and sayeth: 'surely we are not wise. the young men of our tribe goeth after strange gods. therefore, let us awake, and go forth, and show the wisdom of serpents and--each and every one of us--start a boarding house!'" the young men, who had begun to look exceedingly foolish during this harangue, suddenly broke into a chorus of laughter. even lucas and harris colesworth could not hide a grin, and the school teacher hid his face from the company. the whole room was a-roar. lyddy and 'phemie suffered under the indignity--and yet 'phemie could scarcely forbear a grin. it was a coarse joke, but laughter is contagious--even when the joke is against oneself. miss lowry gave them no time to recover from this _bon mot_. she went on with: "and it was said of a certain young man, as he rode on the way to bridleburg, that he was met by another youth, who halted and asked a question of the traveler. but the traveler was strangely smitten at that moment, and all he could do was to _bray_." there were no more shots at the hillcrest folk after that--at least, if there were, the bray girls did not hear them. the "chronicles" came to an end at last. somehow the sisters got away from the hateful place with their escorts. "but don't ever ask me to go to that schoolhouse again," said lyddy, who was infrequently angry and so, when she displayed wrath, was the more impressive. "i think, lucas, the people around here are the most ill-mannered and brutal folk who ever lived. they are in the stone age. they should be living in caves in the hillside and be wearing skins of wild animals instead of civilized clothing." "yes, ma'am," replied lucas, gently. "i reckon it looks so to you. but they have all got used to mayme lowry's shots--it's give an' take with most of 'em." "there is no excuse--there _can_ be no excuse for such cruelty," reiterated lyddy. "and we never have done a single thing knowingly to hurt them." harris colesworth was silent, but 'phemie saw that his eyes danced. he only said, soothingly: "they are a different class from your own, miss lydia. they look on life differently. you cannot understand them any more than they can understand you. forget it!" but that was more easily said than done. forget it, indeed! lydia declared when she went to bed with 'phemie that she still "burned all over" at the recollection of the impudence of that lowry girl! of course, common sense should have come to the aid of the bray sisters and aided them to scorn the matter. "overlook it" was the wise thing to do. but a tiny thorn in the thumb may irritate more than a much more serious injury. lyddy considered mr. somers quite as much at fault for what had happened at the meeting as anybody else. he was nominally in charge of the temperance meeting. on the other hand 'phemie decided that she would not be seen so much in lucas's company--although lucas was a loyal friend. the morrow was the first sunday of the month of may, and its dawn promised as perfect a day as the month ever produced. now the girls' flower gardens were made, the vines 'phemie had planted were growing, the old lawns about the big farmhouse were a vernal green and the garden displayed many promising rows of spring vegetables. the girls were up early and swept the great porch all the way around the house, and set several comfortable old chairs out where they would catch the morning sun for the early risers. the earliest of the boarders to appear was harris colesworth, wrapped in a long raincoat and carrying a couple of bath towels over his arm. "i found a fine swimming hole up yonder in the brook where it comes through the back of the farm," he declared to the sisters. "it's going to be pretty cold, i know; but nothing like a beginning. i hope to get a plunge in that brook every morning that i am up here." and he went away cheerfully whistling. a moment later 'phemie saw professor spink dart out of the side door and peer after the departing harris, around a corner of the house. the professor did not know that he was observed. he shook his head, scowled, stamped his foot, and finally ran in for his hat and followed upon harris's track. "he's suspicious of everybody who goes up there to the rocks," thought 'phemie. "what under the sun is it spink's got up there?" later in the day--it was an hour or more before their usual sunday dinner time--something else happened which quite chased the professor's odd actions out of 'phemie's mind--and it gave the rest of the household plenty to talk about, too. the procession of carriages going to cornell chapel had passed some time since when another vehicle was spied far down the road toward bridleburg. a faint throbbing in the air soon assured the watchers on hillcrest that this was an automobile. not many autos climbed this stiff hill to adams; there was a longer and better road which did not touch bridleburg and the pounder's brook district at all. but this big touring car came pluckily up the hill, and it did not slow down until it reached the bottom of the hillcrest lane. there were several people in the car, and one, a lithe and active youth, leaped out and ran up the lane. plainly he came to ask a question, for he dashed across the front yard toward where the family party were sitting on the porch. "oh, i say," he began, doffing his cap to the girls, "can you tell a fellow----" his gaze had wandered, and now his speech trailed off into silence and his eyes grew as large as saucers. he was staring at the placidly-knitting mrs. castle, who sat listening to the professor's booming voice. "grandma! great--jumping--horse--chestnuts!" the youth yelled. mrs. castle dropped her ball of yarn, and it went rolling down the steps into the grass. she laid down her knitting, took off the spectacles and wiped them, and them put them on again the better to see the amazed youth below her. "well," she said, at length, "i guess i'm caught." chapter xxii the hidden treasure "i'm going to call up the governor--and mom--and lucy--and jinny," gasped the young fellow, who had so suddenly laid claim to being mrs. castle's grandson. "i just want them to _see_ you, grandma. why--why, _where_ did you ever get those duds? and for all the world!--_you're knitting!_" "you can call 'em up, tommy," said the old lady, placidly. "i've got the bit in my teeth now, and i'm going to stay." "can we drive in here?" asked master tom, quickly, of the girls, whom he instinctively knew were in charge. "yes," said lyddy. "of course any friends of mrs. castle's will be welcome." tom sang out for the chauffeur to turn into the lane, and in a minute or two the motor party stopped in the grass-grown driveway within plain view of the people on the porch. "will you look at who's here?" demanded master tom, standing with his legs wide apart and waving his arms excitedly. the rather stout, ruddy-faced man reading the sunday paper dropped the sheet and gazed across at the bridling old lady. "why, mother!" he cried. "grandma--if it isn't!" exclaimed one young lady, who was about nineteen. "mother castle!" gasped the lady who sat beside mr. castle on the rear seat. "hullo, grandma!" shouted the other girl, who was younger than tom. "i hope you all know me," said grandmother castle, rising and leaving her knitting in her chair, as she approached the automobile. "i thought some of sending for some more clothing to-morrow; but you can take my order in to-day." "mother castle! what _is_ the meaning of this masquerade?" demanded her daughter-in-law, raising a gold-handled lorgnette through which to stare at the old lady. "thank you, daughter sarah," returned mrs. castle, tartly. "i consider that from _you_ a compliment. i expect that a gown, fitted to my age and position in life, _does_ look like a fancy dress to you." "ho, ho!" roared her son, suddenly doubled up with laughter. "she's got you there, sadie, i swear! mother, you look just as your own mother used to look. i remember grandma well enough." "thank you, rufus," said the old lady, and there were tears in her eyes. "your grandmother was a fine woman." "'deed she was," admitted mr. castle, who was getting out of the car heavily. he now came forward and kissed his mother warmly. "well, if you like this, i don't see why you shouldn't have it," he added, standing off and looking at her plain dress, and her cap, and the little shawl over her shoulders. the girls and master tom had already kissed her; now mrs. castle the younger got down and pecked at her mother-in-law's cheek. "i'm sure," she said, "i've always done everything to make you feel at home with us, mother castle. i've tried to make you one of the family right along. and you belong to the same clubs i do. surely----" "that's just exactly it!" cried the little old lady, shaking her head. "i don't belong in the same clubs with you. i don't want to belong to any club--unless it's a grandmothers' club. and i want simple living--and country air----" "and all these rubes?" chuckled mr. castle, waving his hand to take in the surrounding country. "quite so, rufus. but you would better postpone your criticisms until---- ah, let me introduce my son, mr. colesworth," she added, as the old gentleman and harris appeared from the side yard. "and young mr. harris colesworth, of the commonwealth chemical company. perhaps you've heard of the colesworths, rufus?" "bless us and save us!" murmured mr. castle. "you're from easthampton, too?" the old lady continued to introduce her family to the brays, to mr. somers, and even to professor spink. the latter came forward with a flourish. "spink--lemuel judson spink, m.d., proprietor of stonehedge bitters, and diamond grits, the breakfast of the million," the professor explained, bowing low before mrs. rufus castle. "and these two smart girls i have adopted as grandchildren, too," declared the older mrs. castle, drawing lyddy and 'phemie forward. "these are the hard-working, cheerful, kind-hearted girls who make this delightful home at hillcrest for us all." "oh, mrs. castle makes too much of what we do," said lyddy, softly. "you see, 'phemie and i are only too glad to have a grandmother; we do not remember ours." "and, god forgive me! i'd almost forgotten what mine was like," said mr. castle, softly, eyeing his old mother with misty vision. "well, now!" spoke the old lady, briskly, "do you suppose you could find enough in that pantry of yours to feed this hungry mob of people in addition to your regular guests, lyddy?" "why--if they'll take 'pot luck,'" laughed lyddy. "literally 'pot luck,' i mean, for the piece de resistance will be two huge pots of baked beans." "and such beans!" exclaimed grandmother castle. "and such 'brown loaf' to go with them," suggested harris colesworth. "and old-fashioned 'injun pudding' baked in a brick oven," added mr. bray, smiling. "there is a huge one, i know." "i am not sure that there wasn't method in your madness, mother," declared mr. castle. "all this sounds mighty tempting." "and it will taste even more tempting," declared the elder mrs. castle. "let the hamper stay where it is," commanded her son, to the chauffeur. "we'll partake of the misses bray's hospitality." the younger castles, and the gentleman's wife, might have been in some doubt at first; but when they were set down to the long dining table, with lyddy's hot viands steaming on the cloth--with the flowers, and beautiful old damask, and blue-and-white china of a by-gone day, and the heavy silver, and the brightness and cheerfulness of it all, they, too, became enthusiastic. "it's the most delightful place to visit we've ever found," declared miss virginia castle. "it's too sweet for anything," agreed miss lucy. "i hope you'll come this way in the car again, dad." "i reckon we will if grandma is going to make this her headquarters--and she declares she's going to stay," said master tom. "do you blame her?" returned his father, with a sigh of plenitude, as he pushed back from the table. "well! i can't convince myself that she ought to stay here; but you're all against me, i see," said their mother. "and, it really _is_ a delightful place." the bray girls were proud of their success in satisfying such a party; and lyddy was particularly pleased when mr. castle drew her aside and put a ten-dollar note in her hand. "don't say a word! it was worth it. i only hope you won't be over-run by auto parties and your place be spoiled. if you have any others, however, charge them enough. it is better entertainment than we could possibly get at any road house for the same money." and so lyddy got ten dollars toward her kitchen range. while the ladies were getting into the tonneau, however, miss bray overheard a few words 'twixt harris colesworth and young tom castle that made her suspicious. she came out upon the side porch to wave them good-bye with the dish-cloth, and there were harris and tom directly beneath her. and they did not observe lyddy. "all right, old man," master tom was saying, as he wrung the young chemist's hand. "the governor and i _were_ a bit worried about grandma, and your tip came in the nick of time. "but," he added, with a chuckle, "i had no end of trouble getting mom and the girls to let james come up this way. you see, they'd never been this way over the hill before." "now," said lyddy to herself, when the boys had passed out of hearing, "here is another case where this harris colesworth deliberately put his--his _nose_ into other people's business! "he knew these castles. at least, he knew that they belonged to grandma. and he took it upon himself to be a talebearer. i don't like him! i declare i never _shall_ really like him. "of course, perhaps grandma's son and the rest of the family might be getting anxious about her. but suppose they'd been nasty about it and tried to make her go home with them? "no. 'phemie is always saying harris colesworth has 'such a nice nose.' it is nothing of the kind! it is too much in other people's business to suit me," quoth lyddy, with decision. her opinion of him, however, did not feaze harris in the least. mr. somers was inclined to be stiff and "offish" since the previous evening, but harris was jolly, and kept everybody cheered up--even grandma, who was undoubtedly a little woe-begone after her family had departed--for a while, at least. it was a little too cool yet to sit out of doors after sunset, and that evening after supper they gathered about a clear, brisk fire on the dining-room hearth, and harris colesworth led the conversation. and perhaps he had an ulterior design in leading the talk to the widow harrison's troubles. he said nothing at which jud spink could take offense, but it seemed that harris had informed himself regarding the old woman's life with her peculiar husband, and he knew much about bob harrison himself. "say--he was a caution--he was!" cried harris. "and he kept folks guessing all about here for years. the pritchetts say bob was a ne'er-do-well when he was a boy----" "and that is quite so," put in professor spink. "i can remember the way the old folks talked about him when i was a boy about here." "just so," agreed harris. "he made out he was entitled to a pension from the government, for years. and he always told folks he had brought a fortune home from the war with him. let on that he had hidden it about the house, too." professor spink's eyes snapped, and he leaned forward. "you don't reckon there is anything in that story; do you, mr. colesworth?" he asked. "why--i don't--know," said harris, slowly, but with a perfectly grave face. "as i make it out, when the old fellow died the widow made search for this hidden treasure he had hinted at so often; but when the lawyers found out that he was entitled to no pension--that he'd lied about _that_--and that about all he had left her was a mortgage on the place, mrs. harrison gave up the search for money in disgust. she said as he'd lied about the pension, and about other things, why, of course he'd lied about the hidden treasure." "and don't you think he did?" asked spink, with so much interest that the others were amused. "humph!" responded harris, gravely. "i don't know. he _might_ have hidden bonds--or deeds--or even bank notes." "pshaw!" exclaimed mr. bray, laughing. "that's imagination." "you need not mind, professor," said old mr. colesworth, sharply. "if there is money, or treasure, hidden there in the house, or on the place, and you have bid the place in, as i understand you have, it will be 'treasure trove'--it will belong to you--if you find it." "ha!" ejaculated professor spink, darting the old gentleman rather an angry glance. "i don't know whether it is altogether talk and imagination, or not," said harris, ruminatively. "cyrus pritchett was with bob harrison when he died. and he says the old man talked of this hidden money--or treasure--or what-not--up to the very time be became unconscious. he had a shock, you know, and it stopped his speech like _that_," and harris snapped his finger and thumb. "it sounds like a story-book," said grandma castle, complacently. "it doesn't sound sensible," observed lyddy, drily. "i'm giving it to you for what it's worth," remarked harris, good-naturedly. "mr. pritchett was sitting up with harrison when the old man had his final shock. harrison had been mumbling along to cyrus about what he wanted done with certain of his possessions. and he says: "'there's that hid away that will be wuth money--five thousand in hard cash--some day, cy.' "those are the words he used," said harris, earnestly, and watching professor spink from one corner of his eye. "he was sitting up, cy said, and as he spoke he pointed at---- well," broke off harris, abruptly, "never mind what he pointed at. he died before he could finish what he was saying." "is that the truth, harris colesworth?" demanded 'phemie, regarding him seriously. "i got it from lucas. then i asked his father. that is just the way the story was told to me," declared the young fellow, warmly. "and--and they never found anything?" asked mr. bray. "no. they searched. they searched the old pieces of--of furniture, too. but mrs. harrison gave it up when it was found that bob had been such a--a prevaricator." "he probably lied about the fortune," said mr. bray, quietly. "well--maybe," grunted harris. but lyddy remembered that harris had already told her that he proposed to go to the vendue and buy in several pieces of the widow's furniture. did that mean that harris really thought he had a clue to the hidden treasure? chapter xxiii the vendue lucas pritchett drove into the yard with the two-seated buckboard about nine o'clock the next forenoon. and, wonders of wonders! his mother sat on the front seat beside him. 'phemie ran out in a hurry. lyddy was getting ready to go to the vendue. she wanted to bid in that dutch oven--and some other things. "why, mrs. pritchett!" exclaimed the younger bray girl, "you are welcome! you haven't been here for an age." mrs. pritchett looked pretty grim; but 'phemie found it was tears that made her eyes wink so fast. "i ain't never been here but onct since you gals came. and i'm ashamed of myself," said "maw" pritchett. "i hope you'll overlook it." "for goodness' sake! how you talk!" gasped 'phemie. "is it true you gals have saved that poor old critter from the farm?" demanded mrs. pritchett, earnestly, and letting the tears run unchecked down her fat cheeks. "why--why----" "widder harrison, she means," grunted lucas. "it all come out yesterday at church. the widder told about it herself. the parson got hold of it, and he put it into his sermon. and by cracky! some of those folks that treated ye so mean at the schoolhouse, saturday night, feel pretty cheap after what the parson said." "and if my sairy ever says a mean word to one o' you gals--or as much as _looks_ one," cried mother pritchett, "big as she is an',--an', yes--_old_ as she is, i'll spank her!" "mrs. pritchett! lucas!" gasped 'phemie. "it isn't so. you're making it up out of whole cloth. we haven't really done a thing for mrs. harrison----" "you've thought to take her in and give her a home----" "no, no! i am sure she will earn her living here." "but none of us--folks that had knowed her for years--thought to give the poor old critter a chanst," burst out the lady. "oh, i know cyrus wouldn't 'a' heard to our taking her; and i dunno as we could have exactly afforded it, for me an' sairy is amply able to do the work; but our ladies' aid never thought to do a thing for her--nor nobody else," declared mrs. pritchett. "you two gals was ministerin' angels. i don't suppose we none of us really knowed how mis' harrison felt about going to the poorhouse. but we didn't inquire none, either. "and here's lyddy! my dear, i'm too fat to get down easy. i hope you'll come and shake hands with me." "why--certainly," responded lyddy. "and i am really glad to see you, dear mrs. pritchett." she had evidently overheard some, if not all, of the good lady's earnest speech. harris colesworth appeared, too, and professor spink was right behind him. "you stopped for me, as i asked you to, lucas?" asked the young chemist. "sure, mr. colesworth." "miss lydia is going, too," said the young man. "that'll fill the bill, then, sir," said lucas, grinning. "but i say!" exclaimed the professor, suddenly. "can't you squeeze _me_ in? i'm going over the hill, too." "don't see how it kin be done, professor," said lucas. "but you said you thought that there'd be an extra seat----" "didn't know maw was going, then," replied the unabashed lucas. "and somers has driven off to school with his old mare," exclaimed spink. "i believe he has," observed harris. "this is a pretty pass!" and mr. spink was evidently angry. "i've just _got_ to get to that vendue." "i'm afraid you'll have to walk--and it's advertised to begin in ha'f an hour," quoth lucas. "say! where's your other rig?" demanded the professor. "i'll hire it." "dad's plowin' with the big team," said lucas, flicking the backs of the ponies with his whip, as they started, "and our old mare is lame. gid-up! "that jud spink is gittin' jest as pop'lar 'round here as a pedlar sellin' mustard plasters in the lower regions!" observed young pritchett, as they whirled out of the yard. "why, lucas pritchett! how you talk!" gasped his mother. the widow's auction sale--or "vendue"--brought together, as such affairs usually do in the country, more people, and aroused a deal more interest, than does a funeral. there was a goodly crowd before the little house, or moving idly through the half-dismantled lower rooms when lucas halted the ponies to let harris and the ladies out. to lyddy's surprise, the women present--or most of them--welcomed her with more warmth than she had experienced in a greeting since she and her sister had first come to hillcrest. but the auctioneer began to put up the household articles for sale very soon and that relieved lyddy of some embarrassment in meeting these folk who so suddenly had veered toward her. there were only a few things the girl could afford to buy. the dutch oven was the most important; and fortunately most of the farmers' wives had stoves in their kitchens, so there was not much bidding. lyddy had it nocked down to her for sixty cents. mrs. harrison seemed very sad to see some of her things go, and lyddy believed that every article that the widow seemed particularly anxious about, young harris colesworth bid in. at least, he bought a bureau, a worktable, an old rocking chair with stuffed back and cushion, and last of all an old, age-darkened, birdseye maple desk, which seemed shaky and half-ready to fall to pieces. "that article ought to bring ye in a forchune, mr. colesworth," declared the auctioneer, cheerfully. "that's where they say bob hid his forchune--yessir!" "and it looks--from the back of it--that worms had got inter the forchune," chuckled one of the farmers, as the wood-worm dust rattled out of the old contraption when harris and lucas carried it out and set it down with the other articles harris had bought. "so you got it; did you, young man?" snarled a voice behind the two youths, and there stood professor spink. he was much heated, his boots and trousers were muddy, and his frock coat had a bad, three-cornered tear in it. evidently he had come across lots--and he had hurried. "why--were you interested in that old desk i bought in?" asked harris with a grin. "i'll give ye a dollar for your bargain," blurted out the professor. "i tell you honest, i didn't pay but two dollars for it," replied harris. "i'll double it--give you four." "no. i guess i'll keep it." "five," snapped the breakfast food magnate. "no, sir," responded harris, turning away. "good work! keep it up!" lyddy heard lucas whisper to the other youth. "i bet i kin tell jest what dad told him. dad's jest close-mouthed enough to make the professor fidgetty. he begins to believe it all now." "shut up!" warned harris. the next moment the anxious professor was at him again. "i want that desk, colesworth. i'll give you ten dollars for it--fifteen!" "say," said harris, in apparent disgust, "i'll tell you the truth; i bought that desk--and these other things--to give back to old mrs. harrison. she seemed to set store by them." "ha!" "now, the desk is hers. if she wants to sell it for twenty-five dollars----" "you hush up! i'll make my own bargain with her," growled the professor. "no you won't, by jove!" exclaimed the city youth. "if you want the desk you'll pay all its worth. hey! mrs. harrison!" the widow approached, wonderingly. "i made up my mind," said harris, hurriedly, "that i'd give you these things here. you might like to have them in your room at hillcrest." "thank you, young man!" returned the widow, flushing. "i don't know what makes you young folks so kind to me----" "hold on! there's something else," interrupted harris. "now, professor spink here wants to buy that desk." "and i'll give ye a good price for it, widder," said spink. "i want it to remember bob by. i'll give you----" "he's already offered me twenty-five dollars for it----" "no, i ain't!" exclaimed spink. "oh, then, you don't want it, after all," returned harris, coolly. "i thought you did." "well! suppose i do offer you twenty-five for it, mis' harrison?" exclaimed spink, evidently greatly spurred by desire, yet curbed by his own natural penuriousness. "take my advice and bid him up, mrs. harrison," said harris, with a wink. "he knows more about this old desk than he ought to, it seems to me." "for the land's sake----" began the widow; but spink burst forth in a rage: "i'll make ye a last offer for it--you can take it or leave it." he drew forth a wad of bills and peeled off several into the widow's hand. "there's fifty dollars. is the desk mine?" he fairly yelled. the vociferous speech of the professor drew people from the auction. they gathered around. harris nodded to the old lady, and her hand clamped upon the bills. "remember, this is mrs. harrison's own money," said young colesworth, evenly. "the desk was bought at auction for two dollars." "well, is it mine?" demanded spink. "it is yours, jud spink," replied the old lady, stuffing the money into her handbag. "gimme that hatchet!" cried the professor, seizing the implement from a man who stood by. he attacked the old desk in a fury. "oh! that's too bad!" gasped mrs. harrison. "i _did_ want the old thing." spink grinned at them. "i'll make you both sicker than you be!" he snarled. "out o' the way!" he banged the desk two or three more clips--and out fell a secret panel in the back of it. "by cracky! money--real money!" yelled lucas pritchett. "oh, mr. harris! we done it now!" for from the shallow opening behind the panel there were scattered upon the ground several packets of apparently brand-new, if somewhat discolored banknotes. professor spink dropped the axe and picked up the packages eagerly. others crowded around. they ran them over quickly. "five thousand dollars--if there's a cent!" gasped somebody, in an awed whisper. "an' she sold it for fifty dollars," said lucas, almost in tears. chapter xxiv professor spink's bottles but professor lemuel judson spink did not look happy--not at all! while the neighbors were crowding around, emitting "ohs" and "ahs" over his find in the broken old desk, the proprietor of "the breakfast for the million" began to look pretty sick. "five thousand dollars! my mercy!" gasped the widow harrison. "then bob _didn't_ lie about bringing home that fortune when he came from the army." "it's a shame, widder!" cried one man. "that five thousand ought to belong to you." "dad got it right; didn't he?" said lucas, shaking his head sadly. "he allus said harrison was trying to tell him where it was hid when he had his last stroke." harris colesworth spoke for the first time since the packages of notes were discovered: "mr. harrison told cyrus pritchett that he had hid away 'that that would be wuth five thousand.' it's plain what he had in his mind--and a whole lot of other foolish people had it in their minds just after the civil war." "what do you mean, mr. colesworth?" cried lyddy, who was clinging to the widow's hand and patting it soothingly. "why," chuckled harris, "there were folks who believed--and they believed it for years after the civil war--that some day the federal government was going to redeem all the paper money printed by the confederate states----" "_what?_" bawled lucas, fairly springing off the ground. "confederate money?" repeated the crowd in chorus. no wonder professor spink looked sick. he broke through the group, flinging the neat packages of bills behind him as he strode away. "how about the desk, professor?" shouted harris; "don't you want it?" "give it to the old woman--you swindler!" snarled spink. and then the crowd roared! the humor of the thing struck them and it was half an hour before the auctioneer could go on with the sale. "no; i did not know the bills were there," harris avowed. "but i thought the professor was so avaricious that he could be made to bid up the old desk. had he bid on it when it was put up by the auctioneer, however, mrs. harrison would not have benefited. you see, the best the auctioneer can do, what he gets from the sale will not entirely satisfy spink's claim. but the money-grabber can't touch that fifty dollars in good money he paid over to mrs. harrison with his own hands." "oh, it was splendid, harris!" gasped lyddy, seizing both his hands. then she retired suddenly to mrs. harrison's side and never said another word to the young man. "gee, cracky!" said lucas, with a sigh. "i was scairt stiff when i seen them bills fall out of the old desk. i thought sure they were good." "i confess i knew what they were immediately--and so did spink," replied harris. the young folks had got enough of the vendue now, and so had mrs. pritchett. lucas agreed to come up with the farm wagon for the pieces of furniture with which harris had presented the widow harrison--including the broken desk--and transport them and the widow herself to hillcrest before night. mrs. pritchett was enthusiastic over the girls taking mrs. harrison to the farm, and she could not say enough in praise of it. so lyddy was glad to get out of the buckboard with harris colesworth at the bottom of the lane. "you all talk too much about it, mrs. pritchett!" she cried, when bidding the farmer's wife good-bye. "but i'd be glad to have you come up here as often as you can--and talk on any other subject!" and she ran laughing into the house. lyddy feared that professor spink would make trouble. at least, he and harris colesworth must be at swords' point. and she was sorry now that she had so impulsively given the young chemist her commendation for what he had done for the widow harrison. however, harris went off at noon, walking to town to take the afternoon train to the city; and as the professor did not show up again until nightfall there was no friction that day at hillcrest--nor for the rest of the week. mrs. harrison came and got into the work "two-fisted," as she said herself. she was a strong old woman, and had been brought up to work. lyddy and 'phemie were at once relieved of many hard jobs--and none too quickly, for the girls were growing thin under the burden they had assumed. that very week their advertisements brought them a gentleman and his wife with a little crippled daughter. it was getting warm enough now so that people were not afraid to come to board in a house that had no heating arrangements but open fireplaces. as the numbers of the boarders increased, however, lyddy did not find that the profit increased proportionately. she was now handling fifty-one dollars and a half each week; but the demands for vegetables and fresh eggs made a big item; and as yet there had been no returns from the garden, although everything was growing splendidly. the chickens had hatched--seventy-two of them. mr. bray had taken up the study of the poultry papers and catalogs, and he declared himself well enough to take entire charge of the fluffy little fellows as soon as they came from the shell. he really did appear to be getting on a little; but the girls watched him closely and could scarcely believe that he made any material gain in health. with harris colesworth's help one saturday, he had knocked together a couple of home-made brooders and movable runs, and soon the flock, divided in half, were chirping gladly in the spring sunshine on the side lawn. they fed them scientifically, and with care. mr. bray was at the pens every two hours all day--or oftener. at night, two jugs of hot water went into the brooders, and the little biddies never seemed to miss having a real mother. luckily lyddy had chosen a hardy strain of fowl and during the first fortnight they lost only two of the fluffy little fellows. lyddy saw the beginning of a profitable chicken business ahead of her; but, of course, it was only an expense as yet. she could not see her way clear to buying the kitchen range that was so much needed; and the days were growing warmer. may promised to be the forerunner of an exceedingly hot summer. at hillcrest there was, however, almost always a breeze. seldom did the huge piles of rocks at the back of the farm shut the house off from the cooling winds. the people who came to enjoy the simple comforts of the farmhouse were loud in their praises of the spot. "if we can get along till july--or even the last of june," quoth lyddy to her sister, "i feel sure that we will get the house well filled, the garden will help to support us, and we shall be on the way to making a good living----" "if we aren't dead," sighed 'phemie. "i _do_ get so tired sometimes. it's a blessing we got mother harrison," for so they had come to call the widow. "we knew we'd have to work if we took boarders," said lyddy. "goodness me! we didn't know we had to work our fingers to the bone--mine are coming through the flesh--the bones, i mean." "what nonsense!" "and i know i have lost ten pounds. i'm only a skeleton. you could hang me up in that closet in the old doctor's office in place of that skeleton----" "what's _that_, 'phemie bray?" demanded the older sister, in wonder. 'phemie realized that she had almost let _that_ secret out of the bag, and she jumped up with a sudden cry: "mercy! do you know the time, lyd? if we're going to pick those wild strawberries for tea, we'd better be off at once. it's almost three o'clock." and so she escaped telling lyddy all she knew about what was behind the mysteriously locked green door at the end of the long corridor of the farmhouse. harris colesworth, on his early sunday morning jaunts to the swimming-hole in pounder's brook, had discovered a patch of wild strawberries, and had told the girls. up to this time lyddy and 'phemie had found little time in which to walk over the farm. as for traversing the rocky part of it, as old mr. colesworth and professor spink did, that was out of the question. but fruit was high, and the chance to pick a dish for supper--enough for all the boarders--was a great temptation to the frugal lyddy. she caught up her sunbonnet and pail and followed her sister. 'phemie's bonnet was blue and lyddy's was pink. as they crossed the cornfield, their bright tin pails flashing in the afternoon sunlight, grandma castle saw them from the shady porch. "what do you think about those two girls, mrs. chadwick?" she demanded of the little lame girl's mother. "i have been here so short a time i scarcely know how to answer that question, mrs. castle," responded the other lady. "i'll tell you: they're wonderful!" declared grandma castle. "if my granddaughters had half the get-up-and-get to 'em that lydia and euphemia have, i'd be as proud as mrs. lucifer! so i would." meanwhile the girls of hillcrest farm had passed through the young corn--acres and acres of it, running clear down to mr. pritchett's line--and climbed the stone fence into the upper pasture. here a path, winding among the huge boulders, brought them within sound of pounder's brook. 'phemie laughed now at the remembrance of her intimate acquaintance with that brook the day they had first come to hillcrest. it broadened here in a deep brown pool under an overhanging boulder. a big beech tree, too, shaded it. it certainly was a most attractive place. "wish i was a boy!" gasped 'phemie, in delight. "i certainly would get a bathing suit and come up here like harris colesworth. and lucas comes here and plunges in after his day's work--he told me so." "dear me! i hope nobody will come here for a bath just now," observed lyddy. "it would be rather awkward." "and i reckon the water's cold, too," agreed her sister, with a giggle. "this stream is fed by a dozen different springs around among the rocks here, so lucas says. and i expect one spring is just a little colder than another!" "oh, look!" exclaimed lyddy. "there are the strawberries." the girls were down upon their knees immediately, picking into their tins--and their mouths. they could not resist the luscious berries--"tame" strawberries never can be as sweet as the wild kind. and this patch near the swimming hole afforded a splendid crop. the girls saw that they might come here again and again to pick berries for their table--and every free boon of nature like this helped in the management of the boarding house! but suddenly--when their kettles were near full--'phemie jumped up with a shrill whisper: "what's that?" "hush, 'phemie!" exclaimed her sister. "how you scared me." "hush yourself! don't you hear it?" lyddy did. surely that was a strange clinking noise to be heard up here in the woods. it sounded like a milkman going along the street carrying a bunch of empty bottles. "it's no wild animal--unless he's got glass teeth and is gnashing 'em," giggled 'phemie. "come on! i want to know what it means." "i wouldn't, 'phemie----" "well, _i_ would, lyddy. come on! who's afraid of bottles?" "but _is_ it bottles we hear?" "we'll find out in a jiff," declared her younger sister, leading the way deeper into the woods. the sound was from up stream. they followed the noisy brook for some hundreds of yards. then they came suddenly upon a little hollow, where water dripped over a huge boulder into another still pool--but smaller than the swimming hole. behind the drip of the water was a ledge, and on this ledge stood a row of variously assorted bottles. a man was just setting several other bottles on the same ledge. these were the bottles the girls had heard striking together as the man walked through the woods. and the man himself was professor spink. chapter xxv in the old doctor's office the two girls, almost at once, began to shrink away through the bushes again--and this without a word or look having passed between them. both lyddy and 'phemie were unwilling to meet the professor under these conditions. they were back at the strawberry patch before either of them spoke aloud. "what _do_ you suppose he was about?" whispered 'phemie. "how do i know? and those bottles!" "what do you think was in them?" "looked like water--nothing but water," said lyddy. "it certainly _is_ a puzzle." "i should say so!" "and there doesn't seem to be any sense in it," cried lyddy. "let's go home, 'phemie. we've got enough berries for supper." as they went along the pasture trail, the younger girl suggested: "do you suppose he could be making up another of his fake medicines? like those 'stonehedge bitters?' lucas says they ought to be called '_stonefence_ bitters,' for they are just hard cider and bad whiskey--and that's what the folks hereabout call 'stonefence.'" "it looked like only water in those bottles," lyddy said, slowly. "and he's so afraid old mr. colesworth--or harris--will come up here and find him at work--or come across his water-bottles," continued 'phemie. "lucky this new boarder--mr. chadwick--isn't much for long walks. it would keep old spink busier than a hen on a hot griddle, as lucas says, to watch all of them." "well, i wish i knew what it meant. it puzzles me," remarked lyddy. "and i never yet asked mr. pritchett about the evening we saw him and a man whom i now think must have been professor spink at the farmhouse." "ask him--do," urged 'phemie, at last curious enough to have lyddy share all the mystery that had been troubling her own mind since they first came to hillcrest. "i'll do so the very first time i see him," declared lyddy. but something else happened first--and something that brought the mystery regarding professor lemuel judson spink to a head for the time being, at least. 'phemie lost the key to the green door! now, off and on, that missing key had troubled lyddy. she had seldom spoken of it, for she had never even known it had been in the door when the girls came to hillcrest. only 'phemie, it will be remembered, had the midnight adventure in the old doctor's suite of offices in the east wing. lyddy only said, occasionally, that it was odd aunt jane had not sent the key to the green door when she expressed all the other keys to her nieces when the project of keeping boarders at hillcrest was first broached. at these times 'phemie had kept as still as a mouse. sometimes the key was worn on a string around her neck; sometimes it was concealed in a cunning little pocket she had sewn into her skirt. but wherever it was, it always seemed--to 'phemie--to be burning a hole in her garments and trying to make its appearance. after finding professor spink filling the bottles with water up by pounder's brook, the girl was more than usually troubled about the east wing and the mystery. she moved the key about from place to place. one day she wore it; another she hid it in some corner. and finally, one night when she came to go to bed, she found that the cord on which she had worn the key that day was broken and the key was gone. she screamed so loud at this discovery that her sister was sure she had seen a mouse, and she bounded into bed, half dressed as she was. "where--where is it, 'phemie?" she gasped, for lyddy was as afraid of mice as she was of rats. "oh, mercy me!" wailed 'phemie, "that's what i'd like to know." "didn't you see it?" cried her trembling sister. "it's gone!" returned 'phemie. lyddy got gingerly down from the bed. "then i'd like to know what you yelled so for--if the mouse has disappeared?" she demanded, quite sternly. and then 'phemie, understanding her, and realizing that she had almost given her secret away, burst into a hysterical giggle, which nothing but lyddy's shaking finally relieved. "you're just as twittery as a sparrow," declared lyddy. "i never _did_ see such a girl. first you're squealing as though you were hurt, and then you laugh in a most idiotic way. come! do behave yourself and go to bed!" but even after 'phemie obeyed she could not go to sleep. suppose somebody picked up that key? she had no idea, of course, where it had been dropped. certainly not on the floor of her bedroom. some time during the day, inside, or outside of the house, the key, with its little brass tag stamped with the words "east wing," had slipped to the ground. now--suppose it was found? 'phemie got out of bed quietly, slipped on her slippers and shrugged herself into her robe. somebody might be down there in old dr. phelps's offices right now. and that somebody, of course, in 'phemie's mind, meant just one person--professor lemuel judson spink. why had he come to hillcrest to board, anyway? and why hadn't he gone away when he had been made the topic of many a joke about old bob harrison's treasure trove? for nearly a fortnight now the professor had stood grimly the jokes and laughing comments aimed at him by the other boarders. the presence of mrs. harrison, too, in the house, was a constant reminder to the breakfast food magnate of how his own acquisitiveness had made him over-reach himself. 'phemie went downstairs, taking a comforter with her, and went into the long corridor leading from the west wing entry to the green door. the girls had never taken the old davenport out of this wide hall, and 'phemie curled up on this--with its hard, hair-cloth-covered arm for a pillow--spread the quilt over her, and tried to compose her nerves here within sight and sound of the east wing entrance. suppose somebody was already in the offices? the thought became so insistent that, after ten minutes, she was forced to creep along to the green door and try the latch. with her hand on it, she heard a sudden sound from the room nearby. was somebody astir in the colesworth quarters? this was late saturday night--almost midnight, in fact; and of course harris colesworth was in the house. sometimes he read until very late. so 'phemie turned again, after a moment, and lifted the latch. then she pushed tentatively on the door, and---- _it swung open!_ 'phemie gasped--an appalling sound it seemed in the stillness of the corridor and at that hour of the night. often, while the key had been in her possession, she had tried the door as she passed it while working about the house. it had been securely locked. then, she told herself now, on the instant, the key had been found and it had been put to use. somebody had already been in the old doctor's offices and had ransacked the rooms. she crossed the threshold swiftly and groped her way to the door of the second room--the old doctor's consulting room. here the light of the moon filtered through the shutters sufficiently to show her the place. there seemed to be nobody there, and she stepped in, leaving the green door open behind her, but pulling shut the door between the anteroom and the office. there was the old doctor's big desk, and the bookcases all about the room, and the jars with "specimens" in them and--yes!--the skeleton case in the corner. she had advanced to the middle of the room when suddenly she saw that the door into the lumber room, or laboratory, at the back, was open. a white wand of light shot through this open door, and played upon the ceiling, then upon the wall, of the old doctor's office. chapter xxvi a blow-up 'phemie's heart beat quickly; but she was no more afraid than she had been the moment before, when she found the green door unlocked. there was somebody--the person who had found the lost key--still in the offices of the east wing. the wand of white light playing about her was from an electric torch. she stooped, and literally crawled on all fours out of the range of the light from the rear doorway. before she knew it she was right beside the case containing the skeleton. indeed, she hid in its shadow. and her interest in that moving light--and the person behind it--made her forget her original terror of what was in the box. she heard a rustle--then a step on the boards. it was a heavy person approaching. the door opened farther between the workshop and the room in which she was hidden. then she recognized the tall figure entering. it was as she had expected. it was professor spink. the breakfast food magnate came directly toward the high, locked desk belonging to the dead and gone physician, who had been a kind friend and patron of this quack medicine man when he was a boy. 'phemie had heard all the particulars of spink's connection with dr. polly phelps. the good old doctor had been called to attend the boy in some childish disease while he was an inmate of the county poorhouse. his parents--who were gypsies, or like wanderers--had deserted the boy and he had "gone on the town," as the saying was. dr. polly had taken a fancy to the little fellow. he was then twelve years old--or thereabout--smart and sharp. the old doctor brought him home to hillcrest, sent him to school, made him useful to him in a dozen ways, and began even to train him as a doctor. for five years jud spink had remained with the old physician. then he had run away with a medicine show. it was said, too, that he stole money from dr. polly when he went; but the physician had never said so, nor taken any means to punish the wayward boy if he returned. and jud spink had never re-appeared in bridleburg, or the vicinity, while the old doctor was alive. then his visits had been few and far between until, at last, coming back a few months before, a self-confessed rich man, he had declared his intention of settling down in the community. but 'phemie bray believed that the false professor had come here to hillcrest for a special object. he was money-mad--his avariciousness had been already well displayed. she believed that there was something on hillcrest that jud spink wanted--something he could make money out of. she was not surprised, then, to see a short iron bar in the professor's hand. it was flattened and sharpened at one end. by the light of the hand-lamp the man went to work on the locked desk. it was of heavy wood--no flimsy thing like that one which he had burst open so easily the day of the widow harrison's vendue. the man inserted the sharp end of the jimmy between the lid and the upper shelf of the desk. 'phemie heard the woodwork crack, and this time she did _not_ suppress a gasp. why! this fellow was actually breaking open the old doctor's desk. aunt jane had not even sent _them_ the keys of the desk and bookcases in this suite of rooms. then 'phemie had a sudden thought. she was really afraid of the big man. she did not know what he might do to her if he found her here spying on his actions. and--she didn't want the lock of the old desk smashed. she reached up softly and turned with shaking fingers the old-fashioned wooden button that held shut the door of the case beside which she crouched. she remembered very clearly that it had snapped open before when she was investigating--and with a little click. the door of this case acted almost as though the hinges had springs coiled in them. at once, when she released the door, it swung open--and in yawning it _did_ make a suspicious sound. professor spink started--he had been about to bear down on the bar again. he flashed a look back over his shoulder. but the corner was shrouded in darkness. 'phemie sighed--this time with intent. she remembered how she had been frightened so herself at her former visit to this office--and she believed the marauder now before her had been partially the cause of her fright. the jimmy dropped from spink's hand and clattered on the floor. he wheeled and shot the white spot of his lamp into the corner. by great good fortune the ray of the lantern missed the girl; but it struck into the yawning case and intensified the horrid appearance of the skeleton. for half a minute spink stood as if frozen in his tracks. if he had known the old doctor had such a possession as the skeleton, he had forgotten it. nor did he see any part of the case that held it, but just the dangling, grinning thing itself, revealed by the brilliance of his spotlight, but with a mass of deep shadow surrounding it. professor spink had perhaps had many perilous experiences in his varied life; but never anything just like _this_. he might not have been afraid of a man--or a dozen men; no emergency--which he could talk out of--would have feazed him; but a man doesn't feel like trying to talk down a skeleton! he didn't even stop to pick up the jimmy. he shut off the spotlight; and he stumbled over his own feet in getting to the door. _he was running away!_ 'phemie was up immediately and after him. she did not propose for him to get away with that key. "stop! stop!" she shouted. perhaps professor spink verily believed that the skeleton in the box called after him--that it was, indeed, in actual pursuit. he didn't stop. he didn't reply. he went across the small anteroom and out of the open green door. but he had made a lot of noise. a big man with the fear of the supernatural chilling his very soul does not tread lightly. a frightened ox in the place could have made no more noise. he tumbled over two chairs and finally went full length over an old hassock. he brought up with an awful crash against the big davenport in the corridor, where 'phemie had tried to keep watch. and there, when he tried to scramble up, he got entangled in 'phemie's quilt and went to the floor again just as a great light flashed into the corridor. the colesworths' door stood open. out dashed harris in his pajamas and a robe. he fell upon the big body of spink as though he were making a "tackle" in a football game. "hold him! hold him!" gasped 'phemie. "i've got him," declared harris. "what's the matter, miss 'phemie?" "he's got the key," explained 'phemie. "make him give it up." "sure!" said harris, and dexterously twitched the entangled spink over on his back. "by jove!" gasped the young man, standing up. "it's the professor!" "but he's got the key!" the girl reiterated. "what key?" "the one to the green door." "the door of the east wing?" demanded harris, turning to stare at the open door, on the threshold of which 'phemie stood. "yes. i lost it. he found it. he's got it somewhere. i found him trying to break into grandfather's desk." "bad, bad," muttered harris, stepping back and allowing the professor room to sit up. "your interest in old desks seems to be phenomenal, professor. did you expect to find confederate notes in _this_ one?" "confound you--both!" snarled spink, slowly rising. "i don't mind it," said harris, quietly. "but don't include miss bray in your emphatic remarks. _give me that key._" chapter xxvii they lose a boarder harris had something beside a square and determined jaw. he had muscular arms and he looked just then as though he were ready to use them. spink gave him no provocation. he fumbled in his pocket and brought out a key. "is this the one, miss 'phemie?" asked the young fellow. the girl stepped forward, and in the lamplight from the bedroom doorway identified the key of the green door--with its tag attached. "all right, then. go to your room, professor," said harris. "unless you want him for something further, miss 'phemie?" "my goodness me! no!" cried 'phemie. "i never want to see him again." the professor was already aiming for the stairs, and he quickly disappeared. harris turned to the still shaking girl. "what's it all about, miss 'phemie?" he asked. "that's what i'd really like to know myself," she replied, eagerly. "he is after something----" "so my father says," interposed harris. "father says spink has something hidden--or has made some discovery--up there in the rocks." "i don't know whether he really has found what he has been looking for----" "and that is?" suggested harris. "i wish we knew!" cried 'phemie. "but we don't. at least, _i_ don't--nor does lyddy. but he tried to buy the farm of aunt jane once--only he offered a very small price. "he has been hanging around here for months trying to find something. he got into the old offices to-night, and tried to break into grandfather's desk----" harris nodded thoughtfully. "we want to look into this," he said. "i hope you and your sister will not refuse my aid. this spink may be more of a knave than a fool. now, go back to bed and--and assure miss lyddy that i will be only too glad to help 'thwart the villain'--if he really has some plan to better himself at your expense." 'phemie picked up her quilt, locked the green door, and returned to her room. throughout all the excitement lyddy had slept; but 'phemie's coming to bed aroused her. the younger girl was too shaken by what had transpired to hide her excitement, and lyddy quickly was broad awake listening to 'phemie's story. the latter told all that had happened, including her experiences on the night they had come to hillcrest. there was no sleep for the two girls just then--not, at least, until they had discussed professor spink and the secret of the rocks at the back of the farm, from every possible angle. "i shall tell him that his absence will be better appreciated than his company--at once!" declared lyddy, finally. "but sending him away isn't going to explain the mystery," wailed 'phemie. in the morning, before many of the other boarders were astir, the two girls caught the oily professor just starting off with a handbag. "you'd better get the remainder of your baggage ready to go too, sir," said lyddy, sharply, "for we don't want you here." "it's packed, young lady," returned professor spink, with a sneer. "i shall send a man for it from the hotel in town." "well, _that's_ all right," quoth the girl, warmly. "you've paid your board in advance, and i cannot complain. but i would like to have you explain what your actions last night mean?" "i don't know what you are talking about. i heard people moving about the house and--naturally--i went to see----" "oh, you story-teller!" gasped 'phemie. "ha! i can see that you have both made up your minds not to believe me," said the odd boarder, haughtily. "good-morning!" "i honestly believe we ought to get a warrant out and have him arrested," observed the older girl, thoughtfully. "what for? i don't believe he took anything," said 'phemie. "well! he was trying to break into grandfather's desk, just the same," said lyddy, and then harris colesworth joined them. now, lyddy believed that this young man was altogether too prone to meddle with other people's affairs; yet ever since the widow harrison's vendue she had been more friendly with harris. and now when he began to talk about the professor and his strange actions over night, she could only thank the young chemist for his assistance. "of course, we have no idea that that man took anything," she concluded. "but you know that he is after _something_. there is a mystery about his actions--both here at the house and up there in the rocks," said harris. "well--ye-es." "i have been talking to father about it. father has seen him wandering about there so much. his anxiety not to be seen has piqued father's curiosity, too. to tell the truth, that is what has kept father so much interested in getting specimens up yonder," and the young man laughed. "he tells me that he is sure there can be no great mineral wealth on the farm; yet spink has found, or is trying to find, some deposit of value here----" "do tell him about the bottles, lyd!" cried 'phemie. "oh, well, that may be nothing----" "what bottles?" demanded harris, quickly. "come on, girls, why not take me fully into your confidence? i might be of some use, you know." "but they were nothing but bottles of water," objected lyddy. "bottles of water?" repeated the young chemist, slowly. "who had them?" "spink," replied 'phemie. "what was he doing with them?" she told him how they had watched the professor with his inexplicable water bottles. "foolish; isn't it?" asked lyddy. "sure--until we get the clue to it. foolish to us, but mighty important to professor spink. therefore we ought to look into it. father doesn't know anything about this bottle business." "well, it's sunday," sighed 'phemie. "we can't do anything about the mystery to-day." but her sister was fully roused, and when lyddy determined on a thing, something usually came of it. after breakfast, and after she had seen lucas and his mother and sairy drive past on their way to chapel, she put on her sunbonnet and started boldly for the neighboring farm, determined to have an interview with cyrus pritchett. chapter xxviii the secret revealed lyddy did not have to go all the way to the pritchett farm to speak with its proprietor. the farmer was wandering up hillcrest way, looking at the growing corn, and she met him at the corner where the two farms came together. "mr. pritchett," she said, abruptly, "i want to ask you a serious question." he looked at her in his surly way--from under his heavy brows--and said nothing. "you knew mr. spink when you were both boys; didn't you?" the old man's look sharpened, but he only nodded. cyrus was very chary of words. "mr. spink left hillcrest this morning. last night my sister caught him in the east wing, trying to break open grandfather's desk with a burglar's jimmy. i am not at all sure that i shan't have him arrested, anyway," said lyddy, with rising wrath, as she thought of the false professor's actions. "ha!" grunted mr. pritchett. "now, sir, you know _why_ spink came to hillcrest, _why_ he has been searching up there among the rocks, and _why_ he wanted to get at grandfather's papers." "no, i don't," returned the farmer, flatly. "you and spink were up at hillcrest the first night we girls slept there. and you frightened my sister half to death." the old man blinked at her, but never said a word. "and you were there with spink the evening lucas took 'phemie and me down to the temperance club--the first time," said lyddy, with surety. "you slipped out of sight when we drove into the yard. but it was you." "oh, it was; eh?" growled mr. pritchett. "yes, sir. and i want to know what it means. what is spink's intention? what does he want up here?" "i couldn't tell ye," responded pritchett. "you mean you won't tell me?" "no. i say what i mean," growled pritchett. "jud spink never told me what he wanted. i was up to the house with him--yep. i let him go into the cellar that night you say your sister was scart. but i didn't leave him alone there." "but _why_?" gasped lyddy. "i can easy tell you my side of it," said the farmer. "jud and me was something like chums when we was boys. when he come back here a spell ago he heard i was storing something in the cellar under the east wing of the house. he told me he wanted to get into that cellar for something. "so i met him up there that night. i opened the cellar door and we went down. i kept a lantern there. then i found out he wanted to go farther. there's a hatch there in the floor of the old doctor's workshop----" "a trap door?" "yes." "and you let him up there?" "naw, i didn't. he wouldn't tell me what he wanted in the old doctor's offices. i stayed there a while with him--us argyfyin' all the time. then we come away." "and the other time?" "on saturday night? i caught him trying to break in at the cellar door. i warned him not to try no more tricks, and i told him if he did i'd make it public. we ain't been right good friends since," declared mr. pritchett, chewing reflectively on a stalk of grass. "and you don't know what it's all about?" demanded lyddy, disappointedly. "no more'n you do," declared mr. pritchett; "or as much." "oh, dear me!" cried lyddy. "then i'm just where i was when i started!" "you wanter watch jud spink," grumbled mr. pritchett, rising from the fence-rail on which he had been squatting. "does he want to buy the farm?" "why--i guess not. he only made aunt jane a small offer for it." "he'll make a bigger," said pritchett, clamping his jaws down tight on that word, and turned on his heel. she knew there was no use in trying to get more out of him then. cyrus pritchett had "said his say." when lyddy got back to the house again she found that grandma castle's folks had come to see her in their big automobile, and she and 'phemie had to hustle about with mother harrison to re-set the enlarged dining table and make other extra preparations for the unexpected visitors. so busy were they that the girls did not miss harris colesworth and his father. they appeared just before the late dinner, rather warm and hungry-looking for the sabbath, harris bearing something in his arms carefully wrapped about in newspapers. "oh, what have you got?" 'phemie gasped, having just a minute to speak to the young man. "samples of the water spink has bottled up there," returned harris. "what is it?" "i don't know. but we'll find out. father has an idea, and if it's _so_----" "oh, what?" cried 'phemie. "you just wait!" returned harris, hurrying away. "mean thing!" 'phemie called after him. "you oughtn't to have any dinner." but there was little chance for harris to talk with the girls that day. before the dinner dishes were cleared away, a thunder cloud suddenly topped the ridge, and soon a furious shower fell, with the thunder reverberating from hill to hill, and the lightning flashing dazzlingly. behind this shower came a wind-storm that threatened, for a couple of hours, to do much damage. everybody was kept indoors, and as the night fell dark and threatening the castles had to be put up until morning. the wind quieted down at last; so did the nervous members of the party inside hillcrest. when lyddy and 'phemie thought almost everybody else was abed but themselves, and they were about to lock up the house and retire, a candle appeared in the long corridor, and behind the candle was harris colesworth, fully dressed. "sunday is about over, girls," he said, "and i can't possibly sleep. i must do something. didn't you tell me, miss 'phemie, there were retorts and test-tubes, and the like, in your grandfather's rooms?" "in the east wing?" cried lyddy. "yes." "why, the back room was his laboratory. all the things are there," said the younger girl. "let me go in there, then," said harris, eagerly. "i want to test these samples of water father and i brought down from the rocks to-day." "my mercy me!" gasped 'phemie. "you don't suppose there's gold--or silver--held in solution in that water----" lyddy laughed. "how ridiculous!" she said. "perhaps not exactly ridiculous," returned harris, shaking his head, and smiling. "why, harris colesworth! who ever heard of such a thing?" cried lyddy. "i'm no chemist, but i know _that_ would be impossible." "will you let me have the key of the green door?" he demanded. "yes!" cried 'phemie, who had continued to carry it tied around her neck. "but we'll go with you and see you perform your nefarious rites, mr. magician!" lyddy went for a lamp and brought it, lighted. "a candle won't do you much good in there," she said to harris. "verily, it is so!" admitted the young man, with an humble bow. "now, let me go first!" cried 'phemie. "you'd both be scared stiff by my friend, mr. boneypart." "your friend _who_?" cried lyddy. harris began to laugh. "so you claim napoleon as your friend; do you, miss 'phemie? what do you suppose old spink thinks about him?" 'phemie giggled as she ran ahead with the young man's candle and closed the door of the skeleton case in the inner office. "for the simple tests i have to make," said harris, as lyddy's lamp threw a mellow light into the room, "i see no reason why those old tubes won't do. yes! there's about what i want on that bench." "but, oh! the dust!" sighed lyddy, trying to find a clean place on which to set the lamp. "your grandfather must have been something of a chemist as well as a medical sharp," observed harris, gazing about. "i'm curious to look this place over." "we ought to ask aunt jane," said lyddy, doubtfully. "we really haven't any business in here." "she's never told us we shouldn't come," 'phemie returned, quickly. "now you young ladies sit down and keep still," commanded harris, authoritatively, removing his coat and tying an apron around his waist--the apron being produced from his own pocket. "now if you had your straw cuffs you'd look just as you used to----" "at the shop, eh?" finished harris, when lyddy caught herself up quick in the middle of this audible comment. "ye-es." "so you _did_ notice me a bit when you were working around the little kitchen of that flat?" chuckled the young man. "well!" gasped lyddy. "i couldn't very well help remembering how you looked the night of the fire when you came sliding across to our window on that plank. _that_ was so ridiculous!" "just so," responded harris, calmly. "now, please be still, young ladies and--watch the professor!" and for an hour the girls did actually manage to keep as still as mice. their friend certainly was absorbed in the work before him. he tested one sample of water after another, and finally went back and did the work all over upon one particular bottle that he had brought down from spink's hiding place among the rocks. "just as i thought," he declared, with a satisfied smile. "and just as father suspected. prepared to be surprised--pleasantly. your aunt jane must be warned not to sell hillcrest at _any_ price--just yet." "oh, why not?" cried 'phemie. "because i believe there is a valuable mineral spring on it. this is a sample of it here. mineral waters with such medicinal properties as this contains can be put on the market at an enormous profit for the owner of the spring. "i won't go into the scientific jargon of it now," he concluded. "but the spring is here--up there among the rocks. spink knows where it is. that is his secret. _we_ must learn where the water flows from, and likewise, see to it that your aunt jane makes no sale of the place until the matter is well thrashed out and the value of the water privilege discovered." chapter xxix an automobile race lyddy was to write to aunt jane the next day. that was the decision when harris started for town after breakfast, too. no time was to be lost in acquainting aunt jane with the fact that the old doctor spoke truly when he had said that "there were curative waters on hillcrest." in dr. polly phelps's day a mineral spring would have been of small value compared to what it would be worth now. jud spink, of course, had known something about the old doctor's using in his practise the water from somewhere among the rocks. on the lookout for every chance to make money in these days, the owner of "stonehedge bitters" and "diamond grits--the breakfast of the million" had determined to get hold of hillcrest and put the mineral water on the market--if so be the spring was to be discovered. too penurious to take any risk, however, spink had wished to be sure that the mineral spring was there, and of its value, before he risked his good money in the purchase of the property. the question now was: had he satisfied himself as to these facts? had he found the mineral spring quite by chance, and was he not still in doubt as to the wisdom of buying hillcrest? it would seem, by his trying to get at the old doctor's papers, that spink wished to assure himself further before he went ahead with his scheme. "we'll put a spoke in his wheel--that's sure," said harris, as he bade the two girls good-bye that monday morning, while lucas and the restive ponies waited for him. in two hours he was back at the farmhouse. the ponies stopped at the door all of a lather, and both harris and lucas looked desperately excited. tom castle, as well as the bray girls, ran out to see what was the matter. "he's off!" shouted lucas pritchett. "he's goin' to beat ye to it!" "what _are_ you talking about, lucas?" demanded 'phemie. "where does your aunt live, miss lyddy?" asked the young chemist. "not at easthampton?" "no. at hambleton. she is at home now----" "and that spink just bought a ticket for hambleton, and has taken the train for that particular burg," declared harris, with emphasis. "if i'd only been sure of your aunt jane's address i would have gone with him." "do you really think he's gone to try to buy the farm of her?" questioned lyddy. "i most certainly do. he couldn't have made connections easily had he started yesterday after you drove him away from hillcrest. but he's after the farm." "and she'll sell it! she'll sell it!" wailed 'phemie. "perhaps not," ventured lyddy, but her lips were white. "he can get an option. that's enough," urged harris. "we've got to head him off." "how?" cried the older girl, clasping her hands. "jumping horse chestnuts!" ejaculated tom castle. "it's a cinch! it's easy. you can beat that fellow to hambleton by way of adams----" "but there's no other train that connects at the junction till afternoon," objected lucas. "aw, poof!" exclaimed tom. "haven't we got the old buzz-wagon right here? i'll run and see father. he'll let me take it. we'll go over the hill and down to adams, and take the east road to hambleton. why, say! that spink man won't beat us much." "it's a great scheme, tommy!" shouted harris colesworth "go ahead. tell your father i can run the car, if you can't." in twenty minutes the big car was rolled out of the barn, and mr. castle came out to see the quartette off,--the two girls in the tonneau and harris and tom castle on the front seat. "you see that he doesn't play hob with that machine, mr. colesworth," called mr. castle, as they started. "it cost me seven thousand dollars." "what's seven thousand dollars," demanded master tom, recklessly, "to putting the indian sign on that professor spink?" they were not at all sure, however, that they were going to be able to do this. professor spink might easily beat them to aunt jane's residence in hambleton. but at the speed tom took the descent of the ridge on the other side, one might have thought that the professor was due to board a flying machine if he wished to travel faster. 'phemie declared she lost her breath at the top of the hill and that it didn't overtake her again until they stopped at the public garage in adams to get a supply of gasoline. the boys behind the wind-break, and the girls crouching in the tonneau, saw little of the landscape through which the car rushed. they rolled into hambleton without mishap, and before noon. a word from lyddy put master tom on the right track of aunt jane's house, for he had been in the town before. "we're here quicker than we could have had a telegram delivered," declared harris, as he helped the girls out of the car. "i'm going in with you, miss lyddy--if you don't mind?" "why, of course you shall come!" returned lyddy, really allowing her gratitude to "spill over" for the moment. "me--oh, my!" whispered 'phemie, walking demurely behind them. "the end of the world has now _came_. lyd is showing that poor young man some favor." but 'phemie, as well as the other two, grew serious when the girl who opened the door told them mrs. hammond had company in the parlor. "two gentlemen, miss--on business," said the maid. just then they heard professor spink's booming voice. "oh, oh! he's here ahead of us!" cried 'phemie, and she flung open the door and ran into the room. chapter xxx the hillcrest company, limited "don't sign it!" shrieked 'phemie, seeing aunt jane, her bonnet on as usual, with a pen in her hand. "for the good land's sake, child! how you scart me," complained the old lady. "don't sign anything, aunt!" urged 'phemie. "that man is trying to cheat you," and she pointed a scornful finger at professor spink. "what do you mean, girl?" demanded the other man present, who was sitting next to mrs. hammond. he looked like what he was--a shyster lawyer. "this girl is crazy," snarled spink, glaring at the party of young people. "so are we all, then," harris colesworth responded. "i assure you, mrs. hammond, that these men are trying to trick you." "i dunno you, young man; but i _do_ know my own mind. this man, spink, has finally made me a good offer for hillcrest farm." "and if you don't sign that paper at once, ma'am," suggested the lawyer, softly, "the deal is off." "that's right," declared spink, rising. "i've made my last offer--take it or leave it." "how much do they offer you for the farm, mrs. hammond--if that's not a rude question?" demanded harris. "never _you_ mind!" blustered spink. but aunt jane stated the amount frankly. "it's worth more," said harris, sharply. "i expect it is; but it ain't worth no more to me," replied the old lady, calmly. "i'll raise their offer a hundred dollars," said harris, quickly. "my name's colesworth. my father and i are well known here and in easthampton. we are amply able to pay you cash for the place." "well, now," observed aunt jane, with satisfaction, while the girls stared at the young fellow in wonder, "you are talking business. a hundred dollars more is not to be sneezed at----" "we'll raise the young man's bid another hundred, mrs. hammond," interposed the lawyer, eagerly. "but you must sign the agreement----" "raise you another hundred," said harris. the lawyer looked at his client for instructions. professor spink's face was of an apoplectic hue and his eyes fairly snapped. "no, no!" he shouted, pounding one fat fist into his other hand. "i know this smooth swindler. he did me once before just this way. he sha'n't do it now. he's got some inside information about that farm. it's all off! i wouldn't buy the old place now at any price!" he grabbed his hat and rushed for the door. the little lawyer followed, seized his coattails, and tried to drag him back; but professor spink was the heavier, and he steamed out into the hall, towing the lawyer, opened the door, and finally dashed down the steps. he and his legal adviser disappeared from sight. "well, young man," said mrs. hammond, calmly, "i expect you know what you have done? you've spoiled that sale for me; i may hold you to your offer." "if you want to, i shall not worry," laughed harris, sitting down. "but let us tell you all about it, mrs. hammond, and then i believe you will think twice before you sell hillcrest at _any_ price." * * * * * right in that boarding-house parlor was laid the foundation of the now very wealthy mineral water concern known as "the hillcrest company, limited." but, of course, it was months before the concern was launched and the wonderfully curative waters of hillcrest spring were put upon the market. for once the fact was established that the mineral spring was there among the rocks at the back of the farm, it was only a matter of searching for it. the spring was finally located in the very wildest part of the farm--in a deep thicket, where the cattle, or other animals, never went to drink. so the spring was thickly overgrown. "and by cracky! you can't blame a cow for not wanting to drink _that_ stuff," declared lucas pritchett when he first tasted the water. medicinally, however, it was a valuable discovery. bottled and put on sale, it was soon being recommended by men high in the medical world. "the old doctor knew a thing or two, even if he _did_ live back here on the lonesomest hill in the state," said aunt jane. "no! i won't stay, children. you've treated me fust-rate; but give me the town. i want life. i don't see how mrs. castle can stand it. i'd vegetate here in a week and take sech deep root that you couldn't pull me out with a stump-puller. "besides, i'm going to have money enough now to live jest like i want to in town. and i'm going to have one of these automobile cars--yes, sir! i'll begin to really and truly _live_, i will. you jest watch me." but in her joy of suddenly acquired wealth she did not forget her nieces--the girls who had really made her good fortune possible. both lyddy and 'phemie owned stock in the mineral water company; and then aunt jane assured them that when she died they should own the farm jointly. she had only sold the spring rights to the company. the rest of the corporation consisted of harris colesworth and his father, rufus castle, his mother, grandma castle, lucas pritchett and--last but not least--mother harrison. the widow had asked the privilege of investing in the stock of the company the fifty dollars that professor spink had paid her for her husband's old desk. and as that stock is becoming more and more valuable as time goes on, it was not an unwise investment on the widow's part. as for lucas, it was by 'phemie's advice that the young farmer put _his_ money into the stock of the mineral water concern, instead of into a red-wheeled buggy. "wait a while, lucas," said 'phemie, "and you'll make money enough to own a motor car instead of a buggy." "and you'll take the first ride in it with me?" demanded lucas, shrewdly. "yes! i'll verily risk my life in your buzz-wagon," laughed the girl. "but now! that's a long way ahead yet, lucas." the summer had passed ere all these things were done and said. nor had the bray girls lost a single opportunity of making their original venture--that of keeping boarders at hillcrest--a success. lyddy had bought her cooking stove, her chickens had turned out a nice little flock for the next year, the garden had done splendidly, and when the corn was harvested the girls banked a hundred dollars over and above the cost of raising the crop. best of all, their father's state of health had so much improved, during these last few weeks, that the girls could look forward with confidence to his complete restoration, in time, to a really robust condition. hillcrest had been his salvation. the sun and air of the mountainside home had finally brought him well on the road to recovery; and the joy his two daughters felt because of this fact can scarcely be expressed in words. grandma castle and the chadwicks wanted to remain until new year's, so the girls got no real vacation. several automobile parties had now found their way to the house on the hill, and the old-fashioned viands, the huge rooms, open fires, and all the "queer" furniture induced them to return from time to time. so lyddy and 'phemie decided to be prepared for such parties, or for other people who wished to board for a week or so at a time, all winter. mr. bray had grown so much stronger by now that sometimes he expressed his belief that he ought to go back to the shop and earn money, too. "wait till next season, father," lydia urged him, softly. "we can all pull together here, and if we have only a measure of good fortune, we shall be independent indeed by _next_ fall." the prospect was surely bright--as bright as that which lay before lyddy and harris colesworth one indian summer day as they strolled down the lane to the highroad. "i don't see how aunt jane can find this place lonely," sighed lyddy, leaning just a little on the young man's arm, but with her gaze sweeping all the fair mountainside. "_you_ couldn't leave it, lyddy?" he asked, with sudden wistfulness. "no, indeed! not for long. no other place would seem like _home_ to me after our experience here. it's more like home than the house i was born in at easthampton. "you see, we have struggled, and worked, and accomplished something here--'phemie and i. and aunt jane says it shall some day be ours--all of hillcrest. i love it all." "well--i don't blame you!" exclaimed harris, suddenly swinging about and seizing her hands. "but, say, lyddy! don't be stingy about it." "stingy--about what?" she asked him, rather frightened, but looking up into his sparkling eyes. "don't be stingy with hillcrest. if you are determined to stay here--all your life long--you know---- don't you suppose you could find it in your heart to let _me_ come here and--and stay, too?" nobody heard lyddy bray make an audible reply to this--not even the curious squirrel chattering in the big beech over their heads. but harris seemed to see just the reply he craved in the girl's eyes, for he cried, suddenly: "you _dear_, you!" then they walked on together, side by side, over the carpet of flame-colored leaves. +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ misunderstood by florence montgomery, _author of_ "a very simple story," and "peggy and other tales," "thrown together." new york: anson d. f. randolph & company, west twenty-third street. new york: edward o. jenkins, robert rutter, _printer and stereotyper_, _binder_, north william st. and east th street. to the hon. mrs. augustus liddell the following story is dedicated. preface. the following is not a child's story. it is intended for those who are interested in children; for those who are willing to stoop to view life as it appears to a child, and to enter for half-an-hour into the manifold small interests, hopes, joys, and trials which make up its sum. it has been thought that the lives of children, as known by themselves, from their own little point of view, are not always sufficiently realized; that they are sometimes overlooked or misunderstood; and to throw some light, however faint, upon the subject, is one of the objects of this little story. so much of it has been gathered from observation and recollection, that the author cannot help hoping it may not entirely fail of its aim. misunderstood. in two parts. _part i._ chapter i. ever since the nursery dinner has the rain come pouring down all over the fields and meadows, the lawns and gardens, the roofs and gables of old wareham abbey, in the county of sussex. ever since the cloth was cleared away have two little curly heads been pressed close together at the nursery window, and two pair of eager eyes been watching the clouds and sky. what a dreadful wet afternoon! it is so particularly tiresome, as their father is expected home to-day, and had promised the two little brothers that they should come and meet him at the station. there would be no room for virginie in the dog-cart, and so, if they promised to sit very still, and not stand on the wheel to get in, or jump out before the carriage had stopped, or do anything else equally extraordinary, they were to have been trusted to old peter, the coachman, and what fun _that_ would have been! to get away from virginie for so long was the height of human enjoyment. she seemed to them a being created on purpose to interfere with every plan of enjoyment, to foresee danger where they only saw fun, and so bring the shadow of her everlasting "ne faites pas ceci, ne faites pas cela," across the sunny path of their boyish schemes and pastimes. poor virginie! if she had been brought to the bar of their young judgments, she would have been at once condemned without any reference to extenuating circumstances. and yet she was, in the main a good, well-meaning woman, but unfortunately gifted with "nerves;" and the responsibility of the entire charge of the children of a widower, who was a great deal away from home, made her life an anxious one, more especially as they were a pair of the most reckless creatures that ever were born--fearless of danger, heedless of consequences, and deaf to entreaty or remonstrance. little miles, the youngest, as she often told their father, was well enough _alone_; she could manage him perfectly, for, being only four years old, he was amenable to authority; but "monsieur humphrey!" words always failed virginie at this juncture. she could only throw up her hands, and raise her eyes to the ceiling, with a suppressed exclamation. sir everard duncombe was a member of parliament, and during the session was almost entirely in london, so that beyond his saturday to monday at the abbey, his children saw but little of him at this time of the year. during these flying visits he was overwhelmed with complaints of all m. humphrey had done during the past week: how he would climb impossible trees and jump from impossible heights; how he had gone into the stables right under the horses' heels, or taken a seat in the kennel, with the blood-hound; how narrowly he had escaped tumbling over the ha-ha one day, and slipping into the pond the next; in fact there was no end to his misdemeanors. but the point on which virginie harped was, that he led his little brother into all sorts of mischief; for what humphrey did, miles would do too, and where humphrey went, miles was ready to follow. it was quite another thing, as virginie urged, for miles. humphrey was proof against colds, coughs, and accidents of all kinds; but little miles was physically weaker, and had moreover a tendency to a delicate chest and to croup; so that cold winds, and wet feet, and over-exertion, could not be too carefully avoided. timid and gentle by nature, clinging and affectionate by disposition, he was just the child a father delights in, and to him sir everard's affections were almost wholly given. lady duncombe had observed her husband's partiality for his younger boy for some time before her death, and had more than once taxed him with it. "miles is such a little coaxing thing," he answered, taking the child up in his arms, and stroking the little curly head which nestled at once so contentedly down on his shoulder. "if i took humphrey up, he would struggle to get down, and be climbing over the tables and chairs." "humphrey is three years older," argued lady duncombe; "you could not expect him to sit so still as a baby not yet two: but he is quite as affectionate as miles, in a different way." "it may be so," sir everard returned "but it is very engaging when a little creature clings to one in this way, and sits for hours in one's lap." lady duncombe did not answer, but her eye wandered from the fair-haired baby and rested on her eldest boy, who for three years had been her only child. to her, at least, he was an object of pride and pleasure. she gloried in his manly ways, his untiring spirits and activity; and loved his rough caresses quite as well as the more coaxing ways of his baby brother. how she delighted to see him come rushing headlong into the room, and make one bound into her lap, even if he _did_ knock down a chair or so on his way, upset her work-box and its contents, and dirty the sofa with his muddy boots. what then! did not his eager kisses rain upon her cheek? were not his dear rough arms round her neck? did she not _know_ what a loving heart beat under his apparent heedlessness and forgetfulness? what if he forgot every injunction and every promise, if he did not forget _her_! what if he took heed of no one and nothing, if her look and her kiss were always sought and cared for! oh! it was a sad day for little humphrey duncombe when that mother was taken away from him: when the long, wasting illness ended in death: when the hollow eye, which to the last had rested on him, closed for ever on this world; and the thin, transparent hands were folded for the last time on the breast where he should never again hide his curly head, and sob out his confessions and repentance. sir everard, overwhelmed by the blow which had fallen on him, hardly saw his children during the early days of his bereavement. when he did, he was surprised to find humphrey much the same as ever; still noisy and heedless, still full of mischief, and apparently forgetful of what had happened. "he has not much heart," was his inward comment, as he watched the little figure, in its deep mourning, chasing the young lambs in the meadow. sir everard saw the boy to all appearance the same, because he saw him in his moments of forgetfulness, when nature and childhood had asserted their rights, and the buoyancy of the boy's disposition had enabled him to throw off the memory of his sorrow: but he did _not_ see him when the sense of his loss was upon him; did not see the face change, when the recollection came over him; did not hear the familiar name half uttered, and then choked by a sob. he did not see the rush to the drawing-room, with some new treasure, some new plan to be unfolded--and the sudden stop at the door, as the thought swept over him that on the well-known sofa there is now no mother's smile awaiting him, no ever-ready ear to listen and sympathize, no loving kiss, no responsive voice: and the low sob of pain, the listless drop of the arms to the side, and the rush away into the open air, away and away, anywhere, to escape from the grief and the longing, and the blank sense of desolation. only he, who dwelling in the highest heaven, yet vouchsafes to behold the lowest creature here upon earth, knew what was in the heart of the boy; as no one but he saw the pillow wet with tears, and heard the cry breaking forth in the dead of the night from the inmost recesses of the poor little orphaned heart. "oh, mother! mother! what shall i do without you!" all this had happened nearly two years before the day of which i am speaking, when the rain was acting its time-hackneyed part before the two little spectators at the window. it had faded out of little miles' mind as if it had never been; he could not even remember his mother; but in the mind of the elder boy her memory was still, at times, fresh and green. weeks and months might pass without his thoughts dwelling on her, but all of a sudden, a flower, a book, or some little thing that had belonged to her, would bring it all back, and then the little chest would heave, the curly head would droop, and the merry brown eyes be dimmed by a rush of tears. there was a full-length picture in the now unused drawing-room of lady duncombe, with humphrey in her arms; and at these times, or when he was in some trouble with virginie, the boy would steal in there, and lie curled up on the floor in the darkened room; putting himself in the same attitude that he was in in the picture, and then try to fancy he felt her arms round him, and her shoulder against his head. there were certain days when the room was scrubbed and dusted; when the heavy shutters were opened, and the daylight streamed upon the picture. then the two little brothers might be seen standing before it, while the elder detailed to the younger all he could remember about her. miles had the greatest respect and admiration for humphrey. a boy of seven, who wears knickerbockers, is always an object of veneration to one of four, who is as yet limited to blouses: but miles' imagination could not soar beyond the library and dining-room; and he could not remember the drawing-room otherwise than a closed room; so his respect grew and intensified as he listened to humphrey's glowing description of the past glories of the house, when the drawing-room was one blaze of light, when there were muslin curtains in the windows, and chintz on all the chairs; and mother lay on the sofa, with her work-table by her side. dim and shadowy was the little fellow's idea of the "mother" of whom his brother always spoke in softened tones and with glistening eyes; but that she was something very fair and holy he was quite sure. deep was his sense of his inferiority to humphrey in this respect; and a feeling akin to shame would steal over him when one of their long conversations would be abruptly put an end to by humphrey's quick, contemptuous "it's no use trying to make you understand, because you don't remember her." a very wistful look would come over the pretty little face on these occasions, and he would humbly admit his great degradation. it was miles' admiration for his brother that was the bane of virginie's life. timid by nature, miles became bold when humphrey led the way; obedient and submissive by himself, at humphrey's bidding he would set virginie at defiance, and for the time be as mischievous as he. that "l'union fait la force," virginie had long since discovered, to the ruin of her nerves and temper. and now virginie has several times suggested that if humphrey will submit to a water-proof coat, and goloshes, he may go and meet his father at the station; and humphrey has consented to come to terms if miles may go too. but here virginie is firm. no amount of wrapping up would prevent miles catching cold on so damp and rainy a day, as she knows well, by fatal experience; so the fiat has gone forth, either humphrey will go alone, or both will stay at home. "don't go," pleaded little miles, as they pressed their faces against the window; "it will be so dull all alone with virginie." "she's a cross old thing," muttered humphrey; "but never mind, miles, i won't go without you, and we'll count the raindrops on the window to make the time pass quick." this interesting employment had the desired effect, and the next half-hour soon slipped by. indeed, it was so engrossing, that the dog-cart came up the avenue, and was nearly at the hall door, before the little boys perceived it. "qu'est-ce que c'est donc!" exclaimed virginie, startled by humphrey's jump from the window-sill to the floor. "c'est mon père," was all the information he vouchsafed her, as he rushed out of the room. "m. votre père! attendez done que je vous arrange un peu les cheveux." she spoke to the winds: nothing was heard of humphrey but sundry bumps and jumps in the distance, which told of his rapid descent down the stairs. the more tardy miles was caught and brushed, in spite of his struggles, and then he was off to join his brother. he reached the hall door just as the carriage drove up, and the two little figures jumped and capered about, while a tall, dark gentleman divested himself of his mackintosh and umbrella, and then came up the steps into the house. he stooped down to kiss the eager faces. "well, my little fellows, and how are you both? no bones broken since last week? no new bruises and bumps, eh?" they were so taken up with their father, that they did not perceive that he was not alone, but that another gentleman had got out of the dog-cart, till sir everard said-- "now go and shake hands with that gentleman. i wonder if you know who he is?" humphrey looked up into the young man's face, and said, while his color deepened-- "i think you are my uncle charlie, who came to see us once a long time ago before you went to sea, and before----" "quite right," said sir everard, shortly; "i did not think you would have remembered him. i daresay, charlie, humphrey has not altered very much; but this little fellow was quite a baby when you went away," he added, taking miles up in his arms, and looking at his brother-in-law for admiration. "what a likeness!" exclaimed uncle charlie. sir everard put the child down with a sigh. "like in more ways than one, i am afraid. look here," pointing to the delicate tracery of the blue veins on the forehead, and the flush on the fair cheek. humphrey had been listening intently to this conversation, and his father being once more occupied with kissing miles, he advanced to his uncle, and put his hand confidingly in his. "you are a nice little man," said uncle charlie, laying his other hand on the curly head; "we were always good friends, humphrey. but," he added, half to himself, as he turned up the bright face to his, and gazed at it intently for a moment, "you are not a bit like your mother." the dressing-gong now sounded, and the little boys proceeded to their father's room, to help or hinder him with his toilette. miles devoted himself to the carpet-bag, in expectation of some tempting paper parcel; while humphrey's attentions were given to first one and then the other of the articles he was extracting from the pocket of the coat sir everard had just thrown off. a suspicious click made the baronet turn round. "what have you got hold of, humphrey?" an open pocket-knife dropped from the boy's hand he had just succeeded in opening the two blades, and was in the act of trying the edges on his thumb nail. failing in that experiment, his restless fingers strayed to the dressing-table, and an ominous silence ensued. "humphrey," shouted his father, "put my razor down." in the glass he had caught sight of a well-soaped face, and spoke just in time to stop the operation. punishment always follows sin, and humphrey was dispatched to the nursery to have his face sponged and dried. by taking a slide down the banisters, however, he made up for lost time, and arrived at the library-door at the same time as his father and brother. uncle charlie was standing by the window, ready dressed; and the gong sounding at that moment, they all went in to dinner. the two little brothers had a chair on each side of their father, and an occasional share in his food. dinner proceeded in silence. uncle charlie was enjoying his soup, and sir everard, dividing himself between his little boys and his meal. "it's william's birthday to-day," said humphrey, breaking silence. the unfortunate individual in white silk stockings, thus suddenly brought into public notice, reddened to the roots of his hair; and in his confusion nearly dropped the dish he was in the act of putting down before his master. "he's twenty-two years old to-day," continued humphrey; "he told me so this morning." sir everard tried to evince a proper amount of interest in so important an announcement. "what o'clock were you born, william?" pursued humphrey, addressing the shy young footman at the side-board, where he had retreated with the dish-cover, and from whence he was making all sorts of signs to his tormentor, in the vain hope of putting an end to the conversation. sir everard hastily held out a bit of turbot on the end of his fork, and effectually stopped the boy's mouth for a few minutes; but no sooner had he swallowed it, than he broke out again. "what are you going to give william for his birthday present, father?" he said, putting his arms on the table, and resting his chin upon them, that he might the more conveniently look up into his father's face, and await his answer. lower and lower bent uncle charlie's head over his plate, and his face became alarmingly suffused with color. "i know what he'd like," finished humphrey, "for he's told me!" the unhappy footman snatched up a dish-cover, and began a retreat to the door; but the inexorable butler handed him the lobster sauce, and he was obliged to advance with it to his master's side. "i said to him to-day," proceeded humphrey, in all the conscious glory of being in william's confidence, "if father were to give you a birthday present, what would you like? you remember, don't you, william? and then he told me, didn't you, william?" the direct form of attack was more than flesh and blood could stand. william made a rush to the door with the half-filled tray and, in spite of furious glances from the butler, disappeared, just as uncle charlie gave it up as a bad job, and burst out laughing. "you must not talk quite so much at dinner, my boy," said sir everard, when the door was shut; "your uncle and i have not been able to say a word. i assure you," he added in an under tone to his brother-in-law, "these children keep me in constant hot water; i never know what they will say next." when the servants reappeared the gentlemen, to william's relief, were talking politics; and humphrey was devoting his energies to digging graves in the salt, and burying therein imaginary corpses, represented by pills he was forming from his father's bread. "will you come and help me with my dinner, next week, charlie?" said sir everard; "i am going to entertain the aborigines, and i shall want a little assistance. it is now more than two years since i paid my constituents any attention, and i feel the time has come." "what long words," said humphrey, _sotto voce_, as he patted down the last salt grave, and stuck a bit of parsley, that had dropped from the fish, on the top of the mound. "father," he went on, "what are abo--abo--" "aborigines?" finished uncle charlie. "wild men of the woods, humphrey; half human beings, half animals." "and is father going to have them to dinner?" exclaimed humphrey, in great astonishment. "yes," said uncle charlie, enjoying the joke; "it will be fine fun for you and miles, won't it?" "oh, won't it!" echoed humphrey, jumping down from his chair, and capering about. "oh, father! will you promise, before you even ask virginie, that we may come down to dinner that night, and see them?" "well, i don't know about dinner," said sir everard; "little boys are rather in the way on these occasions, especially those who don't know how to hold their tongues when they ought; but you shall both come down in the library and see them arrive." at this moment virginie's unwelcome head appeared at the door, and her unwelcome voice proclaimed, "m. humphrey, m. miles, il faut venir vous coucher." very unwillingly did they obey, for the conversation had reached a most interesting point, and humphrey had a hundred and one questions still to put about the aborigines. they proceeded quietly upstairs, closely followed by virginie, who always liked to see them well on in front of her, in case they should take it into their heads to do anything very extraordinary on their way. to-night, however, they were much too full of the wild men of the woods they were to see on friday to think of anything else, and they arrived in the bed-room nursery, without giving any shocks to virginie's nervous system. indeed, the subject lasted them till they were undressed, and washed, and tucked up in their little beds side by side. virginie shut the shutters, and with a sigh of relief retired to supper. "i'm glad she's gone," said humphrey, "because now we can have a good talk about the wild men." "oh, humphie!" said little miles beseechingly, "_please_ don't let us talk of them any more now it's dark; or if you really _must_, give me your hand to hold, for it does frighten me so." "then we won't talk about them," said the elder boy in a soothing tone, as he drew close to the edge of the bed, and threw his arm protectingly round the little one. miles nestled close up to him, and with their cheeks one against the other, and hands tightly clasped together, they fell asleep. poor little curly heads, o'er whom no fond mother shall bend to-night, murmuring soft words of love and blessing! poor dimpled faces, on whom no lingering kiss shall fall! outside in the meadows, the young lambs lay by the ewe's side; up in the trees the wee birds nestled beneath the parent wing, but no light step, no softly rustling gown, no carefully shaded light, disturbed the dreamless slumber of the two little brothers. chapter ii. sir everard duncombe did not make his appearance in the dining-room till nine o'clock, but long before that hour his movements were known to the whole household; for soon after eight, the two little boys were stationed outside his door, and failing to gain admittance, kept account of the progress of his toilette, in tones which were heard all over the house. "will you soon be out of your bath, father?... are you just about soaping?... what are you doing now?... are you sponging now?... what a splash father is having! he must be drying himself now, he is so very quiet." then sounded the unlocking of a door, and the scamper of little feet. "i must congratulate you on the satisfactory way in which you performed your ablutions this morning," was uncle charlie's salutation to his brother-in-law, as he entered the breakfast room with a boy on each side of him. sir everard laughed. "there are no secrets in this house, you see," he answered, as he shook hands. "what a lovely day!" "glorious! but it is going to be very hot. if i remember right, the walk to church is shady all the way. do these little fellows go to church?" "not miles, but i generally take humphrey; and wonderful to say he is as quiet as possible. i really think church is the only place in the world where he can sit still." humphrey was engaged during the whole of breakfast time in finding the places in his prayer-book, and was too much occupied to talk. "there!" he exclaimed triumphantly, as he put in the last marker, and restrained himself with a violent effort as he was about to throw his prayer-book in the air, "now they are all found." "and now you had better go and dress," said his father, "so as not to keep your uncle and me waiting." humphrey joined them in the hall at the last minute, having been detained by a skirmish with virginie. their way to church lay through the flower-garden and down the avenue. they went out by the side-door, leaving miles looking disconsolately after them, his pretty little face and slight figure framed in the old doorway. they walked on together in silence for some time. sir everard was enjoying the calm beauty of the summer day; humphrey was in pursuit of a butterfly; and uncle charlie was looking round at the evidences of his dead sister's taste in the laying out of the flower-garden, and thinking of the last time he had walked through it to church, when she had been by his side. "how hot that boy will make himself before we get to church," said sir everard, presently; "i really don't know what he is made of, to run on a day like this." "he is a fine boy," said uncle charlie, as he watched the active little figure skipping over the flower-beds, "and seems as strong and well as possible." "yes," said the baronet, "humphrey has never had a day's illness in his life. he takes after my family, and is going to be as strong and as tall as they." "he is very like some of the old family pictures i was looking at this morning; the same upright, well-built figure, and dark eyes. now miles is altogether different, so fair and slender." "i fear miles inherits his mother's constitution," answered the baronet, in a troubled tone. "he is very delicate, charlie, and the least chill brings on croup, or a nasty little cough. i feel very anxious about him sometimes." "i daresay he will grow out of it. i believe i had a delicate chest at his age, and i am never troubled with it now." they were some way down the avenue, and humphrey was nowhere to be seen. "i never wait for him," said sir everard, as he opened the park gates; "he always turns up at last." they were half-way across the churchyard when the boy overtook them, flushed and breathless. uncle charlie inwardly groaned at the thoughts of so restless a mortal, as a next-door neighbor, during two hours' service on a hot summer's morning, and watched his movements with some anxiety. little humphrey took off his hat in the porch, shook back his curly hair from his hot forehead, and walked quietly into church. he led the way to the chancel, where was the old fashioned family pew. here he came to a dead stop, for the bolt of the door was high above his reach. his uncle undid it for him, and was about to pass in, thinking that of course the child would sit by his father; but to his surprise, his little nephew pushed past him, went to the very end of the long pew, and clambered up the high-cushioned seat opposite a big prayer-book, which was surmounted with the monogram "adelaide." the rustic congregation had often wondered why the father and son sat at so great a distance from each other in the pew that so seldom had any occupants but themselves; and the old clergyman had at first with difficulty suppressed a smile at the view from the pulpit, of the broad shoulders and bearded face of the six foot man at one extremity, and the top of the small brown head at the other. but in vain had sir everard invited the boy to sit nearer to him; he preferred his isolation. it had once occurred to the widower that it might be because it had been his wife's place; but he never gave humphrey credit for much heart or sentiment, so he had settled it was a mere whim and never asked the boy any questions on the subject. the child himself had never confided to anyone but miles how he loved to feel he was looking at the very same bit of the painted window which his mother's eyes had fallen upon; that his feet were on the very same footstool that her's had rested on; and though the big prayer-book was too heavy for him to open, he liked to put his own little morocco volume upon it, and to press his little fingers on the "adelaide" that formed the monogram of her name. he could not have explained what there was about the old church that brought back to him more than anything else the memory of his mother, but so it was: and the usually restless boy would sit quiet in his corner, and think of the first sunday he had come to church, when he had read out of the same prayer-book with her, and listened to her sweet voice as she joined in the psalms and hymns. the service began, and humphrey struggled down from his seat. the villagers had grown accustomed, when the congregation stood up, to see the baronet rise tall and broad from his seat, and the little brown head of his son disappear altogether; but uncle charlie was by no means prepared for so complete a collapse, and thought his nephew had fallen. however, there he was, standing on the ground, with his eyes fixed on his prayer-book, and the walls of the pew towering over him on every side. "why on earth does he not stand on a stool?" was the young man's inward reflection. truth to say, the temptation to gain three feet in height, and get a view of what was passing around, _had_ at times assailed humphrey, but he felt sure his mother had never stood on the stool, and so he resisted the inclination. and, indeed, if lady duncombe had mounted the very high structure which went by the name of a hassock, the effect would have been a trial to the gravity of the congregation. humphrey followed the service pretty well till the chanting began, and here he always got wrong. do what he would he could not keep time with the rest, but always arrived at the end of the verse either too early or too late. by slow degrees he had discovered that it did not do to sing straight through to the end, because there were some bits and words they sang over again; but _how_ he was ever to discover which particular word or sentence they were going to repeat, was to him a perpetual puzzle. he had a great admiration for the turns and shakes with which the old clerk varied the "te deum," and had once indulged in a mild imitation of the same; till he caught sight of his father frowning at him from the other end of the pew. when the hymn was given out, uncle charlie saw humphrey in great difficulties over finding his place, so he made a sign to him to come and share _his_ hymn-book; but, with a most decided shake of the head, humphrey produced his own, and, without moving from his place, held it out to have his place found. as the young man returned it to his nephew, he saw on the fly-leaf the name "adelaide duncombe," in the well-known handwriting of his dead sister; and he did justice to the boy's motive. when the old clergyman opened his sermon-book, humphrey settled himself in his corner, in exact imitation of his father. it always took him some time to copy the position, and sometimes, when he had just accomplished it, sir everard would uncross his leg, or move a hand, and then he was quite discomfited, and had to begin all over again. to-day, however, his attitude was quite simple. sir everard folded his arms, crossed his legs, and turning his head to the pulpit, disposed himself to listen. humphrey did the same. then rose the voice of the old clergyman "in the fourteenth chapter of the book of the revelation of st. john, and at the second verse, you will find the word of god thus written: 'and i heard a voice from heaven, as the voice of many waters, ... and i heard the harpers harping with their harps.... and they sang as it were a new song, and no man could learn that song but the hundred and forty and four thousand, which were redeemed from the earth.'" ... humphrey did not often listen to the sermon, but to-day it was all about heaven, and he liked to hear about that, because his mother was there. feeble must human language ever be to paint the glories of that far-off land; but when men touch upon subjects that so vitally concern all, they carry their hearers with them. and so it was, that as the old preacher warmed and glowed with his theme, the hearts of the congregation warmed and glowed too; and there was silence and deep attention in the old church that day. even the village school children fidgeted less than usual, and one or two smock-frocks who had settled themselves in their usual attitude, of arms crossed on the back of the bench in front of them, and heads cradled thereupon, shook off the drowsiness consequent on their long, hot walk to church, and sitting up, gave their attention to the sermon. for were not one and all bound to the land the preacher was describing? and was there one who could say, "what is this to me?" only twice was even humphrey's attention distracted. the first time was when he saw his uncle take a pencil out of his pocket, and underline something in his bible. this was altogether a novel proceeding; humphrey had never seen it done before, and he felt it incumbent upon him to sidle along the pew-seat up to his uncle to investigate the matter. uncle charlie gave him his bible, and he saw that the text of the sermon was the passage marked. he inwardly resolved, as he regained his corner by the shuffling process before mentioned, that _he_ would in future bring a pencil to church and do likewise. the next disturbance was of a more exciting character. a vagrant wasp, after disporting itself in different parts of the church, made an inroad into the family pew, and fixed upon uncle charlie as its victim. humphrey, attracted by the buzzing, turned round, and saw his uncle engaged in desperate conflict. bobbing his head first to one side, and then to the other, now drawing himself suddenly back, and now as suddenly swerving forward, every now and then making a frantic grab in the air with the back of his hand, uncle charlie strove to escape from his assailant in vain. humphrey tried hard to keep his countenance as he watched the encounter, but it would not do. the merry smile broke out from every corner of his face, and, in great alarm, he crammed his hands into his mouth to stifle the laughter he felt would, in another moment, break out. uncle charlie was already very angry at being disqualified from listening to a sermon he was enjoying by so paltry a cause as the attacks of a wasp, and now, when he saw his nephew's condition, he grew desperate. seizing a hymn-book, he made a plunge at his tormentor, and brought it to the ground, where he crushed it to atoms with his heel; and with a sensation of great relief saw humphrey's countenance return to an expression of becoming composure, and found himself in a condition to take up the thread of the discourse. humphrey's attention was once more riveted on the sermon, and his little mind strove to follow the clergyman as he spoke of the white-robed thousands wandering by the jasper sea in the golden jerusalem; that "great multitude which no man can number of all kindreds, and nations, and tongues;" uniting their songs in the same burst of glorious psalmody as the "voice of many waters," and as the voice of mighty thunderings, saying, "alleluia; for the lord god omnipotent reigneth." "'eye hath not seen,'" concluded the preacher, as if in despair of finding words to express the inconceivable glory and beauty of the halls of sion, "'eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man the things which god hath prepared for them that love him.' to him, who bought them for us with his own blood, be glory for ever, and to countless ages." then the organ broke forth, doors opened and shut, the school-boys clattered down from the organ loft, and the congregation streamed out of church; leaving the old clergyman standing in his pulpit, gazing thoughtfully at the retreating throng, and wondering how much of what he had endeavored to impress upon their hearts would take root downwards, and bear fruit upwards. sir everard duncombe remained sitting some time after the service was over, looking at humphrey's earnest face, and wondering what the boy was thinking of. when the clergyman had retired to the vestry, he rose, and led the way out. softly blew the summer breezes on little humphrey's face as he stepped out into the porch, and the calm beauty of the summer morning was in perfect harmony with the turn which the sermon had given to his thoughts. all around was the beautifully-wooded country, lying calm and still under the cloudless sky. perhaps if his vague ideas could have taken shape, they would have formed themselves into some such expression as--"can heaven be fairer than this?" but humphrey's was not a nature that could long remain absorbed in thought, and he was soon skipping along the road in front of his father and uncle, and kicking up clouds of dust with his best sunday boots. at the park gates they found miles and virginie. the latter joined the other servants in the road, and the two little brothers walked on together. "did the clergyman take any of my texts to-day for his sermon?" asked the younger one eagerly, as he took hold of humphrey's hand. (miles was learning the beatitudes, and asked the question regularly every sunday.) "no, not one of them. he got a text out of the very last bit of the whole bible--'the revelation.'" "that must be the bit virginie never will read to me. she says i should not understand it. do you understand the revelations, humphie?" "yes," returned humphrey, promptly. "virginie doesn't," said miles rather puzzled, "and she says very few grown-up people do." "virginie is french," retorted humphrey, "and the revelations are written in english. of course she can't understand them as well as i do. there goes a rabbit. let's run after it." and miles, perfectly satisfied with the explanation, followed his brother, panting into the fern. in the afternoon the gentlemen went again to church, and as virginie was at liberty to do the same, the children were left under the care of the housemaid. humphrey was learning a hymn, and, for once in his life, giving his whole attention to his task. miles, sitting on the housemaid's lap, was turning over the leaves of the "peep of day," and gleaning his ideas of sacred characters from the illustrations of that well-known work. he stopped in great amazement before the representation of lazarus rising from the tomb, and demanded an explanation. jane, who had an idea that everything connected with death should be most carefully concealed from children, answered evasively that it was nothing, and tried to turn over the page, but boys are not so easily baulked. had miles been a girl, he would probably have been satisfied to pass over the picture without further inquiry; girls' minds take a very superficial grasp of a subject; they are content to get at the shell of knowledge, and to leave the kernel untasted. being a boy, miles raised his large, grave eyes to jane's face with an inquiring expression. "why don't you tell me?" he asked, laying a detaining hand on the leaf; "i want to know all about it. what is that great hole? and why is the man all sewed up in white?" jane, driven into a corner, admitted that the hole was a grave. "but, lor! master miles," added she, "you don't know nothing about them things, and if you want to know you must ask your pa!" "of course i know people die," said miles, simply, "because my mamma's dead; so you're quite wrong, jane, to say i don't understand those sort of things. i know all about it. when people die they are packed up in a box and put into the ground, and then if they've been good, god will come some day and unpack them." humphrey had joined the group just in time to hear the end of the explanation, and he met jane's eye and smile with all the conscious superiority of his three years advance in religious knowledge. "if mother were here, miles," he whispered, "she would explain to you much better than that. there was something she used to tell me about our dead body being like a seed, that is, put into the ground, but will turn into a beautiful flower some day. only i can't remember it quite like she said it," he added, sighing, "i wish i could." "oh, humphie!" said little miles eagerly, holding up the book, "_can_ you remember what she used to say about this picture?" but humphrey taxed his memory in vain. it was all so dim, so confused, he could not remember sufficiently clearly to tell the story, so jane was called upon to read it. now jane left out her h's, and did not mind her stops, so the beautiful story of the raising of lazarus must have lost much of its charm; but still the children listened with attention, for those who have nothing better must put up with what they have. poor little opening minds, depending thus early on the instructions of an ignorant housemaid! forced to forego, in the first budding of youth, those lessons in divine truth that came so lovingly, and withal so forcibly, from the lips of a tender mother; those lessons which linger on the heart of the full-grown man long after the lips that pronounced them are silenced for ever. depend upon it, association has a great power, and those passages in the bible which bring to children most clearly the image of their mother, are those which, in after life, are loved and valued most. and surely those childish memories owe _something_ of their charm to the recollection of the quiet, well-modulated reading, the clear, refined enunciation; the repose of the attitude in the sofa or chair, the white hand that held the book, with, it may be, the flashing of the diamond ring in the light, as the fingers turned over the pages! even as i write, i see rising from the darkness before me a vision of a mother and a child. i see the soft eyes meeting those of the little listener on the stool, at her knee. i see the earnestness pervading every line of the beautiful face. i almost hear the tones of the gentle voice, which, while reducing the mysteries of divine truth to the level of the baby comprehension, carry with them the unmistakable impress of her own belief in the things of which she is telling: the certainty that the love and trust she is describing are no mere abstract truths to her, but that they are life of her life, and breath of her breath! and i see the child's eyes glow and expand under her earnestness, as the little mind catches a refraction of her enthusiasm. is this a picture or is it a reality? have i brought up to any one a dimly-remembered vision? or is it purely idealistic and fanciful? i do not know; and even as i gaze, the picture has melted into the darkness from which i conjured it, and i see it no more! "boys," sounded sir everard's voice at the bottom of the nursery stairs, "your uncle and i are going out for a walk. no one need come with us who would rather not." there could be but one answer to such an appeal, and a rush and scamper ensued. it was the usual sunday afternoon routine, the stables and the farm, and then across the meadows to inspect the hayricks, and through the corn-fields to a certain gate that commanded the finest view on the estate. "if only this weather lasts another fortnight," said sir everard, as his eyes wandered over golden fields, "i think we shall have a good harvest, eh, charlie?" "i am sure we shall," came from humphrey, who always had an opinion on every subject, and never lost an opportunity of obtruding it on public attention; "we shall have such a lot of corn we shan't know what to do with it." "well, i have never found that to be the case yet," said his father; "but if the first part of your prediction prove true, we will have a harvest home and a dance, and you and miles shall lead off, 'up the middle and down again,' with the prettiest little girls you can find in the village." "i know who i shall dance with," said humphrey, balancing himself on the top of the gate, "but she's not a little girl, she's quite old, nearly twenty i daresay, and she's not pretty either. i don't care to dance with little girls, its babyish." "who is the happy lady, humphrey?" asked uncle charlie. "she is not a lady at all," said humphrey, indignantly, "she's dolly, the laundry maid, and wears pattens and turned up sleeves, and her arms are as red as her cheeks. dolly's not the least like a lady." "except on sundays," put in little miles, "because then she's got her sleeves down, and is very smart. i saw dolly going to church this morning, with boots all covered with little white buttons." "_that_ does not make her a lady," said the elder boy contemptuously. "it is no use trying to explain to you, miles, what a lady is because you never see any." "not mrs. jones, the steward's wife?" suggested miles timidly, and feeling he was treading on dangerous ground. "no," said humphrey, "she's not a real lady, not what i call a lady. you see, miles," he added, sinking his voice, and drawing nearer to his brother, so that he might not be overheard, "i shall never be able to make you understand, because you can't remember mother." "no," said poor little miles, meekly, "i suppose not." this argument was, as he knew by experience, conclusive, and he was always completely silenced by it. "and who will my little miles choose for a partner?" broke in sir everard; "it must be some very small girl, i think." "i should like the little girl at the lodge, please, father, because she's the very only little girl i know who is smaller than me." "very well: then you are both provided. charlie, you must come down to the harvest home, and see 'up the middle and down again;' humphrey struggling with his substantial partner, and miles bringing up the rear with the 'very only little girl he knows who is smaller than him.'" the father's eye rested smiling on his two children as he pictured the sight to himself. "and when may it be?" asked humphrey. "father, please settle a day for the harvest to begin." "when the yellow corn is almost brown, you may settle a day for the harvest," answered his father. "i have a reaping-machine this year, and so it will soon be cut when once they begin." "i shall come every day to these fields and see how it is getting on," said miles. "i know a much quicker way," said humphrey, jumping down from the gate, and pulling up several ears of corn by the roots. "i shall have them up in the nursery, and see them ripen every day." "why, you foolish boy," said his father, "you have picked them too soon, they will never ripen now." humphrey looked ruefully at his ears of corn. "i quite forgot," said he. "they will never ripen now," repeated little miles, sorrowfully. "never mind, miles," said humphrey, "i will plant them in the sunniest part of our own garden, where the soil is much better than here, and where, i daresay, they will grow much finer and better than if they had been left to ripen with the rest. perhaps they will thank me some day for having pulled them up out of the rough field, and planted them in such a more beautiful place." "perhaps they will," breathed little miles, clasping his hands with pleasure at the idea. miles was leaning against the gate, looking up admiringly at his brother, and humphrey was sitting on the topmost bar, with the ears of corn in his hand. "let us go," said sir everard, suddenly; "it is intensely hot here, and i am longing to get under those limes in the next field." the little boys climbed over the gate, and ran on to the indicated spot, followed more leisurely by their elders. sir everard and uncle charlie threw themselves down on the grass in the shade, and the children, seating themselves by their father, begged for a story. "sailors are the men for stories," was his answer; "you had better ask your uncle." uncle charlie proved a charming story teller. he told them of sharks and crocodiles, of boar-hunting, and of wonderful adventures by land and sea. the children hung on his every word. the shadows grew long, and the sun began to sink over the cornfields, and still they were absorbed in listening, and their father in watching their sparkling eyes and varying countenances. "come," said sir everard at last, jumping up, "no more stories, or we shall be here all night. it is past six, and virginie will be wondering what has become of us." "oh!" said humphrey, drawing a long breath, as he descended from those heights of wonder to the trifling details of everyday life, recalled by the mention of virginie, "how delicious it has been! i hope, father, you will let me be a sailor when i grow up?" "well, i don't think that will exactly be your vocation," answered sir everard; "but there is plenty of time before you." "me, too," said little miles; "i want to be a sailor too." "you, my darling," said sir everard, fondly; "no, not you; i couldn't spare you my sweet little fellow." and he stooped, as he spoke, to kiss the little face that was uplifted so pleadingly to his, the lips that were always so ready to respond to his caresses. humphrey had turned away his head, and was gazing intently at his ears of corn. "is he jealous, i wonder?" thought uncle charlie, peering at the little face under the straw hat, and wondering whether it was a tear he saw shining among the long dark eyelashes. but before he could make up his mind if it were so, the child's eyes were sparkling with excitement over a curious creature with a thousand legs, which had crawled out of the corn in his hand. "and now jump up, boys, and come home." sir everard, as he spoke, picked up his cane, and taking his brother-in-law's arm, walked slowly on. "we shall have all these feats reproduced, charlie, of that i am quite sure. virginie has a nice time before her." there was very little tea eaten that evening, the children were in such a hurry to get down again to the delectable anecdotes. but sir everard took alarm at miles's flushed cheeks and bright eyes, and would allow no more exciting stories so close upon bed-time. "will you finish about the crocodile to-morrow?" asked humphrey, creeping up his uncle's leg, as he came to wish him good-night. "to-morrow i go, my boy," he answered. "going to-morrow!" said humphrey. "what a very short visit!" "what a very short visit!" echoed miles, who always thought it incumbent on him to say the same thing as his brother. "i will pay you a longer visit next time," said uncle charlie, as he kissed the two little faces. "but when will next time be?" persisted humphrey. "yes! when will next time be?" repeated miles. "ah! when indeed?" said uncle charlie. chapter iii. "i have got so many plans in my head, that i think i shall burst," said humphrey to miles the next morning, as they stood on the door-steps, watching the dog-cart vanishing in the distance, on its way to the station, with their father and uncle. "some of the things uncle charlie was telling us about would be quite easy for us to do. you wouldn't be afraid, i suppose, to climb up the big tree overhanging the pond where the water-lilies are?" "no," said miles, rather doubtfully, "not if you went on first and gave me your hand: but that tree is a long way off--wouldn't one of the trees in the orchard do?" "oh, no! it wouldn't be half the fun. don't you remember the man in the story crawled along the branch that stretched over the water? well, this tree has a branch hanging right over the pond; and i want to crawl along it, like he did." "hadn't we better ask virginie if we may go all that way alone?" suggested miles, in the vain hope of putting off the evil moment. humphrey, however, did not see the force of this argument, and so they started off. it was a very hot day, and after they had got out of the farm-yard there was no shade at all. humphrey skipped through the meadows and over the gates, and miles followed him as quickly as he could, but the sun was very hot on his head, and he soon got wearied and fell back. humphrey did not perceive how languidly his little brother was following him, till a faint cry from behind reached him. "humphie, _please_ stop; i can't keep up to you." instantly he ran back. "i'm _so_ tired, humphie, and _so_ hot, shall we go home?" "go home! why we are close to the pond now. look, miles, it is only across that meadow, and the corn-field beyond." miles followed the direction of his brother's finger, and his eye rested ruefully on the expanse lying before him, where the sun was scorching up everything. "i'll try, humphie," he said, resignedly. "i tell you what!" exclaimed humphrey, "i'll _carry_ you!" miles felt a little nervous at the prospect, but he did not like to object. "just get over the gate," continued humphrey, "and then i'll carry you across the field, and we'll soon be by the pond, where it will be as cool as possible." over the gate they scrambled, and then the elder boy disposed himself to take his little brother in his arms. how shall i describe the intense discomfort of the circumstances under which miles now found himself! one of humphrey's arms was so tightly round his neck, that he almost felt as if he were choking, and the hand of the other grasped one of his legs with a gripe which amounted almost to pain; and _still_ there was a feeling of insecurity about his position which, already very strong while humphrey was standing still, did not diminish when he began to move. humphrey started with a run, but his speed soon slackened, and grave doubts began to arise even in his own mind as to the accomplishment of the task he had undertaken. however, he staggered on. but when presently his long-suffering load began to show signs of slipping, humphrey tightened his grasp to such a degree, that miles, who till now had endured in silence, could endure no longer, and he uttered a faint cry for mercy. at the same moment, humphrey caught his foot in a rabbit hole, and both boys rolled over together. peals of laughter from humphrey followed the catastrophe, but miles did not quite enter into the spirit of the joke. he was hot and tired, poor little fellow, and began to implore his brother to take him under the neighboring hedge to rest. humphrey readily consented, and led him out of the baking sun. "perhaps we had better give it up," said he, sighing, as he sat down by miles in the shade, "and try again in the cool of the evening. you could do it, couldn't you, if it were not for the heat?" "oh, yes," said miles, eagerly. with a respite in view, he was ready to agree to anything. "very well," said humphrey, "then we'll give it up and come again this evening after tea. i declare," he added, suddenly breaking off, "there's a mushroom out there!" he was off in a moment, and returned in triumph. "isn't it a lovely one, miles? how fresh it smells and how beautiful it peels. if father were at home, we'd have had it cooked for his dinner, he _is_ so fond of mushrooms." "it wouldn't keep good till friday, i suppose, for the wild men's dinner party?" enquired miles. "one would be no use," answered humphrey, "but we might come here some morning and get a lot if we brought a basket. i'll tell you what, we'll get up _quite, quite_ early to-morrow, and come and have a regular mushroom hunt. won't it be fun!" "i'm afraid virginie would not be awake to dress me," observed miles. "oh, never mind virginie!" said humphrey, "i'll dress you, miles; i don't think virginie would care to get up so early, and it would be a pity to wake her, poor thing! she goes to bed late, and is _so_ tired in the morning." "so she is, poor thing!" said miles. "and besides, you know," continued humphrey, "she always thinks something dreadful will happen if she doesn't come with us, and it would be a pity to frighten her for nothing." "so it would; a great pity," repeated miles. "but what's that noise, humphie? is it a cock crowing or a bull roaring?" both children listened. there was many a sound to be heard round about on that summer morning; the buzzing of bees as they flitted about among the clover, the chirrup of the grasshoppers in the long grass, the crowing of a cock from the farm, and the lowing of cattle in the distance, but that which had attracted miles' attention was none of all these. it was the gradually approaching sound of a female voice, which, as its owner neared the meadow, assumed to the two little listeners the familiar tones of the french language. "m. humphrey! m. miles! m. humphrey! où êtes-vous donc?" "it's virginie!" they both exclaimed, jumping up. virginie it was; and great was the horror she expressed at their having strayed so far from home, at the state of heat in which she found miles, and at his having been taken such a long walk. many were the reproaches she heaped upon humphrey as they walked back to the house for having caused _her_ such a hunt in the heat of the sun, and her nerves such a shock as they had experienced when she had not found him and his brother in their usual haunts. lastly she brought him up with the inquiry, "et vos leçons! savez vous qu'il est midi passé?" humphrey's ideas of time were always of the vaguest order, and when anything of so exciting a nature as this morning's expedition came in the way, hours _were_ not in his calculations. he did not mend matters much by saying he should have thought it had been about half-past nine. virginie maintained a dignified silence after this explanation, till they reached the hall door; and it now being too near dinner time to make it worth while for humphrey to get out his books, she informed him that he would have to do all his lessons in the afternoon. this was perhaps more of a punishment to miles than to humphrey. lessons were no trouble to humphrey when once his attention was fixed on them; and if it were not for the penance of having to sit still in a chair, he did not really dislike them. but to miles, his brother's lesson hours were times of dreary probation. he was not allowed to speak to him, or distract his attention in any way; and had to sit turning over the leaves of a picture book, or building a solitary castle of bricks, in some part of the room where humphrey could not see him without regularly turning his head round. humphrey made a faint attempt after dinner to persuade virginie to let him do his lessons in the garden, under the big tree on the lawn; but it was instantly negatived. in the nursery, with his back turned to miles, she did sometimes succeed in concentrating his attention on his reading; but she knew too much of the all-powerful attractions out of doors to comply with his proposal. not to mention the chance of carlo suddenly jumping upon the book, or the tempting vicinity of the gardeners with the mowing machine, there was always risk to his powers of attention in chance butterflies and humble bees, the dropping of a blossom from the tree above, or the sudden advent of a stray water-wag-tail. humphrey did not press the question, and opened his book with a slight sigh, for which virginie could not account. was there a memory floating in the child's mind of a time when the same request had never been made in vain?--of summer afternoons, dimly remembered, when, sitting by his mother's side under the same old tree, he had learnt to read words of one syllable out of the baby primer on her knee?--and when, if his attention _had_ sometimes wandered to the summer sights and sounds around him, her gentle "now, my darling try and attend to your reading," would instantly recall it. and then the quick shutting up of the book when the specified stage had been reached, the fond kiss of dismissal, and the joyous "now run away, my child, and play to your heart's content!" as if she rejoiced as much as he did that he should be released from his temporary bondage, and disport himself in the sunshine once more! great stillness now reigned in the nursery for more than an hour. it was only broken by the monotonous drone of humphrey's reading, and virginie's occasional "tenez-vous bien. otez donc les bras de la table ne donnez pas des coups de pied à la chaise"--varied by the fall of miles's bricks, as he knocked down one completed castle after another, in despair at not being able to call upon his brother to admire them. as the time at which humphrey's release was due approached, and there were no signs of moving on virginie's part, miles gave vent, at intervals, to deep-drawn sighs. it came at last; virginie shut up the book, and put a mark in it, and humphrey, with a loud "hurrah," dashed his chair suddenly back, and turned head over heels on the floor. miles threw himself upon him, and the two rolled over and over each other, in the "abandon" of perfect enjoyment. "we'll start for the pond directly after tea," whispered humphrey. but virginie had other plans in view, and to the children's disgust they were taken for a walk with her, to visit the wife of one of the farmers. the long confinement in the farmer's kitchen, while virginie and the farmer's wife talked about bonnets and trimmings, was very wearisome to the two boys. miles found some compensation in the discovery of a tiny kitten on the hearth; and humphrey, mounting on a chair, played with the trigger of the farmer's gun which hung over the mantelpiece, "just to see whether it was loaded or not." they did not get home till miles's bed-time. humphrey established himself on the edge of the bath, and watched virginie carefully as she undressed his little brother, that he might learn how miles's vestments succeeded each other; for he felt a little doubtful of his own powers as a valet. his face lengthened considerably when he saw how many strings there would be to tie. he drew nearer, in his eagerness, as virginie untied them one after the other; and began considering how to do the untying process backwards, and wondering whether it would produce the desired result. "don't be in such a hurry," he called out, in his excitement, as she pulled out the last tie, "i didn't half see." virginie's look of astonishment recalled him to himself, and he retreated hastily to his seat on the edge of the bath. fortunately for him, she was so taken up with reproving him for speaking to her in english, that she forgot to inquire into his extraordinary interest in the tape strings. chapter iv. little miles was dreaming on a green bank, on the top of which he and humphrey were seated, making daisy-chains, when suddenly the midges began to fly in his face in a most disagreeable manner. buzz, buzz, they came up against his cheeks like hard lumps, and he couldn't drive them away. he turned to humphrey for assistance, and such a strong gust of wind blew upon one side of his head and face that he fell over on his side and began to slip down the hill. he clutched hold of his brother to save himself, and woke--to find neither bank nor daisies but that humphrey was dragging him out of bed. "at last!" whispered humphrey. "i thought you never _were_ going to wake. i've tried _everything_! i've thrown bits of biscuit in your face, i've blown into your ear, i've shaken you till i was tired; i couldn't speak, you know, for fear of waking virginie. be very quiet, for she's moved once or twice." "but what do you want, humphie?" asked miles, rubbing his eyes. "why do you get out of bed in the middle of the night?" "middle of the night!" echoed humphrey, "why it's broad daylight! look at the hole in the shutter, how sunny it is out of doors. i've been lying awake ever since the cock crew, watching the light get brighter and brighter, and----" but before he had concluded his sentence his weary little brother had settled himself again on his pillow. "miles! miles!" whispered humphrey in despair, stooping over him. "good night, humphie," said miles, sleepily. "why, you're going to sleep again," said humphrey in his ear. "no, i'm not," said the child, dreamily. "yes, you are!" exclaimed humphrey, forgetting, in his excitement, that he was speaking out loud. "no, i'm not," repeated miles, trying to seem very wide-awake: but the fringed eyelids drooped over the heavy eyes, and he tried to keep them open in vain. an ominous stir from the big bed prevented humphrey from answering, and he watched virginie nervously, as she rolled over from one side to the other. miles took advantage of the pause and fell asleep again directly. "wake up! wake up!" said humphrey, returning to the charge. miles sat up in bed. "what _is_ the matter, humphie?" "nothing's the matter, but don't you remember our _delicious_ plan to get up early and pick mushrooms?" miles remembered now, but the plan did not seem so delicious now, somehow, as it had done the day before. "get up now, humphie?" he said dejectedly. "yes," answered his energetic brother, "you won't mind it when we're once out in the fields. i'm going to dress you before i dress myself, so be quick and jump up. you'll feel all right when you're out of bed." little miles looked half inclined to cry. "i'm so sleepy," he said wistfully. "you'll be better soon," said humphrey, pulling off the bed-clothes. "let's go to-morrow instead, humphie." humphrey had turned round to get miles's boots and stockings, and did not hear this last proposal. when he came back to the bed-side, to his horror, miles had lain down again. "what is to be done?" he exclaimed in despair. a sudden thought struck him, and he went quickly off to the other end of the room. miles was not quite asleep, and attracted by a clatter, he raised himself to see what his brother was about. "what are you going to do, humphie?" he exclaimed, as he saw humphrey coming slowly across the room with a great jug of water in his arms. "why you see," said humphrey in a loud whisper, and rather out of breath, for he was oppressed by the weight of the water jug, "the best way to wake people is to pour a jug of cold water suddenly on their face, and so----" "oh! i'm quite awake now, humphie; indeed," interrupted miles, getting out of bed in a great hurry, "you needn't, really. look at my eyes." and in great trepidation the child opened his large blue eyes to their fullest extent. humphrey was satisfied, and put the jug down. miles would have been happier to see it safely replaced on the distant wash-hand stand, and offered to help to carry it back, if his brother found it too heavy. he was not much reassured by humphrey's answer: "it'll do very well there; and, besides, it's better to have it near, in case you get sleepy again." the toilette now began in earnest: humphrey gave miles his stockings to put on while he proceeded to dress himself, and was all ready but his jacket, when turning round he found miles in great perplexity, with his toe unaccountably fixed in the place where his heel ought to be. "i can't get it out, humphie!" "i must do it, i suppose," said the elder boy; and he seized the leg, nearly upsetting miles as he did so, and proceeded to put on the stocking wrong side out. "it doesn't matter the least," he assured miles, who was rather discomfited at the bits of thread, and general unfinished appearance of his leg. but what _did_ matter was, that the walking-boots had not, of course, come up from being cleaned. "never mind," said humphrey; "shoes will do." on came the delicate child's thin in-door shoes, without any reference to the heavy dew and long grass attendant upon mushroom hunting. miles was then divested of his night-gown, and his under-clothes put on. all went on smoothly till the first tying of strings, and here humphrey was completely at fault. it was no use. "don't you think you could hold all your things together?" he suggested; "and then i'll pop on your blouse quick, and make the band very tight, to keep it all steady?" miles agreed to this plan, as he did to all others, more especially as he found the alternative was the insertion of a huge pin, with which humphrey offered to "make it all comfortable!" "i don't know how it is," said little miles, shaking himself about, "but i don't feel as warm as usual." "don't shake like that, miles," exclaimed humphrey; "it'll all come down, you know. get your hat, and let's come along quietly." "why! i have had no bath!" said miles, stopping short. "no more have i," echoed humphrey, "i quite forgot! and what's this?" he added, picking up a small flannel shirt. "why, it's mine," said miles. "so it is," rejoined humphrey, "of course; that's why you felt cold. well, we can't wait now. come along: be very quiet." and the two boys stepped quietly out of the room, and of course left the door wide open behind them. it was not much more than half-past five by the clock in the hall, and doors and windows were as yet all barred. the light came in fitfully through any chinks or holes it could find, and gave a generally mysterious aspect to the hall and staircase. little miles glanced rather timidly round, and drew nearer to his brother, as they passed through the library and billiard-room, as if the unwonted appearance of the familiar apartments threw something of the supernatural round about them. any one who has risen at an unusual hour, and come into the sitting-rooms before the household is stirring, will understand something of the child's feeling. the chairs and tables are undergoing a phase which to them is familiar, but which is quite strange to us. we only know them as in connection with ourselves, and do not dream that they have an existence in which we are not, with which we have nothing to do. we know them in the busy day and in the lighted room at night; but with the grey dawn creeping in upon them they are quite strangers, and even mysterious. hans christian andersen recognized and expressed this feeling when he laid the scene of one of his fairy tales in a drawing-room at dead of night, and endowed the inanimate objects in the room with the attributes of human beings. the two little brothers found their way out by the conservatory, and went to the tool-house to fetch some baskets, before setting out for the mushroom fields. the dew was heavy on flowers and grass and when they got into the meadow, their feet, and legs got very wet. at sight of the first batch of mushrooms in the distance, humphrey got wild, and with a scream of joy he bounded towards it. from one batch to another he sped, picking as fast as he could, and was soon out of sight. humphrey had it all to himself, for miles could not keep up, and he was soon left far behind with his basket. he was a little disconcerted at first, when he saw humphrey gradually getting further and further away; but having satisfied himself by a hasty glance round the field, that there were no bulls near, he became reconciled to his solitude, and began to fill his basket, humming a little tune to himself as he did so. he was rather surprised, as he went along, to see how many mushrooms humphrey had left untouched. they were such lovely ones too! all red and yellow outside, and white inside, and so huge! he filled his basket with them in great triumph, and then sat down under a tree to wait for humphrey's return. the early morning air was rather fresh, and he began to feel a little cold without his flannel shirt. his feet, too, were very wet, and he got up to take a little run to warm himself. he caught sight of humphrey coming towards him, and ran to meet him. "oh, humphie! i've got such a lot, and such beauties! come and see them under the tree." "look here!" said humphrey, holding up his basket; "did you ever see such a quantity?" miles looked a little nervously at the white exteriors of humphrey's mushrooms. "mine are quite different, humphie." "you haven't been picking fungus, i hope?" exclaimed humphrey, stopping short. "oh, no!" said miles, quickly--"at least i don't think i have," he added doubtfully, "but what _is_ fungus, humphie?" "toadstools," answered humphrey, "horrid big yellow toads; there are lots of them about in the fields. where are they, miles? show them to me, quick!" "they're under the trees," said miles; and both boys set off running. "toads, every one!" proclaimed humphrey, emptying the basket on the ground. "not one mushroom in the lot. why, miles! do you know they're poison?" miles stood aghast--the awe of the announcement completely softening the disappointment. "it's lucky i saw them before they were cooked," continued humphrey, in a tone of great solemnity; "fancy, if all the wild men had been poisoned! it would have been your fault." "oh, humphie!" said little miles, in terror, "let's throw them away." "we'll smash them," said humphrey; "and that'll do as well." so they made a heap of the fungus, and stamped upon them till their shoes and stockings were covered with the nasty compound. "what will virginie say?" laughed humphrey, as he looked at his legs. "what _will_ she say?" echoed miles, delighted. suddenly he stopped short. "humphie! i never said my prayers!" "good gracious! no more have i." "what shall we do? we shall have to go home. it wouldn't be right, i suppose, to say them out of doors?" "no harm at all," said humphrey; "let's say them under the tree." and, suiting the action to the word, with his usual promptitude, humphrey knelt down; but he was up again directly. "i was going to tell you, miles, that we'd better take off our hats while we say them; every one does when they go to church; which, of course, you don't know, as you're too young to go there." miles received the information with great respect, and began to disentangle his elastic from his hair. "not yet!" exclaimed humphrey; "wait till we kneel down; i'll tell you when." miles kept his eyes fixed upon humphrey, with his hand on the brim of his hat, ready to take it off at the expected signal. "now!" said humphrey. down knelt the two little brothers on the grass, baring their curly heads as they did so. little miles was accustomed to repeat his prayer after virginie, and did not know it by heart; and he was in great perplexity till humphrey had finished, not knowing whether it would be best to remain kneeling or not. in about five minutes humphrey jumped up and put on his hat. miles rose too, and confided his troubles. humphrey instantly gave the subject his earnest attention. "it would never do for you to say my prayer after me," he said, reflectively; "you're too young." "too young," repeated miles, meekly. "and i've forgotten my baby prayer, _of course_," continued humphrey; "it's so very very long since i used to say it---- i'll tell you what, miles, you might say your grace!" "my grace?" said miles, rather scared; "why, that isn't prayers, is it, humphie?" "oh, yes, it is," answered humphrey; "in your little book of 'prayers for children,' your grace has got at the top of it, 'a prayer after meat.' meat, you know, means breakfast, dinner, and tea; even if you only have bread and butter, or sop." "_does_ it?" exclaimed miles. "i thought meat was only beef and mutton--hardly chicken!" "ah! but it does, though," said humphrey, in a superior tone; "you don't know, miles. there's lots of things you don't know yet. why you thought grace wasn't prayers, and yet it is. now say this after me: 'for what i have received, may the lord make me truly thankful.'" "why! that's _your_ grace, humphie, not _mine_! mine is only, 'thank god for my good breakfast.'" "that will do," said humphrey. "but, humphie! i've not _had_ my breakfast! how can i say it?" "to be sure," said humphrey, reflectively, "that makes it very awkward. you've not even had a bit of bread. if you'd only had a biscuit, it would have done--it's very unlucky." he remained for some minutes in an attitude of deep thought. "i know!" he exclaimed suddenly; "i always say a grace _before_ my meals, and of course you'll have some breakfast presently, so you can say my grace after me. it's very difficult for you, of course; but still, if i say it very slowly, you can manage to do it. now listen very attentively: 'for what i am going to receive, may the lord make me truly thankful.'" miles knelt down and repeated the little prayer, and then the two little brothers sat down on the grass, and counted their mushrooms, to see how' many there would be for the wild men apiece. meanwhile virginie, awakened by the rush of cold air caused by the open door, sat up in bed and looked about her. the two little nightgowns on the floor and the jug of water in the middle of the room, first attracted her attention; but the room being partially dark, she did not perceive that the children had disappeared. she got up and opened the shutters, and then stood staring at the empty beds, the sheets and blankets scattered in all directions. and then she advanced hurriedly to humphrey's bed, to see if the children were hidden beneath it. she looked also under the wardrobe, behind the curtains, in the toy cupboard. but her astonishment changed to alarm when she found their clothes were missing, and she ran into the day-nursery, and hung over the stairs shouting, "m. humphrey! m. miles!" not being dressed, she could not go down, so she rang the bell violently, and began to put on her things as quickly as she could. the housemaid who answered the bell could give no account of the young gentlemen, but volunteered to search the house for them. while she was absent virginie's eyes fell on miles's flannel shirt, and she wrung her hands in despair. "they must have gone out," said the housemaid, returning; "the conservatory door is wide open, and so is the outer door." "impossible!" stuttered virginie, in her broken english; "their walking boots have not mounted; they have not but the thin shoes of the house!" "they must be out," repeated the housemaid, "for i've hunted every corner. have they taken their hats?" virginie strode across the room, and opened a drawer. "mon dieu!" she exclaimed, when she saw it was empty. "but, i say," she continued, gesticulating violently with both hands, "that m. miles will catch the cold, the cough, the croup. see there, jeanne! he has not the flannel shirt he carries always. his chest will inflame. he will die!" she began to put on her bonnet. "there they are!" exclaimed jane, who had gone to the window. "look there! out in that field!" "in the fields? sitting on the wet grass!" said virginie in horror, as she distinguished the two little figures in the distance, seated under a tree. "entrez, entrez, à l'instant!" she screamed to the children, though they were much too far off to hear. she seized her shawl and ran down-stairs. the little boys were coming homewards when she got into the garden, and she hurried on to meet them. miles had hold of his brother's hand, and was walking rather wearily; but humphrey, with his head still full of the success of his morning sport, disregarded alike miles's languor and virginie's infuriated appearance. "regardez!" he shouted in triumph, holding up his basket of mushrooms. at the sight of miles's wet boots and flushed cheeks, virginie forgot all the reproaches she had prepared for humphrey and merely with lofty disdain confiscating his mushrooms, she took miles up in her arms and carried him home. humphrey trotted along by her side, entreating to have his basket restored, but she took no notice of him. she carried miles straight up into the nursery, and began to undress him. he presented a curious appearance when his blouse was taken off--strings all knotted together, buttons forced into the wrong holes, and hooks clinging to outlets that were never intended for them. miles yawned all the time, and sneezed once or twice, each time provoking from virginie an exclamation, half of alarm and half of anger. "you needn't scold miles," called out humphrey, who was being washed in the distance by the nursery-maid; "he didn't want to come--it was all me." when they were dressed again, the two little culprits were seated to their breakfast, but forbidden to hold any communication with each other except in french. it was rather a slow ending to so pleasant a beginning, especially as after breakfast miles was so tired that he had to lie down, and humphrey was hardly allowed to move for fear of disturbing him. virginie would not let them out of her sight for the rest of the day, and they took a dull walk in the afternoon, one on each side of her. towards evening, miles gave forth an ominous cough, and was decidedly croupy at night. virginie's nerves always deserted her when the delicate boy was ill in his father's absence, and towards the middle of the next day she could stand it no longer, and sent off for the doctor. humphrey was very remorseful when virginie informed him it was his fault that miles was unwell, and remained in a state of great depression for about three minutes. but the sight of the doctor's gig coming up the avenue sent it all out of his head, and he dashed down-stairs, three steps at a time, to receive him at the hall door. "well, doctor," he called out; "how are you? why, you've got new harness to your horse! how jolly and clean it looks." "new harness?--yes," said the doctor, dismounting; "but tell me what's the matter with your brother?" "oh, it was the mushrooms," said humphrey, vaguely, and with his eyes running over the new reins and straps. "i wonder how long they'll look so fresh and clean?" "mushrooms!" exclaimed the doctor; "you don't mean to say they let that delicate child eat mushrooms? has he got an attack of indigestion?" "oh, no," said humphrey, springing down the steps and patting the horse; "a pain in his chest, i think. how glossy his coat is to-day, isn't it?" "same thing--same thing," said the doctor; "and i'm sure i don't wonder, if they let him eat mushrooms." humphrey burst out laughing, having for the first time given his attention to what the doctor was saying. "why, they were raw!" he said. "raw mushrooms!" exclaimed the doctor, "who could have allowed him to eat them?" "but he didn't eat any," said humphrey, convulsed. and he rolled about so, as he laughed at the doctor's mistake, that he knocked up against the horse, who immediately plunged. "take care, my dear child," said the doctor, pulling him away; "you mustn't frighten black bob--he won't stand it. but, tell me," he continued, drawing the boy into the hall, "why did you say the mushrooms had given him a pain in his chest?" "it was the flannel shirt----" began humphrey; but at the sound of hoofs on the gravel outside, he broke off suddenly: "oh there's black bob plunging again; i _must_ go and see--let me go, please." he broke from the doctor's grasp, and ran back to the door, calling out as he did so: "it might have been the flannel shirt, perhaps, if it wasn't the shoes; but we were in such a hurry." despairing of getting any sense out of him, the doctor let him go, and pursued his way up-stairs, where he had full details from virginie. he did not think miles very bad, but ordered him to be kept in two rooms for the rest of the week. i need hardly say that when he came down again humphrey had persuaded the groom to let him get into the gig, and there he was in the broiling sun without his hat, driving black bob round and round the approach. chapter v. little miles was terribly disappointed to find his confinement up-stairs would extend over the day of the dinner-party, but there was no help for it. the eventful friday arrived, and humphrey was on the fidget all day. he paid constant visits to the dining-room and library, and even intruded into the kitchen; but he could see nothing in any of the preparations going on which at all differed from those usual. "i suppose, for once they will eat like civilized people," he told miles--after visit one hundred and fourth down-stairs, in the vain hope of finding something new. "yes, just for a treat," suggested little miles; and they amused themselves for the next few hours by imagining the astonishment of the wild men at all the different things they would see. sir everard arrived late, and went straight up to miles's room. it so happened that he did not see humphrey, as he was under the hands of virginie, in preparation for his appearance in company; and as several of the guests had already arrived, sir everard had only just time to kiss miles, and to hurry off to his dressing-room, from whence he descended to the library. so that the conversation of the preceding week, and the children's excitement over the prospect of the aborigines, had entirely escaped his memory, for want of the refreshing it would have been sure to have received had he had time for a word with either of his little boys. he was deep in politics with an old gentleman in a broad expanse of satin waistcoat, and a general buzz of conversation was going on all over the room, when the library door was flung open with a bounce, and humphrey appeared in the doorway. fresh from virginie's improving hand, in velveteen clothes, white waistcoat, and light blue tie, with his brown hair brushed back from his bright face, and his eyes sparkling with excitement, he looked like a being of another sphere, among the rusty old gentlemen congregated in the room. many of them turned round to look at the pretty boy, and more than one held out a hand of greeting. but, to sir everard's annoyance, humphrey, whose manners were usually perfect, took not the slightest notice of any of these overtures. he stood at the door as if spell-bound, gazing around him with an expression of intense surprise, wonder, and disappointment. "humphrey," said sir everard, "why don't you come and say 'how do you do?' to these gentlemen?" "father," exclaimed the boy, in a clear treble voice, that was heard all over the room, "where are the wild men?" the ghastly truth flashed across sir everard's mind, as the boy asked the question. the recollection of the children's conversation with their uncle came back to him, and he was at his wit's end. "wild men, humphrey?" he said, with a sickly smile, "what are you dreaming about? there are no wild men here." "you know what i mean, father," the child answered, in the same clear voice, making his way straight across the room to sir everard; "the wild men of the woods, that you and uncle charlie were talking about last saturday, and who you said you were going to have to dinner. there were two long words, and the one i mean--means wild men. it was a very long word, the a--abo----" "constituents?" gasped the baronet. fortunately for sir everard's seat in parliament, the two long words, heard for the first time that saturday, had confused themselves in the boy's mind, and he answered "i suppose it was--but _i_ thought it began with an 'a.'" "and you thought 'constituents' meant 'wild men?'" pursued his father, eagerly following up his advantage, while the guests laughed. "why did you not ask me, or look it out in the dictionary? though, to be sure," concluded the baronet, appealing to the bystanders, "i don't know that it would have been easy to make it clear to a child of seven." "no, indeed," answered one or two. "but why should he think it meant wild men?" asked another, laughingly. "a child's natural love of the extraordinary, i suppose," answered sir everard, "the unknown is always the marvellous, and ignorance is always the most easily deceived." he hardly knew if he was talking sense or not; he only felt he must provide an answer of some kind, and having silenced his questioner, he breathed freely again. but there was an only half-satisfied expression on humphrey's face which alarmed his father: and dreading that he should cast his thoughts back, and by raking up something else that had been said on that fatal occasion furnish to the assembled guests the clue to the conversation, he drew the boy to him, and told him he had better run back to his brother. it still wanted five minutes to dinner; and he felt there was no peace of mind for him, as long as humphrey remained in the room. as if to atone for his unceremonious entry, humphrey seemed determined that his exit should be more in accordance with the rules of society; for he advanced to the fat gentleman next his father, and holding out his hand wished him "good night;" then, proceeding to the next in order, he did likewise. "is he going to shake hands with every single one?" thought sir everard, in despair, as his eyes wandered from one to another of his twenty guests, dispersed all over the library. there could be no doubt about it. patiently and methodically humphrey went through his task. not one was overlooked--not one was left out. no matter if one was standing apart, at the other end of the room, another deep in a volume of prints, and two more tête-à-tête in a political discussion. humphrey thought nothing of pursuing the first, rousing the second, and disturbing the others. the inevitable "good-night" rang out all down the room, and the inevitable little palm was outstretched. sir everard ever afterwards looked back to those slow moments of torture, as to a sort of hideous nightmare. each minute was laden with anxiety, each new handshaking fraught with danger, each conversation that a guest opened with the child, a fresh source of fear. interminable moments! the hands of the clock seemed as if they would never move, the gong seemed as if it would never sound, and he stood in despair, watching the little figure pursuing its triumphal progress down the room, and listening to the patronizing tones in which one and the other rallied the boy on his mistake. "so you thought you were going to see a lot of wild men, young gentleman?" "uncle charlie told me so," was the answer. sir everard fidgeted from one leg to the other. ("only thirteen more," he observed to himself.) "and you're quite disappointed?" said the next one, laughing. "yes," said humphrey; "there isn't much to see in a lot of gentlemen in black coats." ("only twelve now," reflected the baronet.) "it was a joke of uncle's, i suppose," said a paterfamilias, in a consoling tone--and sir everard beat the ground nervously with his foot. "a very stupid joke," said humphrey, with which opinion his father fervently agreed. it ended at last. the gong sounded, the last "good night" was said, and with an indescribable sense of relief sir everard saw the little figure disappear. but he did not recover himself all the evening. it was remarked that he was silent and abstracted during the dinner, and the guests shook their heads, and observed that he had never got over his wife's death. he was truly thankful when the party broke up, and the strain was over. he could not pass the bedroom nursery without taking a look at miles. he was sleeping peacefully, but various sounds, as if of sobbing, came from the other little bed. sir everard laid his hand on the sheet, but it was held tight, and the curly head hidden beneath it. "why, humphrey, my little man, what is the matter?" very inarticulate sounds succeeded, but by dint of great patience, the baronet distinguished among the sobs that, "he was afraid uncle charlie would go to hell, for telling such a dreadful story, and he couldn't bear to think of it!" chapter vi. virginie waylaid sir everard on his way down to breakfast next morning, to beg him to speak to humphrey on the subject of leading miles into mischief. the baronet acquiesced with a sigh. it was a job he particularly disliked. in the short time he was able to be with his children, he enjoyed seeing them all life and happiness; and he hated to bring a cloud over their bright faces. humphrey was hanging out of the window when his father went into the dining room, and sir everard was half afraid of calling him away, for fear of startling him, and causing him to fall out; but at the sound of his father's footsteps, the boy drew himself in and bounded towards him. "why did you not come and help me to dress this morning?" said sir everard, as he kissed him. humphrey looked rather bored. "virginie wouldn't let me," he answered; "she thought it would be a good punishment." here was an opening! sir everard felt he ought not to let it slip. "punishment!" said he, trying to look very solemn; "i am sorry to hear you deserved punishing. why, what have you been doing?" humphrey looked up to the ceiling, down to the ground, and all round the room. "i can't remember what it was, father!" sir everard tried hard not to smile. "what is the use of scolding such a boy," thought he; "a child who does not even remember for what offence he is suffering?" "stop a minute!" cried humphrey, who was still in an attitude of reflection, "perhaps i shall remember presently." he ran over his recent misdemeanors in his head, checking them off with his fingers and his father, seeing it was likely to be a long job, sat down to breakfast. "well, humphrey!" he questioned, after a pause, "have you remembered?" "no, i _can't_," answered the boy, "but i'm sure virginie will. shall i run up and ask her?" sir everard was amused, but a little provoked. it seemed such a hopeless task ever to make an impression upon humphrey. but he only said, "no, you need not do that; i think i can tell you a little about it. come and sit down here." sir everard turned the tap of the urn, and put on the longest face he could think of. "i am sorry to hear from virginie," he began, looking full at humphrey, so as to make sure he was gaining his attention, "that you have----" he stopped in despair, for humphrey's eyes had wandered to the tap, and his mind was intent on the running water. "are you listening to me, humphrey?" "take care!" was all humphrey's answer jumping up from his chair, and clapping his hands; "turn it off! quick! look! look! father!" there was no help for it, sir everard had to break off his discourse, and attend to the water, which was running all over the table, and the boy's laughter was so infectious that he joined heartily in it. "i give it up," he said to himself; "it's no use trying to make an impression on anything so volatile." "it served you quite right, father," said humphrey, "for not letting me turn on the tap. you know quite well miles and i always take turns to do it. oh! i wish it would happen again!" and at the recollection, the merry laugh broke out once more. but the mention of the little prisoner up-stairs, recalled sir everard to a sense of his duty, for miles was suffering for his brother's thoughtlessness. so he gave humphrey a long lecture on leading his brother astray and threatened him with the continual espionage of virginie in the garden if he had any more complaints of the kind. humphrey sat looking very mournful while the discourse lasted, and was vehement in his promises that it should never happen again. "till next time, i suppose," said the baronet, laughing; and then he gave him some bread and honey and took up the newspaper. he felt rather proud of the effect he had produced, for humphrey ate his bread and honey in silence, and seemed very thoughtful. "boys will not attend to the maids," he reflected; "there is nothing like the authority of a parent after all." in about five minutes, humphrey's meditations came to a close. "father!" "what, my boy," said sir everard, putting down the paper, in anticipation of some penitent speech, and mentally saying, "i did not mean him to take it so much to heart, poor child!" "if you had lived in the times of the wars of the roses, which side would you have taken?" sir everard was rather taken aback. in the first place, because it was rather a shock to his feelings to find, after all, how little impression he had made; and in the second, he was by no means so familiar with that part of history as to be able to give his opinion in a hurry. he would not, however, lower himself in the boy's estimation by allowing his ignorance. "wars of the roses," he repeated, to gain a little time for reflection; "have you been learning a great deal about them lately?" "yes," said humphrey, with a sigh; "virginie seems _very_ fond of them. is it true that unless i remember all the battles of the wars of the roses, i shall never be able to go into parliament?" "does virginie say so?" enquired sir everard. "yes," said humphrey. "she says, of course all the members of parliament know the names at the tips of their fingers and could say them in order; and which were won by yorkists and which by lancastrians." sir everard felt very thankful that he held his seat on less frail a tenure, and sincerely hoped his son was not going to put him to the test. vain hope! "i suppose, of course, father, _you_ could say them right off?" "it's almost a pity to stay indoors such a fine day," said the baronet, hastily; "suppose you get your hat and run out in the garden." yorkists and lancastrians at once vanished from humphrey's head, and he was off. but when he was gone, sir everard took down a volume of english history, and studied it for the rest of the morning. after luncheon, sir everard proposed to take humphrey out riding. little miles looked very disconsolate when the horses came to the door, and he found himself condemned to a solitary afternoon, but seemed somewhat cheered by a long-whispered confabulation that his brother had with him before starting. at three o'clock sir everard and humphrey mounted, and as they went along the road, the following conversation took place:-- "will you pass through the town, father; because i've got some shopping to do?" "shopping! why what do you want to buy?" "it's such a very great secret, that i don't think i can tell you. but perhaps you can keep a secret?" "yes, i think i may promise to keep it." "well, then, i'll tell you. it's a birthday present for you. and what would you like? but you must promise not to tell any one." "no one shall know: but i think i would rather you chose for me; what you like, i shall like." "well, now, i don't think you would. you see, _i_ should like a pop-gun, or some nine-pins. now _you_ would not care for either of those, would you?" sir everard admitted that he was getting a little old for these amusements. "i thought so!" pursued humphrey, delighted with his own discrimination, "and that's what makes it so difficult. you've got a watch and a thermometer, and all the other things grown-up men have, so it is very puzzling." "but, my dear child, all the things you mention are very expensive, far beyond your little means, i should think. why, how much money have you got?" "well! that's just the awkward part; i have not got any! but i thought perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me some, as it is for your own birthday present." sir everard laughed. "rather an expensive way of having birthday presents." "i don't think it will be very expensive," said the practical humphrey; "but of course it depends on what i buy. here is the shop, father; please stop." they pulled up before one of those little nondescript shops to be found in every small country-town. "now mind," said humphrey, as he jumped down from his pony, "mind you don't peep through the door, because you might see me looking at things on the counter." he waited for a moment till he had exacted a promise from sir everard, and then ran into the shop. "i want something for a grown-up man," he said, as he advanced to the counter. the shop-woman did her best to show everything she thought likely to suit, but humphrey was not at all satisfied with the choice. his restless eyes wandered all over the shop. "have not you got anything for a man to put in his pocket?" he asked. an inspiration seized the woman, and she advanced to the window. "take care!" called out humphrey, to the woman's great surprise, as she began to take down some things. "please don't," he continued, in an agony, as, startled by his shout, she remained, with a compass in one hand and a purse in the other. "father's out there, and he'll see what you take down, and guess it's for his birthday present." the woman humbly begged his pardon, but it was too late; humphrey would not look at either purse or compass. "you've spoilt it all," he said; "he must have seen." he remained leaning disconsolately against the counter, gazing with no friendly eye on the rapidly increasing heap of goods which the patient woman produced from all corners of the shop for his inspection. "have you got a husband?" he asked, suddenly. to humphrey's horror, the woman put up her apron to her eyes, and began to cry. "oh! i'm _so_ sorry," said he; "i didn't mean to make you cry, really. i see now you've got a cap on, so of course he's dead. i'm _very_ sorry he's dead," he continued after a pause, "because i was going to say perhaps he would have been able to tell me what a grown-up man would like." then, afraid he had been unfeeling, he added, "of course, i'm sorry too, because it seems to make you unhappy. you don't remember, i suppose," he went on, doubtfully, and eyeing the widow carefully, to see how far he might go without fear of a fresh outburst, "what he used to like for his birthday presents?" the woman cast her thoughts back to the memory of the defunct, and the prominent idea connected with him being tobacco-smoke, she suggested a cigar-case. humphrey was delighted at the idea. "you don't mean to say they're in the window!" he exclaimed in despair. the widow was obliged to admit that it was too true. "what are we to do!" said humphrey, dejectedly. "i know!" he added, the next moment running to the door. "father!" he shouted, "would you mind turning your head away for a minute, because we're going to get something out of the window." sir everard immediately became engrossed with the door of the opposite public-house, to the great discomfiture of one of his gardeners, who was issuing therefrom, slightly inebriated, and had been doing his best to escape the baronet's notice. humphrey was delighted with the cigar-cases. they were so brilliant in their embroidered covers. he was particularly attracted by the smallest and smartest. "it will hold so very few cigars," suggested the woman, "had you not better have a larger one?" "oh, that doesn't matter the least," said humphrey, "because father doesn't smoke. as long as it is smart and pretty to put into his pocket, it will do very well. wrap it up, please, so as to hide it quite, in case he should guess by the shape." the widow wrapped it in several covers, and humphrey left the shop. "you did not see, father, i hope," he said earnestly, as he mounted his pony, and sir everard assured him he had not once looked towards the window. "how much?" asked the baronet, as the parcel was handed up. "ten-and-sixpence," answered the shop-woman. sir everard hid his feelings, and paid the money. "isn't it cheap?" said humphrey, as they rode off, "considering it's all embroidered with gold, and ... oh! dear me! i hope you haven't guessed by that?" "far from it," answered sir everard; "i am more puzzled than ever; for i can't conceive what you could have found in that little shop, that would be all embroidered with gold." humphrey was in great glee. "you haven't the slightest _idea_, i suppose, father what it is?" "not the remotest." "so i know something you don't. you often tell me you know so many things i know nothing about. now it is just the other way, isn't it?" "just the other way," answered the baronet, and humphrey rode on in a state of great elation. "it's a dreadful thing to have a secret," he observed presently, after having once or twice begun to speak, and stopped short. "why?" inquired his father, smiling. "oh! so _dreadfully_ difficult to keep," he answered. "two or three times i've been beginning to talk about it, and forgetting you weren't to know." "let's talk of something else then." another pause, and then humphrey said: "do you know, father, i think you had better take me home?" "home already! are you tired?" "no--it isn't that; but i know if i wait much longer, i shall be telling you the secret before i can stop myself. if i only could tell some one, i should be all right; so that's why i want to get home to miles." "but i want to call on general colville and also to pay old dyson a visit. can you last a little longer, do you think?" humphrey was fond of society, and so took very kindly to the arrangement. "dyson is the old deaf man, isn't he? was he born deaf?" "no; it is only of late years that he has become so." "i'm glad i wasn't born deaf. it would have been a great bore. i wonder dyson doesn't buy an ear-trumpet." "i suppose, poor fellow, he can't afford it." "i _should_ so like to give him one." "but where's your money?" "ah! there it is again. i never _do_ have any money." "i gave you a shilling a very little while ago." "i bought copper caps, and hard-bake." "ah! we can't eat our cake, and have it, you know." "not cake, father--hardbake!" "it's all the same. now, if you were to save up your money, instead of buying trash, you would be able to buy useful things." "so i will. i'll begin saving directly; the very next shilling you give me, i'll put away, and go on till i've got enough to buy dyson an ear-trumpet." "that will be a very good plan." "when do you suppose you'll be giving me another shilling, father?" "ah! that i don't know at all." "hadn't you better be beginning pretty soon? because an ear-trumpet will cost a good deal, and it would be a pity to keep old dyson waiting." sir everard handed him a shilling, saying, as he did so: "now, mind, it is not to be spent on anything else," and humphrey faithfully promised it should not. old dyson was in his garden when they passed, so they drew up to speak to him he was not so deaf as to be unable to hear sir everard's powerful shout, but humphrey's little attempts were futile. "how pleased he'd be," thought humphrey to himself, "if he knew i was going to save up my money to buy him an ear-trumpet." and he held up his shilling to the old man in triumph, as if the very sight of it would tell him the whole story. dyson smiled and nodded. "ay, ay, going to buy sweeties, i see!" humphrey shook his head vehemently, and tried to shout an explanation. "no!" said the old man; "then it'll be a top, maybe?" it was no use trying to make him understand; and as sir everard was moving off, humphrey was obliged to follow, shaking his head to the last. "it would never do to tell old dyson a secret," he observed to his father, when he overtook him. "why not?" "why, you'd have to scream it so loud in his ear that every one would hear. it wouldn't be much of a secret when all the village was listening. supposing i were to shout to him, 'dyson, i'm going to give father a birthday present, and it's a cigar ca----.' oh, good gracious!" said humphrey, pulling up his pony, "i've told you my secret! oh, father, _did_ you guess?" sir everard's attention had been wandering, and he could honestly assure the child that he was as far as ever from knowing the secret. "and now, here we are at general colville's," he added; "so you will have lots of things to distract your thoughts." sir everard and humphrey were shown into the drawing-room where were two ladies and some children. mrs. colville came forward to receive them, and informed sir everard that her husband was confined to his room with a slight attack of gout. sir everard immediately volunteered to go and see him. mrs. colville took him up-stairs, and humphrey was left with the other lady. "what is your name, dear?" she asked. "i'm humphrey duncombe," he answered, seating himself by her side. "who are you?" "i'm mrs. colville's sister," she answered, smiling. "i suppose you don't remember me, but i have seen you before, at your grandmother's, at banleigh. i live close by." "i wonder if you could keep a secret?" said humphrey eagerly. "yes, dear, i think so; but why? have you got one to tell me?" "a very great one. i've never had one before, and i don't like it at all. i _must_ tell some one, or else i shall be telling it to father, you know." "but why not tell your father? surely he would be the best person." "tell father! mrs. colville's sister? why, he's just the very person who isn't to know." "mrs. colville's sister" had been half afraid she was going to be made the confidante of some boyish escapade which the child had concealed from his father; but humphrey's open face disarmed suspicion, and she listened attentively while he poured forth his tale. it was necessary to listen attentively, for, in the first place, humphrey was in such a hurry to get to his point, that he rather slurred over the necessary explanations; and, in the second place, he insisted on whispering it all in her ear, on account of the presence of the children. he had just finished his story, and she was making solemn protestations of the strictest secrecy, when mrs. colville came back. "you must not tell even _her_ you know," concluded humphrey; and, with a sigh of relief, he sat down again. mrs. colville was one of those mothers who are always fancying other children are better dressed than their own. she was a great copyist, and an unscrupulous borrower of patterns. virginie held her in abhorrence. she had once asked for the pattern of miles's blouse, and virginie had never forgotten or forgiven sir everard's ready acquiescence. mrs. colville and her family came to the same church as the duncombes, and it was almost more than virginie could stand to see other children dressed like her young gentlemen. mrs. colville--blinded, a little, like most mothers--did not see that what suited humphrey and miles, both exceedingly pretty children, did not have quite the same effect on her nice, but decidedly plain, little boys, and went steadily on. whatever appeared on humphrey's graceful figure one sunday, was sure to be reproduced on some fat little colville the next. men do not notice these things. sir everard was quite unaware of what went on, but, to virginie, it was a constant source of annoyance. "_that's_ a pretty suit," said mrs. colville examining humphrey's clothes. "very," returned her sister; "they fit so well." "come here, clement," said mrs. colville to a little boy in the distance; "there, don't you see, mary, how differently his things set?" mary saw well enough, and saw too that it was figure and not clothes that made such a difference between the two boys, but she did not like to wound her sister's maternal vanity by saying so. "does your french bonne make your clothes, dear?" mrs. colville inquired of humphrey. "not mine," he answered--"only miles's. mine," he added with great pride, "come from a london tailor's." "do you happen to remember his name?" "swears and wells," answered humphrey; "i went there once to see 'gulliver.' i advise you to go and see him when you are in london. you can't think how jolly he is!" "i suppose, of course, you don't remember the direction?" of course humphrey didn't. "stop a bit," he said, all of a sudden. "i've seen the direction written somewhere quite lately. where _could_ i have seen it? why, since i've been in this room i've read it." "impossible, my dear child," said mrs. colville, laughing. "but i have _really_," getting up from his chair in his excitement; "i've seen the number and the name of the street written somewhere in this drawing-room." "you must be dreaming, dear." "no, i'm quite sure i did. now where _could_ it have been? did i go near the writing-table?" as he spoke, he advanced. "or, stop, here are some cards. did i see it written on a card?" "no; i assure you swears and wells are not visitors of mine." humphrey was determined not to give it up, and in spite of the laughter of both ladies, he got up, went to the door, and made his entry all over again, that he might see what he could have passed on the way that might have had the direction on it. he reflected out loud as he went along: "i came in here and passed the table (no, not on the books, or the work-basket, or the flower-stand). then i stood by the piano a minute, while father was shaking hands with mrs. colville (no, not on the piano or the music). then i shook hands with mrs. colville, then i sat down on the sofa by her sister, and put my hat by my side so--and----oh!" he exclaimed, so suddenly that he startled both ladies, "here it is, written inside my hat! _that's_ where i saw it--look! a little ticket: 'swears and wells, regent street.' _ain't_ you glad, mrs. colville? now you'll be able to find the shop. hadn't you better write it down?" he was heart and soul in the subject, and did not perceive the amusement he gave. what would virginie's feelings have been could she have seen the name, number and address, copied with great accuracy into mrs. colville's "where is it?" and to make sure there should be no mistake, this memorandum added: "a suit such as was lately made for sir e. duncombe's little boy"? this was just accomplished when sir everard came back. "i'm afraid the general is in for a sharp attack, mrs. colville." "i am afraid he is--he is so very imprudent. you know my sister, sir everard?" sir everard advanced with a smile of recognition. "is it possible you are little mary wilberforce? i didn't recognize you just now, you are grown out of all recollection. to be sure, it is a long time since i saw you--three or four years, isn't it?" mary said something about it being a long time, but she did not like to particularize the date, though she remembered it perfectly: because lady duncombe had been with him at the time, and she was afraid of recalling painful associations. "and when did you leave banleigh?" "about a week ago." "how were my people?" "i saw lady albinia and miss duncombe the day before i left. they were both very well." a shy smile lighted up her face as she mentioned miss duncombe. there was evidently some joke about her, for it was reflected on sir everard's. "poor old cecilia," laughed he. miss duncombe was a lady of limited intellect, and exceedingly young for her age; and everybody was at liberty to laugh at her. they talked on about her for some time, while humphrey listened with all his might, and then sir everard took his leave. "i'm better now," said humphrey, as they rode along. "what! were you not feeling well?" said sir everard, alarmed. "oh, yes; but i mean about my secret. what makes me feel better is, that i've told it to that lady--mrs. colville's sister." "i don't believe you will ever keep that secret for ten days more. do you know my birthday is not till monday week?" "oh dear! oh dear! i thought it was much sooner than that. let's be quick and talk of something else!" "what shall we talk about? i am expecting two gentlemen down from london to-night, to spend sunday; and i'm going to meet them at the station, as soon as i have taken you home to your tea. will that do?" "yes, that will do. are they nice gentlemen?" "yes, i think them so: but then tastes differ. perhaps you won't." "old or young?" "well! one is a good deal older than me and----" "white hair, then _of course_?" put in humphrey. "greyish, perhaps; and the other is about the age of your uncle charlie." "will he tell us such nice stories about kangaroos and boar-hunting?" "i should think probably not. the other one is more likely to tell you stories, as he has had little boys of his own." "miles and i know of a pond where the branch of a tree hangs over, just like the one in uncle charlie's story; and we are going to crawl along it some day, and look down at our faces in the water, like the man did." "now, humphrey," said sir everard, "i won't have it done. the branch is quite rotten, and may break off any minute." humphrey looked very mournful. "are you quite sure, father?" "quite sure; and i forbid you to do it. do you hear?" "very well, father," with a sigh; "we won't crawl along, if you don't like it; but you won't mind our going to look at it? we've been prevented so many times, and we do so want to go there! if we _promise_ not to climb, you won't say we're not to go, _will_ you?" "yes--once for all, i say you are not to go near the pond; and i trust to you, humphrey, to obey me. promise." "it's a _great_ pity, father!" "never mind. i won't have miles led into any more mischief." humphrey promised rather reluctantly adding to himself: "it's not much use making _me_ promise anything, because i'm _sure_ to forget." they rode on in silence for some time after this; and when humphrey next spoke, it was on quite a different subject. "i didn't know till to-day, father, that you didn't like aunt cecilia!" "what _do_ you mean, humphrey?" said sir everard, horrified. "you spoke as if you didn't much like her, to mrs. colville's sister." "why, what did i say?" said sir everard, hastily casting back his thoughts to the conversation. "well, you seemed to laugh at her a good deal." "my dear child," said sir everard, relieved, "having a little joke about a person does not prove one does not like that person. i am very fond of your aunt. it would be odd indeed if i did not like my only sister. why, when i laugh at you and miles, do you think i do not like you?" it was a lame sentence, badly put together, and not expressing much. sir everard was not at all satisfied with it himself. he had got it up in such a hurry that he was not at all sure whether it was sense or not, and he was anxious to see if it would answer its purpose. children are sometimes, however, very easily silenced; and humphrey received the explanation with great respect. the danger was past, for this time; but sir everard, inwardly resolved never to speak before the children again; and the anxieties of the evening before recurring at the same moment to his mind, he determined not to run any more risks. so, on arriving at home, he sent up a private message to virginie that he should not require either of the young gentlemen down-stairs that evening, though they might come to his dressing-room as usual. then, after transferring the precious parcel from his own to humphrey's pocket, he wished the boy "good-bye," and went to meet his friends at the station. chapter vii. the next day was sunday, and a hopelessly wet one. humphrey and miles made great friends with their father's guests at breakfast--the former giving them the whole account of the aborigines' dinner-party and the birthday present. as soon as breakfast was over, sir everard and one of his friends went into the library to look for a book they had been talking about, and the two little boys were left with the other gentleman. presently virginie looked in. "m. humphrey! m. miles!" little miles jumped up, and went to the door, but humphrey took no notice. "je vous attends, m. humphrey." "i'm not coming," said humphrey. "i'm going to stay and amuse this gentleman." "je reviendrai bientôt," said virginie and she went away, with miles. "is your nurse french?" enquired colonel sturt. "yes--she's french." "then why do you speak to her in english?" "i never speak french on sunday," answered humphrey; "i don't think it's right." "not right! why not?" "lessons are wrong on sunday; and french is a sort of lessons--so french must be wrong too." "humphie," said little miles, running in: "virginie says you _must_ come, or you'll be late for chairs." "what does he mean?" asked colonel sturt. "he means prayers," answered humphrey; "he always calls them 'chairs' because he only sees the long rows before we begin, as he's too young to stay. i suppose, as it's so wet, we are not going to church." "oh, that's it--is it? well i'm inclined to think you ought to go then, humpty-dumpty, or whatever it is he calls you." the little boys thought this a capital joke. "why, humpty-dumpty was the man who sat on a wall!" "yes, and had a great fall--which is just what you'll do in a minute," said the colonel to humphrey, who had climbed up the back of his chair, and was sitting astride on the top. "humpty-dumpty was an egg," said humphrey. "_i_ don't break so easily. come along, miles." and he jumped down and ran off, followed by his brother, both singing: "humpty-dumpty sat on a wall, humpty-dumpty had a great fall." the echoes of their merry voices died away as they ran up-stairs, and the concluding words were not distinguishable. five minutes after, the gong sounded, and the servants filed into the library. humphrey was in his place by his father, mr. wemyss seated near, and everything ready. but colonel sturt had not appeared. humphrey looked up anxiously at every sound. sir everard concluded he did not mean to come, so he opened his book, and signed to one of the servants to shut the door. humphrey's restless eyes followed his friend william's movements as he rose to obey. the next moment he was convulsed with laughter, and could scarcely restrain himself. no one else seemed to see anything amusing, and sir everard began to read with his usual gravity; but humphrey, though he got better as the service proceeded, did not dare glance towards the servants' end of the room, and had to keep his eyes fixed on his prayer-book, for fear they should be tempted to stray in that direction. what was it that had tickled the boy's fancy? only that just as william was closing the door, the missing gentleman had slipped quietly in and unconsciously seated himself in the footman's vacant place at the end of the long line of servants, where he remained during the rest of the service. the sight of him there, combined with the expression of william's face at finding his place occupied, had at first completely upset humphrey; but, after a time, the veneration for solemn things, which was so prominent a feature in his character, came to his help and he became engrossed in his responses. the afternoon proving as wet as the morning, sir everard, for want of something better to do, showed his friends over the house. he had a few good pictures, and the ceiling of one of the upper rooms; was curiously painted; otherwise there was, not much to see. wandering about a thinly-inhabited house on a wet day is always rather depressing and it would have been a melancholy business, but for the children. but humphrey and miles chased each other along the passages, and made the unoccupied rooms ring with their merry voices. they were very anxious to do the honors of their own apartments, when, in due course, the nurseries were reached. "this is my bed," proclaimed humphrey and "here is my bath," announced miles. "but what's this?" said colonel sturt, taking up an embroidered cigar-case that lay upon the table. a shriek was the only answer. colonel sturt nearly dropped the cigar-case in his consternation; sir everard turned hastily round; and humphrey, snatching it up, rushed out of the room. "what is the matter?" asked sir everard. "_it was the birthday present!_" said little miles, in an awe-struck whisper. sir everard followed humphrey to assure him he had not seen anything; which made matters rather worse, as he found him in the act of hiding it in virginie's band-box, under her best sunday bonnet. with some difficulty he reassured the boy, and brought him back. "it was a near thing, though," observed humphrey, with a sigh of relief. colonel sturt was now almost afraid to remark on anything else; but a shilling concealed in a tooth-glass attracted his attention. "oh, that's my money," explained humphrey, "that i am saving to buy old dyson an ear-trumpet with. it was the only safe place i could find to keep it in." "how much will it cost?" asked the colonel. "seventeen shillings, i believe." "and how much have you got?" "well, only that yet," answered the boy, pointing to the solitary shilling; "but then you know, i only began yesterday." colonel sturt asked a good many questions about old dyson, and then took half-a-sovereign from his pocket, and dropped it into the tooth-glass. "that's my contribution," said he. humphrey was too much excited by this unexpected munificence to make civil speeches; but his unfeigned surprise and delight were worth all the thanks in the world. he ran after his father to exhibit his treasure, and returned breathless. "only think!" he said to colonel sturt, "that other gentlemen has given me six shillings; so now i can buy the trumpet directly, and i thought it would be weeks and weeks before i got it!" the children were now summoned to their tea, and told to wish the gentlemen "good-night," as they were not to come down to dinner. but humphrey first extorted a promise from colonel sturt, that he would go to the ear-trumpet shop the next day, the very minute he arrived in london, and have it sent off directly. sir everard had nearly finished dressing that evening, when the door was thrown open, and both boys rushed into the room. "there! take it father," said humphrey holding out the cigar-case--"that's for you. that's your birthday present--the grand secret! it's no use our trying to keep it any longer, because we _can't_!" "are you surprised, fardie?" asked little miles, clapping his hands, and humphrey eagerly repeated the question. sir everard could, with all truth, assure the children that he had never been so surprised in his life; for, as he did not smoke, certainly the very last present he would have expected was a cigar-case! but his pleasure and gratitude were so well feigned, that the children went to bed highly delighted with the success of their birthday present. chapter viii. "good-bye, humpty-dumpty! the trumpet shall be at the station at five o'clock this afternoon without fail." so spoke colonel sturt, as sir everard drove his two friends from the door the next morning. humphrey waved his hat in answer, and flew off to make arrangements with virginie for going to the station to meet it. he had his father's leave for himself and miles to go there with the coachman, and to be dropped afterwards at old dyson's, where virginie was to meet them, and bring them home. nothing could be more perfect! at about half-past four, the dog-cart drove up to the door, and off they went, followed by many parting injunctions from virginie as to getting in and out carefully, and sitting very still. the trumpet was waiting at the station, and was safely delivered into their eager hands. on the way to old dyson's, humphrey opened the parcel, and displayed the ear-trumpet to miles. never had they seen so curious an article! it was composed of three tubes, each fitting into the next, and it lengthened or shortened at will. humphrey got very impatient to arrive, and tried to persuade the coachman to whip up the horse into a gallop; but steady old peter didn't see it at all. humphrey then amused himself by lengthening out the tubes, and trumpeting loudly through them; causing the horse to start so violently, that little miles was almost pitched out. then, in shutting it up again, he dropped it into the road, and they had to wait while he got out and picked it up. all this causing a delay, peter was told on arriving at the cottage, that virginie had already been there, but that, finding she was too soon, she had walked on to the village, and was to call again in a few minutes. this information he gathered from a woman who was standing at the gate, and who assisted the children to alight. then, having deposited them safely, peter drove off; and humphrey, brandishing his trumpet, rushed down the little garden, and beat a thundering tattoo on old dyson's door. but, loud as it was, it did not make any impression on the deaf old man, who was sitting in his arm-chair, indulging in an afternoon nap. one minute humphrey waited, and then his patience gave way. he raised the latch, and the two children entered the cottage. "he's asleep," whispered miles. "you must go and give him a little shake," said humphrey. miles advanced timidly. he didn't much like the job, but disobedience to humphrey was a thing he never dreamt of. humphrey hid the trumpet behind him, and waited eagerly. miles's gentle shake produced no effect at all; dyson only smiled pleasantly in his sleep. "shake his hand," said humphrey. miles looked doubtfully at the horny hand lying on the arm of the chair, and flushed a little as he put his tiny fingers upon it. but the old man did not move. "harder!" cried humphrey. miles exerted himself to the utmost, and succeeded better, for the old man turned over to one side of his chair, and lifted his head a little. miles retreated a few steps. but it was a false alarm, for old dyson's head fell forward again. "you must jump on his knee, miles." the pretty little face lengthened considerably. "oh, humphie! must i really?" "why not?" "don't much like it, humphie." "what! afraid of poor old dyson! never mind, i'll do it." and, putting the trumpet on the floor, humphrey sprang upon the old man, and shook him so vigorously that he woke in a fright; but when he saw his little visitors, he sat down again with a smile, saying, "aye, aye, mamselle said i was to expect you; and how are ye to-day, my pretty dears?" "quite well, thank you," said miles, drawing nearer. dyson put his hand behind his ear: "i don't hear what you say," he said, rather sadly; "i'm an old man, and i'm getting deafer every day." humphrey chuckled with delight, and miles looked up smiling. "he'll hear soon, won't he, humphie?" "dyson!" shouted humphrey, backing a few steps and beckoning, "come here." the unsuspecting old man rose and advanced. the boy was watching his opportunity, and directly he was near enough humphrey snatched up the trumpet, and putting it up, shouted such a "how are you?" into the old man's ear, that the shock caused dyson to bound into the air, and then fall backwards with such force, that if he had not providentially fallen into his chair, he might never have survived to tell the tale. and there he remained, sputtering and panting, shaking his head about, as if he felt he would never get rid of the vibration. the two little boys stood aghast. as good luck would have it, the woman who had met them at the gate was of an inquisitive disposition; and wondering what was going on in the cottage, she had for some time been peeping in at the window. she understood at once the position of affairs, and came hastily in. raising the old man from his chair, she explained to him what had happened. it was some minutes before he understood, for he was bewildered and alarmed: but he took it in at last, and the children had the satisfaction of receiving his thanks, and assurances that he was by no means ungrateful for their present. then the woman spoke gently to him through the trumpet, and his look of pleasure at hearing so clearly, and his "well! to be sure!" was a great delight to the two little boys. when dyson had got accustomed to the sound, he declared himself willing for humphrey to try again, but the woman suggested that miles's voice was the softest, to which humphrey agreed. miles took up the trumpet, and his gentle "i'm so sorry humphie made you jump," was whispered so quietly, that dyson only just caught the sound. then the old man held it out to humphrey, who, not expecting it, had not got anything to say. so no sooner had he put his lips to it than he went off into such fits of laughter, that dyson hastily removed the trumpet, and began to rub his ear, "aye, but it does tickle so." this made humphrey laugh more, and the woman advised his abandoning the attempt for that day. by this time, however, dyson had got so pleased with his new accomplishment, that he declared it his intention to go and pay some visits in the village, saying it was several years since he had had a good chat with his neighbors. but they all went, the old man hurrying on at a great rate, so eager was he to show off his newly-recovered powers. the first person they met was virginie, and dyson said he must have a word with "mamselle." humphrey was in an excited state, ready for anything; so while virginie was talking, he called miles, and told him he thought it would be a capital evening for the pond where the water-lilies grew. there was a stile at the side of the road, which he knew to be a short cut to the pond, and he had no doubt they would be able to find their way. no recollection of his promise to his father troubled his conscience; and as they were not going to climb the tree, even virginie could not object! so he helped his little brother over the stile, and then they both ran with all their might. meanwhile virginie, talking affably through the trumpet, in the high road, did not notice that they had disappeared. chapter ix. there was an unusual stir in the quiet household of wareham abbey that evening; for at nearly eight o'clock the two little boys had not returned home. virginie had not been very much concerned at their absence during the first few hours, as they very often ran on before her, and then betook themselves to some of their favorite haunts. but when tea-time came and passed, she got uneasy, and went to look for them. her uneasiness changed to alarm when she had visited in vain the dairy, laundry, swing, gardens, and dog-kennel. then, when it came on to rain, her anxiety increased; and when from drizzling it changed to a steady down-pour her "nerves" gave way completely, and she returned home to consult with the other servants as to what steps had best be taken. she went into the housekeeper's room, wringing her hands, and prognosticating all sorts of evils to miles. "never, never, would he recover from the effects of such a wetting!" the gardener was dispatched one way and the coachman another, bearing umbrellas and galoshes. the two little culprits were soon discovered sitting in a damp ditch, sheltering themselves under a hedge. humphrey took great credit to himself for having hit upon this plan. "the fact was," he said, "the pond and the water-lilies had been so engrossing, that he had forgotten all about the time till he saw the sun beginning to sink; then starting off in a great hurry, they had taken the wrong turning out of the field, and lost their way in the wood." they were wandering on in the wrong direction, when they met a boy, who had pointed out their mistake, and brought them back to the high road. here humphrey had suddenly recollected that rain was apt to give his little brother cold, and with great pride in his own forethought had established him, dripping wet as he already was, under the hedge where they had been sitting for about half an hour before the coachman found them. it was no use virginie venting her wrath upon humphrey. all that could be done now, was to get miles into bed as quickly as could be, and ward off ill effects if possible. but the mischief was done. miles tossed about all night, and woke next morning with an oppression on his chest, which was always with him the forerunner of an attack on the lungs. the doctor came to see him, and ordered him to be kept in bed. humphrey spent the morning with his little brother, but was dismissed at last, as talking only made miles cough. in the afternoon miles got worse, and virginie sent off again for the doctor. humphrey kept out of her way, feeling that he was in disgrace, and went out into the garden. he felt dull and solitary without his little brother, but, childlike, he had not begun to be anxious, for miles had often been ill before, and had always got well again. still there was no fun in anything without him, no exploit any satisfaction without his applause. humphrey betook himself at last to the little gardens, where he had a friend in the person of dolly, the laundry-maid. the gardens were close to the laundry, and often, when she was ironing at the window, dolly had watched the children at their play, and overheard their long conversations. she was perhaps the only person who had seen humphrey in his serious moods. unknown to him, she had witnessed one of his rare bursts of feeling at the time of his mother's death, and after that, had ever been one of his staunchest supporters. she could never forget how the little fellow had sobbed over the mustard and cress he had sown for his mother and which had come up too late! the weather had been dry for some time previously, and it had shown no sign of coming up. every day he had visited it, that he might cut it for her to eat with her afternoon tea; but every visit had been in vain. then, on that sad day, when the funeral train had borne away all that remained of her, he had come to his garden in his restless longing to escape from his sorrow, and the first thing that had met his eye was the green a. d. mocking him with its freshness and luxuriance. "it's no use now," dolly had heard him sob; "i wish it had never come up!" this was the very day he had been chasing the young lambs in the meadow, while his father watched him from the window and this was how it had ended. humphrey found a good deal to do in his garden, and worked away busily for some time; he then assisted dolly to turn the mangle, and bottled some soap-suds for future bubble blowing. he also informed her of the honor in store for her at the harvest home, and anxiously asked her what gown she meant to wear on the occasion. she must be very smart, he said, _awfully_ smart! dolly confided her intention of investing in a new print dress, and consulted him as to the color. casting his thoughts back to the smartest thing he had lately seen, they reverted to the cigar-case, and he suggested crimson and gold. dolly looked rather scared, and expressed her doubts as to the probability of those colors being found in any print sold in the village. "yellow would _do_, you know," said humphrey, "and it would be like the corn." so dolly promised to try and procure a yellow print, with a red stripe or spot; and, if that were impossible, a plain yellow one could no doubt be found. time slipped by very quickly, but still humphrey rather wondered at last that no one should call him in to his tea; and after a while he put his tools away, and wished dolly good-bye. he gathered a few young radishes for a treat for miles, and then ran home. he was surprised to find the nursery door locked, and began to kick it. "miles!" he called out, "i've brought you some radishes. ouvrez, virginie, c'est moi!" the door was opened with an angry jerk, and virginie flounced into the passage. humphrey saw at a glance that she was in one of what he and miles called "her states," but whether it was of anger or alarm, he could not at first make out. it was always a bad sign when her face was enveloped in flannel, as was now the case. virginie always tied up her face on the smallest provocation, though to what end the children had never discovered. but anyhow, she was sure to be out of temper when she did so, and humphrey waited rather anxiously to hear what she had to say. she burst into a voluble flow of talk, which, owing to her excitement, the boy found it difficult to follow. he managed however, to gather that miles was very, very ill, that the doctor was very much alarmed about him; that it was all his (humphrey's) fault; that he had woke miles by kicking at the door just as she had hoped he was going to get some sleep; that he was to go away and keep away, and that everybody, including the doctor, was very angry with him. then she retreated into the room, and shut the door, leaving him standing in the passage, with his bunch of radishes in his hand. all the light faded out of humphrey's face, as he tried to think over what he had just heard. "miles so ill that the doctor was frightened." that was the most prominent idea at first, and in his dread and apprehension, humphrey hardly dared move. sometimes he put his eye to the keyhole, to see if he could discover what was going on in the room, and then, lying down on the door-mat, he listened with all his might. the silence within, only broken by whispering voices, frightened him, and his heart began to beat loudly. if only the child could have looked into the room and seen his little brother lying in bed half asleep, and virginie putting a linseed poultice on his chest, or whispering to jane to bring her his cooling-draught, his fears would have vanished. but it is ever so with sudden illness. those who are kept in the dark always have the worst of it; for mystery and suspense are, like anticipation, always worse than reality. imagination runs riot, and brings great suffering to the outsiders. how much are children to be pitied on these occasions! everyone's thoughts are necessarily with the invalid, and no one has time to bestow a word on the poor little trembling things standing outside the sick-room. they feel they are useless, and considered in the way; and do not dare make inquiries of the maids who run in and out of the room--with important faces, who probably could not stop to answer even if they did; and so are left to magnify every sound into some terrible significance, which probably has no foundation but in their own disordered fancies. there is terror in whispering voices, agony in the sharp ringing of a bell, mystery even in the calling for spoons and glasses, and their jingling as they are handed in. all this, and more, was experienced by little humphrey duncombe. i say _more_, because his fears were not those of ordinary children. the dread i have been describing is for the most part a nameless dread; the children know not why they fear, nor what; it is all vague and undefined, because they have no experience of sorrow. but remember that this child was no stranger to sickness and death; that into his little life they had already entered; that the grim visitor had swept through the walls of his home, and left it very empty. what had happened once, might happen again. so he gave it all up at once, "miles was dying! perhaps already dead!" a child of humphrey's disposition suffers intensely when face to face with sorrow. granted that the power of being easily distracted is a mitigation, it does not alter the feeling _for the time_. life, past and future, is grafted into the misery of the present, and existence itself is a blank. he was so tender-hearted, too, poor little fellow! so remorseful for his errors, so sensitive to an unkind word. yet, as we have seen, with all this, he was so heedless, thoughtless, and volatile, that no one could give him credit for any depth of feeling; and even his father (though he would not have had it otherwise, though he rejoiced that he should have the capability of turning into enjoyment, both for himself and miles every event of their lonely child-life) had marvelled at him, and had more than once said to himself, "the boy has no heart!" no heart! why, as we see him there in the passage, his poor little heart is filled to bursting. stung by virginie's harsh words, wrung with fear for his little brother, alarmed as much for his father's grief as his father's anger, and remorseful at the thought of his own broken promise, humphrey sank down on the ground, and cried as if his heart would break. in addition to the grief, it was such a dreadful feeling, that, in a trouble like this, no one cared to help him; that he was looked upon as the cause of it all; that his hand seemed against every man, and every man's hand against him. his sorrow must be greater than theirs, he reflected. was not miles more to him than to virginie? and yet they left him--sobbing and crying--unheeded. lying there, crouched up by the door such an awful sense of loneliness came down upon the boy's soul. in the hour of his trouble he needed pity so much, and no one gave it to him. then there arose in his heart such a terrible longing for his mother; such a yearning, that would not be quieted, for all that he had had, and all that he had lost; such an overwhelming sense of the void in his life, that he could not bear it, and he started to his feet with a sob which was almost a cry. this feeling _must_ go, he could not bear it, and he fought with it with desperation; for it was an old enemy, one with whom he had often wrestled in desperate conflict before, and upon whose attacks he always looked back with horror. deep down in his heart it had its being, but it was only every now and then that it rose up to trouble him. of late it had assailed him much less, its attacks had been weaker, and occurring at much longer intervals. why has it risen with such relentless force now? how is he to resist it? how is he to fight with it? this blank, empty feeling, how is he to drive it away? he tried to think of his garden, of his games, and of all the things which constituted the joy of his young existence. children of a larger growth, but children in understanding still, do not many of us wrestle with this undefined feeling in the same way? this mysterious thing, which we, with our maturer experience, call sorrow, is not our first thought when it assails us, "how shall we drive it away?" call it grief, despair, disappointment, anxiety, care--call it what you will, do we not try to drown it in change of thought of some kind? does it not drive the rich to society, traveling, or excitement, and the poor to the public-house? here were the passages where he had romped with miles; here were the stairs down which he had jumped that very morning, and the balustrades down which he had slid; why did they look so different? god help him! the emptiness in his heart was so great, that it was repeating itself on all around. there was no help to be got from the feeling of his recent happiness in the old house. never had it seemed so dreary; never had he realized before what an empty house it was, occupied only in one corner by a nurse and two little boys. there was no sound, no life anywhere; the twilight was creeping over the silent hall and staircase, and he knew it was deepening in the uninhabited rooms below. and then, as if to mock him with the contrast, came before him so vivid a recollection of life with his mother in the house; of her voice and her laugh upon that staircase; of her presence in those rooms; so clear and distinct a vision of her soft eyes and gentle smile, that the motherless child could bear it no longer, and covering his face with his hands to shut out the sight of the emptiness, he fled away down the passage, as if he thought to leave the desolation behind. but the emptiness was with him as he went; all down the stairs and through the hall it pursued him; it gained upon him as he stood with his hand upon the drawing-room door; it preceded him into the darkened room, and was waiting for him when he entered. the light that came in through the chinks of the shutters was very faint, but his longing eye sought the picture, and he could just distinguish the sweet face and the smiling babe in her arms. he ran forward, and threw himself on the sofa beneath it. "mother!" he sobbed, "i want you back so much! every one is angry with me, and i am so very miserable!" cold, blank silence all around; mother and child smiled on, unconscious of his words; even as he gazed the light faded away from the picture, and he was left alone in the gathering darkness! in vain he tried to fancy himself once more the child in the picture; in vain he tried to fancy he felt her arms around him, and her shoulder against his head. it would not do! in fits of passion or disobedience he had come here, and the memory of his mother had soothed him, and sent him away penitent; but in this dreadful sense of loneliness he wanted comfort, and of comfort he found none. * * * * * yet was there comfort near, if he would but ask for it, and of the very kind he wanted: "as one whom his mother comforteth, so will i comfort you." he knew it not; he cried not for it. he was not ignorant of god's omnipresence; in ordinary times the boy believed with a child's simple faith that god was always near him, but in the hour of his trouble he was incapable of deriving any comfort from the knowledge, incapable of any thought but his own sorrow. children of a larger growth, but children in understanding still, do not many of us, in spite of our maturer experience, do likewise? "there is no help," we say; "our trouble is greater than we can bear." we lie like the child, crushed and despairing, and god, who at other times we feel to be so near, seems hidden from us altogether. but thank god it is only _seems_, not _is_. he is unchangeable, and unaffected by our changeability. hidden, it may be, by the cloud we have ourselves raised, the dark cloud of hopelessness, he is still there, the same whose presence we realise so fully in happier moments. "he," says a writer of the present century, "is immutable, unchangeable, while we are different every hour. what he is in himself, the great unalterable i am, not what we in this or that moment feel him to be, _that_ is our hope." the comfort, then, for us and for the stricken child is, that though we may not at such times do our part, he is ever ready to do his; and it would almost seem as if he were providing for this state of feeling when he says, "_before_ they call, i will answer." but what _could_ be done for the child in the terrible hour of his trouble? _we_ know not, but god knew. the little heart was open before him, and he knew that his sorrow would flee at morning light, and that he only wanted comfort for the present moment. so, looking pityingly down upon the lonely child, he sent him the only thing that could help him--laid gently upon his heavy eyelids the only gift that could do him any good--giving him the peace of unconsciousness till the hour of sorrow and sighing should pass away! there one of the maids found him an hour or so later, and carried him up to bed without waking him. chapter x. humphrey slept late the next morning, and the sun was streaming on his face when he awoke. he sprang out of bed with an exclamation of delight at seeing such a fine day, and then started back in surprise at finding himself in a strange room. recollections of last night were beginning to steal over him, when the door opened, and jane came in. "at last! master humphrey. why i thought you were never going to wake up! master miles has been asking for you for ever so long!" "then he's better, is he?" said humphrey, eagerly. "better!" exclaimed jane, in a sprightly tone; "why bless you, he's quite well." jane had been the one to find humphrey in the drawing-room the night before, and had guessed by his tear-stained face how it had been. she was not equivocating; miles had taken a turn for the better in the night, and there was no further anxiety about him. humphrey's spirits rose immediately to their usual height; he dressed himself in a great hurry, and soon the two little brothers were together again. humphrey did not allude to his troubles of the evening before. perhaps he had already forgotten them; or if they did recur to his memory, it was with a dull, dead sense of pain which he had no wish to call into life again. his was a nature that was only too glad to escape from such recollections. his buoyant spirits and volatile disposition helped him to throw off sad memories, and never had he been gayer or wilder than on this morning, as he laughed and talked, and played by his brother's bedside. it was a glorious day, miles was nearly well, his father was coming (in obedience to virginie's letter), and life seemed to him one flood of sunshine. virginie, however, still shaky from her late anxiety, and with her head ominously tied up with flannel, looked grimly on his mirth. she did not understand the boy: how should she? she was feeling very sore with him for having caused all this trouble; she was, of course, ignorant of what he had suffered, and she looked upon his noisy merriment as only another proof of his usual heartlessness. humphrey was not in the room when his father arrived, having gone out for a run in the garden; so virginie had no check in pouring out her complaint. sir everard was startled at the effect the short illness had had upon miles, and listened more patiently than usual. the delicate child looked so much like his mother as he lay in bed, with his flushed cheeks and lustrous eyes, that the vague fear about him, that almost always haunted the father, took a more definite shape. certainly virginie's account of humphrey's disobedience was not calculated to soften him towards the boy, and he really felt more angry with him than he had ever done before. little miles was particularly engaging that day, so delighted to see his father, and so caressing in his ways, that humphrey's want of heart seemed to stand out in sharper contrast. sir everard could not tear himself away from the little fellow for some time, and the more coaxing the child was, the more painfully came home to the father the thought of having so nearly lost him. on descending from the nursery, sir everard went into the library, and ringing the bell, desired that master duncombe should be sent to him immediately. "i don't suppose i shall make any impression upon him," he said to himself while he waited, "but i must try." he never expected much of humphrey, but he was hardly prepared for the boisterous opening of the door, and the gay aspect of the boy as he bounded into the room. sir everard was, as we have seen, always loth to scold or punish either of his motherless children, and when it must be done, he schooled himself to do it from a sense of duty. but the bold, and, as it seemed to him, defiant way in which the boy presented himself, fairly angered him, and it was in a tone of no forced displeasure that he exclaimed, "what do you mean, sir, by coming into the room like that?" now humphrey had been busy working in his garden when his father's message had reached him, in happy forgetfulness of his recent conduct and his brother's recent danger. in the excitement of hearing of his father's arrival, he had overlooked the probability of his displeasure; and it was with unfeigned astonishment that he heard himself thus greeted. his wondering expression only irritated his father the more. "don't stand there, looking as if you thought you had done nothing wrong," he exclaimed testily; "do you think you are to lead your poor little brother into danger, and make him ill, and then not to be found fault with? don't you know that you have disobeyed me, and broken your promise? did i not forbid you to go near that pond? i tell you i won't have it, and you shall go to school if you can't behave better at home. do you hear me, sir? what do you mean by behaving in this way?" humphrey understood now. his lips quivered, and his cheek flushed at hearing himself so sternly spoken to, and he dared not attempt to answer, lest he should disgrace himself by tears. sir everard's anger soon evaporated. "you see, humphrey," he went on more gently, "it is always the same thing. day after day and week after week i have the same complaints of you. i should have thought you were old enough now to remember that miles is very delicate, and that you would have taken care of him, instead of leading him into mischief. do you know," he concluded, suddenly dropping his voice, "that we have very nearly lost your little brother?" to sir everard's surprise, humphrey burst into a passion of tears. the words brought back to him the suffering of last night with a sharp pang, and his whole frame shook with sobs. sir everard was instantly melted. like most men, the sight of tears had a magical effect upon him; and he took the child on his knee, and tried to comfort him. "there, there," he said soothingly, as he stroked the curly head, "that will do; i must not expect old heads on young shoulders; but you must try and remember what i tell you, and not disobey me any more. and now give me a kiss, and run out, and have a game of cricket." humphrey lifted up his tear-stained face and gladly received the kiss of forgiveness. a few minutes after he was playing single wicket in the field with the footman, without a trace of sorrow on his countenance or a sad thought in his heart. but sir everard remained in the library, perturbed and uneasy. miles's fragile appearance had made him nervous, and he was thinking how easily any little chill might bring on inflammation again. he was well versed in all the sudden relapses and as sudden improvements of delicate lungs. had he not watched them hour by hour? did he not know every step? it was an attack like this that had preceded his wife's slow fading. daily had he watched the flush deepen and the features sharpen on a face which was so like the little face up-stairs, that, as he thought of them both, he could hardly separate the two. something must be done to prevent the recurrence of any risks for miles. but what? it was clear that humphrey was not to be trusted; and yet sir everard could not bear to spoil the children's fun by separating them, or by letting virginie mount in too strict guard over them. she was a nervous woman, and too apt to think everything they did had danger in it. "boys must amuse themselves," he reflected; "and at humphrey's age it is natural they should do extraordinary things. i don't want to make him a muff." involuntarily he smiled at the idea of humphrey being a muff. "how easily miles might have fallen into that horrid pond! the slightest push from humphrey, who never looks where he is going, would have sent him in. would he ever have recovered the effects of a wholesale soaking? however," he concluded, half out loud, as he rose to return to the nursery, "the session is nearly over, and i shall be down here, and able to look after them myself. and meanwhile i shall remain on for a day or two, till miles is quite well again." chapter xi. it was a pleasant little holiday that sir everard spent with his children during the days that followed; and often in after years did he look back upon it with a tender regret. miles's health improved steadily, and in a little while he was allowed to be carried in the afternoon to his father's dressing-room where, nestled in a huge arm-chair, with his father and humphrey sitting by, he passed some very happy hours. sometimes they played games, or else sir everard would read out loud from a book of fairy tales he had brought from london. one evening he read a story which greatly delighted both little boys. it was about a wonderful mirror, which had the power of showing to its owner what any of his absent friends might be doing at the moment he was looking into it. "oh, how i _wish_ i could have such a mirror!" said humphrey, very earnestly. "how i wish i could!" echoed miles. "do you?" said sir everard; "i wonder why." humphrey did not answer; he was gazing out of the window in deep thought. "who would you look for, my little man?" asked sir everard of miles. "i should look for you, dear fardie." "but i am here, darling." "not always," said miles, laying his little hand caressingly on sir everard's. "when you are away in london, i should like to look in and see what you are doing." it was by these engaging little words and ways, that miles had wound himself so closely round his father's heart. "so you would like to see me when i am away," he said, stroking the child's hand, "do you miss me when i'm not with you?" "so much, fardie; i wish you would never go. humphie, don't we miss fardie dreadfully when he's away, and wish he would never go?" sir everard glanced at his elder boy, as if hoping to hear him confirm his little brother's words, but humphrey was still looking thoughtfully up, out of the window, and took no notice. "what is he thinking about?" whispered sir everard to miles. "i don't know," said miles, softly; "perhaps he's wishing very hard for a mirror." whatever the boy was wishing for, it must have been something which he felt he could never have, for the brown eyes were full of tears as they gazed up into the blue sky. "wait a minute," breathed miles, "he'll say how we miss you, when he's done thinking; often, when he's thinking, he doesn't answer me till he's quite done what he's thinking about." with the tears still standing in them, the eyes suddenly sparkled with a new feeling, and humphrey sprang to the window, exclaiming,-- "a hawk! i do declare; and he'll have the sparrow in a minute!" sir everard looked disappointed, and drew miles closer to him. "he's not thinking about us, is he, darling?" "eh!" exclaimed humphrey, starting, "were you speaking to me? what did you say, miles?" "it was about the glass, humphie; i said we should like so much to see what fardie is doing in london sometimes." "oh, wouldn't it be fun!" said humphrey, seating himself by his brother; "sometimes we should see him in his club, and sometimes in a hansom cab, and sometimes we should see you making a speech in the house of parliament, shouldn't we, father, with your arm out, and a great sheet all round you, like the statue of mr. pitt down-stairs?" sir everard laughed. "not very often," i think. "how should we see you, fardie?" "i'm afraid, if you looked late in the evening, you would often see me _so_," he answered, folding his arms, and shutting his eyes. "what, asleep!" exclaimed the children. "fast asleep," returned their father. "isn't the queen very angry with you?" inquired miles. "the queen is generally asleep herself at such hours." "what! in the house of parliament?" "no; but in one or other of her palaces." "but she isn't always asleep at night," said humphrey, in a superior tone; "sometimes she sits up very late, and has a ball. i know a picture of her giving a ball, in the old book of prints down-stairs." the volume in question bore the date of , and the engraving represented the court of queen anne, but it was all the same to humphrey. "do you ever go to the queen's ball fardie?" inquired miles. "yes, dear, i have been, but not for a long time." "father's too old for balls now," observed humphrey. "ain't you, father?" "my dancing days are over, yes," said sir everard, absently. he was thinking how lovely his wife had looked at the last court ball he had been to. "do they dance 'up the middle and down again,' fardie?" "no," answered sir everard, smiling, "quadrilles and valses mostly." "i suppose when you were young and went to balls, they used to dance the minuet?" said humphrey. "used you to wear a pig-tail, father?" "upon my word!" said sir everard, "why, how old do you think i am?" the children had no idea, and amused themselves for the next ten minutes by trying to guess, their conjectures varying between sixty and ninety. "will you come for a run, father?" said humphrey, presently. "it's a little hot for running, isn't it?" answered sir everard; "but if you are tired of being indoors, you can go in the garden, and i will join you in about an hour." "we might go to the village, mightn't we, and spend my pennies? dyson's got his trumpet, so there's nothing to save for, and i should like to spend them." "very well: where shall i find you?" "i shall be feeding my jackdaw, or working in my garden; or, perhaps," after a moment's reflection, "i might be sitting at the top of the apple tree, or running along the kitchen garden wall. but if you don't find me in any of those places, look in the hen-house. i might be getting an egg there for miles' tea." "but isn't the hen-house kept locked?" "oh, yes, but that doesn't matter a bit. i always squeeze myself through the hen's little trap door." "you don't expect me to do the same, i hope?" humphrey's sense of the ridiculous was tickled by the idea of his father's tall form struggling through the little hole of a few inches wide; and his merry laugh echoed through the room. "what fun it would be!" he exclaimed, "you'd stick in the middle, and not be able to get in or out. how you would kick!" little miles laughed till he coughed, and sir everard was obliged to dismiss humphrey to the garden. humphrey was not engaged in any of the employments he had mentioned when his father joined him an hour later. he was standing gazing thoughtfully at the lame jackdaw hopping about on his wooden leg. "what a funny boy you are," said his father, laying a hand on his shoulder. "i do believe you care more for that ugly old jackdaw than for anything else that you have. he always seems to me the most uninteresting of creatures and i'm sure he is very ungrateful, for the kinder you are to him the crosser he gets." "yes, he's very cross, poor old fellow!" said humphrey. "look!" holding out his hand, which bore unmistakable evidence of a bird's beak, "how he's pecked me. he always does whenever i feed him." "i should almost be inclined not to feed him then." "i couldn't let him starve, you know. besides, i don't wonder he's cross. it's enough to make any one angry to be always hopping about in one little place, instead of having the whole world to fly about in. and if it wasn't for me," he added, half to himself, "he would be flying about now." sir everard did not catch the last words, but the boy's face reminded him that he had touched on a painful subject, and he hastened to change it by proposing they should start for the village. humphrey brightened up directly, and was soon talking as gaily as usual. the painfulness of the subject consisted in this. one day, humphrey and miles were amusing themselves in their gardens, when the jackdaw, then young and active, came flying past. humphrey without the slightest idea of touching it, flung a stone at it, exclaiming, "get away, old fellow!" but so unerring was his aim, that the stone struck the bird on the wing, and brought it struggling and fluttering to the ground. dolly, the laundry-maid, was close at hand, and she never forgot humphrey's burst of grief and remorse, when, on picking up the jackdaw, they found both leg and wing broken. that a living creature should be deprived of its powers by his means was more than the tender-hearted child could bear, and for a long while he was inconsolable. in due time the bird had been supplied with a wooden leg through dolly, by whom it had ever since been carefully tended, but its life, in humphrey's eyes, was over; and he never passed the cage without a pang. he seldom spoke of it, it was too sore a subject; but his attention to the lame bird had from that day to this never relaxed for an instant. on the way to the village, sir everard questioned him on his progress with his lessons. humphrey always gave a capital account of himself; reading, writing, french, everything, according to him, was going on as swimmingly as possible. sir everard's faith in these reports had been rather shaken since the memorable occasion when, relying on humphrey's confident assertion, that he now knew the auxiliary verbs perfectly, he had, with a father's pride, called upon him suddenly to repeat the verb "avoir" to his grandmother. she was a lady of the old school, and a great stickler for early education: and he had been rather nettled by an observation that had dropped from her, to the effect that humphrey was rather backward. "indeed, mother," he had answered, "i think few boys of his age know so much of french. he speaks it perfectly, and is well grounded in the grammar." to prove which, humphrey had been called out of the garden, and, to his father's dismay, had conjugated the first tense of the verb in the following manner:-- j'ai tu as il a _nous sommes_ _vous étes_ _ils sont_. conversation did not flag for a moment as they walked along. on the subject of history, humphrey not only professed to be, but was, well informed. it gave food to his imagination, and he delighted in it. sir everard felt quite brushed up in the early parts of history before they reached the village, and humphrey himself was so taken up with his subject, that he readily agreed to give up his expedition to the shop, so that they might extend their walk by returning home another way. "we shall pass little lame tom, anyhow," he said, "and i can give my pennies to him instead." lame tom was a little cripple, who sat all day long in a little wooden chair, and was an object of great commiseration to humphrey. a creature who had never known what it was to walk, run, or climb, and had to sit still in a chair from year's end to year's end! how keenly such a condition appealed to the pity of such a nature as humphrey's! he gave him his pennies as he passed, and then resumed his conversation with his father. it was nearly dinner-time when they reached home, and miles was eagerly waiting for his game of "spelicans" with sir everard. he was, however, never quite happy unless humphrey was included in his amusements, if he happened to be present: so after a time "spelicans" was changed to "old maid," a game of which both boys were particularly fond. no "lady of a certain age" could have shown more eagerness to get rid of the fatal queen than did the two little brothers, and they played as if their whole future depended upon it. great was their delight and exultation when, at the end of the game, they found they had both escaped the fate of single blessedness; and, with great clapping of hands and other demonstrations of triumph, sir everard was informed that he "would be an old maid." chapter xii. it was a lovely day, real harvest weather, when sir everard duncombe and his two little boys took their way to the corn-field to see the new machine at work. sir everard was going up to town that evening, but it was for the last time; and then, to the children's delight, he had promised to come down for good, and had settled that the harvest home should take place early in the ensuing week. the corn-field presented a gay appearance when they reached it. the new machine, drawn by two fine horses, and driven by the bailiff, was careering along the corn, with the reapers all running by the side. down fell the golden grain on all sides, and eager hands collected and bound it up. with a shout of joy, humphrey was among them, hindering every one and alarming his father by continually getting in the way of the machine and the horses. of course he was not long content with so subordinate a part in the proceedings; and came to beg his father to let him mount up on the little seat by the bailiff's side. sir everard assisted him up, and the machine went off again, followed by the reapers. by and by, sir everard looked at his watch, and found it was time to be making his way to the station. the children were so happy, he had not the heart to take them away. "they are quite safe," he reflected, "with so many people about; and i will send virginie to them, as i pass the house." humphrey was out of sight, so sir everard told miles (who was playing with the "little girl at the lodge") to look out for virginie, and to say "good-bye" for him to humphrey. little miles held up his face to be kissed--a thin face it was still--and said: "you'll come back soon, fardie, and not go away any more?" "very soon, my darling; and then not leave you again till next year! we'll have great fun, and you must be a good little man, and not get ill any more." "i promise, fardie." sir everard smiled rather sadly, kissed the child over and over again, and then walked away. when he got to the gate, he turned round to have one more look at the gay scene. miles was still standing where he had left him, gazing after his father, and kissing his hand. his was the prominent figure in the foreground, surrounded by the golden corn. away behind him stretched the lovely landscape, and in the background was the machine returning to its starting point followed by the reapers. humphrey, sitting by the bailiff, had now got the reins in his own hands, and was cheering on the horses as he came. so sir everard left them. excitement cannot last for ever, and after a time, humphrey got tired of driving, and got down to play with his little brother. they followed the machine once or twice, picking up the corn, but it was hot work, and they went to rest under the hedge. "it is very hot, even here," said humphrey, taking off his hat, and fanning himself. "i think we'll go and sit under the tree in the next field, where we sat the sunday uncle charlie was here. come along." they climbed over the gate, and made for the tree, where they sat down on the grass. "how jolly uncle charlie's stories were," sighed humphrey; "how i wish we could hear them all over again. it's a great pity father ever told me not to climb the bough that sticks out. it would have been the very thing to crawl along, like the man in that story. father says its rotten and unsafe. i think he _must_ make a mistake; it looks as strong as possible!" he sighed again, and there was a long pause. presently he resumed. "i don't see why we shouldn't go and _look_. it would be so cool by the pond." "oh! humphie, _please_ don't. we shall lose our way, and virginie will be so angry." "but i know the way quite well from here, miles. it was only because we started from dyson's cottage that i lost it before." "but, humphie, if we get wet again! i _promised_ fardie not to get ill." "the rain made you wet, miles, not the pond; and it's not going to rain to-day. look what a blue sky!" the two little brothers gazed upwards. it was clear overhead, but there was a suspicious bank of clouds in the distance. "those clouds won't come down till night," humphrey observed. "come along. it's not very far." "better not, humphie." "i'm only going to look, miles. what are you afraid of?" "don't know, humphie," answered the little fellow, with a tiny shake in his voice; "but _please_ don't let us go!" "well, you needn't come if you don't like. i'll go alone--i shan't be long." but miles didn't like being left in the field by himself; so with a little sigh, he got up, and put his hand in his brother's. "i'll come," he said, resignedly. "that's right," said humphrey; "there's nothing to be afraid of--_is_ there?" "no," said the child; but his face was troubled, and his voice still shook a little. so over the grass the two little brothers went, hand in hand, till in an adjoining field they saw the waters of the pond gleaming like silver in the summer sunshine. side by side they stood on its brink. "we're only going to _look_, you know," said humphrey. they were the first words he had spoken for some time, and they came so suddenly that miles started as they fell on the still air. they seemed to arouse the inhabitants of that secluded spot, for a bird flew out of the tree, and soared away with a scared chirrup, which fell with a melancholy sound on the children's ears; and a water-rat bounded from under a lily-leaf, and plunged with a dull splash into another part of the pond. innumerable insects skimmed across the surface of the water, and one or two bees droned idly, as they flew from one water lily to another. the branch of the tree that stretched over the pond dipped its topmost leaves into the water with a sleepy sound; as the breeze swayed it gently backwards and forwards, the water-lilies danced lightly with the movement of the water; and there was over the whole place a sense of repose and an isolation which infected the children with its dreaminess, keeping even humphrey silent, and making little miles feel sad. "let's go, humphie." "not yet," answered humphrey, recovering from his fit of abstraction, and moving towards the tree: "i want to look at the branch. why, it's not rotten a bit!" he exclaimed, as he examined it. "i do believe it would hold us quite well!" he clasped his arms round the trunk of the tree, and propelled himself upwards, where he was soon lost to view in the thick foliage. miles gave a little sigh; he could not shake off the melancholy that oppressed him, and he was longing to get away from the place. presently humphrey's ringing laugh was heard, and miles, looking up, saw him crawling along the branch which stretched out over the water. his face was flushed, and his eyes sparkling with excitement, and he was utterly regardless of the shivering and shaking of the branch under his weight. when he had got out a certain distance he returned, and throwing his arms once more round the upper part of the trunk, he raised himself to his feet and stood upright, triumphant. "there!" he exclaimed--"i've done it. who says it's dangerous now? it's as safe as safe can be. come up, miles. you can't think how jolly it is!" miles drew a long breath. "must i really _really_ come?" "why not? you see how easily i did it. give me your hand, and i'll help you up." bright and beautiful was the aspect of the elder boy, as he stood above, with his graceful figure clearly defined against the green foliage, one arm thrown carelessly round a bough, and the other outstretched to his little brother; and very lovely the expression of wistful uncertainty on the face of the younger one, as he stood below, with his eyes upraised so timidly to his brother's face, and his hands nervously clasped together. involuntarily he shrank back a little, and there was a pause. he looked all around the secluded spot, as if to find help, as if to discover a loophole whereby he might escape, even at the eleventh hour. but the insects skimming from side to side of the pond, the water-lilies dancing gently on the surface, were still the only animate things to be seen, and no sound was to be heard save the dipping of the branch into the water, and the splash of the active water-rat. they were powerless to help him, and he resigned himself to humphrey's will. "i know i shall be _kilt_, but i'll come," he said; and he held out his shaking little hand. humphrey grasped it tightly, and got him up by degrees to the same level as himself. then carefully he dropped down on his hands and knees and helped miles to do the same. slowly they both began to move, and gradually they crawled along the branch that stretched over the water! clinging tightly with arms and legs, and listening to humphrey's encouraging voice, little miles settled himself on the branch in fancied security. humphrey got close up to him behind, and put his arms round him. "hurrah" he shouted; "here we both are!" they had been so engrossed that they had not noticed how the weather had clouded over. the bank of clouds they had noticed was nearly over their heads, the air was becoming thick and oppressive, far in the distance was heard the growl of approaching thunder, and some big drops of rain fell. humphrey remembered, with a start, his father's injunctions about miles, and the ill effects of their last adventure. "we must go home," he exclaimed; and, forgetting their perilous position, he moved so suddenly, that he nearly sent his little brother off the branch. instinctively he reached out his hand to save him, and miles nearly overbalanced himself in his attempt to cling to it. their combined movements were too much for the decaying wood, already rocking beneath their weight. it swayed--it shivered--it creaked ... and then with a crash it broke from its parent bark!--and boys and branch were precipitated into the water below. _part ii._ chapter xiii. sir everard duncombe pursued his way to the stables on leaving the harvest field; and as he passed the house, he called out to virginie, who was sitting at work at the nursery window, to go and join the children. on arriving in london, he went to his club for his letters, and, meeting a friend on the steps, they walked down piccadilly together, and turned into the park at hyde park corner. they stood by the railings for a little while, watching the stream of carriages and their gaily dressed occupants; but it was very hot, and after a time sir everard took leave of his friend, and strolled towards the serpentine, in search of a little air. miles's delicacy, ever the subject rising uppermost in his mind, occupied his thoughts as he walked along. he wondered to himself whether he would outgrow it, whether a winter abroad would set him up, and whether it would not be wise to bring him to london, and show him to one of the great chest doctors. the sight of the water, as he approached the serpentine, recalled to his mind the pond at wareham, and the expedition which had been the cause of the mischief. he remembered, with a start, how near he had left the children to the tempting spot, for the pond was almost within sight of the field where they were reaping. for a moment he debated whether he had been wise to trust humphrey again; but then he reflected how soon virginie must have joined them, and how many people there were about. besides, they were quite taken up with the reaping, and when he remembered his own severe words to humphrey, and the boy's penitence and remorse, he could hardly fancy he would transgress again. still, he could not get it out of his head, and as he stood watching the water, he wished there were such a thing as the magic glass he had read to the children about; that he might see as far as wareham, and satisfy himself about them. had his wish been gratified at that moment, he would have seen humphrey and miles astride on the rotten bough, with flushed and exultant faces. the same change of weather now took place as was taking place at wareham. umbrellas and carriage-hoods were quickly put up, and very soon the park was empty. sir everard retraced his steps to his club and was closing his umbrella leisurely in the hall, when a telegram was put into his hand. he glanced his eye hastily over it, and then dashed into the street and hailed a hansom. "waterloo station," he shouted, as he threw himself into it; "double fare if you catch the train!" * * * * * bustle and confusion, though no doubt, uninteresting and unpoetical, are, certainly, at such times useful. they keep the mind from dwelling too much on the painful, and thus rub off the sharp edge of the first moment. so it was not till sir everard was in the train, and tearing swiftly, though quietly to wareham, that he realized his position. till then, his thoughts had been entirely taken up with passing this carriage, shaving that omnibus, or rounding that corner. he had chafed at every stoppage, fumed at every delay, and been able to think of nothing but whether or no he should catch the train. and now, the strain over, he leant back in the railway carriage and examined the telegram at leisure. there was not much to be learnt from it; it was terse and unsatisfactory, like most messages of the kind--just sufficiently clear not to quell all hope, and yet undefined enough to give reins to the imagination. it contained these words: "an accident has happened. both the young gentlemen have fallen into the pond, but neither are drowned. come directly." those who have read and re-read such missives, and vainly endeavored to extract something from them, will best understand how sir everard tortured himself during the next quarter of an hour. might not this be a part of the truth, and the rest concealed? might it not be meant as a preparation? but, no--unless the message told a deliberate falsehood, "neither were drowned." why, then, bid him come directly, unless miles's condition after his immersion in the water was all but hopeless. "a ducking will not hurt humphrey," he reflected "so of course, it is mile." he thought of miles's fragile appearance as he stood in the corn-field. how little he was fitted to cope with such an accident! fragile and flushed, with traces of his late illness lingering about his lustrous eyes and colorless lips. he worked himself up into a terrible state of anxiety as the train neared wareham, and restlessly he laid the blame of the accident on everything and everybody. what business had they at the pond? he angrily questioned; it was the most flagrant act of disobedience on humphrey's part he had ever heard of. for the moment, he felt as if he could never forgive the boy for such a barefaced breach of his command. over and over again had miles's health, life even, been endangered by humphrey's heedlessness. heedlessness!--willfulness he felt inclined to call it. perhaps he was too indulgent. stricter measures should be enforced; the boy must and should learn to obey. he had been weak, but he would be so no longer. no punishment could be severe enough for humphrey; and punished he should certainly be. then he thought perhaps it was too much to expect of such a young creature and he began to lay the blame on others. virginie--why was _she_ not there? why did not _she_ prevent their going to the pond? even the reapers and the bailiff came in for a share of his anger. surely, among so many people, _somebody_ might have prevented two children leaving the field! but, after all, humphrey was the chief offender, and he felt he ought not to try to shield him, by throwing the blame on others. there was no carriage waiting for him at the station, and no one could give him any information beyond that contained in the telegram. he ordered a fly, and then, unable to bear the delay, walked on without it. he got more and more anxious as he neared the abbey. he took a short cut to the house. there was no one about--not a servant, not a gardener. his heart misgave him as he strode on. he reached the hall door, passed in, ran up the stairs to the nursery. still no sound--no voices. the nurseries were empty! he called. no answer. he shouted. how horrible his voice sounded in the empty passages! he rang the bell furiously, and, without waiting the answer, he ran down-stairs again, and opened the library door. a confused hum of voices struck upon his ear, a confused group of people swam before his eyes, but he only distinguished a little form that ran forward with outstretched arms; and with an exclamation of fervent thanksgiving he clasped miles safe, warm, and unhurt in his arms! how eagerly he felt the little pulse and chafed the little hands! he stopped the child's mouth with kisses whenever he attempted to speak. he was so occupied with his newly recovered treasure, that he did not notice what a deep silence had fallen on the assembled group on his entrance; but now he turned to one of the maids, and asked how the accident had happened. "and, by the way," he added, "where is master humphrey?" no one answered. "where is master humphrey?" repeated the baronet. "they told me not to say," began little miles; but his father was looking directly at one of the gardeners, and the man was obliged to answer. "if you please, sir everard, we carried master duncombe in there," pointing to the drawing-room. "in _there_!" said the baronet, amazed. "if you please, sir everard, it was the first room we came to; and the only one where there was a sofa." before he had done speaking, sir everard was in the room. a shutter had been opened, and there was just light enough for him to see virginie bending over the sofa, round which was a group of people. the doctor came forward from among them, but sir everard pushed past him, and advanced to the side of the sofa. and there, under his mother's picture, colorless, motionless, and to all appearance lifeless, lay the boy for whom "no punishment could be severe enough," and whose disobedience he had felt he never could forgive! chapter xiv. no one was to blame. the reapers had run to the pond on hearing the children's cries, and had extricated them immediately; virginie had sent for the doctor at once. so no one had failed in their duty; or had, as i say, been to blame--except the poor little victim himself. "at present," the doctor informed sir everard, "the extent of the injuries could not be determined." miles, from having been jerked off the end of the branch straight into the water, had escaped with a wetting; but humphrey, from having been nearer the tree, had come in contact with the trunk, and the bough under the water, and the doctor feared both spine and head had been injured. he asked for further advice, and a man was dispatched with a telegram for two of the greatest surgeons of the day. the calamity was so sudden, so awful, so unexpected! sir everard could not realize it--kept on misunderstanding the doctor's incoherence--the poor old doctor who had known him all his life, and could not bear to be the one to tell him that, even if his boy's life were spared, he must ever be a helpless cripple. humphrey a cripple! humphrey to lie on his back all his life! sir everard could not grasp the idea, could not collect his thoughts to conceive anything so impossible, could not follow the doctor through the circumlocution in which he tried to clothe the announcement, and at last lost patience. "for god's sake, tell me what you mean! can you be trying to break to me that my boy--that child who has never to my knowledge sat still in his life--will never have the use of his limbs any more? speak out, i implore you!" "never any more, sir everard!--never any more." * * * * * * * * * still he could not realize it, could not take it in. he turned away, and went out into the air, to clear, as it were, the mistiness of his brain, and to bring himself face to face with the words, so as to _force_ himself to understand them. "never have the use of his limbs any more!" simple english words--he knew he must really understand them, and yet they seemed to him mere sounds, devoid of any signification. he repeated them over and over again, to see what he could make of them. "never have the use of his limbs any more." that meant--let him think it out clearly--it meant, that his boy, his restless, impetuous boy, would be chained to a sofa all his life, for ever cut off from all that glorified his young existence--_that_ was what it meant. it meant--for now that thought was beginning to assert herself, each word that was meaningless before, was becoming alive with signification--it meant that all that had been should be again no more--that all that the child called _life_ was over--that all that went to make up the sum of his existence was _gone_--that death in life must be his portion for ever and for ever! for what did the word _life_ mean to humphrey? why, the powers of which he was to be deprived were the very germs of his whole existence--the things for which he was, and moved, and had his being. take them away, and what remained? life bereft of these, what was it to him? what is a husk from which the kernel has been taken, or a casket from which the jewel is gone? sir everard was not a worldly man, and in those moments he did not dwell on the blighted youth, and blasted manhood; he did not think of the earthly career for ever clouded, the hopes of earthly distinction for ever shut out. he did not see that his boy was debarred from every path of usefulness or honor which man delights to tread--alike shut out from active service, and learned profession. results painful enough in themselves; but it is none of them that have brought that despairing expression to his set, white face. no! he is thinking of the active little figure, chained to an invalid's chair. he is trying to realize that the lawns and gardens will know his joyous presence no more. surrounded by the haunts of the young life, he is forcing himself to believe that all henceforth shall be lone and silent, that never again shall they echo to his light footstep, or ring with his merry laugh; that the active limbs shall be motionless, and the busy hands for ever still. and only one word rose to his lips, "impossible!" at moments like these, how our feelings are reflected on all things around. never before had sir everard so keenly realized the endless motion of nature. with the probable fate of his boy lying before him, he was perhaps exaggerating the blessing of movement; but certainly he had never before so forcibly noticed how every little leaf on the trees fluttered as the breeze passed over it, how every little blade of grass shook and danced in the wind, how the boughs swayed and the blossoms nodded, how the waters of the streamlet rippled and leapt on their way! and this with what is called _inanimate_ nature; and when it came to the birds, and the beasts, and the insects! it was cruel of two lambs to come and gambol together at that moment, just under the poor father's eyes; cruel of a little rabbit to choose that second, out of all the hours of a long summer day, to pop up from under the brushwood, and scamper away across the green grass! when had the air ever been so full of butterflies, horseflies, and beetles; for ever and ever on the wing! the bees hurried from flower to flower, the birds chased each other from tree to tree, the summer gnats never rested for a moment;--and humphrey, of all nature's children the happiest and the brightest, was to be the one who should sport in the sunshine no more! he thought of the boy's restless activity, his joy in motion and exercise. from dawn to sunset, never still, never weary of rushing about in the open air. there had always been with him a sort of lavish enjoyment of existence for its own sake, as if there were happiness in the mere sense of _being_ and _moving_. even as a little baby it had always been the same. when he could scarcely stand alone, he would struggle to get out of his nurse's arms, and start off by himself, heedless of the many falls he would get on the way. and as memory brought back the early days of the child's life, came mingled with them the thought of the mother who had so delighted in him. and as sir everard remembered how she had gloried in his manly spirit, and in his energy and activity, he bowed his head, and thanked god that she had not lived to see this day. once more he saw her restraining her maternal fears that she might not interfere with her boy's love of enterprise, or bring a shadow on his happiness. once more he seemed to hear the baby voice at the bed-room door, before the shutters were opened. "mother, mother, may i go out?" the breathless pause till the answer came. "out now! my darling, it is so early and so cold. better wait a little!" "the insides of houses are so hot, mother; please say i may go out!" ... had the boy ever walked? had he ever done anything but run? sir everard could not recall one instance of meeting him out of doors, except running and rushing headlong, jumping over everything which obstructed his path. once again, there rose the thought of the motionless little figure sitting pale and silent in a cripple's chair. god help the poor father! in the bitterness of his spirit he had almost said, "sooner than clip his wings, let him soar away." he retraced his steps, and on entering the hall, was informed by the trembling virginie that humphrey had recovered consciousness, and had spoken. he hurried to the drawing-room, but the doctor met him at the door, and motioned him back. "do not go in just yet," he said, closing the door behind him; "he seems to fear your displeasure about something, and shows great excitement at the thought of seeing you. i dare say," he added, quickly, for he was touched by the expression of pain which passed over the poor father's face, "i dare say he will get over it, when he is a little less confused." "does he understand what has happened?" "i think so, now. at first he was sadly confused at finding himself in the drawing-room; but by degrees he remembered the events of the day. the moment he grasped the idea of the accident, he became excited, and asked repeatedly for his little brother. i should fancy this anxiety was associated with his shrinking from seeing you. perhaps you understand better than i do?" "i have been obliged several times lately to find fault with him for leading his little brother into mischief, and this last unfortunate escapade i had most especially forbidden. miles is, as you know, so very delicate that i am obliged to be very careful of him." this was said almost in an exculpatory tone. "he is certainly very delicate," answered the doctor, "and ought not to be exposed to such dangers. i am very thankful he has escaped so easily. now my little patient's constitution is altogether different; seldom have i seen a finer or stronger. however," he added, breaking off with a sigh, "the most iron frame is not proof against such an accident as this. i think, sir everard," he concluded, "that what you tell me would quite account for the excitement. may i tell him from you that he has no cause to fear your anger?" "need you ask?" said the baronet, impatiently, and the doctor returned to the sick room. sir everard paced up and down till the door re-opened, and the doctor made him a sign to come in. he entered, and advanced to the side of the sofa. the room was so dark that he could only see the outline of the curly head, lying back among the pillows, but a little hand came out, and pulled him down. "father," in a voice which was hardly above a whisper, "it's all right. he isn't hurt a bit--not even a cold. i am so glad it is me that is hurt instead of him." "oh, hush! hush! my darling." "you're not angry with me, father? i'm so sorry i climbed. i'll never do it again. say you're not angry, father." "no, no my poor child--i'm not angry only so sorry to see you ill." "am i _very_ ill? what is the matter with my head? shall i soon be well again?" "i hope so, darling. there are some gentlemen coming to-morrow, to help you to get well very quick." "i shall be well by the harvest home shan't i?" "the harvest home? when is that?" "you promised to fix a day early next week, you know, father. which day shall it be?" "i--i don't--quite know what day to fix, my boy." "the corn fell so fast, all day, father--it must be ready soon. shall we say tuesday?" no answer: only an inarticulate murmur. "then that's settled. shall i be well enough on tuesday to dance 'up the middle and down again,' with dolly?" rises again, all unbidden, before the father's eyes, a motionless little figure, sitting in a cripple's chair. dance! ought he to tell him? ought he to prepare him? who was to do it, if not he? who else was to tell him of the blight that had fallen on his young life? "you don't tell me, father. shall i be well soon?" he _could_ not tell him. he only kissed the little hand, and murmured, "god grant you may, my child!" "i shan't be able to lie still very long. if it wasn't that i feel so tired, i should like to jump up now." "are you very tired, humphrey?" "yes," with a sigh, "and my back aches, and so does my head, and feels so funny. it makes my eyes swim, and that makes me so sleepy." "will you try to go to sleep?" "yes," murmured the child, and his heavy eyes closed; "i shall wake up quite well to-morrow." "a good sign," whispered sir everard to the doctor. the doctor did not answer; and sir everard went up to the nursery, to see miles. the little fellow was gazing out of the window, humming a forlorn little tune to himself. jane, with red eyes, was sitting at work. sir everard took the child up in his arms "what are you doing, my little man?" "i'm so dull without humphie. when will he come and play?" "soon, i hope, darling." "is humphie going to sleep all night in the drawing-room?" "yes--isn't that funny?" "may i go and say good-night to him?" "no; you can't go to him to-night." miles's eyes filled with tears. "i can't go to sleep without saying good-night to humphie." "ah! don't cry, my child," said the poor father, beseechingly. his feelings had been on the strain so many hours; he felt he could not stand any more, and he dared not let his thoughts dwell on the subject. he tried to turn the conversation. "tell me," he said, with a forced smile, "what was that little song you were singing to yourself when i came in?" "it was about humpty-dumpty," said miles, mournfully. "let me see: humpty-dumpty, was an egg, wasn't he?" "that gentleman said it was humphie who was humpty-dumpty. is that true, fardie?" "no, darling; how could humphrey be an egg?" "one part's true, though," said miles, "'humpty-dumpty had a great fall.'" "ah! that's true!" sighed sir everard. "what's the end, fardie? i want to remember it, and i can't--do you?" why did sir everard put the child down so suddenly, and why should his voice falter a little, as he repeated the baby couplet? they were only nursery rhymes, and this is how they ended: "all the king's horses, and all the king's men, will never set humpty-dumpty up again." "it's 'diculous nonsense, fardie, of _course_?" "a ridiculous nonsensical rhyme, darling!" but ah! how nearly the sublime and the ridiculous touch sometimes in this world! chapter xv. humphrey passed the night partly in heavy sleep and partly in feverish restlessness. his first inquiry in the morning was for miles, and the next for the gentlemen who were to help him to get well so quick. the latter he was told could not arrive till eleven o'clock, but sir everard went to fetch little miles, and whispering to him not to talk much or to stay long, he put the child down and stayed by the door to watch the meeting between the two little brothers. miles advanced rather timidly, the room was so dark and everything looked so strange. but as soon as he distinguished his brother he ran forward. "humphie! get up, get up. why do you 'ie there, and look so white?" "i'm ill, miles!"--in a tone half plaintive, half triumphant. "_musn't_ be ill, humphie--oh, don't be ill!" "_you're_ often ill, miles; why shouldn't i be ill sometimes?" "don't like it," said the child, his eyes filling with tears. "oh, humphie, i wish we hadn't _tummelled_ into the pond!" at this moment sir everard was called away, and informed that the physicians had arrived from london. he found them in the dining-room, talking over the case with the village doctor and, after ordering them some breakfast, he returned to prepare the little invalid for their arrival. as he approached the room he was alarmed to hear humphrey's voice raised, and still more, when little miles, with a face of terror came running out. "oh, fardie, fardie! will you come to humphie? he's crying so, and he wants you to come directly!" "crying so! what is the matter with him?" "oh, i don't know? he began to cry and scream so when i said it!" "said what--said what?" "oh, fardie, i was telling him that i heard virginie tell some one he would be 'boiteux' all his life, and i _only_ asked him what it meant!" * * * * * vainly all night long had sir everard tried to frame a sentence in which to convey the fatal news. phrase after phrase had he rejected, because nothing seemed to him to express half the love and tenderness in which so terrible an announcement should be clothed. words were so hard, so cold! they were so weak to express what he wanted--so utterly inadequate to contain all the pity, all the yearning sympathy with which his heart was overflowing! and now without any preparation, without any softening, the cruel blow had fallen! for one moment the father's heart failed him, and he felt he _could_ not face the boy, _could_ not meet his questioning gaze, _could_ not with his own lips confirm the fatal truth. but there was no time for reflection. humphrey's feeble voice calling him to come quickly, caught his ear, and as in a dream he advanced, and stood by the bedside. "father!" exclaimed the child (and how shall we express the tones of his voice, or convey an idea of the pitiful entreaty and nameless horror with which they rang?) "it isn't true--is it? oh, say it isn't true!" all the words of consolation and soothing died upon the father's lips, and his tongue seemed tied. "she's always saying unkind things," sobbed the child, clinging to him; "she oughtn't to--_ought_ she? you don't answer me, father! father, why don't you tell me? why don't you say quick, it's not true?" and as his fear grew, his voice faltered, and his grasp on his father tightened. "answer me--father--why--don't you--speak?" "my poor child, my poor little fellow!" one more struggle for the truth, in spite of the failing voice, and the sense of deadly sickness. "lift up your face, father. let--me--see--your--face!" what was there in the face that struck terror to his heart, and brought conviction thumping up in great throbs, even before the faltering words came. "supposing it should be true--what then!" ah! what then? his dizzy brain refused to attach any meaning to the words, or to help him to understand how much was contained in them. the loud beating of his heart echoed them, his parched lips strove to repeat them, and wildly he fought with his failing senses, straining every nerve to find an answer to the question. in vain! every pulse in his throbbing head seemed to take up the words and beat them into his brain; the air was live with voices around him, and voices and pulses alike cried, "what then?--what then?" but the question went unanswered, for humphrey fainted away. * * * * * sir everard hastily summoned the doctors, and they did all they could to restore him. in a little while he showed signs of coming to himself, and to prevent his thoughts returning to the subject which had agitated him, they requested sir everard to remain out of sight, and stationed themselves close to the bedside, so that theirs should be the first figures that should attract his attention. as humphrey slowly recovered consciousness, he did not indeed clearly remember on what his thoughts had been dwelling, but that there was something in his mind from which he shrank, he was quite aware. waking in the morning to a sense of some sorrow which possessed us ere we slept, we intuitively feel there is something amiss, though we are too confused to remember what it is; and even while we wish to recall it, we dread to turn our thoughts that way, lest we should lose the temporary peace into which forgetfulness has plunged us. in such a passive state would humphrey have remained, had not the doctors, to distract his thoughts, touched his brow, and caused him to open his eyes. alas! they little knew the all-powerful association of the place where he lay. he closed his eyes again directly, and took no notice of the doctors' attempts to lead him into conversation; but in that one moment, his glance had rested on his mother's picture, and at once his mind wandered back--not indeed to the memory they dreaded, but to one which was scarcely less painful. we will follow his thoughts for a moment. he is alone; all alone in the desolate apartment, in the closed uninhabited room! the twilight is creeping slowly on, and the silence and emptiness within and without him, can almost be felt. up-stairs in the nursery, miles is dying--perhaps already dead. no one will help him, or be sorry for him. and as the sense of neglect and isolation steals over him once more, his breast heaves, and his lips move: "mother, i want you back so much, every one is angry with me and i am so very miserable!" no answer, no sound. "mother! put your arms round me! put my head on your shoulder!" not a word. it is only a picture after all. * * * * * never to play with miles any more! no more games on the stairs, or in the passages! no, never more! for miles is dying, perhaps already dead. how happy the baby in the picture looks! can it really be him? oh, happy baby, always close to mother! always with her arms round him, and her shoulder against his head. oh, if he could climb up into the baby's place, and stay there for ever and ever! how _could_ he get up to her? she is in heaven. she got there by being ill and dying. why should he not get ill, and die too. miles is dying, mother is dead--he would so like to die too. but it's no use. he never is ill--not even a cold. miles caught cold going to the pond--the pond where the water-lilies are. how quiet it was! how cool! how gently they dance upon the water, those lovely water-lilies. how the bird sang, and the rat splashed.... come up, miles--it's as safe as safe can be!... stop!... miles is dying--how could he come up? miles came into the room, and talked about the--jackdaw ... wasn't it?--the poor lame jackdaw.... miles is dying.... how did he come in?... hop! hop! comes the jackdaw, poor old fellow! but what did miles say about the jackdaw? boiteux! but _that's_ not his name; we always call him jack. boiteux means.... the jackdaw again! hop, hop, he comes.... he will never fly again--never! poor old jackdaw!... is it ready true that he will never fly again? it is not true. but supposing it should be true, what then?... boiteux!... who is it keeps on asking me what 'boiteux' means?... boiteux! "what then?" boiteux means jackdaw--no, it means lame--no it means crip---- the temporary oblivion is over, the unknown dread is taking a tangible shape, and recollection rushes over him, bringing conviction with it. but hope, ever the last gift in the casket, faintly holds out against certainty. "no! no!--not that! it _can't_ be that!" but something beating in his heart, beats hope down. mighty throbs, like the strokes of a hammer, beat it down, down, crush it to nothing; and a terrible sinking comes in its place. _it is true_--and in an instant he realizes what _it_ being true will entail. as lightning, flashing upon the path of the benighted traveller, reveals to him for a moment the country lying before him, illumining all its minutest details; so thought, flashing upon the future of the child, showed him for a moment all too vividly the life of crippled helplessness stretching out before him--the daily, hourly cross, which must be his for ever! let each one try to conceive for himself the intensity of such a moment, to such a nature! let each one try to realise the thoughts which followed each other in hot haste through his brain, the confused phantasmagoria which swam before him, fading away at last, and leaving only two distinct pictures--the jackdaw hopping about in his cage, and little lame tom in the village, sitting in his cripple's chair. he shrinks back in horror, his soul rises in loathing: he pants, and wildly throws himself about, with a half-smothered cry. "oh, gently, my darling! you will hurt yourself." it is his father's voice, and he turns to him and clings tightly. "i don't care--i don't care. i want to hurt myself. i want to die. i don't want to live like that!" at the sight of the physicians, his excitement redoubled, and he clung more tightly to his father. "no! no! send them away! they shan't look at me, they shan't touch me. they are going to try and make me well, and i don't want to get well. i _won't_ get well!" the doctors retired, as their presence excited him so much, and sir everard tried to loosen the boy's convulsive grasp round his neck. humphrey was too exhausted to retain the position long: his hands relaxed their hold, and sir everard laid him back on the pillow. once more the soft face in the picture exercises its old influence over him, and charms away, as of old, the fit of passionate rebellion. "father," he entreated, in a whisper, "let me die! promise not to let them try and make me well again." between surprise and emotion sir everard could not answer. he thought the idea of death would be both strange and repugnant to so thoughtless a creature; and he marvelled to hear him speak of it. "you'll promise, won't you, father? you know i _couldn't_ live like that! let me go and live with mother in heaven. see," pointing to the picture, "how happy i was in her arms when i was a baby, and i want to lie there again so much! just now, when i thought it was still the night miles was ill, before i knew i should never walk or run any more, even then i wanted so to get ill and die, that i might go to her, and i want it more than ever now. i thought then i never could get ill, because i am so strong; but now i _am_ ill, and so you'll let me die! promise not to try and make me well?" three times sir everard strove to answer, and three times his voice failed him. he managed, however, to murmur something which sounded like an affirmative, which satisfied and quieted the child. but much of the boy's speech had been wholly unintelligible to him, and his allusions to his mother's picture especially puzzled him. looking upon the drawing-room as a closed room, he had no idea that the children ever penetrated into it, or that they knew of the existence of the picture. and laying his hand on the child's head, he said: "how did you know that was your mother, humphrey?" the boy shot at him a glance of such astonishment that sir everard felt rebuked, and did not like to continue the conversation; and the doctors, returning at that moment, it was not resumed. this time, humphrey made no resistance, and the physicians were able to make their examination. leaving the village doctor by the bedside, sir everard led the way to the library, to hear their opinion. he hardly knew what he wished. humphrey's horror at his impending fate had made such an impression on sir everard that he almost shrank from hearing the child would recover to such a life as that. and yet when the doctors told him his boy must die, a revulsion of feeling swept over him, and his rebellious heart cried, "anything but that!" "would it be soon?" he tried to ask. "it could not be far off," they said. "would the child suffer?" "they hoped not--they believed not;" and they wrung his hand and departed. he followed them to the hall door, and waited with them till their carriage came up. it was a still summer's morning when they came out upon the steps, as if all nature were silently and breathlessly awaiting the verdict. but as the doctors got into their carriage, a light breeze sprang up, causing the trees to sway and rustle with a mournful sound, as if they knew the sentence, and were conveying it to the fields around. sir everard stood watching them as they drove away--those great court physicians, who, with all their fame and all their learning could do nothing for his boy--nothing! he listened to the sighing of the wind, and watched the trees bowing mournfully before it; and he wondered vaguely what was the language of the winds and breezes, and in what words nature was learning his boy's fate. it seemed to him that the breezes pursued the retreating doctors, and flung clouds of dust around them, as if taunting them with their inability to help; and then, returning once more to the oaks and beeches, resumed their melancholy wail. dreamily there recurred to his mind that ancient fable the children loved to hear: that story of the olden time which tells how the wind wafted through the trees to the passers-by, the secret which had been whispered into the bosom of the earth: "list! mother earth; while no man hears, king midas has got asses' ears." and, as he cast one more look at the carriage in the distance, before re-entering the house, the messages of the breezes seemed to come into his head in the form of the baby rhymes he had so often heard the children sing. chapter xvi. before returning to the sick-room, sir everard sat down to write some letters. he tried to think of some one he could send for, to help him in his trouble. his mother was too infirm to leave home, his sister perfectly useless, and they were the only relations he had. his brother-in-law was the person who would have been the greatest comfort to him, but he had just been appointed to a ship, and sir everard knew him to be up to his neck in preparations, perpetually veering between london and portsmouth. as, however, he must pass wareham station on his journeys to and fro, sir everard wrote to beg him if possible, to stop for one night on his way. then he went up to the nursery. miles was having his mid-day sleep; and jane, the housemaid, was sitting by his crib. sir everard bent down to kiss the little fellow, who was lying with his face hidden, hugging to his breast some ears of dead corn; but as his father's lips touched his forehead, he stirred in his sleep, and said, "humphie." "what has he got there?" asked sir everard of jane. "some ears of corn, i think, sir everard," answered jane; "it's some that belonged to master humphrey, and he says no one shan't touch it but himself. i heard him say he had found it in a corner of the nursery, and that master humphrey must have put it there, and forgotten it, for that he had meant to plant it in his garden." sir everard did not answer: he stooped over the little sleeper, and kissed him again tenderly. "whatever you do, don't wake him," he whispered; "let him sleep as long as ever he can." he left the room; and as he went down-stairs the children's conversation in the cornfield that sunday afternoon recurred to him, and he could not help making a mental comparison between the young corn and the young life, both so suddenly uprooted from the earth. meeting the doctor in the hall, he briefly communicated the physicians' opinion, and begged him to make it known to the household. to announce it himself, he felt to be impossible. he found the worn-out child in a heavy sleep when he reached the drawing-room; there was nothing to draw his thoughts from the subject upon which they had been dwelling, and he found himself going over and over the scene in the corn-field. he seemed to see and hear it all with startling distinctness. wherever he looked, he saw humphrey sitting on the top of the gate with the ears of corn in his destroying hand and miles looking sorrowfully up at him. he could not bear it at last, and walked up and down the room, to get it out of his head. but even then their voices rang in his ears, and filled him with pain. "never mind, miles," sounded in clear bell-like tones the voice which would never rise above a whisper again. "i will plant them in the sunny bit of our own garden, where the soil is much better than here, and where they will grow much finer than if they had been left to ripen with the rest. perhaps they will thank me some day for having pulled them out of the rough field, and planted them in such a much more beautiful place." but he might have found comfort instead of pain in the words, had he followed out the metaphor which had been floating in his head. for would not the child one day thank death, the destroyer; who in uprooting him fresh and green from the earth, would transplant him to the rich soil of god's own garden; where, in the sunshine of his maker's presence, he should ripen into that perfection, which is unknown among the children of men? for natures like humphrey's are not fit for this rough world. such a capacity for sorrow has no rest here, and such a capability for enjoyment is fittest to find its happiness in those all-perfect pleasures which are at god's right hand for evermore. * * * * * * * * * humphrey was seldom conscious during the days that followed. he was either in heavy sleep, or incoherent rambling. he would lie talking to his mother's picture in a whisper; going over games and conversations with miles; or wandering on unintelligibly to himself. whenever he was aware of his father's presence, he would complain of a curious noise in his head, and ask what the rushing and singing in his ears meant; but before he got an answer, he would ramble off again, and take no notice of what was passing around him. sir everard, sitting for hours by his bedside, often thought of the boy's allusions to his mother's picture, and of the look with which humphrey had greeted his inquiry as to how he had known it was she. many words that at times dropped from the child, puzzled him, and he often longed to question him on the subject. seeing one night a gleam of consciousness in the dark eyes, he went closer to the sofa, and tried to attract the boy's attention. "what are you thinking about, humphrey?" "mother," he answered, in a faint voice; "when is she coming to fetch me?" but before there was time for an answer, he was overcome by his usual drowsiness, and sir everard's opportunity was gone. but perhaps what bewildered him most was the way in which the child had prayed to be allowed to die. to sir everard, with his one-sided view of the boy, it was all such an enigma. here was a child who had always seemed so entirely taken up with the pleasures of the passing moment, that his past and future were alike merged in the enjoyment of the present--a creature on whom sorrow and loss had produced no permanent impression passing over him, as it were, only to leave him more gay, more heedless than ever. _permanent_ impression! why, as far as sir everard knew, they had produced no impression at all! five days after his mother's death, he had seen him romping and playing as usual, and from that day to this, her name had never passed his lips! and _now_ he talked of her as if her memory were very fresh and familiar; and looked upon death as calmly as if he had been contemplating it all his life. what did it mean? when had he thought upon such things? how was it that he, who had enjoyed to the full the pleasures of his young life, should be so ready to renounce them all? sir everard was fairly baffled, as he asked himself the question over and over again. is it, then, so difficult to understand? sir everard should have gone to wordsworth, and learnt his lesson there. "children," he says, "are blest and powerful:-- "their world lies more justly balanced, _partly at their feet, and part far from them_." this is the answer to the question. a child lives, no doubt, in his surroundings throws himself heart and soul into the pleasures or the sorrows of the moment; and is immersed in the interests of the path which lies straight before him. but this is not all. talk to any child for a few minutes, and see, if, in the description of his hopes and joys some such phrases as these do not occur: "when i get big;" "when i am a man;" "some day when i am older." he is looking for something else; he is reaching on to some state he knows not of, but which is to be more perfect than his present one. "sweetest melodies are those that are by distance made more sweet" there is something else waiting for him--worlds not realized--glories as yet unknown. in what will consist their charm, he knows not; but the vague is the possible, and the unknown is the glorious. so, perhaps, the "land which is very far off" is more present to him than it is to those of riper years; not so much more shadowy than any other part of the transcendent future lying before him. a child's world is so full of mystery too. everything is so wonderful and unexplained, that the "things unseen and eternal" are scarcely more incomprehensible than the things unseen and temporal. where everything is so strange, one thing is not much more strange than another. look how many inexplicable things are occurring every day around him. take the mysteries of birth and death, for instance. how soon he grows familiar with them. in a few days, the new little brother or sister seems as though it had always been there; and when the loss does not occur _in_ the house, or affect him very nearly, he seldom asks questions after the rush that follows the first announcement, but contents himself with a general résumé of the occurrence in some such a train of thought as this: "poor mamma was crying yesterday; and we are all going to have black frocks." he takes everything upon trust, believing implicitly everything which is told him: he never cavils or argues, or reasons. he believes his elders infallible--in fact, he must: have they not proved right over and over again? not being able to understand, he _must_ trust; and to a boundless faith and a vivid imagination _all_ things are possible! * * * * * it may be that some such ideas as these did at last float across the mind of sir everard, as he sat by the boy, who from first to last had been misunderstood. one day humphrey woke with a start, as if from a dream, and said eagerly: "didn't you promise they shouldn't make me well?" "yes, my darling." "i thought for a moment--or i dreamt--that i was getting well--and--it was----" "it was what?" asked sir everard, trembling lest a wish for life should be springing up in the boy's breast, and that the regrets, whose non-existence he had marvelled at, should be going to overpower him at last. "it was so horrible!" said the boy. strange that we should be subject to such sudden revulsions of feeling! the very words which set the father's mind at rest, jarred upon his feelings, and before he was aware, he had said, almost reproachfully, "horrible, humphrey! to stay with me?" "you forget, father--you forget what i should be." "but i would have made it so happy for you, my little humphrey," burst from sir everard. "you should never----" he stopped, for there was a far-away look in the boy's eyes, and he was gazing intently at the picture. sir everard thought he was not listening. but in a few minutes he spoke. "i am thinking i should not have minded it so much, if mother were here. i could lie in her arms all day, like i used then (pointing to the picture); but now----" "you could lie in my arms, my darling." "in _yours_, father? you've always got miles. you never take _me_ in your arms." "i didn't ever think you would care to come, my little humphrey." "oh! but i often should though; only i knew you would rather have him." "oh! hush! hush! when have you wanted to come?" "well, not so _very_ often, father--only sometimes--a good while ago." "but, my child, i would just as soon have had you as miles. i only take him because he is so small. why do you say i would rather have him?" "i thought so, father, because you smiled quite differently when you looked at him, and called him your darling much more than you did me, and kissed him--oh! so much oftener." sir everard could have implored the child to stop. he took the thin hand in his and caressed it. "miles is such a baby you know. i did not think you would be jealous of him." "jealous?" said humphrey, rather puzzled; "jealous means angry--doesn't it?" "well--yes; i suppose it does." "oh, then, i wasn't jealous," said the boy, earnestly, "because i never was angry. poor little miles couldn't remember mother, you see, and i could--so it was quite fair. only now and then--sometimes it----" "what, dear boy?" "it made me want mother so _dreadfully_," said humphrey, his eyes filling with tears. "but now," he added, dreamily, for the drowsiness was beginning to overpower him, again, "i'm going to her, or at least god's going to send her to fetch me." and he closed his heavy eyes. sir everard sat on, meditating. he mused on the by-gone time when his wife had told him humphrey was as loving as miles and he had inwardly denied it; he mused on the responsibility of bringing up children, and the necessity of living constantly with them to hope to understand the complications of their characters; and sadly he reflected on the irreparable loss his children had sustained in the mother, who would have done it all so well. he was not a morbid man, and he did not reproach himself for what had been unavoidable; for a man belongs more to the world than to his home; and his home ought not to throw any hindrance in his path of usefulness. but he told himself plainly that he had failed; that, satisfied if his children were well and happy, he had been content to go no further, and to remain in ignorance of all that humphrey's simple words had disclosed. he was filled with admiration for the generous nature which had borne so patiently to see another preferred, and had charmed away the feeling which _had_ arisen sometimes, by the reflection, "it is quite fair." he thought how the same circumstances acting upon a different temperament might have produced jealousy, discontent, and bitter feeling; the little brothers might have grown up to hate each other, and he would never have perceived it. and with an uncontrollable feeling he knelt down by the bedside, and covered the child with kisses. humphrey opened his eyes and smiled. "i was dreaming of mother," he said; "she was asking me if you had sent her any message." "tell her, my darling, how much i love you, and how sorry i am to let you go." "so sorry to let me go," he repeated, with the old expression of triumph coming into his face; "and that you love me very much; as much as miles, shall i say." "as much as miles," said sir everard. "and that's quite true, father?" "quite true, my own precious child." a smile flitted over his face, and he shut his eyes, saying, "i've often forgotten your messages before, father, but i shan't forget this one!" * * * * * presently he roused up again, and said, "i should like to do that thing people do before they die." "what thing?" "i forget the name of it in english. in french it is the same as the gospels and epistles." "the same as the gospels and epistles? what can you mean?" "virginie calls them 'le noveau testament.' what's the english for that?" "new testament." "but what's testament in english? i can't remember words now." "testament in english? oh! will." "oh, yes!--will--that's it. well, i want to make my will; will you write it down as i say it?" sir everard fetched some writing materials, and drew a little table to the bedside. humphrey dictated. "in large letters first, father, write-- "humphrey's will "i leave my knife with the two blades to miles. one of the blades is broken, but the other is quite good, and virginie needn't be afraid of his hurting himself, because it has been quite blunt and rusty ever since i cut carlo's nails with it, and left it out all night in the rain. and dolly must take care of my garden, and not let the flowers die. and father, you're to have my prayer-book and my microscope; and i suppose i must leave virginie my little gold pin, because she's asked me for it so often, and i shall never grow up now to be a man, and wear it with a blue scarf, like i always meant to. and dolly may have one of my books. i don't think she would understand 'peter parley,' so perhaps it had better be the 'boy hunters.' then there's the ferret, and the guinea-pigs, and the rabbits. i think dolly shall have them too, because i know she'll take care of them. what else have i got? oh, yes! there's my fishing-rod, and my skates, and my cricket things, all those are for miles. i've got twopence somewhere; i don't exactly know where, but give them to lame tom in the village; and tell him i'm more sorry for him than ever now. and will somebody be kind to my poor jackdaw? i know you all think him very ugly, and he _is_ cross, and he _does_ peck, but please, for my sake, take care of him, because i'm the only friend he has in the world, and now i'm going to leave him. perhaps lame tom had better have him, because he'll understand better than any of you, how sad it is to be--lame--and obliged to be still in one place all day. my little sweet-pea in the nursery window is for jane. it takes a great deal of water. i used to pump my whole little pump of water on it four or five times a day. it never was strong, that little sweet-pea. sometimes i think it had _too_ much water. but jane will settle that. "well! i think that's all. good-bye everybody." "have you put 'good-bye everybody?'" he asked, eagerly. "yes," answered sir everard, vainly endeavoring to steady his voice, "i have put it, dear. is there anything more?" "don't people write their names, father? could i write mine, do you think, myself?" "i don't think so, my darling," his father returned, in the same husky tone; "but i will write them for you." "all of them, please, father--humphrey, and everard, and charles. isn't it a lot!" exclaimed humphrey, with a touch of his old merriment. "there it is in full," said sir everard; "humphrey everard charles duncombe." "may i try and make a mark, father?" "if you like, dear," said the father, sadly; for he knew it was impossible that the poor little hand and arm should perform such an office, and humphrey saw it himself directly he tried to move, and abandoned the attempt of his own accord. "now hide it away somewhere, father," he exclaimed, eagerly, "for no one must read it yet. i'm glad i've made my will," he added, as, with a sigh of weariness, for he was worn out by so much talking, he closed his eyes, and disposed himself to sleep. half-an-hour after, a letter was put into sir everard's hand. it was from his brother-in-law, and contained these few lines: "my dear everard,--i have a few days to spare, and will come down to wareham on my way to portsmouth. tell humphrey i hope to be in time for his harvest home, and beg him to find me a pretty partner. "yours, etc." sir everard turned the letter over to look at the date. it could not surely be the answer to his letter! but on examining the post-mark, he found that it had been written some days previously from portsmouth, and that it was directed to his club in london, from whence it had been forwarded. "he has never got mine," he reflected, "poor fellow! what a shock it will be when he arrives." at that very moment uncle charlie was reading sir everard's letter at an hotel in london. it dropped from his hand, and he remained wrapped in sad meditation. "too late to-night," he said at last, looking at his watch, "but by the first train to-morrow morning." he roused himself, and went to the window. there, looking down upon the ceaseless stream of carriages in the busy street below, his thoughts reverted to the sunday at wareham, and the boy's strength and beauty. he thought of him as he had last seen him, radiant with health and spirits, waving his hat on the door-step as the dog-cart drove away. but perhaps recollection brought the child most clearly before him creeping up his leg, when he came to say "good-night," and begging for more stories on the morrow. "going to-morrow! what a short visit!" "i will pay you a longer visit next time." "but when will next time be?" "yes, when will next time be?" * * * * * * * * "ah! when indeed?" sighed uncle charlie. chapter xvii. brightly rose the week which had been fixed for the harvest home, but it was welcomed by no festivities in the fields and meadows of wareham abbey. the flags and tents which had been prepared were stored away again; the holiday dresses were put by unfinished; dolly, the laundry-maid, hid away, with a great sob, the flaming yellow print with a red spot she had been all the way to the market town to buy; and village mothers, standing in groups at their cottage doors, whispered together with tearful eyes, and made faint attempts to keep their own restless boys in sight. there was mourning far and wide for the young life that was passing away, and rough voices faltered as they spoke of the bright face and ringing laugh which should be known no more among them. humphrey was sinking rapidly; but like a lamp which, before it goes finally out, flickers into something like a bright flame, did his brain, after those many days of wandering unconsciousness, seem to regain something of its wonted vigor. "what does it mean?" he asked his father over and over again, whenever he opened his eyes. "what does what mean, my darling?" "why, this funny noise here"--touching his head. "it means that your poor head aches." "oh! but it means something else; it's a sort of rushing and singing noise, always rushing and singing. what is it like? do help me to remember!" sir everard racked his brain to satisfy the poor little questioner, but to no purpose. "you're not trying, father," said the little fellow peevishly. sir everard wondered to himself whether the child could be thinking of the rushing of water in the ears described by people rescued from drowning, and answered-- "is it like the sound of water?" "yes, yes!" exclaimed humphrey; "it's like the sound----," he stopped, and then added, "of many waters." he seemed struck by his own words. "what is that, father? where have i heard that? what is it like?" sir everard thought he had satisfied him, and was distressed to hear the question again, fearing he would exhaust himself by so much talk. "i told you before, darling, it is like a sound of water." "that's all wrong," he said, mournfully, half crying, "it's not _water_, it's _waters_--many waters." "yes, yes, my child," said sir everard soothingly, alarmed at his agitation. "but say it again, father; say it right through." sir everard repeated, "a sound of many waters." "there!" exclaimed humphrey, "_now_ what is it? you must know what it means now!" sir everard was more puzzled than ever, having thought that they had come to an end of the discussion. "i _really_ don't know, my boy!" "if _you'd_ got a sound of many waters in your head, father, you'd like to hear what it means! oh, where did i hear all about it? where have i been? who was near me? you were there, father, i know, for i remember your face; and all the while somebody was telling us what the rushing and singing in my head means!" sir everard thought the boy was wandering, and did not try to answer him any more. he was accustomed to sit for hours by the bedside, while humphrey rambled incoherently on. it was no use trying to follow the poor little brain through the mazes of thought into which it now plunged. presently humphrey startled him by saying-- "what does charlie mean?" "well, nothing particular, darling." "but it does, it does," said the child. "does it mean the same thing as a sound of many waters?" "yes, yes," said his father, still thinking he was wandering. "then if i say 'a sound of charlie,'" said humphrey, "it means the same as 'a sound of rushing and singing in my head?'" "no, no, dear," answered sir everard, surprised to find him so rational. "why, you said 'yes,' just now," said the child, with a sob. "if you tell stories, father, you'll go to hell like.... _who_ was it told stories about the wild men's dinner party?" he concluded, excitedly. "uncle charlie," answered his father, "but he didn't tell stories, dear, it was only a joke." he turned his head away as he spoke, for the mention of the dinner-party brought up the image of the boy bursting into the library full of life and health and beauty, and the contrast with the little worn-out figure lying on the bed overcame him for a moment. but the latter part of the speech, and his father's emotion, were lost upon humphrey and he only repeated to himself over and over again, "uncle charlie, uncle charlie. is that what i mean? what is uncle charlie? who is uncle charlie?" at this moment there is a sound as of an arrival; voices and footsteps outside; but humphrey hears them not. some one knocks at the library door. one of the maids in the distance steals gently towards it, for sir everard holds up his hand to enforce silence, hoping that the busy brain may get a few moments' rest. the door opens, and a young man enters. sir everard rises, and goes to meet him. after a few moments' whispered conversation, both advance noiselessly to the sofa, and stand looking at the little face on the pillow with its closed eyes. closed, but not sleeping. the weary brain is trying to rake up, from its fragmentary recollections of the past, something that may throw a light on his present perplexities. dim, confused figures flit across the stage of his fancy, glimmer, and disappear. "stop!" he cries feebly, as if the moving shadows wearied his brain; "oh, please stand still!" roused by the sound of his own voice, he opens his eyes, and, ere he closes them again, fixes them for a moment on the form standing by his bedside. hush! do not break the spell! the mists are clearing, the shadows becoming more distinct. from the fleeting chaos before him one figure now stands out more clear, more immovable than the rest--the figure of a tall, fair man. hush! he has found the clue! the grey walls of the old church are rising around him; the sides of the old pew are towering above him. just in front of him is the large prayer-book, surmounted by the monogram "adelaide," and by his side the tall, fair man! hush it is all coming back now. in the distance sits his father, with his legs crossed, and his head turned towards the pulpit, where stands the old clergyman, with his bible in his hand. breathlessly the boy listens for the words he longs to hear; but no sound comes from the lips of the preacher. disappointment comes down upon his spirit, when, in his vision, the figure sitting by him takes out a pencil, and underlines something in his bible. "of course," cries humphrey out loud, "he knows; he can tell me. uncle charlie!" the real figure by the bedside starts and comes forward, but sir everard holds him back. "he is only dreaming, don't disturb him." "it _was_ uncle charlie," murmurs humphrey; "and he can tell me. many waters and a pencil and a bible ... and uncle charlie sitting there ... and then ... there came in his face...." to the consternation of the by-standers, humphrey went off into fits of weak laughter. the association of ideas recalled another circumstance; his mind has wandered away from the point on which it was fixed, and he is watching again the encounter between his uncle and the wasp. "he'll be stung!" he cries, shaking with laughter, and he puts his wasted hand to his mouth, as if he knew he was in church, and ought to check himself. the figure by the bedside turns to sir everard, and whispers, but the only answer is-- "nothing but a dream. for god's sake do not awake him." thoroughly exhausted, humphrey is lying still again, but now his mind is once more perturbed, for his uncle's figure has disappeared from his vision, and he tries to conjure it before him in vain. "he is gone!" he exclaims, with a sob, "just as i was going to ask him. oh, come back, come back, uncle charlie!" some one kneels by his side, some one lays a hand on his brow and he opens his eyes with a start. the church, the pew, the prayer-book--all are gone--but in their place--his uncle! "oh, uncle charlie!" sobbed the child, trying to throw his feeble arms round his neck, "is it really you? where do you come from? _you'll_ tell me all about it; _you'll_ help me to remember!" "tell you what, my dear, dear little fellow?" "i don't know what! i can't tell what! it's something i want to remember, and i don't know what it is!" "what was it like?" asked uncle charlie. "it was like a church," answered humphrey, excitedly, "and it was like a summer's morning, and you and me and father sitting still, while somebody was telling us what the sound in my head means. i _can't_ remember what he said, but if i _only_ could i shouldn't mind the rushing and singing a bit; for when i heard it that time, everything about it was happy, and bright, and beautiful. but you were there, uncle charlie, and you must know, for you wrote something down about it." "i told you so, everard," said the young man to his brother-in-law; "i knew he was trying to remember the sermon on the revelations we heard the sunday i was down here." "but you're not telling me, uncle charlie," sobbed humphrey. "i will, my boy, i will; but you must let me go and fetch my bible, for i don't remember the words exactly." "must you go?" faintly uttered humphrey. "oh, don't go, uncle charlie; you'll disappear like you did just now, and perhaps never come back again." uncle charlie reassured him, and gently disengaged himself from his grasp. "be quick! be quick!" panted the child, and his voice failed him with his excitement. sir everard tried to soothe him, and hoped he would be quiet. but a few minutes after his uncle was gone, it became evident that humphrey was struggling to say something before his uncle should return. his excitement and exhaustion made him more incoherent than usual, and after once or twice repeating his uncle's name, his voice failed altogether, and though his white lips moved, no sound came. sir everard was greatly distressed; the boy fixed his eye so pleadingly on him, he was so earnest in what he was trying to say, that it went to the father's heart not to be able to understand him. he strained every nerve to catch the words, but in vain. the excitement of hearing his uncle returning gave humphrey a momentary strength, and he held his father's hand with all the strength he could muster, and said, "promise!" "i promise, my darling," said sir everard, hastily, too thankful to catch even a word. and nobody ever knew that the boy's last request had been that never, never was his uncle to know that it was his story that had first made him think of the branch that stretched over the pond where the water-lilies grew. quite worn out he allowed himself to be laid back upon his pillow, and with closed eyes waited while his uncle opened the bible and found the underlined passage:-- "and i heard a voice from heaven as the voice of many waters ... and i heard the harpers harping with their harps. and they sang as it were a new song ... and no man could learn that song, but the hundred and forty and four thousand which were redeemed from the earth." * * * * * * no more restless questions, no more perplexed search after what is lying somewhere in the past. he did not speak, he did not answer his father's eager enquiry as to whether that was what he had been trying to remember; and he lay so still, so motionless, that for one moment they thought he had passed away without hearing the words he had longed for. but the unsatisfied look had gone from his face, and his father saw that his mind was at rest. he was breathing gently as in a deep sleep. that is all the watchers saw. and the child himself! how shall we attempt to follow the hazy imaginings of his weak and wandering mind? dreamily are returning to him the thoughts which had possession of him that summer sunday as he sat in his corner in the old grey church. visions of beauty are floating before him, evoked that day in his mind by the powerful imagery of scripture; now recalled by association: the material joys which form a child's idea of heaven--the gates, and the harps, and the angels. dim conceptions of white-robed thousands wandering in the golden jerusalem, by the jasper sea. not strange to him that throng of angels, for foremost among them all, more beautiful than any, is the figure of his mother, standing as in the picture, looking down upon him with a smile. heaven to him is peopled with her image, for he has no other notion of all that is fair and holy. in that great multitude whom no man can number, there is not one that can be called a stranger, all have the soft eyes and the familiar smile. what recks he more of the throbbing and singing in his aching head--the sounds as of rushing waters? is it not all explained? it is the voice of many waters and the voice of the great multitude, singing the wondrous song which only they can sing! the preacher heard it that sunday morning; did he not say, "i heard a voice from heaven"? and humphrey hears it now! imperfectly as yet it sounds upon his ear, faintly the echoes are borne to him, but it will sound more clearly soon! it was not in vain that the old clergyman had warmed and glowed with his subject, and by the very earnestness of his own feeling carried his little hearer with him; for his words, though they had lain dormant during the weeks which followed, apparently wasted and forgotten, were, by the power of association, rising when they were needed to bless and soothe his death-bed. faint is the heart of the preacher, oftentimes, as he watches his congregation disperse; for he fears that his words, even though they chained the minds of his hearers for the moment, will pass away as they pass the threshold, and be lost in the worldly interests which meet them at the very door. and yet it may be, that all unknown to him, perhaps in the very hearts he would least have expected, his words have taken root, and will bear fruit some day. deep silence reigned in the room, while the two men watched the child. it was very long before he spoke again, but when he did, it was evident that he was not himself. "it is getting very dark," he murmured, and sir everard's heart sank within him, for the sun was only just beginning to set. "it is time for us to go to bed. where's miles?" for a few brief moments the throbbing has ceased, and with its cessation, voices and visions have fled away. sir everard stole away to fetch the little fellow, and found him in his nightgown repeating his evening prayer to virginie. with a few hasty explanations, sir everard took him in his arms, and carried him away. "but, fardie," said miles, as they hurried downstairs "i hadn't quite finished; i have not said my hymn." "never mind, darling! you shall say it to humphrey to-night." he carried him gently into the drawing room, and set him down upon the sofa. miles was frightened at the silence and darkness, and nestled up closer to his brother. "humphie! humphie! wake up and give me your hand." "don't be frightened, miles," murmured humphrey, dreamily: "come close to me, i'll take care of you." he strove to move to the edge of the sofa, as if he thought his little brother's bed was close up against it, and he threw his feeble arm round miles in the dear old protecting way. "we won't talk much to-night, miles, because i'm so very sleepy. good-night." he said something faintly about seeing his mother, but miles couldn't catch the words. "didn't quite understand, humphie." something of a movement of impatience passed over humphrey's face. "of course you don't--because--you can't--remember her." "no," said little miles, meekly, "but you'll tell me, humphie?" "to-morrow," he murmured, "i shall be able to explain--better--to-morrow--good-night--good-night." and in the silence that reigned, every one present heard the little brothers exchange their last kiss. * * * * * * * * "i can't see them," said sir everard, huskily; "some one draw up the blind." the setting sun outside was illumining the landscape ere it sank to rest, and shedding its beams on the haunts and the companions of the boy's young life. on the lambs he had chased in the meadows, on the birds he had watched since they had learned to fly, on the fields and the gardens which seemed so empty without him, it was shining with a softened glow;--but it seemed to have reserved its richest glory for the children, for, as the blind went slowly up, such a flood of light poured into the room, that the eyes of the father were dazzled, and it was some minutes before he could distinguish them. there, in the golden sunset, they lay. the sun kissed their little faces, and touched with a loving hand their curly hair. it lingered lovingly round them, as if it knew that the lambs would be frisking when it rose again, the birds would welcome it with their glad song; but that never again would it rest on the nestling forms and clasped hands of the two little brothers! sir everard, bending over them, saw a troubled expression over humphrey's face. "what can it be that ails the child?" he mentally questioned; "is it physical pain, or is something troubling his thoughts? is the fear of death coming over him?" he did not like to speak for fear of disturbing him, but as the look deepened almost to pain, he could not restrain himself any longer. "humphrey, my darling," he exclaimed, in his longing to do something, be it ever so little, to soothe his boy's dying hour, "what is it? what can i do for you?" nothing! with all his love and all his yearning, nothing! for surging once more in the boy's brain is the noise as of rushing and singing, and with its sound a fear has risen in his breast. shall he ever, ever catch the music of that wondrous song? doubts of his own power to learn it are troubling his wandering thoughts; dim misgivings that _children_ can not learn it, founded on his own inability to follow the singing in church. always too soon or too late! _do_ children ever learn it? "'and no _man_ could learn that song save the hundred and forty and four ...' nothing about children _there_!" vain is the father's endeavor to reach a trouble of this kind; vainly, bending over him, does he seek to discover its cause, in his longings to remove or alleviate it. is the child, then, to pass away uneasy, with a cloud upon his happiness; or must a miracle be worked in his favor? must heaven open and show him the army of innocents standing at the right hand of god? no. god's ways are not as our ways: infinite in power, he yet reveals himself by the simplest means. as once before he sent the child consolation so will he send it now. as once before, not by signs and wonders, but by the gift of sleep, so now, not by miracles and visions, but by the voice of his baby brother. "talk to me, humphie. don't go to sleep yet. i haven't said my hymn. fardie said i might say it to you to-night. shall i say it now?" without waiting for an answer, miles raised himself on his knees, and put his little hands together. then arose the sound of the baby voice: "around the throne of god in heaven thousands of children stand; children whose sins are all forgiven, a holy, happy band. singing glory, glory, glory." * * * * * faster and louder comes the rushing and singing, but the misgiving is lulled to rest. faster and faster, louder and louder, surging around him. but hushed are the doubts at once and for ever, and the fear has vanished away! loud in his brain sounds the song of the children, throbbing there almost to pain; beating so loud as to stun and confuse him. everything seems to be turning and whirling; and, as if to save himself, he opens his eyes. on what a sight did they fall! there, close before him, bathed in light, and a glory round her brow stands the figure of his mother, looking down upon him with a smile. and with a glad smile of welcome he stretched out his arms, and cried, "has god sent you to fetch me at last, mother? oh, mother, i'll come! i'll come!" * * * * * those who were standing round, saw only the expression of pain change to the old sunny smile. his lips moved, and he lifted his arms, as his eyes were raised for a moment, to the picture above him, on which the sun was pouring a dazzling light. they closed; but the smile, intensely radiant, lingered about the parted lips; the short breathing grew shorter ... stopped ... and then.... "it's no use my saying the rest," said little miles in a whisper, "for humphie has gone to sleep." _finis._ [frontispiece: "milk, an' sugar if you have it"] cecilia of the pink roses by katharine haviland taylor illustrated by may wilson preston new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, , by george h. doran company copyright, , by the curtis publishing company. printed in the united states of america to my dear mother source of my inner pink roses contents chapter i where is gawd? ii the vision of a promised land iii the first step into canaan iv learning v disgrace vi a hint of pink vii santa claus viii a little touch of the man with the hour glass ix home x my best friend xi acceptance xii pain xiii a request xiv pink xv firelight xvi the mystery xvii a relapse xviii forgiveness xix spring xx pulling off the thorns xxi pink roses cecilia of the pink roses chapter i where is gawd? the madden flat was hot and the smell of frying potatoes filled it. two or three flies buzzed tirelessly here and there, now and again landing with sticky clingingness on a small boy of four who screamed with their advent. when this happened a girl of seven stepped from the stove and shooed them away, saying: "aw now, johnny!" and johnny would quiet. the perspiration stood out on her upper lip and there were shadows, deeper than even irish ones should be, beneath her eyes. the sun beat in cruelly at one window which was minus a shade. at another the shade was torn and run up crookedly. in the hall there was the sound of a scuffle, then a smart slap, and a child's whimpering wail. "what's--that?" came in a feeble voice from the bedroom off the kitchen. "it's the new gent in the flat across whackin' his kid," answered the small girl. "oh," was the weak answer, and again there was quiet, broken by the sizzle of hot fat, the tireless buzz of the flies, and now and then the little boy's cry. "here, johnny," commanded the small maiden, "come have your face washed off." johnny objected. she picked him up with decision, and set him on the table with resounding emphasis, where he screamed loudly during the rite. the door opened. a man in overalls came in. "hello, paw," said cecilia evangeline agnes madden. he answered her with a grunt and kicked off his heavy shoes. "gawd, it's hot!" he said with his first contribution to the conversation. "two dagos got sunstruck. one of 'em he just went like a goldfish outa water, keeled over, then flop,--flop. the boss he up an'--" "supper, paw," said cecilia. she pushed a chair up to the oil-clothed table, and the man settled, beginning to eat loudly. he stopped and pointed with his knife to the bedroom door. "how's she?" he asked in a grating whisper. "she ain't so good," answered the small girl. her eyes filled with tears and she turned away her face. "maw--maw--maw!" cried johnny. "aw now!" said his sister while she picked up his hot little person to comfort him. "maw--maw!" he echoed. cecilia looked up. her eyes were like those of a small dog that has been whipped. "i ain't the same," she said across his brick-dust curls. "he wants _her_, i ain't the same. i do my best, but i ain't her." the man laid aside his knife. he set his teeth on his lower lip, and then he asked a question as if afraid to. "has the doctor been here?" "yes," answered cecilia. "whatud he say?" "he sez she wasn't so good. he sez she wouldn't be no better 'til the weather was cooler an'--" "celie!" came in the voice from the bedroom. cecilia put down johnny. "yes, maw," she answered gently. "celie!" came again in almost a scream. celie vanished. she reappeared in a few moments. she was whiter than before. "she throwed up fierce," she said to her father; "something fierce, an' all black. don't you want no coffee?" the man shook his head. he reached for his shoes. "where yuh goin'?" asked cecilia. "doctor's," she was answered. he went into the bedroom. "well, old woman," he said loudly, "how yuh feelin', better?" the thin creature on the bed nodded, and tried to smile. the smile was rather dreadful, for it pulled long lines instead of bringing dimples. her blue lips stretched and the lower cracked. a drop of blood stood out on it. "gawd, it was hot to-day," said the man. he settled by her bed in a broken-backed chair. she stretched out a thin hand toward him. "mary--!" he said, then choked. "aw, jerry!" said the woman. in her voice was little cecilia's tone of patience, with the lilt removed by a too hard life. "do yuh feel _some_ better?" he entreated. "sure--i do. gimme that glass of water--" she drank a mouthful and again vomited rackingly. "oh, gawd!" said jeremiah madden. he laid a rough hand on her forehead and she pulled it down against her cheek. "jerry," she said between long gasps, "i been happy. i want you should always remember that i been happy. awful happy, jerry." "oh, gawd, mary!" said the man. "if i'd a knew how hard you'd a had to work, i wouldn't have brung yuh!" "don't!" she begged. "don't say that!" she looked at him, time faded, and with it a hot and smelling flat. she stood on a wind-swept moor. jerry, only eighteen, stood by her. his arm was around her with that reverent touch that comes in irish love. "i'll send fer yuh," he'd said, "after i make me fortune in america." she had cried and clung to him. with her touch, reason and a rolling moor had faded for him. "i can't leave you," he had said, "i can't! mary, you come with me." and mary had come. those days had been beautiful.... but fortunes in america did not come as advertised. sometimes mary thought of green turf, and the gentle drip-drip of fog, like rain. that rain that came so often.... now she thought of it more than ever. she hoped that the virgin would allow her a little corner of heaven that would look like an irish moor.... the gold the priest talked of was "grand," but heresy or not, she wanted a bit of green, with the gentle drip of rain on it. jeremiah bent and kissed her. then he rubbed the spot of blood of her lip from his. "it wasn't no mistake," he said. her eyes grew moist. "jerry," she said, "celie is a good kid. she kin do fer yuh. ain't she, right along? she won't give yuh no trouble neither. but the kid--he ain't so easy. it's the kids growin' up in america better'n their folks, that go to the devil. watch him, jerry, watch him good. won't yuh now?" the man nodded; she closed her eyes. after a few moments that throbbed with the heat of the flat, she spoke again. "jerry," she said. "darlin'?" "it's this way, jerry. i always wanted to be a lady--" "yuh are!" he interrupted hotly. [illustration: "now laugh! paw's coming home and he needs all our laughs"] "no," she stated quietly, "i ain't, an' i always thought i could be. the irish learns fast. it's this way, jerry; if ever the time comes when you get money, you send celie to one of them schools that learns 'em french and drawin' and such, jerry, will yuh?" "before gawd, i will, mary. if i ever kin." she closed her eyes and slept quietly, clinging to his hand. the next day was sunday so jeremiah went to mass and heard it with especial intention. if his thoughts were more on the gentle saint slowly dying in a hot flat than on the gentle mother, who can blame him. jeremiah went from the baroqued church vastly comforted, and painfully aware of his sunday collar, which had rough edges. cecilia had rubbed soap on it, but it still scratched. outside jeremiah went, not in the direction of his home, but in the other. he passed a beggar's entreating wail, and then retraced his steps to bestow a penny,--and even pennies were not easily spared. jerry was still a little child at heart. he was courting divine favour. he needed god and all the saints on his side. after a brisk walk of many blocks he turned into a house with a doctor's sign on it. the office was crowded; he sat, outwardly submissive, to wait his turn. "blessed mother," he prayed, "make him mak'er well. mother of the saviour--" his thoughts were a chaos. "a gold heart!" he promised rashly, even while he remembered the unpaid grocer's bill. a woman with a pallid skin and hacking cough crept from the office. across from him a boy exhibited a burn to an interested neighbour. "blessed mother,--" entreated jeremiah, even while his eyes saw the burn and he wondered how it had happened. a crisp young person in white, who gave an impression of great coolness, said, "your turn next." jerry jumped and got up. two little girls, at the sheraton period in legs, giggled loudly at his jump, but jerry didn't notice. he stopped on the threshold of the inner office. he twirled his hat in his hands. "mister," he said, "it's my wife i come about." the doctor had been up all night. added to his fact was the fact that he was fitted, emotionally, to run a morgue. "name?" growled the doctor. jeremiah madden sank to a chair and told his name, of his wife, and how sick she was. he also interspersed a few facts about irish moors, love and business in america. and he ended with: "an my doc he sez' no one can save her but doctor van dorn. he's the cancer man of new york. the only one who can possibly save her! he sez that," repeated jeremiah. "oh fer gawd's sake, doc! i can't pay yuh now but--" the doctor swung about in his swivel chair. "my time is entirely mortgaged," he stated curtly. "i can't keep up to my work. your wife will probably die anyway; accept the inevitable. you couldn't pay me, and i haven't the time. all new york bothers me. good morning." he turned back to his desk. jeremiah went toward the door. his step was a blind shuffle. hand on the knob, he paused. "doc," he said, "i love her so, an' the little kids, they need her. i feel like she'd live if you'd help her. i promise i'd pay. all my life i'd pay an' thank gawd i could--" he stopped. the doctor moved his shoulders impatiently. "the virgin will reward yuh--" said jeremiah. "oh, doc! fer gawd's sake!" "good morning," answered the doctor with another impatient move of his shoulders. jeremiah left. a young person in crisp white said, "your turn next, madam." madam went in. "oh, doctor, my heart--" she began. the doctor got up to move her chair so that the light would not trouble her. jeremiah spent the morning in going from office to office. first he told the unfavourable report of his doctor. he met sympathy in some quarters, curt refusals in others, and worst of all he sometimes met: "cancer of the stomach? not much chance--" at half after one, sick from the sunlight of the cruelly hot streets, he turned into an office for his last try. he felt numb.... his tongue was thick. he looked with resentment on a well-dressed woman who waited opposite him. "flowers on her bunnit," he thought, "while my mary--" he thought of his hard labour and, with bitterness, of the "boss." he had never felt this way before. if he'd had money, he reflected, how quickly that first doctor would have helped him.... the other refusals had come from truer reasons. his own doctor's report, although jeremiah didn't realise this, had stopped all efforts. if the doctor had said no one but van dorn could help her, lord, what chance had they? this was their line of reason. jeremiah sat in the outer waiting room. at last his turn came. the doctor looked tired; he was gruff in his questions. "i'll come with you and look at her," he said at last. jeremiah felt a sob rise in his throat. the doctor rang a bell. "tell miss evelyn," he said to the maid who answered him, "that we'll have to give up our drive this afternoon. she's my little girl," he explained to jeremiah. "her mother's dead,--i don't see as much of her as i should. a doctor has no business with a family. i'm ready. come on." they went out by a back door, leaving an office full of patients. the sun was hot. jeremiah prayed fervently even while he answered the doctor's questions and responded to his pleasantries. at last they came to the building which held jeremiah's home. they mounted the long stairs. two or three children, playing on them, stopped their squabbling and looked after the doctor with awe. "he's got a baby in that case," said one, a fat little girl with aggressive pig-tails. "there is too many now," said a boy. "they don't all get fed, and they're all beat up fierce. our teacher in that there corner mission sez as how gawd is love. why don't he come down here an' love?" there was an awed silence after this. outright heresy as it was, the immediate descent of a thunderbolt was expected. upstairs jeremiah opened the door of the flat. the kitchen was full of women. several of them sobbed loudly.... johnny madden sat on the table, eating a piece of bread thickly spread with molasses. on seeing jeremiah the women were suddenly silent. jeremiah swayed and leaned against the door. the small cecilia heard him and came from the bedroom. "paw," she said, "i'll do all i kin fer yuh. i always will.... she was happy. she sez as how she seen green fields an' rain." jeremiah took her in his arms. he hid his face against her thin little shoulder. his shook. cecilia was very quiet. she had not cried. she looked over her father's head at the roomful of gaping women. something flashed across her face. her teeth set. "she always wanted a bunnit with pink roses on it," said cecilia. "i don't see why gawd didn't give her jest _one_." the man sobbed convulsively and cecilia remembered him. "she was happy," cecilia said in a less assured tone. "she sez as how she seen green fields with rain on 'em like ireland." chapter ii the vision of a promised land as mrs. madden had said, "the kids that grow up better than their folks go to the devil." cecilia felt this at eleven, for she was all of johnny's mother, and the role was a difficult one. she had learned to spat him and kiss him judiciously, and at the proper times. she had learned to understand his marble games and to coax him into attendance at catechism. cecilia had begun to understand a great many things at eleven that some of us never understand. one thing made learning easy for her,--she loved so greatly that she was often submerged into the loved, and so saw their viewpoint. "paw," said cecilia. she had turned about on the piano stool, and jeremiah looked up from his paper. "well?" he questioned. "i been thinking," she said, "that it would be genteel to ask the priest to supper. it ain't as though we hadn't a hired girl to do fer us, an' it would be polite." "that's so, that's so," said jeremiah. he laid aside his paper. "you're like your maw," he added. cecilia knew he was pleased. she smiled happily. "an' have ice-cream?" suggested the interested jeremiah. "yes," said cecilia, "an' chicken, an' fried potatoes, an' waffles, an' of course pie, an' biscuits, an' suchlike. i'd like to entertain father mcgowan, he's been good to us." "yes," answered jeremiah. they were both silent. the vision of an overcrowded and smelling flat had come to sober them. also the memory that always went with it.... "play me 'the shepherd boy,'" said jeremiah. he closed his eyes while cecilia banged it out in very uneven tempo, owing to difficulties in the bass. johnny came in. he sat down on a lounge covered with a green and red striped cloth. he looked at jeremiah with a supercilious expression. "the other fellahs' fathers wears their shoes in the house," he stated coldly. "the shepherd boy" stopped suddenly. cecilia went toward the "parlor." "johnny!" she called on reaching it. johnny followed meekly. the parlor was the torture chamber. when he went in cecilia put her hands on his shoulders. "johnny," she said in her gentle little way. "um?" he answered, wriggling beneath her hands. "johnny," she repeated, "it ain't polite to call down your paw." "but celie," objected john, "he ain't like the other fellahs' fathers. they wears collars an' shoes, _all_ the time." "i know, dear," said cecilia. "i know, but it ain't polite to call down your paw, an' nothing can make it so." "aw right," answered john sullenly. cecilia leaned over and kissed him. john didn't mind, "none of the fellahs being around." he went back to the living room. jeremiah had put on his shoes. he looked at johnny, awaiting his approval. "an' norah," said cecilia, excited to the point of hysteria, "you see that i get the plate with the crack in it, an' the glass with the piece outa it." "sure, i will," answered norah. "now go 'long." cecilia went to the dining room. they were going to eat there, because they were going to have company. norah was not going to sit down with them either. it was to be most formal and "elegant." and now for the decorations. cecilia put on two candlesticks, each at a corner of the table. they did not match, but why be particular? then she took a bunch of peonies, and, removing all foliage, jammed them tightly in a vase that had the shape of a petrified fibroid growth, and had accumulated gilt, and a seascape for decoration. "it looks bare," said cecilia. she went to her room and brought out a new hair-ribbon, worn only twice. she unearthed this from below a hat trimmed with pink roses. the hat was gorgeous and beautiful, but she could not wear it.... looking on "bunnits with pink roses on 'em" always made her a little sick. the hair-ribbon was tied around the vase in a huge bow. cecilia stood off to admire. "norah!" she called. norah appeared. "ain't that grand?" she commented. "now ain't it?" "well," answered cecilia, "i don't care if i do say it, i think it's pretty swell! norah, you use the blue glass butter dish, won't you?" "sure," answered norah, and then with mutters of waffle batter, she disappeared. cecilia stood a moment longer looking at the table in all its beauty. the plates were upside down. napkins (that all matched) stood upright in tumblers. the knives and forks were crossed in what was to cecilia the most artistic angle. "it's grand!" she said with a little catch in her breath. "just _swell_!" then with a backward glance, she vanished. "i hope paw'll like it," she muttered as she went upstairs. father mcgowan was a charming guest. he looked at the decorations and then on the small cecilia with softened eyes: "now i'll bet you fixed this beautiful table!" he said. cecilia nodded, speechless. she drew a long, shaky breath. life was so beautiful.... father mcgowan put his hand on her curls. (she sat next to him at the table.) his touch was very gentle. "good little woman?" inquired the priest of jeremiah. "she's maw and all to all of us," answered jeremiah. there was a silence while they ate. "this chicken," said father mcgowan, "is fine!" "it's too brown, i'm afraid," answered cecilia with the deprecatory attitude proper while speaking of one's own food. her father looked at her with pride. the priest's eyes twinkled. "paw," said cecilia, leaning across the table and putting her hand on her father's, "tell father mcgowan how yuh hit the boss on the ear with the brick." jeremiah sat back in his chair, first laying his knife and fork with the eating ends on the plate and the others on the cloth. he drew a long breath and told a long tale, at which the priest laughed heartily. he ended it thus: "an' i sez, 'i ain't _dee_pendent on no man. yuh can do yer own brick layin' an' here's one to start with!'" with that jerry had hit him on the ear. it was a dramatic tale, and one which made cecilia swell with pride over a wonderful paw! the priest leaned across the table. "have you a patent protection on those bricks?" he asked. "why, no," answered jeremiah. the priest talked long and fast. cecilia could not understand all of what he said, but he mentioned unusual qualities of jeremiah's product. his own knowledge of such things came through a brother in the same business. the necessity of a little risk and a big push. he talked loudly, and excitedly. he mentioned cecilia and john as the incentive to gain.... he spoke of what he knew to be true of jeremiah's product. jeremiah sat very silent. if what the priest said were true! they went to the living room, where, over a pitcher of beer, there was more talk, incomprehensible to cecilia. then the priest smiled, and said: "all right, jerry. in five years you'll be a millionaire. now, cecilia, i want to hear a piece." cecilia sat down to play "the shepherd boy." her fingers trembled so that it wasn't as good as usual, but the priest was pleased. then she left, and wiped the rest of the dishes for norah. norah said that the priest was a "swell talker" and that she hadn't minded the extra work. cecilia went up to bed very happy. she slipped out of her pink silk dress and hung it in the closet. as she reached up, a hat, all over bobbing roses, slid from the closet shelf to the floor. cecilia's smile faded. she put it back, and shut the door. chapter iii the first step into canaan cecilia stood in her bedroom in the new house. the paper in her bedroom was pink and hung in panels. at the top of each panel was a hip-diseased, and goitered cupid, who threw roses around,--roses that looked like frozen cabbages, and stuck in the air as if they'd been glued there. father madden had picked out the paper as a surprise for celie. when she had seen it she had gasped and then kissed him very hard. he had said, "there, celie, i knew you'd like it." after he had gone cecilia had looked around and said, "oh, dear--oh, dear!" roses always had made her sick, and even to cecilia, the paper was "pretty bad." and cecilia had kissed him hard and said she loved it. some one tapped on the door. "come," said cecilia. "father mcgowan's down," said norah with a point of her finger over her left shoulder. "an' the man's down with doughnuts, too." cecilia laughed. norah's mode of announcement always made people sound diseased. cecilia had a mental picture of a man in the throes of doughnuts--with them breaking out all over his person. "you can take a dozen and a half," said cecilia, referring to the doughnut-man, "because johnny likes them so." norah didn't move, but stood in the doorway surveying the tumbled room. a trunk stood in the centre, lid thrown back. from it exuded frills and tails. the bed was piled high with more frilly garb. norah sniffed loudly. suddenly, there were sobs and then she dissolved into many tears. "i dunno how we can do without yuh!" she explained in gulps. "me, and johnny and your paw. aw, _celie_!" cecilia put her arms around the troubled norah. she looked very near tears herself. "i would rather stay with you, but maw wanted me learned to be a lady," she said. her chin set. "i gotta do it," she added. "paw promised her." norah sniffed and took the apron from her face. "i know yuh gotta, dearie," she answered. celie put her arms around the damp norah. "norah," she said, "you will be very good to johnny and paw? when johnny wants paw to wear collars all the time, you take him out and give him doughnuts to divert him, will yuh?" norah nodded. she was sniffing again. "and, norah," went on celie, "don't let the new cook use the blue glass butter dish everyday." "n-no, dearie," answered norah. she still stood irresolute by the door. "celie," she said, "when they learn yuh to be a lady, don't let 'em learn yuh not to love us." "i'll _always_ love you all," answered cecilia. her eyes filled with tears, and she kissed norah. downstairs father mcgowan sat looking at a gilt cabinet decorated with forget-me-nots, and a variety of chrysanthemums never seen on sea or land. on the top shelf of the cabinet was a brick, lying on a red velvet bed. father mcgowan smiled and then sobered. he remembered a night three years past when he had pointed out possibilities to jeremiah madden, possibilities in the manufacture of the humble brick. the possibilities had amounted to more than even he had anticipated. sometimes he questioned what he had done.... his hope lay in cecilia. the boy, he was afraid, would not be helped by money. perhaps he'd turn out well. father mcgowan hoped so. he'd bet on cecilia anyway. she'd use money in the right way in a few more years. there was a rustle at the door. cecilia, in a new gown bought to wear at the "swell school," came in. "father mcgowan, dear!" she said. "cecilia madden, dear!" he answered. they both laughed, and then settled. "have you come to tell me to be a good girl at the swell school?" she questioned. the father was silent. he was looking at cecilia's dress. the dress was of purple silk with a green velvet vest. there were ribbons looped carelessly on its gorgeousness too. "little celie," said father mcgowan, "i want to tell you things and i can't. now if you had a mother! sometimes women do come in handy." cecilia nodded. "i want to tell you," said father mcgowan, looking hard at the brick, "not to be hurt if at first the girls are stand-offish like. that's their way." "oh, no," said cecilia. "i won't be, but i think they'll be nice. mrs. de pui says they're all of the best families with wonderful home advantages." "hum--" grunted father mcgowan. he did not seem much impressed. he still gave the brick his undivided attention. "and," he went on, "if you should get lonely, remember that there's one lady you can always tell your troubles to. she won't laugh, and she always listens." "oh, _yes_!" said cecilia, and she crossed herself. father mcgowan drew a long breath. "now," he said, "remember that if your clothes are different from theirs that your father has plenty of money to buy new ones for you. remember that. a penance is all right, but not at fourteen." "why, my clothes are beautiful!" said cecilia. she looked bewildered. "they're all silk and lace and velvet, and i haven't a low heeled pair of shoes. _french_ heels, father mcgowan, dear!" "cecilia madden, dear," said father mcgowan. his look was inscrutable. he laid a hand on her hair. his touch was very gentle. "most of all," he said, "remember never to be ashamed of your people, and always to love them. love those who love you. reason the truth out in your heart, and don't accept the standards of little miss millionairess, because she is that. understand?" "yes," replied cecilia, "i understand, but father mcgowan, i would always love paw. wearing shoes and collars in the house is just the trimmings," she stated bravely. "his heart is genteel." "saint cecilia!" said father mcgowan in a low voice, and then he muttered a few words in latin. cecilia did not understand them, but she bowed her head and crossed herself, and felt strong. after father mcgowan left she stood in front of a mirror admiring a purple silk dress with green velvet trimmings. "holy mary," she said with quickly closed eyes, "help me not to be too stuck on my clothes!" when she opened her eyes she looked into the mirror. "oh, it's grand!" she whispered. "i am almost pretty in it!" she drew a long, shaking breath. the room in which cecilia waited, while not at all like her home, impressed her. most of the furniture looked old, and some of it showed a cracking veneer. the clock especially needed repair. it was a grandfather one, and had inlaid figures of white wood on the dark. cecilia wondered vaguely if it couldn't be repaired and shone up? dilapidated as she thought the furnishing, yet it left an impress. two girls entered the room, they looked at cecilia and tried not to smile. cecilia wondered uncomfortably if her hat were on crooked, or whether her red silk petticoat hung out. they selected books from a low case with leisure, then left. outside the door cecilia heard them giggle. one of them said, "some one's cook." "every one has trouble with cooks," thought cecilia. then she looked down and forgot cooks. her shoes were so beautiful! pointed toes and high of heels. and her suit now, all over braid and buttons, with a touch of red here and there! even those giggling girls must have been impressed. their clothes had been so plain. cecilia pitied them. she decided to give them a "tasty" hair-ribbon now and then.... the waiting was so long. she wished mrs. de pui would come. she thought of paw and johnny and her eyes filled with hot tears. "oh," she thought miserably, "if johnny just won't reform paw! people are so happy when they aren't reforming or being reformed!" again she saw the station at which she'd started for boston, her father and johnny both sniffing. she was so glad she hadn't cried. she had so wanted to! her breath caught in her throat. "please, gawd," she made mental appeal, "make them learn me to be a lady quick!" weren't they _ever_ coming? the shabby clock tick-tick-ticked. the sun lowered and made more slanting rays on the floor. a maid, very smart in uniform, came in. she gave cecilia a guilty look, then said: "this way. mrs. de pui will see you upstairs." "yes, ma'am," answered cecilia. she followed humbly. the maid decided that her forgetfulness hadn't made much difference. she didn't think that _that_ would report her.... cecilia went upstairs after the slender black figure. her heart beat sickeningly. there were voices from the door at which the maid paused. cecilia saw some girls sitting around a table at which a white-haired woman was pouring tea. "oh," said cecilia impulsively, "i'm interrupting yuh at yer supper." "no," answered mrs. de pui, faintly smiling; "come in. you are cecilia?" cecilia nodded. somehow the sobs that had been kept in all day, were, at the first kind voice, very near the surface. the girls smiled at each other. cecilia wondered about her hat, or perhaps her petticoat hung out below her skirt? mrs. de pui motioned her to a chair. "annette," she said, "give our new friend some tea." "how do you take your tea?" questioned annette crisply. "milk," answered cecilia, "an' sugar if yuh have it." she reddened. of course they would have it. she wished she hadn't said that! she stared in acute embarrassment at her feet. some one gave her a cup of tea, some one else a sandwich. she dipped it in the tea, then she remembered that that was not proper and reddened again. at that move the young person called annette had suddenly choked and held her handkerchief over her mouth. the other girls looked into their cups, with the corners of their lips twitching. a fat and dumpy-looking girl seated a little out of the group looked at cecilia with sympathy. mrs. de pui spoke of a recent exhibition of water colours, with her well-bred tones trickling over the inanities she uttered, and making them sound like a reflection of thought.... even the sun looked cold to cecilia. "i wish i was back in the flat," she thought, and then: "i wonder if i can bear it!" chapter iv learning a month had passed. cecilia quite understood what father mcgowan had meant about clothes. cecilia wore no more french heels. she had taken down her hair and discarded her beautiful rhinestone hair-pins. father mcgowan too, it seemed, had been responsible for her admittance to the school. cecilia had found out from mrs. de pui that he had written a book! this astounding fact had been divulged after mrs. de pui, more than usually tried by cecilia, had said: "your entrance here has been rather difficult for me. you see, of course, that the other girls' advantages have not been yours?" "oh, yes, mrs. de pui," answered cecilia, and swallowed hard. "realising that, my dear," continued mrs. de pui, "i hope that you will do your utmost to develop a womanly sympathy, and broaden your character." cecilia said somewhat breathlessly that she would try to, very, very hard! "and," went on mrs. de pui, then coughed, "desist from the use of such words as 'elegant,'--'refined' (which, when used at all, is re_fine_d, not 'r_ee_fined'), and 'grand.' such words, my dear cecilia, are not used in----" (mrs. de pui nearly said polite society, but swallowed it with a horrified gulp) "are not used by persons of cultivation," she finished weakly. cecilia vanished. she went to her lonely room. (there were no room-mates.) she settled on the bed. by the bed, on a chair, was a pink silk dress. it had been her star play, and after a month of boarding school she was going to give it to the maid. the maid was _so_ friendly! there were two letters on the small dressing table. cecilia got them and read: "celie girl, we miss you. it ain't like it was in the house. i hope they are learning you good and the board is good. i hope they treat you good. father mcgowan was here last night. he sez he will go to see you soon. johnny is well. norah sez your cat is lonely too. your father with love, "j. madden." the other was a line from john. a petulant line, full of querulous complaint of a collarless father, redeemed to cecilia by a word or two at the end. "you were so good to me, celie. i know it now." she threw herself down on the bed. her shoulders shook miserably. tears wet a once loved pink silk dress, "all over beads and lace." upstairs in another room, a group of girls were laughing uncontrollably. "you know she actually invited annie to _sit_ down!" said one. (annie was the slender maid.) "that is not r_ee_fined," answered annette. there was more wild laughter. "_do_ ask her up to-night," suggested a tawny haired maiden with cat-green eyes. "_do!_ it would be simply _screamingly_ funny!" annette, although one of the most unkind, objected. "it doesn't seem quite nice," she said. however, as the idea promised fun, the majority ruled. cecilia answered the tap on her door. "come up to your room to-night?" she echoed after the invitation. "oh, miss annette, i'd be that glad to come!" she smiled, and her smile was like sunshine after rain. "i _do_ thank you!" she said. "i do!" annette turned away. cecilia closed the door, then she covered her eyes. "gawd, thank you ever so much!" she whispered, "thank you! i _have_ been so lonely! make them love me. please make them love me, gawd." then she lifted her head. her face shone. "i wonder what i shall wear?" she said. to meet the ideal of one's dreams while carrying a sick cat is humiliating. and that is what happened to cecilia evangeline agnes madden. her shadowy dream-knight had materialised into human shape through a photograph. and she met him while chaperoning a sick cat. two weeks before she had gone to a party in annette twombly's room. she'd not enjoyed the party very much, in fact she'd been rather unhappy until she saw the photograph. after that she didn't care what happened. all the romance of the celt had leaped.... her shadowy dreams took form. the ideal lover developed a body. "oh, your _heavenly_ cousin, annette!" said the green-eyed. "i _adore_ his hair!" she stood before a large photograph, framed elaborately. "he _is_ a sweet boy," annette had responded, "but so particular! i never knew any one quite so fastidious. it is _fearfully_ hard to please him!" "does he get crushes?" asked the green-eyed. "my dear," said annette, "it would be impossible. he's terribly intellectual and all that, and girls so easily offend him. he doesn't say so, but he simply stops paying them any attention." the group gathered about the picture to admire. it showed a rather nice looking boy, with an outdoor flavour, and eyes that questioned.... the face was too young to have character. "he's had on long trousers for six years!" said annette. there was a hushed silence. "isn't he _divine_!" gurgled one young person at length. cecilia had only looked. the shadowy dream man vanished. the picture boy took his place. this day cecilia walked alone as usual. mrs. de pui was an advocate of trust as a developer of "womanly instinct," so on a stipulated number of streets, the girls were allowed to walk unchaperoned. they went in little groups, all except cecilia. she was her own small group. to-day she walked alone, at least it seemed so, but by her cecilia felt k. stuyvesant twombly. "i admire art," he was saying. his voice, curiously enough, was mrs. de pui's. "so do i," agreed cecilia. "beauty develops us, the best of us, and brings a shining light into the soul." cecilia stopped. then because she was very truthful she went on: "that is not original. the man who lectures us on art said it. he has whiskers and false teeth, i believe, for they click when he says, 'renaissance.'" ... "oh, heavens!" thought cecilia, "i will never be a lady. that would not be the way to talk to the ideal man. about teeth!--false ones!" then the cat had appeared. rather cecilia had nearly walked on it. it was a limp little grey and white heap, its fur half wet from the gutter, and eyes half closed. "poor pussy," said cecilia. "you look like i feel when i'm with them what have social advantages. poor pussy!" she was very tender toward it. she leaned above it, then picked it up. "i will bribe annie, with dresses, to feed it," she thought. the cat began to be violently ill. cecilia put it down. "i say!" came in a rather husky voice, "pussy needs some mothersill's, doesn't she?" cecilia didn't understand the allusion, but she looked up smiling. the voice had been attractively hearty. after she looked up, she gasped. "what are you going to do with it?" went on the young man. "i thought i'd take it to my school and get the hired girl,--i mean maid,--to feed it." "no," objected k. stuyvesant; "it's poisoned. we'll take it to a drug store and get them to kill it." "oh, _no_!" said cecilia. "see here," said the boy, "the cat will die. i've had dogs of mine poisoned. it's the most merciful thing to have it killed. it'll only suffer and drag its life out if you take it home." "i see," said cecilia. "i suppose you know. it's just as you say." "good kid," he commented. his comment called forth an agony and elation. cecilia wished for the longer dresses with which she'd come to school. the boy picked up the cat gently and wrapped his handkerchief about it. "come on," he said. "drug store around the corner." cecilia followed. she could not keep up to him. half the time she ran. the whole affair was humiliating. "thank the lord no one saw me!" said the boy when they got inside the drug store. he looked at cecilia. they both laughed. "sit down," he said. "i'm going to buy you a soda." cecilia sat down. "choclut," she ordered. he sat down opposite her, and put his arms on the sticky little table. he thought he looked on the prettiest child he'd ever seen.... she seemed entirely and only a child. "what's your name?" he asked. "cecilia evangeline agnes madden," she answered. "well, cecilia evangeline," he said, "don't try to eat the bottom of the glass; i'm wealthy to-day. i'm going to buy you another soda!" "oh," answered cecilia, "i really oughtn't." at a motion the clerk bent above her. "c-could i have a sundae?" asked cecilia. the boy laughed and nodded. "peach," said cecilia, "with a good deal of whipped cream on top, if you please!" she smiled frankly on k. stuyvesant. "i'm having a _fine_ time!" she said. her sentimental dreams of him had vanished. he didn't talk a bit like the phantom, but he was _nicer_! "what's your name, please?" she asked. she knew, but little cecilia at fourteen was a woman. "keefer stuyvesant twombly," he answered. "rotten name. imagine being hailed as 'keefer'! it sounds like some one's butler. it isn't a nice name, is it, evangeline cecilia?" "no," said cecilia. "but then, you are nice. names and things are just trimmings. _you_ are nice," she repeated. "so are you," returned the boy, "and i'll _bet_ you're irish!" "_how_ did you know?" asked cecilia, wide-eyed. "how did you know?" "and there she sat," said the green-eyed, "laughing with him in the most brazen way, and he bought her two sodas!" "how vulgar," said annette. "was he good looking?" "ravishing, my dear. alice thought that he looked like your cousin." "that, of course, is impossible," said annette coldly. "he _does_ happen to be here. he and his mother are at the touraine. but as for his looking at any one like that madden girl--! how she got in here, i can't imagine. i think that it is an imposition to be asked to meet her." annette surveyed her hair, and picked up a mirror. "did you tell mrs. de pui?" she asked. "yes," answered the green-eyed; "i thought that it was my _duty_. it hurt me to do it, but i thought i _ought_ to. we watched them for the longest time. we pretended to be looking at a window full of hot water bottles." alice came in. she picked up the photograph of k. stuyvesant twombly. she nodded at the green-eyed after she looked long.... annette saw this in the glass and glared. chapter v disgrace the day had been terrible for cecilia. she had learned from mrs. de pui that she had hopelessly offended.... what she had done, mrs. de pui said, was an act suitable for one of the maids. mrs. de pui was pained. she could not believe that one of her pupils, with the womanly inspiration of the school set before her, could have so offended. it was unthinkable! cecilia wriggled, and swallowed with difficulty. "cultivate repose," ordered mrs. de pui coldly. cecilia stood so rigidly that she looked like a wooden indian. one of the girls entered. she said, "excuse me," and backed away, plainly much interested. "what was the boy's name, cecilia?" asked mrs. de pui. cecilia swallowed so hard that she shook. "i don't know," she answered loudly. then what mrs. de pui said was very terrible. cecilia crawled off at last, white and shaking. she groped for her door knob. things before her were not very clear. what mrs. de pui had said was very terrible, but,--but the other, her first lie, uttered with that brazen assurance.... she went in and threw herself across the bed.... she didn't cry. the hurt was too big. so her dear father and the fact that she was born in poverty made her an outcast? if so, she would stay so. "learn her to be a lady," the breeze that came in through an inch opened window whispered. cecilia felt it, and set her chin. and mrs. de pui hadn't believed her story. hadn't believed her.... "one more try, cecilia, although you are a great trial both to me and my pupils," echoed through her brain in mrs. de pui's cold tones. cecilia sat upright on the bed. "my heart's right," she said aloud. "i believe it's better than annette's. don't that count for nothing? ain't being kind being a lady?" she stared sullenly across the room. the white furniture glittered coldly. from between the flutter of scrim curtains she saw a painfully well arranged park. even the trees were smugly superior. "gawd _was_ in that flat," she said, and again aloud. a sentence came to her mind. a sentence that is shopworn and has been on the top shelf for many years. "i guess gawd is what i feel fer paw,--" she said, half musingly,--"love. an' fer johnny, even when he's bad, an' father mcgowan, dear, an' norah. just that." ... she looked out of the window and saw the painfully well regulated trees again. "them trees ain't so bad," she stated; "at least they ain't when i remember that they love me at home." her face changed, for she remembered some of mrs. de pui's well-aimed truths. her father,--his difference. it should always be hers, too, she decided. her first touch of hate came. "gawd, make me a lady quick!" she implored. some one tapped on the door. cecilia opened it. annie was there, beaming. she held a long box with stems sticking out of one end of it. "fer you, dearie," said annie. cecilia opened the box with trembling hands. the box held pink roses, very, very pink roses.... on the top lay a card. on it was written in a loose, boy-hand: "for little 'a-good-deal-of-whipped-cream-on-top.'" cecilia stared at the card, breathless. "annie," she-said at last, "ain't they lovely?" "aren't, dearie," corrected annie, and then added, "you bet they are! you bet!" cecilia lifted them reverently. there were three dozens of them. her years were such that numbers and prices still counted. "who shall i tell _her_ they're from?" asked annie. "yuh got her goat, yuh know." "father mcgowan," answered cecilia. suddenly the guilt of the other lie, her shame over the act unthinkable, and her new realisation of the standing of those she loved, slid from her soul. she was wildly happy. she hugged annie. the white furniture didn't glitter coldly. it smiled. a crowded flat was far away. the trees in a smug park were beautiful. "one new frock," read father mcgowan, "twenty-five dollars. hat, fifteen. 'madam girard's skin food, and wrinkle remover,' two dollars and fifty cents. flat-heeled shoes, seven dollars. taxi, one dollar and fifty-two cents. church offering, ten cents." father mcgowan threw back his head, and laughed loudly. jeremiah madden looked on him, bewildered. "it's her cash account, yuh know. twenty-five dollars fer one dress," he mused, with a pleased smile. "_ain't_ she learnin' quick? but the letter," he added, with a perplexed frown appearing, "it sounds _too_ happy. the happiness is a little _too_ thick. smells like she put it on with a paint brush jest fer show." "hum----" grunted father mcgowan. he opened a pink letter sheet. at the top of it a daisy was engraved. "i give her that paper," said jeremiah proudly. "she _was_ tickled. she sez as how none of the girls in school had nothing like it." "i believe it," replied father mcgowan. there were heavy lines in his face. cecilia's heart-ache lay on his shoulders, he felt, for he had made the "brick king." "darling papa:" read father mcgowan, "i was so happy to hear from you. i read your letters over and over. i love you very much. i am learning that that is the biggest thing in the world, loving people, and having them love you. i miss you, but of course i am happy. "the school is elegant very nice, and i get enough to eat. the view from the front windows is swell beautiful. it looks right out on the park, all over fancy foliage and rich people walking around. i sometimes walk there, and one little girl, awfully cute, with bare legs and a nurse, likes me. yesterday she threw a kiss to me. she looked like johnny when he was little, and we lived in the flat. it made me want to cry. "i am very happy. you do so much for me. i will be very happy when i can come home to you and johnny, and we can have father mcgowan to supper dinner every saturday night. i am sending some things that look like fruit knives, but which are butter spreaders, and are used to apply butter to bread, etc. (i.e., not to eat off of). "i am very happy. i went to one party in an exclusive girl's room. it was kind of her to ask me. i love you so much, papa. please kiss johnny for me, and norah. tell her to use the butter spreaders daily. (_all_ the time.) "she need not cherish the blue glass butter dish any more. "i do love you, dear papa. your, "cecilia." "p.s.: i send my respectful regards to father mcgowan, and thanks for getting me into this exclusive school, which caters only to sophisticated people with money. "c." "well?" asked jeremiah, after father mcgowan had laid down a pink sheet of paper with an engraved daisy at the top. "well?" "hum," grunted father mcgowan, "hum!" he stared long at a brick which lay on the top shelf of a gilt cabinet. "i'm going up to boston," he said at length. "i'll look in on our little cecilia." "will yuh, now?" asked jeremiah. "it's kept me awake nights, thinkin' that mebbe in spite of all the expense, she wasn't happy. i wanted to go up, but johnny sez i wasn't suitable fer a girls' school, being as i remove my collar absent-minded like (having always did it)." "you're suitable, all right," said father mcgowan, "but since i am going up, i might as well attend to it. hard for you to leave business, too." "yes," admitted jeremiah happily. he swelled and cast a loving eye toward the brick. then he wilted. the proud pleasure was gone. "_she_ always wanted a bunnit with pink roses on," he said in a low voice, "an' i couldn't never buy her none, an' now----!" father mcgowan laid a hand on jeremiah's. "there, there, jerry!" he said. "think how happy you're making the children!" a sallow boy came in. he cast a sneering look at a limp figure in a gilt chair. then, without a word, he picked up a book and went out. jeremiah's eyes were like a child's--the eyes of a frightened child. "sometimes," he said in a whisper, "i'm afraid he's _ashamed_ of me!" "no!" exploded father mcgowan, "no!" there is nothing like the scorn of the undetected guilty for those who are exposed. cecilia was treated to fine scorn, supercilious looks, and, worst of all, a chill overlooking; for she had allowed a boy whom she'd never met to buy her a soda water and a pink sundae! and,--what made the offence doubly revolting?--was the fact that the boy was considered by the girls a man, and that those who had seen him termed him "_ravishing_, my dear!" he,--but let us quote: "simply _rav_ishing, my dear, with dark eyes and hair. _hon_estly, he looked as if he had a secret sorrow, or was on the stage, or was _fear_fully fast. something wonderfully interesting about him, you know. why he would _ever_ look at _her_, i can't see,----" etc. cecilia sat in the corner of the shabby-impressive room. she was reading "sordello" because it was required by the english teacher. cecilia wasn't a bit interested, and twice the book had slipped shut, and she hadn't known at all where she'd left off, which was annoying; she was afraid she might read one page twice, and she couldn't bear the idea of that. she wondered if this browning person could have made a success at manufacturing bricks? she judged not. he didn't seem practical, but inwardly she was sure that he could have done anything better than write poetry. she really wondered quite a little bit about him, but after the laughter of the class on her question: "is mr. browning an american or does he come from the old country?" she had ceased to voice her speculations. she turned the pages fretfully. there were a great many more. she hoped that mr. browning was dead, so that he wouldn't write any more stuff that they would be required to read. then she berated herself soundly for this unholy wish. annette twombly and a girl with tawny hair and green eyes came in. when they saw cecilia they raised their eyebrows. "there seems to be _no_ privacy in this place!" said annette. cecilia turned a page. "and what is worse, my dear," answered the green-eyed, "one is constantly called upon to meet persons socially inferior--the kind suitable to the kitchen and associating with the policeman." cecilia had turned another page, but she had not read it. the print was jumping dangerously from the quick pump of her heart. "i will not move," she thought. "i will not move, nor show them that i hear." "imagine allowing an unknown man to buy you sodas!" said annette, who was looking out of the window. "isn't it utterly _hope_less?" there was a pained silence. the hopelessness of it had evidently eaten deeply into the systems of annette and the green-eyed. "milk, an' sugar, if yuh have it," mimicked the green-eyed. she scored her point. cecilia's book closed. she got up quickly and went toward the door. there she paused with her hand on the jamb. "i hope it pleases you to make me so unhappy," she said quietly, "for otherwise i don't know what you are accomplishing." then she went upstairs to an always lonely room. she closed the door gently and lay across the bed, staring at the ceiling. she never cried any more. she reached beneath the pillow. her cold and moist little hand closed about the letter of a brick king. "i love you!" she whispered fiercely. "i shall make you proud of me, but maw, i'm glad you died before the roses came! i'm glad! i'm glad! ... they have so _many_ thorns!" the young ladies downstairs didn't giggle as usual. they avoided each other's eyes. at last annette said, "upstart! how dared she speak to me that way!" it was said in an effort to reinstate her superior right to exercise the rack. the green-eyed didn't answer. she looked out of the window. at last she said carelessly, "going to dress." and annette was not invited to her room. the green-eyed stood still just inside her door. she thought of a fat father, and of his code of morals. the mother whom her eyes came from was very distant. "it has been utterly devilish!" she said loudly. "utterly. and i did it while i read 'the mob,' and ranted over it." then she threw a book across the room, which spelled emotional crisis for her temperament and, this time, reform. her green eyes were full of healthily ashamed tears. chapter vi a hint of pink cecilia sat well forward in the parquet seats of an opera house in boston. her small hand was curled up in the fat palm of a fat priest. the people who saw this smiled indulgently, then looked again; for the little girl was so pretty, and so happy, and the man's face was unusual. the curtain had not gone up. they were a good fifteen minutes early. "you see, father mcgowan-dear," said cecilia, "it was not just their fault, for i am so different. i am still, but less so.... then one day they said more than usual while i was reading that sordello poem. (it isn't interesting, is it?)" father mcgowan smiled and shook his head. "and i thought i just couldn't stand it. i was so miserable that i even thought of taking the veil!" father mcgowan laughed suddenly. cecilia looked at him with questioning eyes. "go on, dear," he said gently, "and excuse a bad-mannered old priest." she squeezed his thumb and continued: "well, it was that day i decided to go home. i decided i could not be a lady, i mean i could not acquire a _savoir faire_ (that means a natural swellness)," explained cecilia. father mcgowan nodded. his eyes twinkled. "so," said cecilia, "i took all my money, and put on my hat and sneaked out. then i walked down the block and across the park. i saw a baby in the park, a little girl, and she makes me think of johnny when he was little and i took care of him. then i thought of maw, and how she wanted me learned, i mean taught, and i went back. i am not very brave, and i wanted to cry dreadfully. i got in the hall, and there was mrs. de pui. she looked awfully cold, and she said, 'may i ask where you have been, cecilia?' and then, that green-eyed girl i hated broke right in and said, 'i had a slight headache, and i asked her to post a letter for me, mrs. de pui. i _hope_ you don't mind.' the green-eyed girl is very rich, and so mrs. de pui said so sweetly that she hadn't minded at all. "she always says 'post' instead of 'mail,' father mcgowan-dear. she spent two weeks in london last summer, and she said that the english accent became unconscious, or at least that she used it unconsciously. and she does except when she gets excited or talks fast. "well, she followed me upstairs, the green-eyed one, her name is marjory, and i said, 'i do thank you.' then i felt mean about the way i'd felt toward her, and i added, 'i am very sorry that i have hated you so.' then she kissed me, father mcgowan-dear. really, she did, and she said she was _glad_ i'd hated her. that it helped. she went down the hall, and paused at the turn to say, 'it is a great deal to ask, but some day i hope you'll like me!' oh,--the curtain's going up! look at that yellow dress. aren't her legs _beautiful_? mine are _so_ skinny!" there was a burst of music, and the chorus waved their arms with the regularity of the twist of aspen leaves, when rain is coming. cecilia gasped. then she sat breathless, watching every motion on the stage. a fat priest sat looking down at her. once he took off his glasses and polished them. something was making them misty. the curtain went down. cecilia gasped again, then she told of the awful, humiliating sick-cat episode, and of her disgrace in accepting a "choclut soda," and a pink sundae with whipped cream on top. father mcgowan was very understanding. he did not think it was a sin. in fact he was quite violently sure it was not. he grew very red in the face. "what is the matter with that woman?" he asked in an entirely new, and really horribly stern tone. cecilia didn't answer. her startled eyes recalled him. "by george!" he said. "i forgot the candy!" and he produced from a coat pocket the most beautiful box. "_oh_," said cecilia, "oh!" she smiled up into father mcgowan's face, and then added, "i can put that ribbon in a chemise. oh, dear father mcgowan!" "what is a priest to do," asked father mcgowan, "when all his inclinations are to kiss a young lady's hand?" "i am so happy!" said cecilia. father mcgowan put his other hand on the small one that lay in his. cecilia tightened her little fingers about his thumb. father mcgowan pushed away his plate. the chops were underdone, the potatoes soggy. "here's yer coffee," said mrs. fry. she was a perfect person for the housekeeper of a priest, being so visited with warts and a lemon expression that questioning her morals was impossible. father mcgowan stirred the coffee, then took a sip. he sighed. "well,", he thought, "at least it makes fasting easier!" in the hall of the rectory were twelve people. they were all shabby, and a boy of eleven sniffed with a wonderful regularity. they were all waiting to see a fat priest. a girl with sullen eyes and once pretty face looked around with defiant assurance. opposite her on the wall hung a carved wood crucifix. when her eyes met that, she shrank, and then she'd look away, and again be sullenly brazen. a well-dressed man rang the bell. the warted housekeeper answered it. "i should like to see father mcgowan," he said. "i will only need a few moments of his time," he added on seeing the people waiting. "set down," ordered mrs. fry. "you'll have to wait yer turn." the man smiled. he was faintly amused. "i hardly think so," he said; "i am doctor van dorn. my time is rather valuable. i can hardly waste it in that way." "it's his rule," said mrs. fry, nodding her head toward the rear of the hall. "all who waits is the same. yuh waits yer turn, or yuh goes. _he_ don't care." she had fixed her eyes above the man's head with all her words. he looked on her, frowning deeply, then said with an unconcealed irritation showing in his voice: "will you at least take him my card?" mrs. fry nodded. she held out a palm that looked damp, then went down the hall, reading the card as she walked. "he needn't be so smart," she made mental comment. "_here_ he ain't no better than none of the rest." she went toward the table at which father mcgowan sat and shoved the card toward him. "he wants to see yuh right off, _now_," she said. father mcgowan picked up the card, read it, and then laid it aside. "tell him the rules," he said shortly. he turned back to a page of pink letter paper, with a daisy engraved on its top. he glanced from it to the clock. he still had twenty minutes before work began. "dearest father mcgowan, dear:" was written on the pink sheet. it was crossed out and below it was written, "respected father:--(i meant the first, but i suppose this is properer.) i can't tell you how happy you made me by the play and everything. i have put the pink ribbon in a chemise where it looks decorative, and cheers me up, as i like pink ribbons in underwear, although white are better taste. i am much happier. i am not _always_ happy, but do not tell papa, nor any one that i am not. i _am_ much happier than i was. "i apologise for clinging to you and kissing your hand good-bye when you left, but i am not sorry. it was very hard to let you go. pink roses seemed _all_ thorns just then." father mcgowan stopped reading. he looked across the room with far eyes. they were surrounded by fat wrinkles, and made small by thick lenses, but they were rather beautiful. "i wanted to do as you suggested and try another school," he read, "but i somehow feel that i must finish what i've started, and i would like to show these girls that my soul is not purple silk trimmed with green velvet, if you can understand that; they seem to judge everything by rhinestone hair-pins, which is not a real clue to character. "when you go to dinner with papa, see that norah uses the butter spreaders, which are small knives shaped like fruit knives. i will be deeply grateful. they are used for buttering bread, and so on (not to eat from). "we are studying art. andrea dalsartoe, who painted the madona of the chair, just now. marjory is so kind to me. she is an episcopal but nice in every other way. they say a prayer to themselves when they go into church, too. she says, 'peanuts, popcorn, and chewing gum, amen,' which i do not think is _very_ devout. she says it is just the right length when said _slowly_. "you did make me so happy by that play and the candy. i have never had a better time but once, after which i was disgraced and sorry. (i had not met him socially, you know, which made it improper to eat sundaes with him, even while on an errand of mercy to a sick and dying cat.) "we hear an orchestra every saturday, chaperoned by our english teacher, who has asthma horribly and splutters a great deal. the music is classical and improving. i do not enjoy it very much, but there is a man in the orchestra who has an adam's apple that wiggles and he helps me. one can always find enjoyment when looking for it, can't one? he plays a horn, and blows the spit from it often. he seems to have a great deal of spit. "i have not thanked you the way i wanted to for the play, and everything, not forgetting the taxi ride and the sundae afterward. i do love you, father mcgowan, dear. i believe if there were more priests who believed in god, _and_ pink boxes of candy, there would be more christians. "most respectfully, and lovingly, "cecilia." the clock struck one. father mcgowan folded up a pink sheet, and put it, in its envelope, in his pocket. he was smiling gently. he opened the door into the hall, and the people struggled tiredly to their feet. "pax tibi!" he said with a hand above his head. a girl with sullen eyes sobbed aloud. a doctor sneered. much later the doctor was admitted to a rather bare room, made tolerable by the colours of the books which lined its walls. the priest sat behind a table. they exchanged the usual formalities, then father mcgowan said: "well?" doctor van dorn shifted uneasily. "it is difficult to explain," he said. "i don't know just how to put it, but i thought you, if any one, could help me." "i shall do all in my power to help you, if i think you need help," answered father mcgowan. the doctor picked up a paper knife. he toyed with it, then blurted out: "i feel sure that there must be some reason for it, and that he's merely doing it from some evil wish." "who? doing what?" asked father mcgowan. the doctor looked silly and laughed uneasily. "i'm not very coherent," he said. "oh, well," said father mcgowan, "we're both doctors in a way. we both meet that enough to understand it. now take your time and tell me your story in your own way." he pushed a box of cigars across the table. "want to smoke?" he asked with the move. the doctor nodded and lit a cigar. "it concerns a man named madden," he said, "who, i have found, is one of your people. i have no proof, at least of the tangible sort, but i believe he is doing all he can to ruin me.... he is succeeding fairly well, too." "well, well," said father mcgowan. "now what's he doing?" "it began," said the doctor, "with my hospital, which you know is a private affair, and in which some of my fellow doctors, with me, do some experimental work. the most of my clientele consists of the rather more well-known people of this city, as you know." father mcgowan nodded. the doctor's voice was as usual, and he began to swell a bit, with the tale of his hospital and its clientele. "i rarely take charity work," said the doctor. "all new york is after me...." suddenly his face changed. "was after me," he corrected. he studied the end of his cigar. "i did take one small chap," he went on slowly, "a charity case. he interested me. the complications were most unusual; however, you would not understand about them, and they do not influence the tale. i took him in and gave him the best of care, even to giving him a hundred-dollar room and an especial nurse. (his case was most interesting.) well, as you know, the action of the muscles and organs is changed by anesthesia. i--ah,--i did but the slightest experimental work, keeping him well-fed, you know, and in this hundred-dollar-a-week room. the best of care, as i explained. he,--ah,--himself submitted to this slight pain when i told him that after it he would run and play as other boys. he had a natural, childish desire to run and play. quite natural, i suppose." "i suppose so," said father mcgowan. his tone was dry. his expression was very different from that which he had worn while reading the pink letter sheet. "then one day when a slight,--very slight, i assure you,--operation was absolutely necessary to his getting well, he said he would not, could not endure it. he had been quite weakened by his being in bed, and so on, but he screamed wildly. what he said was most improper and very ungrateful. he turned against us suddenly, as is the way of some when diseased." the doctor stopped. he had grown rather white. he was again in a hundred-dollar room, which had a slat door, and no way to keep the voice of a frenzied charity patient from the rest of his aristocratic hospital. he heard the voice again: "gawd, no, youse devils! ... youse are killing me! lemme die! oh, mister, don't strap me down! i can't stand it no more.... don't--don't! christ ... christ ... kill me, but don't----" the doctor moistened his lips, and came back to the bare room in st. mary's rectory. "he was most ungrateful," he said to father mcgowan, "and he bit my hand when i tried to silence him." father mcgowan was looking out of the window. the doctor went on less surely. "a woman who scrubbed the floors heard this, and, as is the way with her class, got emotionally aroused. it seems she lived in a tenement, and had lived there when jeremiah madden had lived across the hall, before he made his money. she went to see him. he removed the lad from my care, and with his malicious help, lied viciously about me and my work, scattering statements broadcast, and giving their statements to the papers. my own profession do not largely back me up, being, i suppose, jealous, and of little spirit. i think they recognise my skill too well to love me. you read those articles?" he asked, turning to father mcgowan. "that has nothing to do with your narrative," answered father mcgowan. "please go on." "well," said the doctor, his well-bred voice holding a hint of frost, "it,--that is, this malicious attack,--had prejudiced many. for the good of this madden man's soul you should help him to be truthful, not to so belittle his nature by----" "you're worried about his soul?" said father mcgowan. "is _that_ why you came to me?" father mcgowan smiled. the doctor shifted in his chair. there was the staccato tap of crutches on the bare floor of the hall. the knob of the door turned. "father," came in a small boy's voice from the doorway, "i brung yuh a toad. i want youse to bless it. it's dead. it was a cripple, too. i found it all mashed. you'll bless it? me an' the fellers is going to bury it. _ain't_ it cute?" the doctor had not turned. "come in, little saint sebastian," said father mcgowan. the little boy gave him a look that was pathetically adoring. his crutches tapped across the bare floor. opposite the doctor, he looked at him. suddenly he screamed. "gawd! my gawd! oh, father mcgowan,--_don't_--let him have me!" he clung to father mcgowan's cassock as he sobbed out his broken prayer. "don't, mister, don't!" he ended weakly. father mcgowan picked him up. he looked at the doctor. "go," he said. father mcgowan again settled back of a bare table. a little boy sobbed in his arms. "will you forgive me, little saint sebastian?" asked father mcgowan. the child's arms tightened around his neck. father mcgowan coughed. "we're going to have some pink ice cream," he said after an interval. "now here's my hanky. gentlemen don't wipe their noses on their sleeves!" "will--will yuh bless the toad?" asked the child, after a damp smearing of father mcgowan's handkerchief. "he was a cripple. _ain't_ he cute, now?" he added in a tender, little voice. then he brightened and said loudly, "but i'm glad he's dead, for they ain't no father mcgowan toads to be good to little toad-cripples!" father mcgowan coughed, and tightened his arms about sebastiano santo of the slums. "oh, dearest paw--i mean papa!" said cecilia. she clung to him. the lights of the new york station blurred through her tears. then she veered away from him, and gathered johnny close. "aw," he said, "cut it! there's one of the fellows over there." but "one of the fellows" faced the other direction, johnny saw, and he allowed himself to hug celie quickly. he was glad to see her, but he felt a vague resentment toward her because her coming made his throat so stuffy. he remembered the time when he used to sit on her lap and eat bread spread thickly with molasses. he didn't know quite why he was thinking of it in the pennsylvania station.... he remembered that he used to pull her curls and that she'd pretend to cry and then kiss him, and then they'd both laugh, and laugh. it was always a great joke. and then she'd look at the clock and fry potatoes and meat over a smelly stove, and say, "now laugh! paw's coming home. he needs all our laughs!" "john dear!" said cecilia. johnny forgot the past, and swelled. cecilia's use of his name made him feel a man. "mister, will yuh please attend to this here baggage?" he heard his father say. "don't call him 'mister,'" he corrected jeremiah in an undertone. cecilia stepped from them to a group nearby. "good-bye, marjory," john heard her say. "yes, i _will_ come to see you. you'll come to my house, too?" she turned to a rather more cool looking young person, and added less surely, "i would love to have you, too, miss annette, if you'd care to come." "i'm rather busy----" john heard the annette person reply. then he saw her turn away from cecilia. his heart grew hot. "if i don't see you again," said cecilia, "i wish you the happiest kind of a christmas!" annette did not reply. the marjory girl kissed cecilia twice. "good-bye, little saint," she called after cecilia. "i'm coming to see you to-morrow!" in the motor there was a pause for inspection. "yuh look so different," said jeremiah rather wistfully. "my heart is just the same," said cecilia. "it will always be the same." she kissed jeremiah madden after her words and then leaned forward and kissed johnny. he didn't mind, none of the fellows being present. then they were silent, for when hearts are very full they are liable to wiggle up into throats and choke people when they try to talk. at last they were out of the crowded streets and on broad ones, where other cars, taking people pleasure-bent, rolled past them. then the house. the house from which cecilia had gone last september, wearing a suit all over buttons, with a touch of "tasty" red here and there. "norah, darling norah!" said cecilia. norah's red arms drew her close, then, quite in norah's way, she eclipsed behind a blue-checked apron, and sobbed loudly. cecilia looked about the hall. there was some new furniture. a hat-rack that was evidently the work of a lunatic with the unrestrained use of a jig-saw. "look up, celie!" ordered jeremiah. cecilia looked up. strung across the hall was an elaborate electric sign. the words were made of blue, yellow and red globes. she read: "welcome to our darling!!!" cecilia gasped. then she turned to her father. "it is beautiful," she said, "and just what i wanted." she stopped and swallowed with difficulty. then added, "papa dear, i love you so!" johnny smiled. he raised his eyebrows and his shoulders. then he sniffed. he thought he smelled the scent of roses. chapter vii santa claus father mcgowan, holding a cassock high about his black-clad legs, stood in the back yard of the rectory grounds. the back yard looked like those photographs entitled, "rude shelters for the soldiers," or "huts built by the south australian light horse brigade." all over the brown lawn were small shacks. some of them made of brick, some of old and weather-beaten boards, and some of these two with a smattering of very ex and sticky roofing mixed in. father mcgowan smiled. mrs. fry looked out of the window. her lips tightened. a small boy emerged from one of these affairs. emerged on his stomach, wiggling out. "father mcgowan," he yelled, "we got a secret passage!" "no!" said father mcgowan enthusiastically, "no!" another door opened. another boy came wiggling forth. "_we_ got a secret place to hide things in, in ours!" he said in a sing-song, mine-is-better-than-yours tone. "aw----!" said the first disparagingly. father mcgowan laughed. a boy came swaggering across the lawn. he whistled, "in my harem." he touched his hat to the priest. "i'm going to get a case of pop," he said loudly, "an' drink it here. mom, she gimme a candle, and pop sez i can stay out 'til nine." after this he was instantly the centre of an awed and admiring group. mrs. fry opened the door. "the 'phone wants yuh," she said shortly to father mcgowan. father mcgowan went in with evident reluctance. he wanted to hear more of the case of pop, which he knew would narrow down to two bottles. after he'd passed through the kitchen, mrs. fry spoke again to her sister who sat steaming by the stove. "_he's_ like that," she said, a great love, yet vast contempt, showing in her tone. "he lets all the kids around build shacks in the backyard, and even gets 'em stuff to build with!" "what fer?" asked the steaming one. her bewilderment was complete. "oh," said mrs. fry, "he sez something about its bein' necessary to a boy's soul to build something and tear it down. an' pretend things that ain't. one day they calls that mess of rubbish the wilds of sieberia, an' the next an indian camp. an' _he_, he gets right out an' chases around with 'em. he's busted his glasses twice this month." mrs. fry sighed. "i kicks," she went on, "and then he sez, 'mrs. fry, i'm sorry, but the fact is, an aunt brought me up, awfully good woman, too, but too neat. i never pounded, and a boy needs to pound.' then he sez, 'now if there is anything you need for the kitchen that i can get you, mrs. fry, i'd be glad to.' an' what can i do? i lead an awful life because of them young rapscallions, but _he_ can't see it!" "well, i'll be beat!" mrs. fry poured out a cup of coffee and pushed it toward her guest. "ain't sugar high?" she said as she dumped in two lumps. "you bet," answered her guest. "does _he_ set and study much?" she questioned. _he_ was very interesting. mrs. fry drew a long breath. "he don't get no time to set," she answered. "he hardly has a chance to eat half the time besides being pestered by them kids. i never know when he'll be on time for meals. did i tell yuh about the bath-tub?" she questioned. the steaming shook her head. "_it has two ally-gaters in it!_" said mrs. fry with emphasis. "my gawd!" "yes, one of these here kids got 'em sent him from florida, or some furrin port, an' his mother, being a sensible woman, wouldn't have 'em near. well, the kid comes bawlin' to father mcgowan (they always do), an' he sez, 'now, jimmy, don't cry. you can put 'em in my bath-tub; i only bathe once a day, and i can use a tin one. mrs. fry has her own bath-tub on the third floor, so she won't care.' i did, but what kin yuh do? i sez, 'i won't enter that room with them rep_tiles_ in it fer to clean it.' he sez, troubled like, 'well, mrs. fry, i'll do it, or get one of the boys to. i don't mind.' them kids messing around there. can yuh see the way _they'd_ clean it!" "ain't that fierce?" "yes, an' he don't care so much fer it, either. he sez he _could_ hope they'd die or summer'd come. (we're going to have a pond in the backyard--to run into the cellar!) yuh oughta see that room after he's bathed in that there tin tub. all that's missin' is noah and shem--we got the animiles." there was the click of crutches in the dining room. the door opened. a small boy appeared. "come in, dearie," said mrs. fry. her tone was softened. "what's his name?" asked the visitor. "he don't know," answered mrs. fry. "he was in the hospital one time, real sick, and lately he don't remember so good. 'father mcgowan calls him 'sebastiano.' want a cooky, dearie?" the boy nodded, and smiled. cecilia had had her friend marjory to lunch. it had gone rather well. she recalled it as she stood looking out of a heavily glassed window into a frosted street. she, herself, had set the table. the napkins had not been set up in tumblers. the fibroid tumor vase was quite absent. there had been valley lilies in a flat bowl for the centrepiece.... she had disposed of the blue glass butter dish by dropping it. cecilia felt strangely sad as she did it. the blue glass butter dish had once seemed so very lovely.... "are they giving me anything to take your place?" she questioned, as it shattered on the floor. then she called norah, and listened to her laments as she gathered up the pieces. she had the feeling of untruth added to her little sadness. as yet nothing had taken the place of blue glass butter dishes for small cecilia. she still preferred rhinestone hair-pins, and french-heeled shoes to their plainer sisters. beauty had been taken away and none substituted, at least none that she enjoyed. the only thing she really cared for was the dragging of her newly acquired french in her talk. she did this often with the proud feeling that it was what her mother had wished. jeremiah had said, on meeting marjory, "pleased to meet yuh, mam," and cecilia had broken in with, "i love papa so much, marjory, you must too." she had hardly known why she had made this defiant and sudden declaration. johnny had been much impressed with cecilia's guest. so much so that his misery was acute when jeremiah related the incident of the brick throwing. "i sez to him, 'yuh can lay yer own bricks an' here's one to begin with!'" jeremiah had said with his customary chuckle, that chuckle that always came with his proud remembrance. "i think that was exceedingly clever of you, mr. madden," marjory had replied. cecilia had smiled on marjory with the smile of an angel, she had also laid her hand on her father's. johnny had squirmed. cecilia gazed out of the window. the air looked cold. she wondered whether she would ever get the chance to thank that mr. keefer stuyvesant twombly for those lovely flowers? they had come just at the right time. he was wonderful, as the girls said, and "ravishing," but better, he was nice. there was a scuffle at the door, norah's voice was heard: "now mind the _eee_-lectric sign!" she said sharply. cecilia knew that the tree was coming in. late that evening jeremiah opened the door of the pink and gold "parlour." "santa claus has been here and went," he said mysteriously to cecilia and johnny, who sat on the stairs, "an' he's did good by yuh!" "now remember!" said cecilia to johnny, with a stern look. johnny had been told that his disbelief in santa claus was not to be expressed. they scrambled up. cecilia stopped in the door. the tree was a mass of silver and glittering lights. it was really very lovely. mr. madden's tastes were well suited to trimming a christmas tree. "showy like, an' nothing cheap or old lookin'!" he said, as he surveyed it with proud eyes. cecilia went toward a table on which her gifts were spread out. first, she saw a phonograph with a morning glory horn.... by it was a pink velvet box, strapped in silver. "jewels," was written in a neat, spencerian engraving on one spot of the silver banding. there was a mother of pearl brush and comb and glass, bound in wiggly gold. "they are lovely, papa!" said cecilia. "and _just_ what i wanted!" "looka here!" whispered jeremiah. he pulled her toward the light the tree threw and took from his pocket a small box. he opened it slowly. cecilia saw a chain and pendant that would have made a very good showing on the christmas tree itself. it was plainly built for one of the rhinoceros family. it had seemed to dislike showing any partiality in gems. there was a fair smattering of all jewels present. "three hunderd dollars!" breathed jeremiah madden. his eyes shone, and he breathed quickly. "celie," he said, "it ain't too good fer yuh! there ain't nothing i wouldn't do fer yuh!" "i know, dear," answered the small cecilia, "but you shouldn't. it is too much. you have made me very happy." she turned away. there was a sudden smarting beneath her eyelids.... she hated the school that had taught her a quiet manner, and to see blue glass butter dishes as a visitation rather than a glory. "that ain't _all_!" said jeremiah. he took hold of her arm, and led her to the other side of the room. "throw on the lights, johnny!" he called loudly. cecilia felt him tremble. the lights snapped on with a too white glare. jeremiah and cecilia stood before a picture over which was thrown a cloth. jeremiah drew it aside. "it was did from a tintype," said jeremiah softly. he looked on the face of his irish wife. her lips were painted a brazen carmine. her cheeks glowed like the stage ladies' of the billboards. around her neck were three ropes of huge pearls. "he threw in the pearls," explained jeremiah in a voice that shook a little, "an' fancied her up some, but them eyes,--it's your maw, celie. your maw that died in a two-room flat." with the last words jeremiah had turned away. his shoulders had a limp droop. the happiness of the evening had faded. "what's in this box?" asked cecilia, unsteadily. it was a hat box and stood beneath the new portrait. "her present," answered jeremiah. "the present i give her. look at it, celie. ain't it pretty? i picked it." cecilia opened the box. she drew out a large, flopping hat. it was trimmed with pink roses. the next day when father mcgowan was all ready to start for the madden house, there was commotion in the wilds of _sie_beria. it had been reported the day before that one of the "guys" had smoked a piedmont, and father mcgowan, finding this so, had had to dust him mildly with a hickory cane, hung on the back porch for that purpose. he disliked doing this, and smoked for a good hour afterward to soothe his nerves. mrs. fry had watched the chastising with pleased eyes, but then, on going to the bathroom, all happiness had vanished, for one of them rep_tiles_ had crawled out of the tub. she had dropped her scrubbing cloths, and disappeared screaming. father mcgowan had been all ready to start. he had found his hat (which had the most mysterious way of disappearing), and with an ashamed expression, he'd put a small box in his pocket. then the wilds of _sie_beria had demanded attention. "them young devils," mrs. fry had said, with a bob of her head backward. "they are raising cain! something's wrong." she went off muttering. she still cherished and resented the encounter with the rep_tile_. father mcgowan went toward _sie_beria. it was one of the few times in his life that he hadn't wanted to. "_now_ what?" he called from the back porch. a scream was the only answer. it came from one of the brick dwellings. the chastised of yesterday, father mcgowan saw going quickly over the fence. "oh, drat!" said father mcgowan. there were wilder howls from the brick mansion. father mcgowan went toward it. he looked for the door, then he chuckled softly, for the door was entirely gone. he took off his gloves and began to pull out the bricks. "walled in," he muttered. "lemme out! lemme out!" came from within, in muffled tones. then with the opening father mcgowan had made, and with the advent of light, the screams dissolved into pathetic sobs. "when i git him!" came in moist tones. a small boy wiggled out. he had a paper covered book in his hands. "he done it," explained the boy, between sniffs, "while i was a-readin' in the secret chamber. _he_ done it. when i git him! i'll smash him! i mighta starved!" he ended pathetically. "well," said father mcgowan, "that is a shame! won't you come have a piece of pie now? you must be hungry." the boy nodded. he followed father mcgowan toward the house. "he done it," he went on, "because i told on him fer smoking. i thought i _oughta_." the sufferer's tone was pious. "my nerves is shook up," he said when they reached the porch. "i was afraid i'd starve. there's pictures in our physiologies of starving cubans--they ain't so nice. "mrs. fry," said father mcgowan, "we do need a piece of pie. could you find us some?" mrs. fry muttered and went to the refrigerator. out on the back fence the chastised called, "yi! yi!" a note expressing scorn. he added, "cry baby! cry baby!" the cry baby turned and exhibited a piece of pie. the chastised relaxed into a pained silence. "come here!" called father mcgowan. the boy slid from the fence and came slinking toward him. "mrs. fry saw you smoking," said father mcgowan. "i never listen to what you tell of each other. here's a piece of pie for you." he looked at his watch and added in a perfunctory way, "you shouldn't have walled him in." "i ought to have given you a rosary," said father mcgowan. he still looked guilty, but happily so. cecilia stood before a mirror, looking at a dainty little chain and pendant, which she'd clasped about her throat. "i know you ought, father mcgowan, dear," she answered, "but i'm _so_ glad you didn't! it's _so_ beautiful!" she gasped happily. father mcgowan smiled. "papa gave me one," she said. "it--it is, that is, i love it, but i'll wear this more." she looked into father mcgowan's understanding eyes. "i am learning," she said, "but i learned things before i went to school that i shall never forget, and that i never want to forget." jeremiah came in. "you give her that?" he asked in a pleased voice. "well! but have you saw the one i give her? _three_ hunderd dollars! get it, celie, and then play us 'the shepherd boy.'" celie vanished. white-clad nurses flitted about the halls of jeremiah madden's house. there was a dead silence, and upstairs that druggy-sick smell. cecilia had been very ill. she was better, but still sick enough to keep jeremiah anxious. he hovered about the house almost forgetting bricks, and wearing a collar all the time, as he did on sundays. it had begun with a cold, then a cough, which (through celia's standing on the curb, better to view a gentleman down the street who was interestingly drunk) had turned to pneumonia on both sides. she had gone to bed protesting that she felt very well, but that her breath was not acting quite right. then she had grown so very, very sick that she had forgotten time, life and even jeremiah of the bricks. those days had been rather dreadful for jeremiah.... he had taken to sitting just outside her door on a very upright chair. he turned the pages of "ridpath's history of the world." he was trying to "educate himself up to celie." ... however, he missed a great many of the pictures and only got as far as volume one. each time a trim nurse would step from cecilia's door, he would cough to get his voice in shape, and then whisper gratingly: "excuse me, missis, but how is she?" "she is doing well," the white one would answer, in a tone of thin sincerity. then jeremiah would go back to ridpath, miserable, and unconvinced. once in a while he would hear cecilia's high, little voice--"keefer, the butler!" she repeated again and again one day. she said it in gasps, but somehow got out the words. the effort in her voice had cut jeremiah's heart, but the words had brought a proud smile. "associatin' with butlers!" he whispered. "_ain't_ she gettin' fine?" then cecilia moaned of butter dishes, blue ones. jeremiah had left his post and ridpath's history long enough to go shopping. he bought her three butter dishes. two of them had covers. the third boasted of a curling handle, on which perched a dove and a cupid, on a spray of something that looked like spinach in the crude state. cecilia had been very pleased with them. she had looked on them, said, "t-thank you, _dearest_!" and then cried gently, the tears slipping down her face with pathetic regularity. she cried all that afternoon. "i'm not good enough for you!" she gasped, "but i love you, and butter dishes!" chapter viii a little touch of the man with the hour glass time had been careful with father mcgowan. perhaps he thought father mcgowan rather nice as he was, and unneedful of the lines that usually come with heart and soul expansion. be this as it may, the fact was that he was little changed. the lenses in his glasses were a bit thicker. he had accumulated a little more tummy in the last seven years, but he still played indian and exile in _sie_beria with the same joy, and he was still the true father to every child who knew him. he sat behind a bare table in a room unbeautiful except for the books which lined its walls. he was looking over his mail. he laid one letter with a foreign postmark aside. there was a tap on the door. a small boy of nine, or thereabout, came in, sobbing wildly. "my mom, she sez you're a _catholic_!" he gasped between sobs. "yuh ain't, are yuh?" "i'm afraid so," answered father mcgowan. he looked very guilty. "oh, dear!" replied the small boy, and sobbed more loudly. "now, now!" said father mcgowan. "we can't _all_ be methodists, you know. the church wouldn't hold 'em.". the child still sobbed. "i'll tell you," went on father mcgowan; "you pray that we'll all belong to one church in heaven. you do that. wouldn't that be nice?" "uh huh," agreed the boy with tempered enthusiasm. he smeared his tears across his face with his coat sleeve. they left white streaks. "i couldn't _believe_ you was a catholic!" he said sadly. "you're so nice, and because of the pie and all." his face was long and his eyes melancholy. "i'm sorry," said father mcgowan, "so sorry. how's siberia to-day?" the child reported and then vanished to do his utmost in making a convert by prayer. father mcgowan opened the rest of his mail, and then reached toward the letter of foreign stamp. he always kept the best 'til last. "dearest father mcgowan-dear:--" it began in a hand characteristic of many boarding schools, and yet showing a bit of individuality--"i have wanted to write you.... so many things to do that half the time all i get accomplished is my loving of you dear people, every day a little more, though more seems impossible. i love you, and papa and john so much. so much that when i'm away from you, and think of you, i feel quite choked. it is rather beautiful, and terrible, this caring so deeply. i do not know how i could ever say good-bye." there was a page of cecilia's large scrawl. it contained no news, but father mcgowan read it closely. his eyes were the same as when, years before, he had looked on a table cecilia had decorated in honour of a big, fat, roman priest. suddenly he laughed. "we have a small donkey," he had read, "whom we have named clara, after the vicar's sister. our donkey has long ears and a religious expression, too. the vicar's sister is really very nice, but our grey donkey looks so like her that we always expect her to stop in the middle of the road and talk of missionary barrels and sunday school treats. the latter is a form of entertainment which contains much jam, tea, many pop-eyed little girls and boys, not to omit a large stickiness. (i went to one, and poured tea down lord somebody's neck. it was a great condescension for him to 'stop in,' and only the fact that i am of 'mad america' saved me from a public hanging.) "marjory and i have splendid times. i am so glad i am with her. it is nice for me, and i think for her. mamma aliston is one of those poor ladies who enjoys suffering. if she had lived where i did in my younger days, she would have said: 'i ain't feelin' so well. the doctor's give me three kinds of medicine. it's me _nerves_.' as this is not in order, she mutters of draughts, and places a pudgy and diamond-ringed hand above her heart many times a day, sighing expressively. marjory has no sympathy with her. she only says, 'don't eat that, mamma; it is bad for you,' about anything mamma enjoys. i am a beautiful buffer. (please pardon the 'beautiful'; it refers to spirit.) "the way those two people clash is utterly dreadful. i remember always, when i hear them, saturday nights, years ago, when the gentlemen of our building used to tumble upstairs, very drunk, and i would then hear squawks and abuses. we are all the same, but people never realise it.... i laugh inside when they talk of 'lower classes.' i laugh but sometimes it hurts a little. i am ashamed, father mcgowan, that it should.... coming home very soon. i want to give a man named jeremiah madden as many years of happiness as i can. i am coming home to play 'the shepherd boy' every evening after a lemon pie-ed dinner. "father mcgowan-dear, i have been worried about john.... here i see so many heavy-eyed boys slinking into manhood. those boys who travel with their blindly indulgent mammas and leave a man at home, alone, across the seas. "i think if my little brother should grow up to be viciously weak, i could not bear it. i cannot see how he could, for the blood in us is too plain for fancy wickedness. rather ours would run to fierce encounter, and, if we must be truthful, flying dish-pans. but,--well, i've dreamed of him too often lately, and i remember that he may be stepping into manhood. i wish i were better fitted to be wise with him.... i have not liked his letters, father mcgowan. his estimate of people is made in the shadow of a dollar mark...." father mcgowan read another page. on the last was written: "so, i will see you very soon, dear (excuse the liberty, but you _are_ dear!), and i am ready to take up my burdens. those that come with money. i hope to do much and learn to do it well. you will help me? "i shall leave marjory and her mother in this sleepy little village, shadowed by its cathedral. the cross that has stood for peace through many years shines from its spire and seems to bring it here. it is so lovely, father mcgowan! "very much love from your always grateful and loving "cecilia." "but, my dear!" said mamma aliston, "i could not _permit_ you to return alone! could not permit it!" "i'm sorry," answered cecilia, "but i must go. i have my maid. i should not be really alone." "i don't like the look of it," said mrs. aliston fretfully. then, "_is_ clara going to sleep! why you girls _insist_ on having her when you could motor smoothly with a footstool and cushions and all the windows closed,--oh! my heart!" cecilia turned a sympathetic eye toward mrs. aliston. "it is nothing, my dear," said mrs. aliston in answer to her look, "nothing to one who is _used_ to suffering. oh, dear, what a sorry thing this world is, when we are poorly equipped to meet it. who was that who passed us? not lady grenville-bowers?" cecilia nodded and stopped clara so that mrs. aliston could feast her eyes on the holy dust titles were kicking up. it was not lady grenville-bowers, but mrs. aliston was happily unconscious of it, and cecilia had learned the proper use of lies. after mrs. aliston again settled she went back to the original subject. "let me see," she said, speculatively; "perhaps there will be some one crossing to whom it will be suitable to confide you. i dislike so intensely this running about alone,--my dear! _please_ watch that beast! yes, more than likely there will be some one. i know so many people, many of whom some would feel privileged to know! i'll look about. i dislike so intensely this idea of your crossing alone. it is rather, pardon me, dear, common,--middleclass. yes, i'll look about. no doubt some one may be found." cecilia nodded absently. she had learned to "yes" and "no" at the proper times with mrs. aliston, quite without a listening attention. strangely, she was thinking of some one else beside her father, john or father mcgowan. this some one who had been the leading man of her dreams for a great many years. in fact, ever since she had rescued a sick and dying tabby. she had carried his true voice with her wherever she went.... often when things called men had asked for her hand because it held money, a genuine voice had echoed through the years. "pussy needs some mothersills,----" she would hear, and then with an absurdly little-girl feel for being so influenced, she would gently discourage. there had been some who really loved; some loving with an air of condescension showing through their manner,--others truly, and with humbleness. some poor, weak, with only love as recommendation. some just ordinary men,--one or two made big by what they felt for small cecilia. and with them all, something was wrong. she heard the echo of a nice boy's voice, as he bought a small girl a "choclut soda," and a sundae all-over-whipped-cream, and she heard it while she said: "no; i'm sorry. i really can't. i'm _never_ going to marry. i hope you'll find some one you'll like _much_ more than me!" and they had all said they never would, which is the way with young men.... cecilia had believed the first one, then life had taught her the quick healing of some hearts, and she had smiled a little when the rest said it. that smile was always the undoing. they usually kissed the hem of her dress, and swore to shoot themselves, and cecilia would whisper: "oh, _please!_ some one will see you!" or, "oh, _please!_ some one might hear you!" whichever the case might be. then they always kissed her hand and went away, and cecilia would sigh and say, "well, i suppose that means an awfully nice wedding present soon, to show that i'm not put out!" sometimes she wondered if k. stuyvesant twombly were living, and if so, where? then she often decided _not_ to think of him, because it was too childish.... and then she would discover that every life must have its fairy tale, and that he was hers.... "home!" said mrs. aliston, with a sigh of relief. "oh, my poor body! 'my little body is a-weary of this world.' who said that, cecilia? bernard shaw? or arnold bennett?" "no," answered cecilia, "i think it's in the bible, but i can't just remember." a groom stepped forward to lead clara away to her boudoir and dinner. cecilia went into the cool house to write her father on a small typewriter she carried for that purpose, jeremiah being "partial to print." outside the grey of the english twilight crept slowly near.... everything was peaceful,--quiet. america were far away. the person suitable for cecilia's chaperon was found. she was very correct, had several chins, and was well connected. she came from boston and mentioned this fact in a hushed tone. on talking with her, cecilia felt as she had in the first few months of boarding school--chilled, and alone. this morning was the one before they sailed. miss hutchinson had wished to go to westminster for a last look. "you will come with me?" she had asked of cecilia. the question had really been a statement. cecilia replied that she would be charmed to go. she went to get a broad hat that entirely eclipsed one eye. the sun was faintly present. "it is fine," said miss hutchinson, who spoke english whenever she remembered it, to show that she had lived much abroad. "so it is," said cecilia. "how absent-minded of the sun!" miss hutchinson didn't answer. she was busy showing a taxi driver the error of his ways. "robbers!" said miss hutchinson, as they settled on the stuffy cushions. cecilia looked after a passing bus, and wistfully. she dearly loved to ride on top. they bumped along, miss hutchinson expatiating on some one's relatives. it seemed that one of them had been "in trade." "papa makes bricks," said cecilia calmly, wondering, as she said it, whether the british soaked their shoes overnight in the "bath" to get that delightful muffiny effect and the curl up at the toes. "my dear," said miss hutchinson quickly, "that is quite different. his business is on a large scale, and his fortune excuses anything. this man had been in trade in a small way?--a sweet-stuff shop, i believe, or a chemist. something fearfully ordinary." "horrible!" said cecilia. miss hutchinson looked at her. cecilia's smile was strange. she hoped she was not saddled with a young person of too modern ideas for seven days.... in westminster miss hutchinson went toward the poet's corner. cecilia wandered outside. she paused by a small stone set in the wall. "jane lister, dear child," she read. the gentle little ghost smiled on her from those simple words. she looked long at them. she always saw the "dear child," quaintly frocked, smiling. some one paused behind her. she turned. "isn't that almost too beautiful?" she whispered. "yes," answered k. stuyvesant twombly. he looked on this impulsive, american girl, and smiled. then she turned back to jane lister, and he raised his hat and went on. her eyes made his memory itch, but he could not know why. perhaps some one whom he'd met suggested her. he met a great many people.... uncommonly pretty, if he cared for beauty,--or girls. then his mind turned to business interests. he was supremely american. the girl in the cloister still gazed at a weather worn slab. "dear child," she said, "he is alive. oh, dear child, isn't that beautiful too?" john was faintly smiling. a superior smile that was his own and took in no one else. he used it often on the "gov'ner," who from it, was reduced to a pulp, and realised himself fit for nothing but supplying funds.... father mcgowan was not reduced to a pulp, but he was genuinely angry. he thought with a longing of a hickory cane which hung on the back porch of the rectory. "how old are you, john?" asked father mcgowan. "eighteen," replied the overgrown boy. "gettin' on, yes, gettin' on." he lounged back in his chair. father mcgowan leaned across the table. "old enough to take tender care of your sister when she gets back," he said. "certainly," answered john. he studied his finger nails. they were gorgeous examples of the manicure's art. john wished the old man would get on. he had a date.... he wondered what he was driving at anyway? he covered a yawn and muttered a pardon.... "late hours," he added, in explanation. father mcgowan again thought of a cane which hung on the back porch. "how's your father?" he asked. "oh,--the gov'ner?" replied john in a tone of entire surprise. "really, i don't know. i haven't seen him for a week." he again looked at his finger nails then he thought of a girl he did not meet socially. his thoughts and attentions ran to that kind. "what a rotten life a priest's would be! staying in a dull room like this--" he thought, then became conscious of a long silence. he looked up. father mcgowan's eyes were full on him.... space faded. john was a baby in a crowded flat. he cried, and a little, tired-eyed girl picked him up. "aw, johnny!" she said. flies buzzed about. the dull hum of traffic came from the street below. some one called, "celie, aw celie! quick!" from a room off of the kitchen. the little girl vanished. he heard unpleasant sounds, then moans. john started up. the chair in which he'd sat overturned. "you devil!" he said to a fat priest. the dream had faded. john breathed in gasps. "i will excuse you," said father mcgowan, "if you will remember what a sister did for you, and in return give her the greatest gift: a pride in the boy she loves. good-night, john." after the boy had gone, father mcgowan scratched his head, as was his manner when perplexed. "what was the matter with him?" he asked aloud. then he sighed. the talk, he was afraid, had done little good. at first he had gotten only a supercilious smile, and then that outburst. well, life was only a succession of tries, and a climbing at the wall unscalable.... father mcgowan dismissed the problem, thought of the comfort of a hot bath, and then the perusing of a new book he'd just bought. "oh, drat!" he muttered. there was a baby water snake in the tub, and the tin one did not invite a lingering. it scratched in several inconvenient spots. outside, john still breathed in gasps. "home," he thought as he settled in a low, grey roadster. "i don't like her hair anyway," he offered in weak excuse for abandoning his original plan. yes, he would be good to cecilia. awfully good to her.... had her life, his,--ever been as dreadful as that flash? cecilia should never know him otherwise than she believed him. it would be a noble deceit, lived for love of her. that was the game one played with women that one truly loved. the _arcania's_ decks were alive with people scurrying hither and thither, seemingly with no impulse behind their unrest, nor aim in direction. a few souls stood very calmly by the rail, watching the steerage embarking. their whole attitudes said, and loudly: "this is all old to me. i will have you know it is even a bore!" they were looked on with respect by the few to whom crossing was a novelty. cecilia was pleasantly excited. sailing was not new to her, but she was so healthily alive that she tingled with any enthusiasm near. "our deck chairs are in the most absurd spot!" said miss hutchinson. "i told the steward what i thought of him, and them. he said he would change them. aren't you going to look at your flowers? your state room is full of them. i stepped in. your maid was putting some of them in your wash bowl. i told her that would never do. you will have to use it, you know, to brush your teeth, wash, and so on, and if you're sick--it is most inconvenient to have the stand cluttered with flowers. i--ah, happened to notice lord ashby's card on some flowers. where did you meet him, _dear_?" "sunday school treat," replied cecilia. "i poured tea down his neck." her reply was made in an absent way. she was scrutinising the passengers. there was a fat woman near who looked lovely! she stood within earshot of cecilia and cecilia heard her address her husband as "poppa," and then a very healthy and pleasantly loud-looking maiden as "lotty." it made cecilia feel as if she were in the warmth of a summer sun, just to hear them. so happily natural, they were. "_horrid_ people!" said miss hutchinson loudly. she elevated a lorgnette, and looked "poppa" up and down critically. "beer, cincinnati," she decided in far-reaching tone. cecilia squirmed. "that dear baby in the steerage!" said cecilia, to divert the offended miss hutchinson. "dirty!" commented the diverted. "so absolutely degrading the way the lower classes have children! one after the other!" ended miss hutchinson. cecilia did not voice it, but she wondered what other mode of entrance into the world was possible, one at a time, rarely two, having been the style for a good many years. the baby began to whimper. its mother slapped it vigorously. cecilia looked away. she hated to see a child slapped. johnny had often been most trying. she had rarely slapped him.... then she turned and quite forgot the hot, whimpering baby of the steerage.... k. stuyvesant twombly stood behind her. he recognised the impulsive girl who had spoken to him at the small tomb of "jane lister, dear child," and he raised his hat and smiled. cecilia gasped. then, she went below, and very quickly, to see her flowers. "oh, but you are nice," said cecilia, "if your name is not!" then she looked away from k. stuyvesant twombly. she had not meant to say anything like that! it had simply come out! the wind blew strongly and ruffled her hair. k. stuyvesant twombly watched her with a good deal of interest. she was _quite_ different from any girl he'd ever met.... she watched first the rough sea which looked like a small boy's chewing gum, laid in a safe place waiting for the next chew ... grey, indented with the marks of small teeth. then all the sea would slip below the rail, and all of the world would be sky. "i was named," explained k. stuyvesant, "keefer, after a rich uncle. he died and left all his money for the support of lutheran missions in china. after that my mother used to faint every time she'd think of my first name." cecilia laughed. "i'm _so_ sorry!" she said. "does she still faint over it?" "she died last february," answered k. stuyvesant quietly. "i'm so sorry!" said cecilia again. k. stuyvesant didn't answer. they were quiet for a few moments, both watching the tilt, and eclipse of the sky-line. at last the man spoke. "it is tragic," he said, "to have the ones you love die, but it is more tragic to have those you have loved from instinct, and never known, die. you wonder, all the time, whether they too, are fretting because of the lost opportunity. you wonder what there was below that you didn't see.... all i remember of my mother was her hurry to get in a great number of engagements, and a chill aloofness, cultivated, i have thought since, to keep in check over-tired nerves.... if we could have once gone below the surface! even with incivilities, if in that way, we could have known each other.... never saw one another, fleeting glimpses...." "you poor man!" said cecilia. "i'm ashamed to have said that," he said. his voice was gruff. "but,--it's been in my heart these long months,--that endless regret." he drew a shaky breath. cecilia laid her hand on his arm. without a shade of consciousness his hand closed around hers. "i've never told any one that before," he said. "you're awfully--different. i feel as if we'd known each other always." he turned his head and looked down at her. their eyes met, and it was hard to look away. "you're so dear!" he blurted out. cecilia, used to many men of many compliments, coloured. she squeezed his hand, and then shyly drew hers away. mrs. higgenmeyer came waddling down the deck. she saw cecilia and smiled widely. "well, dearie!" she said in her usual carrying tone, "lotty was looking fer yuh. she and poppa are playing rum now. she wants you should see a wireless she had from her gentleman friend." "i'd love to!" answered cecilia. momma passed by. k. stuyvesant and cecilia laughed gently. "i like to love and laugh," said cecilia; "but if you leave the love out, the laughter is too liable to turn sour." k. stuyvesant nodded, but he hadn't heard what she said. he was undergoing new and terrifyingly beautiful sensations. "the higgenmeyers are dear, aren't they?" said cecilia. "um hum," answered k. stuyvesant. he turned quite boldly and stared at her, while she looked out upon the sea and sky. he wondered, while he swallowed hard, whether he had any chance. he wished he weren't such a duffer! he even wished faintly that she weren't so wonderful. cecilia looked up at him again, and again the warm colour came into her cheeks. then she began to talk quickly of a recent play. her voice was not quite steady. she wouldn't meet his eyes. miss hutchinson was speaking of a paper she'd read before the boston literati on "the message of ibsen." cecilia didn't know much about ibsen, but she thought he would have been rather surprised if he'd heard what he "really meant." k. stuyvesant was, as usual, with them. cecilia and he looked at each other often. the new, disconcerting light in his eyes had given way, and was displaced for the moment by a mischievous twinkle. cecilia was able to look at him frankly again. miss hutchinson arose, untangling from her steamer blanket like a huge butterfly from a cocoon. "my point was," she said loudly, "that ibsen is the seer of those who see, but," she sighed, "there are so few of us!" she vanished. cecilia giggled. "are you one of _us_?" she asked of k. stuyesant. "lord, no!" he answered laughing, and then added seriously, "i'm an awful duffer. stupid and all that. i never used to care, but now i do. you--you don't read that kind of stuff, do you?" his appeal held a great fear. "oh, no!" answered cecilia. "i stopped reading improving things after i left school, i can't bear them, and it depresses me so to use my head! i'm not a bit clever." she sighed with her last words. they were both making many confessions about their failings. somehow it seemed necessary. also, they both wished a great deal of the time that they were much nicer! "you know what stephen leacock said about intellectual honesty?" asked cecilia. k. stuyvesant shook his head. "i can't quote," said cecilia, "but he said as you grew old you would find books had brought you more pleasure than anything except tobacco. but then, he said, you must be honest about them, reading only what you liked. that if 'pippa passes' didn't appeal, you should let 'pippa' pass, that she was not for you. there was some more, but i shan't ruin it by misquoting it. it was so clever!" k. stuyvesant didn't answer. because cecilia was afraid of his silences, she began to tell him of a small brother whom she greatly loved. "but you'll know him," she ended, "if you come to see us. you will, won't you?" "well, rather!" answered k. stuyvesant. "why, you _know_ i'm coming!" there was almost a resentment in his voice. "cecilia," he said, with his first use of her first name, "i haven't any right, but you're so _dear_, i have to. have i _any_ chance?" he leaned very close above her steamer chair. he had gotten quite white. "cecilia?" he whispered in question. he reached for her hand, then drew back sharply. "i know you meet lots of fellows much finer than i am," he went on, "and when i'm away from you i don't see how i have the nerve to hope, but i can't help it. cecilia--dear?" the "dear" was rather muffled. k. stuyvesant had never used it before and it stuck, even though he wanted so much to say it! she turned her face toward him, and he could say no more. she thought of a brick on the top shelf of a gilt cabinet. "nothing could matter to him," she thought; "he is so dear, but i must see..." "when we get home," she whispered, "after two months you may ask me again, if you're sure." "sure?" he echoed. "sure? oh, _heavens!_" then he looked down at her for quite a few rather breathless moments. after that they talked. "after two months," repeated cecilia stubbornly. it made no impression. at last she equivocated a bit and gained her point. "i hardly know you," she said, looking away from him; "i--i prefer----" "i don't know anything about girls," said k. stuyvesant, "but i know i've been a dub. i'll try to be agreeable, i'll _try_ to keep this to myself. but,--you _will_ give me a chance?" cecilia said she would. "gosh,--i love----" began k. stuyvesant; then he shook his head. cecilia didn't mean to, but she slipped her hand in his, under the kind shelter of a blue and green checked blanket. k. stuyvesant didn't say anything more. he only looked. mrs. higgenmeyer came paddling by. "poppa ain't so well," she called. "he's sick to his stummick!" "i'm--i'm sorry," answered cecilia. she tried to pull her hand from k. stuyvesant's. he refused to let it go. after mrs. higgenmeyer had passed, he spoke. "you're mine!" he said in the manner of all lovers. "you are!" his voice was gruff. cecilia was to learn that that meant that she mattered much. at his words cecilia's heart turned over, but she remembered her eccentric, dear, and much-loved father, and a certain brick. "you promised," she reminded him. "i said after two months, when i knew you. you promised." "i'll be good," he answered dismally, "but i know you, and it's hard to think of waiting. there isn't any question of time. you're just----, well, i'm thirty-two. i'd never dreamed that i could feel this. i want to kneel when i think of you. i----" he stopped. cecilia drew a deep breath. they looked at each other, and the world ceased for them. they were only a chord stretched to breaking,--a chord for heaven's tunes. chapter ix home "i tell celie, it ain't like we couldn't buy 'em perfect. (i could pay for 'em whole.) but she sez that ain't it." jeremiah madden surveyed a greek venus as he spoke, whose arms were quite lacking. "as fer me," he went on, "i like 'em with all their limbs with 'em,--tasty and neat. this here kind of thing makes me think of the war. there's one in the eyetalian garden i'm going to buy a cork leg for." the young men who surrounded jeremiah madden laughed loudly. the loudness of their laughter made jeremiah a bit suspicious at first, but he reasoned they would hardly accept his hospitality and laugh at him,--it must be with him. so, vastly pleased and beaming widely, he went on with pleased pride: "this here garden cost me near a million, fixings and all. that fountain to the right (the one with the dinky bird settin' on the female's arm) cost me----" but he didn't finish, for johnny came around the corner of a path and emerged from its boxwood protection with a cough, and then a loud inanity. he frowned on jeremiah and the laughter of the young men stopped. "i didn't know _you_ were here," he said coolly to the quaking jeremiah. jeremiah realised that he had displeased, and began unsurely, "i'll be gettin' back to work. i just left fer a few minutes, i----" "come on," broke in johnny, and the group of tired-looking youths followed him, leaving jeremiah confiding to the stone "female" of his work and of how he must get back to it. realising himself alone, he swallowed his words, and watched the group disappear toward the tennis courts with a puzzled hurt in his face.... a half a mile away, and well below, the waters of the sound shone brazen blue in the sunlight. sometimes a gull swooped low, and its wings were silver. in one spot a marble wall with a greek relief stood out in blazing white against the distant water.... jeremiah saw all the loveliness, but he could not feel it. "that wall cost me----" he muttered, and then stopped, hearing footsteps. cecilia stepped from the same path from which johnny had made his entrance. her hat was a broad one, hiding her face provokingly, her dress one of those "simple" affairs, so dangerous to hearts and purses. "dearest!" she called rather breathlessly, "i did so want to see you! i've been hunting for you everywhere!" jeremiah put his arms around her and forgot his worry about a certain son, and even forgot the cost of things. "well?" he questioned gently. "well," she repeated after him, "i just wanted to see you." she fidgetted as she had at seven, when the request for a new skillet or pan had been necessary. jeremiah understood, and looked down at the simple affair, talking of it, to give her time. "that dress now," he said, "ain't it kind of plain? don't you like 'em fancied up with ruffles and lace and stuff?" cecilia said that perhaps it was plain, but that she rather liked it. however, she would get one all-over ruffles for jeremiah's dear gaze. after that they were silent, cecilia staring absently out over the deep, blue sound. "papa, dear," she said at last, with a gulp. "there's a man coming out to see me,--i mean us,--for sunday. i hope you'll like him. he--he's really nice. i hope you'll like him." she stopped for a moment and then again said: "i _do_ hope you'll like him." "do you want me to like him?" asked jeremiah. "oh, yes," said cecilia, "i do!" she was again looking toward the sound. her small, white teeth were set on her lower lip. "he's very dear," she said at last; then she plaited a pink-edged handkerchief. jeremiah frowned. "there ain't a man fit fer yuh!" he said crossly, "not a one!" "yes, there is," answered cecilia. "there ain't!" contradicted jeremiah. "does he play tennis?" he questioned, "and set around in white pants?" jeremiah's voice had grown absolutely fierce. cecilia laughed. "i suppose he does," she admitted, "but he works, really hard. he told me that life had only meant work for him, until----" "hum!" grunted jeremiah. "hum! let me catch him trying to keep company with you! white tennis, and pants, and gulfing around with them funny sticks! _lemme_ catch him!" "don't get so excited!" said cecilia between little giggles. "he may not even want me. he really hasn't asked me yet." "he ain't?" exploded jeremiah. "he ain't? _why_ not? is the durn fool blind? i'd like to know why not." cecilia sank to a white marble seat. she was laughing helplessly. suddenly she sobered and wiped her eyes. "dear," she said, "do you think i'd love you less, for--for loving some one else? didn't you love the whole world more because of mamma? it only makes me want to be much nicer, and want to hug the earth!" she covered her face as she finished, with slender, little hands. jeremiah sat down by her. "i want my bonnet with pink roses on it!" she whispered, "i _do_ want it!" he put his arms around her because he couldn't answer. a gull with silver wings swooped low. cecilia uncovered her face, and kissed the brick king. "which is my very prettiest dress?" she asked. "i want to wear it saturday afternoon." she tried to think her depression came from the night before, but half of it came from the letter which she held in her hand. she had had the strangest sinking sensation on reading it, and she _did_ love marjory. why it had made her feel that way was a mystery. [illustration: the dinner had been what she wanted] she opened the letter again. its pages crackled, and sprung into their first folds as she laid them on the table. the third sheet she picked up and read: "mamma is really quite wild about travelling with the johnstons and i am absurdly relieved. being with that dear lady tells on my disposition (usually perfect, you know, dear!), and i am happy to say a dutifully depressed good-bye to the water bottles and ailments which are all i know of my progenitor. i told her i would come to you for the summer months, and then perhaps go to cousin alice. i may go home, but i'm not sure, and such a course involves the proper dowager, who is always too proper, or too improper, and ever a bore! i shall write you again about all this, and when i shall arrive. "dear, i shall so enjoy being with you. you are the only good person i know who does not offend me. perhaps because you are so unconscious of that quality. your influence is wonderful with me.... how do you like being an 'influence'? i have turned flippant, but you know i was serious----" and that letter, in some strange way, had depressed cecilia. she had wanted the summer to be a quiet one,--one in which she could learn to know a small brother, have ample time to amuse her father,--and---- well, she was utterly ashamed, but she'd wanted it alone. it was so little of her to wish it so. marjory had been so good to her. but,--cecilia had dreamed of quiet evenings with the moon making a glittering path of silver on the sound.... she'd dreamed of a big, gruff man coming toward her across soft grass.... that, and the scent of roses, pink roses.... instead the summer would be full of marjory's friends. marjory had so many and such gay ones! dancing, playing cards, motoring,--hunting pleasure with a strained intensity, running foolishly so that boredom should not overtake them.... and she had needed the summer with john. marjory, her good friend, was not the one to show him things as cecilia would have him see them. cecilia sighed. then a little spasm of pain flickered across her face. the night before was in her mind, when john, with the friends who were visiting him, had grown too joyous. she had heard them come in in the deep night. the sounds had rung clear in the still air. the cars they drove had come crashing through rose bushes, knocking down slender trellises.... with silly laughter, she had heard the men come toward the house. there had been unpleasant words said loudly, as if such utterances were humorous. there had been more silly laughter after them. cecilia had felt quite sick. she had covered her eyes and made requests of some one's else mother.... then she had slipped into a negligee and cautiously opened her door. the hall was empty and she went to john's room. she shook as she travelled the long hall, and she hated john's friends with a marvellous hate for one so sweet-natured. she was heart-sick and afraid. john's room was empty. she stood there a moment, steadying herself. there were pictures scattered about the room, which made her understand things more fully. one, on a table near her, showed a pert miss, with tightly curled hair, and a dress of cheap fanciness. "your own little girl," was written across its corner, and then the little girl's name, "fanchette lemain." cecilia turned away. she went out into the hall. she felt as she had years ago when john was her baby. at the top of the broad and long stairs she looked down. john was on the first step, sprawled unbeautifully, his head hanging limp on his chest, his hands closed around a cerise scarf on which glittered little silver spots. she looked about to see that no one else was there and then ran quickly down the stairs. "i'm too heavy," said john, halfway up the stairs. he had been considerably sobered by black coffee, and more so by the sight of cecilia. he leaned on her arm. "i have carried you before," answered cecilia. "when we lived in the flat, that was. i used to think that when you grew up i could lean on you. it was funny how i planned." john didn't answer. they had reached his room and he sank to his bed and sat, blinking stupidly, on the edge of it. cecilia slipped to her knees, and began to take off his shoes. "don't!" he ordered sharply. "ring for higgens." "i'd rather not," answered cecilia. "it was the heat----" he began. cecilia sat back on her little heels. she looked like a small girl saying her "now i lay me----" "it was not the heat," answered cecilia. "when you were small i washed your mouth out with brown soap for doing that. now do you want a drink? i'll wet this towel; you'd better put it on your head. there's the dawn," she said, looking toward the window. then she turned and picked up a cerise scarf with silver spots on it. she folded it and laid it on the table by the photograph of fanchette lemain. john looked unhappy. cecilia put her hand on her brother's shoulder. "good-night, dear," she said. a quiver ran across his face. "i didn't want you to know," he whispered "you're so dear, but old-fashioned. you don't understand how a man----" he stopped, and she slipped down on the bed by him. "everything's so beastly here. i'm so ashamed to have the fellows see dad," he went on incoherently. "always talkin' of how things cost--always makin' breaks in grammar,--afraid of his own butler----" john's eyelids were drooping. he fell back, asleep. cecilia got up and tried to pull him into a more comfortable position. then she went to her own room. on the way she passed jeremiah's. she paused by his door. she wanted to kiss him,--as she had johnny, when, very small, he had bumped himself. "excuse him, dearest," she whispered. "he's very young. some day he'll understand, i hope." then she went on. the dawn had come. the sound was covered by a grey fog. cecilia lay down to stare up at her ceiling. she did not sleep again. at last came noises. the gardeners talked as they worked on the terrace below her windows. "cut up rough," said one. cecilia could hear the break of wood. the white trellis with its pink rambler had evidently suffered. "the old man----!" said another voice expressively. they laughed a little. "well, the kid's a gent, anyway," said the other, loudly. "drunk every night, and enough lady friends for a hippodrome chorus----" they laughed again. cecilia turned and hid her face in the pillow. her palms were wet. father mcgowan was surrounded by brigands. their burnt cork moustaches gave them a fierce expression terrible to view. "so you saw a man climbing up the grape arbor?" questioned father mcgowan. the spokesman wriggled a little, and then said, "well, we didn't just see him but we heard him." "i seen him," said the youngest brigand, whose lower lip was quivering. "i seen him. he had eyes like fire. i want--my maw! i'm scared!" the youngest brigand dissolved into tears. they ran down his cheeks and through his kaiser wilhelm of burnt cork, leaving a grey trail on his small chin. "i want my maw!" he repeated. "an' las' night i seen a man down the alley. he sez 'hello bub.' that fierce i ran home, _i_ tell yuh!" said another of the group. "bet it was jack, the hugger," came in an ominous tone from the background. the brigands quaked. their eyes had grown large with excitement, and fear was plain above the moustaches. one small boy who wore a horse-hair imperial, muttered of "gettin' home to study his gogerfy." he, and all the rest, cast longing eyes toward the door. the youngest mopped the tears and smeared his moustache across his face with his coat sleeve. the fat priest got up and laid aside his pipe with reluctance. "come on," he said; "we'll go find the villain. come on!" two small boys clung to his cassock,--the rest pretended a bravado. they swaggered largely through the kitchen, where mrs. fry, washing the rectory dishes, glared at their intrusion. outside the soft dark covered the fears of the brigands. father mcgowan went toward the arbour. he looked well on the frail structure, and then shook it. a black cat hissed, and jumped down. "_i_ wasn't scared none!" said the brigand who had wanted his maw, "_i_ was just pretending!" the rest of the brigands giggled foolishly and muttered of "foolin'." father mcgowan tactfully spoke of the weather, and then he suggested going down to the corner drug store, where pink sodas could be bought for five cents. there was a flattering acceptance of his offer. they started off, all talking loudly to him of their large achievements. he listened and answered just at the right time, and said just the right thing. so they faded into the night, the long, black shadow with the smaller ones about it, clinging to it. "he's takin' 'em to the drug store, i bet," said a lanky boy who was smoking in the shadows. his voice was sad. "he must say lots of masses," said his companion. "every time them kids bawl around his place they get something to eat." "um hum," agreed the first speaker, "but he ain't no soft guy. sometimes he licks 'em fit to kill." down the street the drug store screen door slapped shut smartly. "them five-cent sodas ain't no good anyway!" said the lanky boy. "_i_ wouldn't want none!" the other sighed. "no," said mrs. fry, "he ain't here. he's went to the drug store with a mess of kids. yuh can set, or yuh can go. _he_ don't care. that's the kind of a man _he_ is." the man who stood on the rectory porch said he would wait. as he stepped across the threshold mrs. fry recognised him as a doctor who had been uppish and sent in his card, "like he was a king." she looked critically at his boots. "trackin' in dust all the time----" she muttered. then she went heavily down the hall, slamming the dining-room door after her. "_he_ never gets no rest!" she stated aloud to a picture of a dead duck, hanging by its feet. "never no peace nor no time to smoke!" she glared at the fowl which had been given father mcgowan by agnes o'raddle, as she soliloquised. the erstwhile mr. fry, who had always been forced to smoke in the backyard, was far away. "well?" questioned father mcgowan. the doctor who sat across the table from him leaned forward and began to speak quickly, his breath coming between his quick words in gasps: "my wife's people had the controlling interest in this plant, and i put all my money in it. it had always paid well. a ventilator, it is, which slips beneath a raised window,--simple affair, yet good. then this madden man got ahold of an improved article, patented it, and started a manufactory in the same town, started it on a large scale,--advertised extensively.... well, we're ruined. we can't compete. he sells below cost. he can't want money; he's losing now. why does he do it? we've done everything. i've offered him----" the bell of the telephone which stood on the desk rang sharply. "pardon," said father mcgowan, and then, "why, cecilia!" there was an interval then the doctor heard him say: "your prettiest dress? why they're all pretty! why?" there was a longer interval, then a sharp "what?" from father mcgowan. a silence, and then, "dear child! i'll be out to-morrow!" father mcgowan hung up the receiver. his manner and voice were changed and softened. "the little boy is dead," he said to the doctor. "he was happy before he died. he grew very young, and forgot a great deal, the little boy who was in your care, i mean. now go on, tell me more of this. will you smoke?" the fat priest pushed a box of cigars toward the shaking doctor. "i--i wouldn't do that now----" began the doctor. "something's broken me. god, i've suffered! what's that?" he ended sharply. there was the tap-tap-tap that sounded like small crutches on a polished floor. father mcgowan looked perplexed. "it must be the vines against the window," he said, "but i didn't know it was windy. have you a match?" the doctor nodded, and lit his cigar. his hands shook cruelly. "god, i've suffered!" he said hoarsely, "and i believe this madden man has caused it all. my practice and money gone, i----" he stopped. "_can't_ you help me?" he finished. "_can't_ you?" "norah," said cecilia, "which is my prettiest dress?" "i dunno, dearie," replied norah. "yuh ain't exactly homely in none! but don't go thinkin' too much of yer looks. my maw used to say, 'beauty's only skin deep.' she was a great one fer them sayin's." "norah," said cecilia, "am i--am i what you'd call pretty?" "that depends," said norah, "on whether yuh like dark or light hair." she surveyed cecilia critically, her lips sternly tight, but a proud light showing in her eyes. since cecilia had grown up, the virgin had undergone a complete physical transformation for norah. if norah's virgin had been on earth, she might easily have been confused with cecilia evangeline agnes madden. "how you kin set in them corsets!" said norah, anxious to change the subject. cecilia laughed, then turned before a long glass which stood between windows. "i wish i hadn't been educated," said cecilia. "i _love_ pink ones, trimmed all over with roses and lace!" "my maw used to say, 'handsome is as handsome does!'" said norah sternly. cecilia's new concern for her looks and clothes was disquieting to her. she thought with a horror of marjory's salves, and eyebrow pencils.... suppose cecilia!--norah shook her head. a maid came in the room with a froth of lacy frills falling over her arm. she disposed of the froth, then bent above the seated cecilia, and began taking the pins from her yellow hair. it fell loosely, with the soft, slow motion of waves, about her shoulders and well below her hips.... "_tres joli!_" said the true worshipper of beauty, as she always did. "nonsense!" replied cecilia, absently, as she always did. this was the rite, frowned on by the jealous norah. "i mended yer skirt," said norah crossly. "it was tore fierce." "thank you, dear," said cecilia, and then: "josephine, which is my most pretty dress?" norah left, shutting the door with decision. she muttered of people who talked eyetalian, and other heathen languages. then she decided it was her duty to tell cecilia of josephine's outrageous flirting with mr. 'iggens. after this lofty resolve her face cleared, and her expression, became pleasant. she passed a heavy-eyed boy in the hall. in the early days he had often shed his tears against her shoulder.... he had found love, and understanding, exhibited by doughnuts, and bread spread thickly with brown sugar. "mr. john----" said norah timidly as they were opposite. "huh?" he responded, with a cool look. norah swallowed with a gulp, and went on. her heart was heavy. her spirit ached. "we give him too many doughnuts," she said. then again her face cleared. "i'll tell celie how they go on!" she reflected. "then i guess she won't be so smart! winkin' and carryin' on!" the dwelling on the iniquities of josephine was vastly cheering. norah almost forgot a heavy-eyed and overgrown boy, who, when little, had sobbed his troubles out against her thin shoulder, and had turned to her for soothing sugar cookies. at the pretty little station, k. stuyvesant was met by cecilia. "how'd do?" he said gruffly. "how do you do?" said cecilia. she had on her prettiest dress, but k. stuyvesant twombly didn't notice it. they disposed of the baggage question and then he settled, stiff and conscious, by her side in a small grey car. "pretty day," said k. stuyvesant at last. then he looked at cecilia. "gosh! i love----" he stopped suddenly and shook his head. "wh-what have you been doing since i saw you?" asked cecilia. "thinking of you," answered k. stuyvesant gruffly. cecilia didn't answer. he was afraid she hadn't liked his telling her the truth, so he described a futurist exhibition, while horribly conscious that the quick beating of his heart made his voice shake. "i'm glad you came," said cecilia after the futurist exhibition had been described. "i wanted to see you." "dear!" said k. stuyvesant loudly, and without the least effort. he sat looking down on her with a very honest and revealing look, a look that would have made any one with the least feeling bet their last cent on him. "two months," reminded cecilia.... it was really too wonderful. it had to be proved. if he really cared he would wait two months. "there's the house," she said aloud, "and on the terrace my dear brother." the car twisted between tall gate posts, and the house and terrace were lost to sight from the shading trees. a collie dog bounded out from the shrubbery and barked fiercely. "evangeline!" called cecilia. "he is norah's," she explained to k. stuyvesant. "she named him after me." "who is norah?" asked k. stuyvesant. "she was our 'hired girl,'" answered cecilia, "before we ever heard of maids." k. stuyvesant didn't reply. in a second the car was by a side entrance. "john!" called cecilia to the languid figure on the terrace. john sauntered slowly toward them. "glad to know you, i'm sure," he said in his most grown-up and _blasé_ manner. "nice of you to run out to see us. we get jolly bored, you know." after this john turned toward the house. there was an old man on the broad porch, looking wistfully and undecidedly toward the group. "oh, the gov'ner!" said john in a tone indescribable. "daddy," called cecilia loudly, "please come here _right_ away!" the brick king came toward them eagerly. "pleased to meet yuh," he said as he acknowledged the introduction. k. stuyvesant spoke kindly of the beauty of the place. "it ought to be beautiful!" answered jeremiah. "it cost enough! them there fixings fer the garden," he went on, "them alone cost----" "let me take you to your room," broke in john. "don't you want to get in cooler things?" k. stuyvesant assented and followed john to the house. when he reached the porch he looked back. cecilia stood with her arm through her father's. she was looking up at his face. her smile was tender. "gosh!" said k. stuyvesant, and shook his head. then he drew a long breath and turned to follow john. the dinner had been what she wanted, thought cecilia. he had seen _everything_.... jeremiah had asked the butler to "spare" him a piece of bread. he had also tucked his napkin in his collar, and then, with a quick movement, removed it, looking around as he did so to see if he'd been noticed. john had wiggled and sighed loudly when bricks had been talked of. in an effort to gloss over the crudities he had contributed a "smart line of talk," far more impossible than any amount of money mention. k. stuyvesant had responded politely to everything and had avoided looking at cecilia with a studied effort. cecilia had been silent. she felt it better that she should not appear in this act. "he come to me, being as i was a man with money, and i sez----" came to her again in jeremiah's cracked voice. "i beg pardon?" k. stuyvesant had said, having lost it through john's interruption. "granted," said jeremiah. "i sez, he come to me an'----" k. stuyvesant had been _so_ dear! cecilia stood leaning on the wall with the greek relief, as she thought her thoughts.... she looked on the sound, which was black in the night, except for a path of white moonlight. a path that quivered silver. she looked and saw k. stuyvesant listening to jeremiah's talk. he _had_ been so dear! she wondered whether they'd never finish their smoke and talk, and whether he'd _ever_ come to her. her eyes filled with tears. "mamma!" she whispered to the soft dark. a fitful little breeze sprang up, seeming to answer. he came across the soft grass slowly. his heart knelt to the little irish girl who sat upon the white marble wall. "hello, mr. k. stuyvesant!" she called gaily. "hello," he answered heavily. he stood, arms on the wall, a few feet from her, looking at her boldly in the soft light. the world was full of the rhythmic surge of his pulses.... the night air seemed to beat upon him with the heat of fire, but there was no thought of touching her. he was utterly humble before his shrine. he wanted, this american man of , to kneel before this little maiden.... he craved the touch of her hands on his head. he was shaken, purified, thrilled.... he repeated "two months--two months!" to still his overmastering desires. the silence had been long and had grown heavy. k. stuyvesant was afraid of it. he gulped convulsively and almost yelled: "great night, isn't it?" cecilia nodded. "don't you want to smoke?" she asked. "i guess i'd better," he said unsteadily, then, "oh, cecilia!" he reached toward her, then drew back, for john came toward them. "cablegram," he said languidly, "for you, celie." cecilia opened it. "from marjory," she said, after reading it by the light of john's flash. "she comes next week. you must like her," she added to stuyvesant. "she is my best friend." chapter x "my best friend" father mcgowan frowned. "i love him," said cecilia. "i don't care who knows it. where's your handkerchief? i--i guess i've lost mine." father mcgowan supplied the handkerchief. cecilia dabbed her eyes. "you see she's so attractive," she went on, "and i'm--i'm not so very. and then john, and everything. i'm ashamed of crying like this." she gulped again. father mcgowan covered her small hand with his. "dear child!" he said gently. "dear child!" the fire leaped, spluttered and hissed with capricious change. outside the weather was grey, with a drab touch in the air. the sky was a shivery colour. cecilia and father mcgowan sat on a wide davenport in the library. "where is he now?" asked father mcgowan. "playing tennis with marjory," said cecilia. she again dabbed father mcgowan's handkerchief on her eyes. "oh, drat!" said father mcgowan fiercely. he put his other hand over the small one which lay in his. cecilia tightened her fingers about his thumb. "i've been so miserable," she said, "that i've even thought of being a nun. i would if it weren't for papa, and john,--and my hair. (i couldn't bear to have it cut.) and he shows so plainly that he likes her, and then she tells me what he says,--oh, dear!" "darn fool!" said father mcgowan. "is he _crazy_?" he glared at cecilia with his question, and she laughed unsteadily. "i'm ashamed to bother you," she said, "but it helps, and i can't tell papa. i think papa'd kill him. he's done nothing wrong, you know. you can't help what your heart does." she avoided the fat priest's eyes and looked down at her ringless left hand. "there have been lots of men," she said, "but none i could even dream of marrying. this is different, and--and i do! his eyes are so dear and so is he, but i would love him anyway. i think he's the rest of me." "drat!" said father mcgowan forcibly. "drat him!" "i wish i'd been left in the flat. then i'd have grown up to marry some teamster. it's only when you reach for things too high above you that your arms begin to ache,--then papa and john, all the time misunderstanding each other. both of them being hurt by this money,--and i--i _love_ him so!" "cecilia," said father mcgowan, "this world is full of hurts. you have to take them as you do the weather, without a question. some one put them here to polish our little souls.... after you are fifty you will accept them with thankfulness and cease questioning. the faith of childhood will return in a bigger way, with a belief in the absolutely unknown. some one put them here to polish our little souls. they are here, let them polish, not scratch." "yes," answered cecilia meekly. "oh, drat!" said father mcgowan with an entire change of tone. "i don't _want_ you polished. _dear_ child! drat him, is he _crazy_?" jeremiah wandered in. he was sullen. he had been talked to by a fat priest, who told him that he should leave the discipline of a certain doctor to god and the world, explaining that it was rarely necessary for humans to add to any one's unhappiness by a mistaken sense of dealing out justice. jeremiah had listened with his eyes on the top shelf of a gilt cabinet which held a brick. after father mcgowan had finished, jeremiah had spoken of the weather, and jeremiah was a good catholic. father mcgowan realised it was a bad case. he had abandoned it for that time. "and will yuh stay fer dinner?" asked the sullen jeremiah. "i _will_," answered the priest decidedly. cecilia handed him a handkerchief, which he folded carefully and put in his pocket. then she got up and played "the shepherd boy" for the king of bricks. outside in the grey light a sullen-eyed man played tennis with marjory. he played with much energy and replied with scant courtesy to marjory's remarks. "cecilia said that she was tired of entertaining,--that i'd have to do it for her," sang out the green-eyed. k. stuyvesant's chin squared. "in," he called. "i'm a fool to stick around," was his mental comment on himself. he was not surprised by the dead weight his heart felt, although the sensation was new. they finished their game and went toward the house. "you're doing lots for john," said marjory. "he adores you! imitates your every move! you'll try to get him through this smartness?" in truth she did not consider it smartness, for to her it was the natural attitude of young men. however she was clever enough to see the way this big, silent man felt about it, and to agree outwardly. "i'd do anything to help one girl," he said loudly. he wanted marjory to know how he felt about cecilia. perhaps she'd help him. they reached the broad steps. "after dinner i want to see you," whispered marjory. "in the garden,--alone. something about cecilia. by the white wall?" "not there," he answered quickly, "but by the italian dial, if you like." in the hall he met a fat priest. the man was heartily uncordial, but he didn't much care. after a few words he went up to his room. there he stood by his window and looked on the grey sound. a fog was creeping over it. everything was dismal and dull. "i'm not much good," he muttered, "but no one could love her more. i would be--so good to her. so good. little saint--i----" he covered his eyes with his hands. his hands shook. there was a tap on the door. john came in. "hello, old chap!" he said energetically, the languid indifference all gone from his tone. "can i stay and talk?" he settled, while k. stuyyesant took a grip on himself, and tried to bring himself to an agreeable acceptance of his task. in another wing of the house cecilia was dressing. marjory, gorgeous in a flame-coloured negligee, lounged in a comfortable chair and talked during the operation. "you may go, josephine," said cecilia, "and thank you." "if i treated my maid as you do yours," said marjory, "she'd have no respect for me." "if i weren't decently kind," answered cecilia, "i'd have no respect for myself, and josephine likes me." "oh, my _dear_," said marjory, "she _adores_ you." marjory scrutinised her nails. "i told stuyvesant to-day," she said, "how much he'd done for john. you don't mind?" "no," answered cecilia. "he has. i'm grateful." "he said he was glad i wanted him to, that he'd do anything for a certain girl. he has the dearest eyes, when he looks at you--oh, you know how----" "yes," answered cecilia, "i know." there was a pause while the only sound heard was the brush on cecilia's hair--the soft snap and swish. "cecilia," said marjory, "_were_ you engaged to tommy dixon?" "yes," answered cecilia, "but, marjory, i can't bear to remember it. it--it was while i was much younger and hurt because of something annette twombly had said. i thought i'd have to marry some one like that to help papa. you know how foolish duty may be at nineteen? he was of a splendid family. i thought papa would like it, when now i know that all he wants is my happiness. after all, decayed flowers from a good plant are not worth anything." "when did you break it off?" asked marjory. "when he kissed me," answered cecilia. "it taught me how intolerable love is unless it is very true. i will always remember those kisses. i can't forget them. what are you going to wear to-night?" cecilia changed the subject with suddenness, for it made her sick. "black," answered marjory. cecilia's heart sank. marjory was so very pretty in black! marjory got up. "bye, childy," she called, "i must go." and she waved her hand airily as she went out. on the way down the hall she repeated cecilia's words: "i will always remember those kisses. i can't forget them." that would do very nicely for the little talk by the italian dial.... she would play sympathy, understanding. she would not lie, but if he cared to misunderstand how could she, marjory, help that? a sudden spark of her honest father flew across her soul. "i don't care!" she said in answer to it, "i love him, i really do!" then the love and trust of the small cecilia twanged on a heart chord. marjory shut her eyes. in her mind came those of k. stuyvesant twombly, as he looked when he gazed on the daughter of a "brick king." marjory hardened. "she doesn't love him as i do," she whispered; "she can't!" she was only the echo of a single purpose: cruel in its selfishness, animal in its origin, and savage in intensity. chapter xi acceptance "celie, be yuh happy?" asked jeremiah anxiously. "oh, yes!" answered cecilia. she caught her breath rather spasmodically and went on: "of course i'm happy! here i am, all through being improved and ready to stay at home with you and john. isn't that enough to make any one happy?" "don't you want some new frills, or something?" asked jeremiah wistfully. "you know i can buy yuh anything, and i like to, good." "i have so much," answered cecilia. she went over to him and perched on the arm of his chair. "you and john are everything to me," she said. "when i have you i have everything!" she leaned toward him and kissed him. her arms tightened fiercely about his neck. "you are _everything_!" she repeated loudly. 'iggins came sliding in with that effect of being on casters, proper to butlers. "was yuh lookin' fer me, sir?" asked jeremiah. higgins assented and delivered a small box. then he elevated his head and left. outside the door he muttered of leaving. he recalled with bitterness his last post, where the man of the house had been a "perfect gentleman" and had thrown boots and curses at him without partiality. "'sir!'" he echoed with a fine scorn. "'ow is a man to keep 'is self-respect?" josephine tripped down the hall. she carried marjory's small dog, who had a scarlet coat buttoned about his small tummy. "dee-ar eegeens!" she purred, then fluttered her eyelashes. "the post 'as its hadvantages," said dee-ar eegeens, and followed in josephine's direction. inside the library cecilia stood by a window with jeremiah. he was untying the string of a small box and his fingers shook. "i got it fer you, celie," he said, "because i thought you was peaked like." he opened the box reverently. "oh!" said cecilia. "_twenty_-five thousand," said jeremiah. "_look_ at her!" jeremiah lifted his present from the box. the pendant of his present looked like a lamp shade from tiffany's. "_oh!_" said cecilia again. "_look_ at that there diamond and emerald and ruby all mashed together like!" said jeremiah proudly. "_look_ at her! _don't_ she sparkle?" "it does," said cecilia; "it certainly does!" "i told 'em to take out the pearls and put more sparkly stuff in. i sez, 'put in all yuh can! don't spare no expense.' i sez, 'make her showy. she's fer the best girl on earth.' they done it too." "oh, yes!" said cecilia. her eyes were a little moist. tears came easily lately. she put her arms around jeremiah's neck. "dear," she said, "i love it. i can't say thank you the way i want to." jeremiah didn't answer and she laid her cheek against his shoulder. together they looked out of the window on the green and then the water's grey. "celie," said jeremiah uncertainly. "yes?" answered cecilia. "celie," he said, "you wasn't sweet on that young twombly? you _wasn't_?" cecilia shook her head. "i was afraid you was frettin' over him," said jeremiah; "you wasn't?" again he felt her head move against his shoulder. she clung to him for a moment, and then straightened and said, "i must go dress." at the door she paused and turned back. "i love the pendant," she said. "it is beautiful. i _love_ it!" jeremiah beamed widely. "i knew yuh would," he said boastfully. "i sez, 'spare no expense. it's fer my little girl that nursed her maw, cooked her paw's meals, and then learned him to wear a _dress_-suit. none smarter!'" "it is beautiful, dearest," murmured cecilia. then she left the room. alone, jeremiah went to stand below a portrait. "mary," he whispered, "what makes her look like she wants to cry?" chapter xii pain "if it is any satisfaction," said father mcgowan dryly, "i will assure you that he loves you. anybody could see that. i suppose it is your father, cecilia." she nodded. "marjory----" she started, then stopped. "well?" said father mcgowan. "marjory told me he said it was--papa," said cecilia. all the tragedy possible to feel at twenty-one was in her young eyes. "she did it kindly," added cecilia. then she went on unsteadily: "i don't know why i am not brave. i am so ashamed. he--he isn't worth it." "no," answered father mcgowan, "he isn't." cecilia slipped her hand in his. the warm contact had brought her peace at many times. it did now, in a way. "cecilia," said father mcgowan, "sometimes love means pain. you know father tabb's poem about it?" "no," said cecilia. "once only did he pass my way 'when wilt thou come again? all, leave some token of thy stay!' he wrote (and vanished) 'pain.'" cecilia tightened her fingers about father mcgowan's thumb. "you have always been so good to me," she whispered. "you have always understood and helped me!" "well, well!" said father mcgowan. "what else am i here for?" "marjory said if i kept papa,--kept papa----" cecilia stopped. "kept him in the backyard or in the cellar, it would be better?" ended father mcgowan. "oh, _don't_!" said cecilia. "please don't; for two or three times i've felt like john,--i'm _so_ ashamed." "dear child!" father mcgowan said. "dear child!" "i love papa," said cecilia. "it's only this new feeling that unsettles me. sometimes i think i'd pay any price. sometimes, like john, i'm ashamed, and then how i _hate_ myself!" a gilded moon had slid from behind a line of poplars. it had shown father mcgowan eyes that reflected an aching soul, tragic young eyes, almost bitter in their hurt. suddenly cecilia held his fat hand against her cheek. then she smiled at him bravely. "i'm going to be good!" she said with a little catch in her voice. "i'm going to be good!" "cecilia evangeline," said father mcgowan, "dear child!" marjory entered the room with a slam and a swish. "i telephoned stuyvesant and asked him to come out to dinner," she said. "you don't mind?" "no," answered cecilia, "certainly not." "he seemed anxious to come," said marjory consciously. cecilia didn't reply. "what's in that box?" asked marjory. "a present," answered cecilia. she took it from the box and held it up for inspection. "oh, lord!" said marjory. "your father?" cecilia again did not reply. her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled. "if i were you," advised marjory, "i wouldn't wear it to-night. you know how conservative the twomblys are----" "what he thinks is not vital to me," said cecilia. "i shall wear it. i _love_ it. i think it's beautiful!" "you dear child!" said marjory. she looked on the small liar with respect. suddenly she was shocked into speechlessness. the small liar was sobbing wildly. "oh, marjory! oh, marjory!" she gasped. much later cecilia stood at the foot of the broad stair. "where's your necklace?" asked jeremiah. "oh," said cecilia, "i forgot it, but i want to wear it. i do! i'm going to get it now." she turned from him and ran up the steps. "here he is!" she heard john call from the porch. then came marjory's loud laugh. cecilia's breath came fast, and her fingers trembled as they clasped the new necklace about her throat. she stood before the mirror a minute before she started down. "it _is_ beautiful," she said, "and i am proud to wear it!" that night cecilia lay long wakeful. she had not slept much or well lately. she heard the different clocks follow each other with minutes' difference in their chimes. hour after hour.... cruel hours.... control left her and she turned from side to side, restlessly moving into what seemed, each time, a more restless position. she hoped k. stuyvesant had believed her when she said she thought her new necklace beautiful. she remembered john's sneer and his question: "been shopping at the 'five and ten'?" best, she remembered jeremiah's proud pleasure in his gift. the remembrance hurt, and made her feel little. there was a tap on her door which made her strained nerves leap. she sat up in bed and turned on the lights, blinking in their glare. "what is it?" she called. "it is i," answered marjory. "i've been wakeful. i want to talk with you for a moment." "come in," said cecilia. marjory opened the door and came across the room to sit on the edge of cecilia's bed. "i'm sorry you haven't slept," said cecilia. "that doesn't matter," answered marjory. cecilia saw that she was very tired, so tired that she looked old. she was the marjory of gay evening, with a grey veil shrouding her. "i'm going away," said marjory abruptly. her fingers played with the coverlet and her eyes avoided cecilia's. "i'm going back to mamma," she continued. "i think she needs me, and--and i _hate_ the states!" "marjory, _dear_!" said cecilia, "i'm sorry--so sorry." "no one wants me," said the new marjory. "i only make trouble wherever i go. no one wants me----" "i always want you," said cecilia. "i do, marjory,--i really do." "i believe you really mean that," said marjory slowly. "i'm almost too little to understand you, but i know you never lie." "i lied about the necklace," said cecilia; "i don't think it beautiful, except for the love it shows." "cecilia," said marjory, "i can't be truthful. i can't, cecilia----" "don't!" answered cecilia. "you are! i know you better than any one. you have been my best friend always, and i say you are!" marjory's fingers plucked at the coverlet restlessly. she breathed in quick gasps. cecilia laid her hand on marjory's. "perhaps to-morrow you'll feel differently?" she suggested. "you know dark makes things so much darker. i'll do anything to make you happier. i'll ask mr. twombly to come out and play with you often, marjory dear." "don't, oh, don't!" whimpered marjory. her shoulders shook. cecilia closed her eyes a moment, and then spoke quite loudly and steadily. "dear," she said, "i'm sure he loves you. i'm sure he does." "don't!" implored marjory. "don't!" she threw back her head and spoke in a different tone. "i hate america!" she said viciously. "i hate everything! life, my place in it. i hate you for being so good! i hate,--oh, god! oh, god!" her tirade ended in a paroxysm of dry sobs. small cecilia reached out her arms and drew marjory's head against her soft bosom. "oh, dear marjory!" she whispered, "you have been so good to me! i would do anything to make you happier! _anything!_ marjory, dear marjory!" marjory sobbed on. "i wasn't worthy of my dreams," cecilia heard her say between gasps. "i--they were too big for me. i knew it, but----" she stopped. cecilia, all uncomprehending, baffled, said only, "dear!" and again, "dear!" some strange trouble this was to bring tears to the dry-eyed marjory, but marjory needed comfort, not questions. "dear!" she said once again. marjory drew away. "oh, heavens!" she said, laughing, "what an emotional actress i could have been. forget this and sleep; i shall." she stood up, stretching. suddenly she was again the new marjory. she looked on cecilia. "i _did_ try," she said, "and some people can't be decent even when they try. they can only get halfway." "what?" began cecilia. "nothing," said marjory. "good-night." she started for the door, and then turned back. she leaned above the bed and kissed cecilia rather fiercely, quite as if she thought of some one else whom she loved in another way while she did it. after she'd gone cecilia hid her eyes. without reason the kisses of tommy dixon were recalled. those of the life-half, without a touch of soul. then cecilia forgot them in her wonder about marjory. "i would do anything for her happiness," thought cecilia, "even that." and then she closed her eyes and asked to be strong. when she opened them she saw a golden streak across the floor. the sun was up. chapter xiii a request "miss cecilia----" said stuyvesant twombly into the telephone which stood on his desk. his heart hammered so that his ears ached, and the furniture in the room swayed and bent. "i want to ask you a favour," he heard. "it matters a great deal to me, and, well, to----" she stopped. "yes?" he said, aware that his voice was crisp. he had not meant to have it so, but his voice, when cecilia was near, did as it pleased. "it's about john," he heard her say very quickly. "he--you know he cares a great deal about you, and that you influence him greatly. you did more than any one else ever has for him." "i'm sure," interrupted k. stuyvesant, "i'm glad. i don't mean that," he blurted out; "i mean----" "i understand," said cecilia; "i telephoned you to ask you if you wouldn't come to the house sometimes because of him? i--i'm not home very much. the--the little incident of the boat is quite forgotten----" k. stuyvesant coughed. "i understand you," said cecilia. "i hope you do me?" "yes," answered k. stuyvesant miserably. "you will help him?" she questioned further. "i will," he answered. "i told miss marjory i'd do---- "yes," broke in cecilia, unable to bear more; "she told me what you said. i'll be more grateful than you can ever know, too." k. stuyvesant swallowed convulsively. "good-bye," she said in a small voice. "good-bye," he answered gruffly. he hung up the receiver and stared across the room. his teeth were set with cruel tightness on his lower lip.... he remembered how her little hand had crept into his beneath a blue and green checked steamer blanket. he almost wished he could forget it.... and that distance at which she'd kept him had not been what he'd thought, her proving of his sudden love, but only her inclination. lord, how he'd dreamed, and still dreamed! ... he'd do what he could for john. he believed much was possible. and how even the sound of her voice left him! shaking, and aching with his want. first hot, then cold.... he stared, unseeingly, across his office. he recalled his first evening at the country house when he'd stood by the white wall with a greek relief, worshipping a little irish maid. then marjory had come. he wished she hadn't. he almost hated her, and found no reason why he should, except for her telling him something which haunted his long nights.... "cecilia, cecilia!" ran through his head,--and heart.... for her, he'd do what he could for john. he reached for the telephone and called a number he knew too well. after an interval, and a request, john answered. at first his tone was languid, then it leaped into colour from pleasure, and k. stuyvesant hid his eyes.... john, genuine, echoed the dearest cecilia. his voice, even in its grating boy-quality, held a hint of hers. "then we'll go riding?" k. stuyvesant asked. "i'd be jolly glad to!" answered john. "i've wanted to see you, but i thought i'd better not bother you." "we'll take in the aeroplane show," said k. stuyvesant, "if you like." john liked very much. he hung up the receiver, looking like a boy. his thickened eyelids were lifted, his eyes wide open. looking toward the photograph of fanchette, he recalled an engagement. "you may go to hell!" he said loudly, not stopping to think that his staying away would not send her there; but that she was more liable to its admittance on earth, if he, and other idle young men of his stamp, were with her. the aeroplane show! that would be great! of all the chaps he'd ever known he most admired k. stuyvesant, and to chum with him! well, wouldn't the fellows look! well, rather! in the hall he passed jeremiah. "going out with stuyvesant," he called pleasantly. confiding his intentions or aim in direction was unusual. both he and jeremiah wondered at it. jeremiah was so pleased that he was past smiling. a little quirk came in his heart, and he whispered, "just then he looked like mary used to when i brung her the wages. he did! i wished she could have saw him!" then jeremiah went on down the hall, stooping a little more than usual, as he always did with the thought that made him old. "a bunnit with pink roses on!" he muttered next. that always came with his memory of mary, that "bunnit" that she never had. "hello, madden," said k. stuyvesant. john threw out his chest. k. stuyvesant had acknowledged him a man. "how're yuh?" he added. john said that he was well. as they spoke they sped away from the stern-faced houses of new york's moneyed folk and into its hum. "glad to be in town again," said john; "awful glad to see you too. got beastly quiet out there after marjory left. can't be sleepy while _she's_ around!" k. stuyvesant assented. "you mashed on her too?" inquired john. k. stuyvesant took his eyes, for the faintest second, from the street ahead. then he looked back. he had answered. john felt limp, and adored with more fervor. "didn't mean to offend," he muttered. they had spent a pleasant afternoon. at least john thought so, the pleasantest, he thought, for ages, but just now he was suffering from a profound shock. k. stuyvesant had said something that had left john mentally holding on to his solar plexus. "you say it's an evidence of _youth_ to get drunk?" said john. "uh huh," answered k. stuyvesant in an indifferent tone. "surest sign in the world that a fellow's about nineteen. you know how it is, a chap wants to get old, be thought old, so he imitates what he thinks is manhood. like a kid, picking out gilt instead of gold, he picks out a drunk, and thinks it's a man. look at that motor! _some_ peach!" "yes," agreed john absently. however he hadn't seen the motor. he was hoping with violence that k. stuyvesant had not heard of his lurid past. for the first time he thought of his "past" without pleasure. heretofore his "past" had been like a treasured museum. each piece of fresh wickedness added to it with great pleasure, and the knowledge that its value was greater. "everybody goes through that stage," said k. stuyvesant, quite as if he'd read john's mind. "it's the measles of the pin-feather age. look here, john, whatcha think of that shaft? looks kinda heavy to me." "hollow, aluminum," said john in a little voice. he was suffering from a complete emotional turn over. it was difficult to contemplate shafts. k. stuyvesant fingered a frame with interest. "like to own one," he said, "darned if i wouldn't!" "keep yer hands off them machines!" said a loud voice, the owner of which glared on k. stuyvesant. k. stuyvesant removed his hands. he also smiled. john was nettled. his great dignity was hurt. "why didn't you tell him who you were?" he asked of stuyvesant with heat. "oh, lord!" said stuyvesant. "why should i? the fact that i draw a little more on pay day than the next fellow doesn't give me the divine right to paw all over the works." john was silent. he was again mentally steadying his solar plexus. the afternoon had been full of earthquakes to his small ideas, and reconstruction. "look here," said john seriously, "did you go through that period?" k. stuyvesant looked sheepish, then he laughed. "sure," he said; "i was a real devil at twenty. i couldn't stand girls because i thought they laughed at me, so i decided to drink myself to death. my proud ideal was to be the heaviest drinker in new york, and to be so pointed out. sometimes i stayed out as late as two." john laughed with him, although his inclinations were far from laughter. coarse hands were despoiling his altar, and, worse, laughing at it, as an echo of childhood. k. stuyvesant had seated himself on a folding chair that smelled of a hearse. john settled by him. "these chairs always make me think of uncle keefer's funeral," said stuyvesant. "mother went, draped in eighteen yards of crape. she mourned him deeply until she heard the will, then she tore off the weeds and had 'em burned." john was far away, so the subject of uncle keefer's funeral was abandoned. "did--did you collect girls' photographs?" asked john. "girls never liked me," said stuyvesant, "and guns weren't allowed. i did use to have a gallery of second-rate actresses decorating my boudoir. i bought the pictures at a photographer's. the less they wore the better. lord, what a calf period! hiccoughing, little asses! makes me sick to think of it!" real disgust was written on k. stuyvesant's face. john pushed his hair away from his forehead. he felt very hot. if some one else had spoken, he would not have noticed. but k. stuyvesant--chased by most of new york! honestly liked by the fellows, as a good sport. owner of several cups for several achievements. rated as "damned indifferent, but a bully chap!" john felt weak and little,--worse,--he felt terribly young. he looked away from k. stuyvesant. perhaps k. stuyvesant sensed something of his misery, for he laid a big hand on john's shoulder. the hand was cheering. "where you going to college?" he asked. john explained that he had not thought of going, that he hated work, and that a certain amount of study seemed necessary for school. k. stuyvesant talked persuasively. "if you studied this winter you could enter next fall," he said; "you have all of the year to do it in. i'll look up some decent tutors, and help all i can, but i'm darned stupid, myself. wish i weren't. all i could do would be to root. i'd do that!" "would you kind of help me keep interested?" said john, looking at his feet. "i haven't done anything that i haven't wanted to, for so long, that i've lost the knack. if you'd help me keep interested,--will you?" "you bet i _will_!" answered k. stuyvesant. "thank you," said john quietly. k. stuyvesant's hand tightened on john's shoulder convulsively. then he took it away. cecilia's voice had seemed to say the little "thank you." he was shaken, and vastly relieved when john began to talk of monoplanes. he wondered with dull misery if all his years would be full of this "where is the rest of me?" feel. "why isn't she here? _how_ can we be apart when i feel like this?" he looked at john. the monoplane essay had ceased. "how is your sister?" asked k. stuyvesant gruffly. "cecilia," said john, "i wish you'd come in." he was by the door of his bedroom as he spoke. cecilia answered that she'd be happy to come in, and stepped past him. "i'm going to college," said john dramatically after he'd closed the door. "stuyvesant wants me to. he thinks he can get me in his frat. he's going to buy an aeroplane, but he says i can't go up unless you say so. can i? are you glad i'm going to college?" cecilia was entirely bewildered, but said she was glad he had decided to go to college. she sat in a low chair by a table, and her bewilderment increased when john took several photographs from his bureau and threw them carelessly into the waste basket. next she saw fanchette thrown in a table drawer, which was then slammed. "john dear," said cecilia, "_are_ you sick?" "no," answered john, then she saw a twinkle in his eyes, often there in the little boy days. "i'm irish," he continued, "and i can see a joke, even on myself. i've tried to be very old, celie." she put her arms around his neck. he hid his face against her throat, and she felt him shake. the joke was forgotten. "it's so hard," she heard in muffled tones; "i'm ashamed of dad, and then i try to gloss it over, i----" "if it hadn't been for dad," said cecilia slowly, "we would have both been getting slabs of peat out of an irish bog, surely barefooted, probably hungry." "it would have been better," said john bitterly. "perhaps," answered cecilia, "but that is not the question. we're here." "quite so," said john, and laughed a little. he had drawn away, ashamed of his emotion. "have i seemed like a kid to you?" he asked. cecilia looked at him squarely. "yes," she answered. "why didn't you help me?" he blurted out. "let me be the laughing stock of every one. the son of a multi-millionaire, the laughing stock of----" "if you recollect," interrupted cecilia, "i did try. more than once. you told me i was only a girl, that i didn't understand. you even told me to mind my business on several occasions." "oh, celie!" said john. "dear!" answered cecilia, in another tone. she sat on the arm of the chair in which he'd thrown himself. he put an arm around her. "now that you are awake," said cecilia, "what do you think of those near-men you've been introducing me to all summer?" she was smiling. john's inclination to anger vanished. he smiled foolishly instead. "the mixture is the trouble," he said, "with no one whom you can respect to guide you,--no power above. i feel better, naturally, than the gov'ner." cecilia let that pass. "orchids and hollyhocks in one bed," she said, "but in time i believe you'll come to love the homely honesty of hollyhocks,--those that thrive in all weathers. i believe you will, john. i do." he got up and stretched. the new man had gone. she saw this, and rose with him. "good-bye, dear," she said in a very everyday tone; "i'm glad you had a good time this afternoon." in a flash he changed again. his arms closed about her soft body, and he kissed her. "celie," he said huskily, "you're the _best_ fellow!" "johnny," she answered, "you _darling_!" he gave her another squeeze, and released her. then he was again the conscious boy. "this darn tie," he muttered, looking in a mirror; "it wads up rottenly!" cecilia left indifferently, but outside his door she turned and kissed a panel opposite her small head. she wore the want-to-cry expression which so worried jeremiah, but her eyes were happy. they looked like those of a little girl who holds the best beloved, just mended, doll, all fixed up, ready to love and spank some more, to scold, forgive, and kiss. chapter xiv pink "you are an advocate of gum-chewing?" asked miss annette twombly, with a faint, not too pleasant smile. "no," answered cecilia, "but i do think we ought to give them a good time, not reform them. why, they get discipline all day at their work. i wanted to make them forget that, and all their imperfections." she turned with the words to glance about the group of young women who sat in the office of the girls' club. there was a vague murmur. "but--gum--!" cecilia heard in a voice which held horror. "my idea," said annette, in her cool, slow voice, "was to give them higher ideals, and to teach them not to wear those horrid, pink silk blouses, you know. teach them that it isn't nice to chew gum, and,--ah,--well, give them a _larger_ life." "how are you going to give it?" asked cecilia. "i see what you are going to destroy, but what are you going to put in their places? i think a certain amount of pink is necessary. it has to be _very_ bright, for there is so little of it. it has to reach a long way." annette didn't think this worth answering. she simply raised her shoulders and eyebrows in a gesture denoting suffering tolerance and pity. then she turned to a neighbour and spoke in an undertone. they laughed, and cecilia flushed. "are you an upholder of the green velvet 'throw' on the parlour organ, miss madden?" asked a young woman, noted for her bizarre dress. "i am when the green velvet is the only possible beauty for them,--the only reachable one. i think it's so narrow," she went on heatedly, "to make them enjoy themselves just in our way,--to inflict our likes and dislikes because it's possible to do so. i want to give these girls what _they_ consider a good time, and what they want. patterns for good times differ. i want dances instead of classes in art. they need them." "but, my dear,--gum, and those fearful frocks! annette meant to tell them not to wear cheap laces, but to dress plainly, and suitably to their station," explained a drab young lady whose own dress looked as if it had been designed for a futurist ball. cecilia sighed. she saw a band of heavy-eyed and tired-out girls denied their little cravings for beauty. she saw them laying aside pink blouses which brought a faint pink into their small, starved souls. she saw them trying to be ladies, and losing the little solace of "spear-mint gum," and roses of cabbage size and architecture on their cheap hats. "i think they need the pink," said cecilia. "if their dress is criticised i think the club is failing in its mission. every one will criticise them, few will love them. let's leave their manners and their dresses to their own management. let us just try to make them forget the factories, and the flat crowded full of children. i wanted to give them a place where they could bring their beaux." "we agreed about the dances," said miss twombly; "i shall _adore_ coming to them! won't they be _killing_?" a hum of voices followed this, in which was heard: "but their horrible frocks!"--"in the end they would thank us!"--"give them a vision of a larger, more helpful life!" "i shall not subscribe to a reformatory," said cecilia loudly. she hated to say it, but an echo of some one who had wanted a "bunnit with pink roses on" flew before her. she meant to do all she could to help other people get, and keep, their particular brands of pink roses. cecilia's contribution for the club's maintenance was large. it was agreed that for the present at least no helpful hints as to the bad taste of its members' clothes should be given. cecilia looked at a small watch, and got up. she said good-bye pleasantly. when the door closed after her there was a surge of noise. "well," said annette in a carrying tone, "of course she _would_ sympathise. i suppose her own tastes are really theirs. _have_ you ever seen her father?" "she plays 'the shepherd boy,' and 'the storm in the alps' for him every evening," said the bizarre. "my _dear_," said another, "_have_ you seen the boy? he is _really_ quite possible and they say that the horrible old man is fabulously wealthy too." "criminal!" breathed annette. her eyes were angry and full of resentment. "annette," said a girl from across the room, "how are you getting on? i think it's too original of you!" "you aren't still doing that?" asked another. annette nodded. "what?" asked a bewildered onlooker. "working, really work," she was informed. "my _dear_, how sweet!" said the informed. "isn't it ennobling, and broadening, and all that kind of thing?" annette nodded, and then spoke flippantly of it as a "lark." her bravado was a bit too thick. several young people who knew something of mrs. twombly's investments looked at each other across annette's head. after she left there was another free discussion. "social secretary," said the drab one, "to a horrid person from ohio, or the state of washington, or somewhere terribly west. trying to break in, lots of money, but oh,--like the maddens." "hasn't stuyvesant a huge fortune?" asked the bizarre. "why doesn't he help then? though his not doing so is quite what i'd expect. i tried to be so pleasant to him on one occasion, and he was absolutely _rude_! really rude! he said----" cecilia had stopped at mrs. smithers' on her way home. she sat by the stove holding the latest smithers on her lap. "we got it with tradin' stamps," said mrs. smithers. she held up a purple vase which had evidently been created by some one suffering with a toothache. mrs. smithers was trying not to smile. she felt that she should be easily careless with her new grandeur, but it was hard to be so. "look at that there seascape," she said, turning the seascape side toward cecilia, "an' that there sailor with his girl. ain't she purty? my old man, he sez if he seen one like her, he wouldn't come home no more!" cecilia joined mrs. smithers' loud laughter over the "old man's" subtle humour. "two books," mrs. smithers explained after the laughter had ceased, "an' next time we're going to get a plush photograph album. it has a mirror-like on top, with daisies and i dunno what all painted around. _hand_ painted on that there velvet, mind yuh. it's _swell_!" "i imagine it is," agreed cecilia. "you like to have pretty things, don't you?" she questioned. mrs. smithers' wide and fat face clouded. "dearie," she said, "yuh gotta have gilt an' fancy vases to make yuh ferget how homely most life is. i wish you could have saw me yesterday. my gawd, i get tired a-doin' the wash, an' jim so tony, him usin' _two_ shirts a week! well, i didn't mind the sweatin' all day, the way i do over the wash, f er all i seen was that there vase a-settin' there. now ain't it purty?" cecilia agreed that it was. mrs. smithers smiled again. "why," she exclaimed, "i nearly forgot lena's dress--the one she's going to wear to the club dance. she set up 'til one last night a-fixing it. she was tickled to fits about it. looka here." mrs. smithers reached below the dining table and took out the third box from the bottom. she opened it reverently. it disclosed a dress of cheap and flimsy lawn, made in the most extreme of styles. there was black velvet on it, several bales of lace, and some roses. its colour was pink. "how lovely!" said cecilia, and she meant it; for cecilia saw what the colour meant,--what it brought,--and the dress to her was truly lovely. "yessir," said mrs. smithers; "lena, she sez, 'maw, i feel like a queen in this here!' (she's partial to pink) an' yuh oughta see her in it. mebbe she ain't purty. her gentleman friend, who works at helfrich's delicatessen store, cold meat counter, yuh know,--he sez, 'my irish rose,' when he seen it. that's a song, 'my irish rose.' the kellys got it on the graphaphone. it's swell. ever hear it?" cecilia had not. "i wish she had a pink hat," said mrs. smithers, "an' then she could wear this to church. first luthern, we go to,--that one with the fancy brick, corner of seventh, and----" "i have a hat," said cecilia, "that i'm going to send to lena. it's pink, and it has lots of roses on it!" tears came to the little eyes of mrs. smithers. she beamed widely. "i didn't mean fer to hint," she said; "honest to gawd, i didn't." "i know," answered cecilia, "and you know i love to send lena things. is she still coughing, and is she drinking the milk i send?" "yes," answered mrs. smithers, "but she don't just like it. she likes evaporated better, bein' used to it." mrs. smithers looked doleful. the mention of lena's cough always made her so. her expression was like that of a meditative pig, for her small eyes and fat face together provided everything but the grunt. however, to cecilia she was beautiful, for cecilia saw the love in mrs. smithers' soul, which she spread around her seven children and the "old man." "i won't forget the hat," called cecilia from the doorway, "and it shall be _very_ pink!" "miss madden, meet my gentleman friend." the gentleman friend shuffled his feet and emitted a raucous "pleased tuh meet yuh." it was the night of the first dance at the girls' club. little knots of its members stood around the edges of the floor, laughing often, and loudly. the gentlemen friends seemed to spend their time deciding which foot to stand on, and then shifting to the other. the committee of "uplift workers" rushed around wildly, doing nothing. it was notable that cecilia was the one to whom the "gentleman friends" were introduced. lena smithers came up to cecilia. "that hat," she said, "i dunno how to thank yuh! paw, he's talkin' alla time about them roses. they're grand!" "i'm glad you liked it, dear," said cecilia. "yes," went on lena more shyly, "an' my gentleman friend, him who clerks at the delicatessen, he likes it too. honest, that boy's grand to me! they ain't hardly an evening that he don't bring me a string of sausage or a hunk of ham!" cecilia looked impressed and murmured, "really?" "um hum! gawd's truth!" said lena. "mr. ensminger," said a fat girl, towing a flaxen-haired boy with no chin. "soda fountain clerk to the crystal. better kid him on, miss madden, mebbe he'll give yuh a soda!" there was loud laughter at this persiflage. suddenly cecilia forgot it, her surroundings, the gentlemen friends, in fact everything but the cruelly fast pumping of her small heart, for across the room she saw john coming in, and by him stuyvesant twombly. "how did mr. twombly happen to come?" cecilia asked of john much later, when they were dancing. "why," answered john, "i told him of it, and he said, 'let's go down. would your sister mind?' of course i said, 'no.'" "of course," answered cecilia. "who's the girl who dances like a duck with the rheumatism?" asked john. "she walked halfway up my shins, got discouraged, gave it up, and then later started it all over again." "sweet persistency," murmured cecilia. her eyes were on the partner of the duck with the rheumatism, k. stuyvesant. he looked warm. the music stopped. cecilia and john found themselves with the duck and her partner. k. stuyvesant stepped toward cecilia with determination. "will you _please_ give me the next?" he said. his request was made in a desperate tone, a tone absolutely unsuitable for the asking of a dance. "why," said cecilia, "there are so many girls here who sit about. i have to see that they have partners, and----" "oh, go on!" broke in john. "you dance; i'll do the proper for you." k. stuyvesant put a hand on john's arm; the touch was full of gratitude. then the music started in a slow, sentimental, sweet waltz song, popular that season. k. stuyvesant invented several new steps. it was good that cecilia was an unusual and adaptable dancer, for his tempo and intentions were mixed. "what is this?" he asked at last. "a waltz," answered cecilia, and at that he stopped his mixture of one-step and maxixe. "excuse me," he said gruffly. beads of wet stood out on his forehead. he was out of breath. "would you like to stop?" asked cecilia. "it's warm and you seem tired." "oh, no!" he said passionately. she looked up at him, and when their eyes met his arm tightened with a spasmodic quickness about her; then he turned a deep mahogany colour and stared unseeingly across her head. he had not meant to do that. he wondered what she'd think of him. as for cecilia, she shut her eyes and tried to be indignant. it was an insult, an insult when he felt as marjory said he did, an insult! but oh, how sweet, how sweet! the music stopped. "thank you," said k. stuyvesant huskily. then he left cecilia with many maidens and singled out john. "if you don't mind, i'm going home now," he said. "i'm tired. thank you for bringing me along." he looked back toward cecilia. he saw the top of her golden head, surrounded by others of more elaborate coiffure. they made a worshipping circle around her. "gosh!" said k. stuyvesant. he recalled the little second when he'd drawn her nearer. "i'm not sorry!" he thought, then turned to hurry away from the lights and the music, for he wanted to be alone. chapter xv firelight "it's a serious," said a boy with a voice like a nutmeg grater. "yuh boob!" exploded his companion. "he means a serial," he explained to father mcgowan. "and," said father mcgowan, "you have come to me because you are temporarily embarrassed for funds?" "yep," said the nutmeg grater. "we're broke." "an' it's that exciting! every time they busts up an automobile an' wrecks a train--we'd pay yuh back,--an' him an' her in it, they----" broke in the other. "you'd like a loan," said father mcgowan. "well, well, here it is. what's the name of it?" "'the iron claw,'" said the younger impressively. "it's grand. them there shows learn yuh a lot too." his voice showed his great thirst for knowledge. father mcgowan smiled. he was urged to go along, with the assurance that they would also pay for that in the future, but he refused on the plea of work. he went to the rectory door with them and let them out into the dismal snowfall, the first of the season. half-hearted, damp, then he went back to his study, with a tender look in his eyes. he was thinking of a small boy who had known no such pleasures--a small boy brought up by an always-old aunt, whose heart and soul were cut square, and without any dimples. he had been a very quiet small boy with a great hankering for nails and something to pound with. he had gone through the pound period without pounding, and when he reached the dream time he knew that dreams to his unyielding old aunt would be as troublesome as nails, so he had kept silent. father mcgowan's eyes still held the wistful look that had come into them at seventeen. he recalled all his naillessness as he saw two joyful theatregoers start off to see "the iron claw," but in thinking of it there was no regret--only a gratitude that from his denials had come a backyard full of junk and a paradise for many little boys who otherwise would have gone without their small-boy heaven. "she was a good woman!" said father mcgowan; "a good woman!" he was thinking of the still old aunt who'd brought him up. "are you well, father mcgowan-dear?" asked cecilia later in the afternoon when father mcgowan had settled before a fire in the madden library. "oh, yes," answered father mcgowan. "have a little cold, but i feel splendidly." cecilia did not look impressed, and certainly father mcgowan's aspect was not convincing. his head was thrown back against the chair, and his breath came raspingly. "a hot lemonade," said cecilia rather to herself. "never!" said father mcgowan. "never! cecilia, you are a dear child. don't irritate me. i hate lemonades. they make me think of money for the parish house, and they are bad enough cold." "hot toddy?" suggested cecilia; her eyes twinkled. "ah--!" replied father mcgowan softly. cecilia rang, spoke to a haughty person in buttons, and soon father mcgowan was sipping something warm which did not smell of lemons. "how's the pain?" asked father mcgowan in a commonplace tone; he studied the glass he held. "oh," answered cecilia, "it is the same, but i am braver. i _will_ be good, father mcgowan. i can't help lov--caring for him. i fixed my hair eight times the other day when i knew i'd see him, and used an eyebrow pencil marjory left, but it wasn't becoming, and i washed it off. i can't help caring for him, although i know he's unworthy. i seem to have lost my handkerchief,--thank you." father mcgowan supplied a large square. "you didn't use to cry much, did you, dear child?" he asked gently. "no," answered cecilia, "and i don't now except with you. you see, when i voice it it becomes so tragically real. it is fixed because i speak it to a human, while when i think of it it seems like a bad dream. it--it doesn't seem possible that i can care so much, while he doesn't." the fat priest reached for cecilia's hand. he lifted it and kissed it. cecilia looked surprised. "a token of immense respect and humble love, dear child," said father mcgowan. "kisses," he continued, "cecilia, tie to the man who humbly kisses your hand. there are two kinds, the kind who wants only your lips and the kind who humbly touches your hand and who longs to be absolved by whimpering out his shames against your throat. lord, what an old fool i am! _what_ a subject for a priest to lecture on!" cecilia was silent, for she was thinking of stuyvesant's kisses, which still burned her palm. they had held humbleness,--and hunger. she remembered how he had muttered that he "darn well wanted to get down on his knees, gosh! how he _did_ love----" and then mrs. higgenmeyer had come along and called loudly of the night: "purty night, ain't it?" and, worse, the chaperone of boston had then appeared and said in her crisp, quick-cut way: "'beautiful night of stars,' as our inimitable mr. browning said." then the man with the vandyke beard from philadelphia had passed. he had crossed forty times, had a valet, and complained of the coffee and service, therefore commanding every one's respect. "stevenson," he had corrected in passing. "horrid person!" said miss hutchinson, but to cecilia there were no horrid persons, for the world was full of a tall, gruff man, and her heart was swollen from his hot kisses on her small palm. her eyes must have told him something of this, for he muttered, "dear!" with the impetuosity of a loosened champagne cork. "what say?" miss hutchinson had asked. "father mcgowan," said cecilia, "shall i ever be allowed to forget my inferiority to the most? it is always there, even when they ask me for money for their charities. they say, 'mrs. dash has subscribed. _you_ will probably _want_ to.' by right of bricks, i purchase my admission. shall i always feel this way?" "oh, no," answered father mcgowan. "when you get past thirty you forget how you feel--that is, if you're any good. after that you think of others, and the _ego_ is rubbed down by the world into its proper size." "i _am_ a pig!" said cecilia. "you're not!" disagreed father mcgowan. "no one could call you that----" he paused. "for a long time," he went on, "i've wanted to say something to you, because you are too near it to get a perspective. i want you to look around at the snobs who do not mix with those in trade, and then i want you to ask what grandpapa did. probably he made pretzels or ran a laundry. do not ask the immediate members of the family of this, for they may not like it, but ask some _kind_ friend. you and john, you people of stronger, fresher blood, are america. you are what comes in and puts bright eyes into depleted stock and takes out the hiccoughs. don't apologise for your strength and the fact that papa's reservations for his first trip were made in the steerage." "i don't," answered cecilia. "i'm rather blatantly proud of it, although since boarding school i haven't bragged of it." "in time you may even elevate your lorgnette and ask coldly, 'who _is_ she?'" suggested father mcgowan. "oh, no!" said cecilia, "i'll _never_ do that!" "your children probably will!" said father mcgowan, and then he said "drat!" to his own stupid self. "my children," said cecilia, "are gentle, white ghosts, and they play and do only what i dream. they would never do that, i would send them from my arms first, and i do--love them. my arms would be empty. am i going to be a sentimental old maid, father mcgowan-dear?" father mcgowan said he thought not. then he turned and again quite brazenly kissed cecilia's small palm. "cecilia," he said, "to-day seems like the end of the world to me.... my soul is on wings. dear child, i wish you could know what you have always been to me. but you do, don't you?" "yes, father mcgowan-dear," answered cecilia. "i have known. i have always brought my worst hurts to you, and one does that only to one who loves." "well, well," said father mcgowan, unused to personal sentiment and awkward from it, "now we understand. how's john?" "wonderful," answered cecilia. she smiled mischievously. "almost a boy again," she added in explanation. "twombly responsible?" asked father mcgowan. "yes," she answered, "entirely. his ideals when transplanted are unusually good. however, they do not seem to take root in him." "well, well," said father mcgowan. he stretched in a tired way and said he must go. no, he couldn't stay for dinner, for he was to take the night turn at nursing a burned iron moulder. "won't he be thirsty when he sniffs my lemonade?" said father mcgowan. cecilia rang; the lofty person appeared. "just a minute," said father mcgowan. "i want one more word with you." the person faded. "cecilia," said father mcgowan, "there's a doctor to whom your father is playing god. i don't want to bother you about it, but to-day, coming here, i somehow felt as if i ought to." father mcgowan settled on the edge of a chair, and he told cecilia the dry facts of the ruin of doctor van dorn. "try to make your father see that it's better not to tamper with the works," he ended; "to leave that to whoever or whatever is pushing the old ball around.... well, good-bye, dear child. oh, i can get out without the help of his royal buttons, thank you." after he left cecilia again settled in front of the fire to think of her new problem. her brain eluded it with a maddening persistency. she thought of a new frock, the girls' club, a dance. then again of the really horrible revelation, and the unexpected obstinacy of her father. she looked up at a softly coloured painting above the mantel, which she'd had painted in paris. it had been marvellously done, and especially since the only model had been a small tintype. "dearest," said cecilia, "you would not want him punished, would you? and,--is there any punishment more cruel than life?" the painting smiled down gently. "pink roses," it seemed to say. "there are always pink roses, but youth must hold them to see their beauty.... seeing no loveliness in dreams denied, no heights in greatest depths...." "come in!" said john. "please!" k. stuyvesant hesitated. he wanted to, for just a glimpse of cecilia was everything to him; but, she--she had not wanted to see him. "i am out a great deal," she said in that memorable 'phone message,--also, "i have quite forgotten the little episode of the boat." those two sentences had made things cruelly plain. "come on," begged john, "you must be cold!" k. stuyvesant got out of his machine, and went with john into the long-waisted house. "fire in the library," said john; "wood, you know. bully, aren't they?" john, ahead, stopped with his hand on the drapery which softened the broad doorway into the library. he put the other, silencingly, on k. stuyvesant's arm. cecilia sat in front of the fire. she held a framed picture in her hands, standing upright on her knees. looking,--looking,--looking, she was. they stood there for what seemed to stuyvesant many minutes. he felt himself grow hot, cold, then he longed to shake john,--again, hug him. "celie!" called john. with a crash the photograph slipped from her hands to the floor. "oh!" she cried breathlessly, "_how_ you frightened me!" "come in, stuyv," said john, loudly. "look what she's looking at! _your_ picture!" stuyvesant didn't answer. he had set his teeth, and his chin was very square. "how long were you there?" asked cecilia. "we just came in," said stuyvesant, before john could answer. "i just picked up your picture," said cecilia. "john hadn't shown it to me. i'm sorry i was stupid and broke the glass." she moved, and stuyvesant's eyes followed her, a heartache too large for concealment showing in them. "whatcha go for?" asked john. "stay and talk!" "i really can't, dear," she answered. "i'm sorry." then, nodding, she disappeared. in a moment they heard the sound of the piano. some one who could feel, as well as play, was tinkling out "the shepherd boy." "she does it for dad," said john, "because he likes it, but you ought to hear her play good music. she's a wonder; why, in school----" john broke off, another thought interrupting: "why didn't you let me jolly her about your picture?" he asked. "it was a great chance." "she wouldn't like it," answered k. stuyvesant miserably. "please don't tell her we were watching her, will you, john?" "aw,--why not!" "_please_, john!" stuyvesant's voice was earnest. "well, i won't," agreed john in a disappointed way. "but i do like to tease her! she's awfully cunning when she gets excited, and you can get a rise out of her every time." after that they settled to play rum for a small stake. stuyvesant was absent. time and again john and the cards faded while he saw cecilia sitting before an open fire,--soft in the firelight, gentle,--almost ready to smile on him. his picture? ... probably scorning him,--but,--at least she'd thought of him for that little space. he looked toward the chair, and he saw her gently smile in his direction. "rum!" yelled john, much delighted. "that puts me out. gee, you're in the clouds! you owe me forty-nine cents." chapter xvi the mystery the rectory hall was quiet, although it was well filled with people--shabby, the most of them, and sitting uneasily upright in their chairs. damp snow clung to the coat of one woman who had just entered, and the smell of dirty and wet clothing was in the air. now and again the steam pounded in a low radiator below a window. there was a great deal of sniffing, and a hacking cough from a woman who bragged of a "weak chest." at last an old man who had been fingering the brim of his hat spoke in a hoarse whisper. "how _is_ he?" he croaked. his thumb pointed over his shoulder toward the stairs. "ain't no better," responded the woman who coughed. "_she_ come down a half hour ago an' sez 'he's the same.'" the woman coughed again, and afterward wiped her eyes. "he gimme a pipe," said the old man, turning the hat in his hands. "it hez a real amber mouthpiece on. he sez, 'here, jake, you know a good pipe, now i don't. this here was gave to me, i want you should hev it,' he sez,--like that he sez----" "i bet!" said a frightened looking little man, hitherto silent, "i bet he did! what he done fer me----!" the little man stopped, looked around, and cowered back in is chair, swallowed several times, then spoke in a high voice, evidently unnatural and the fruit of great effort. "i was in the penitentiary," he said, "an' when i come out no one would gimme a job. i was despert. i got my wife, an' her aunt, what's had a stroke, an' can't use her limbs no way. my wife took to coughin' an' couldn't work no more. gawd, it was fierce! i was despert. i come to him. what he done fer me----! i sez 'what kin i do? i gotta feed them women. hev i gotta steal again?' he sez no, an' he set me down an' gimme a meal. talkin' to me while i et ... gawd, i never kin fergit it.... that there meal was none of them cold potato hand-outs served up with a sneer. human beings is awful rough with each other sometimes. when i got through i got up. i sez, 'i don't want no more. i guess i kin hunt my own job now, fer you've made me a man agin....' he sez, 'well, well,' an' then he set me down, an' believe it or not, he gimme a c_ee_gar! a fie' center too! then he come with me to my old woman, and aunt ellen, an' he seen that they was did for, an' the next week he got me a job at the cement plant." after he finished he cowered again. the world had shown him little forgiveness. his world was scorn, or a hidden shame. the little man had, in telling of father mcgowan's goodness, voiced his crucifixion. the pain of telling it made him feel as if he were at last thanking the big priest adequately.... he blinked, and avoided his companions' eyes now. he knew what to expect. "i'm glad he helped yuh," said the old man, "but he would. there ain't nothing he wouldn't do fer nobody." common sorrow, like common joy, had drawn these people together. the love of the man upstairs had filled their souls, and left no room for littleness. the little man of the penitentiary was one of them, not an outcast. he sat up straight again, still blinking. "yer right," he said; "he's helped a lot of us to believe there is a gawd ... an' something beside hell, livin' or dead." "yep," answered the woman with the cough. she drew a shawl close about her and moved near the clanking radiator. "ain't it cold?" she said. "i'm used to settin' near the stove. i wisht she'd come. that there woman in white, i mean, the one what nurses him." "i wish too," said a fat soul who surveyed every one with suspicion. "i gotta get home an' pack my man's dinner pail. night work he does. it ain't so nice. _i_ don't get no company. all day long he snores, an' at night i set home, or go alone. we used to go to pictures every monday regular as clockwork." "he helped me buy a parlour organ," said a thin woman a little apart from the group. "i come to him, and i sez, 'i'd go hungry to get a organ, what i could pick out tunes on, an' mebbe learn to play "home, sweet home" on.' he sez, 'well, well!' (yuh know his way) an' then i told him how i'd wanted one, an' saved up, and then had to use that there money to bury pop (his insurance havin' ran out) an' he helped me. i got it. i kin play three measures a 'home, sweet home,' real good, except fer being slow in the bass.... there ain't nothing like music fer company. i don't get lonely no more of evenings. i use to get that down, an' tired a settin' alone after work, that i'd hate to hear the six a'clock whistles. it ain't no joke, settin' in one room with the wall paper all off. i wonder how he is?" she ended in another voice. no one answered. the woman near the radiator coughed, then wiped her eyes. the old man twirled his hat. a girl with a sullen look slunk in, and settled near the door. there was quiet. once in a while a chair was moved, and grated on the floor. the radiator clanked. there was the staccato tap of heels in the upper hall, then on the stairs. "_you_ ask her," said one woman to another. the old man spoke. "mrs.," he said, "how _is_ he?" "there ain't no change," said mrs. fry, "and there ain't no sense to your settin' here." "we'll be quiet," said the old man wistfully, "and we'd kinda like to. we all love him." mrs. fry covered her face with her handkerchief. "set if yuh want to," she said in what was, for her, a softened tone, "but there ain't a bit a sense to it." then she turned and went down the hall, blowing her nose loudly. "there's three doctors," said a girl just out of childhood, and yet from her place in life old looking. "i know that," replied the thin woman. "it looks bad fer him, but he _can't_ die! there ain't another!" "he won't die!" said the old man. "fer them that knowed him, he'll always live." in the kitchen mrs. fry was sobbing in the roller towel. she heard father mcgowan's voice come, as it had, in gasps. "now,--now! mrs. fry----" echoed in her heart, "don't feel badly--i'm tired,--and--i'm ready to go--to sleep----" and then he had smiled. "mrs. fry," came in a voice from the doorway, "yer wanted!" she looked up to see an old man with the tears running down his face and following the wrinkles in criss-cross paths of salty moisture. the nurse stood in the hall. she alone was calm. "you'd better go now," she said quietly to the little group. several of them sobbed loudly. the door opened suddenly. "where's father mcgowan?" called a little boy. "i got a new kitty what i want to show him. _ain't_ he in?" cecilia was on her knees in the dark, by her bed. "father mcgowan," she whispered, "oh, father mcgowan-_dear_, where are you?" he had not gone where childhood had had an irish mother go. growing had made the mystery--the vast uncertainty--the haunting question of the still, dark hours! cecilia lifted her face. her eyes were dry. "oh, god," she said aloud, "if you are, give us another life. there is no possible good-bye for little human hearts that love. oh, god, let me see father mcgowan-dear again. oh, let me! i will be good all my life, if i may meet him once again----" she stopped, choked. the mystery echoed.... "father mcgowan-dear," she whispered, "where _are_ you? dearest, _where_ have you gone, and why?" chapter xvii a relapse "he died," said johnny, "of pneumonia. one of those quick cases, you know. cecilia's frightfully broken up--you can see it--although she doesn't say anything." "i'm sorry," said stuyvesant. "i never saw much in him," said john musingly, "but he had an awful hold on a lot of people." "your sister cared for him, didn't she?" asked stuyvesant, then added bravely, "i think that assures his being unusual." "oh, i don't know," said john in a lazy way; "girls are queer,--sometimes sentimental. he was good to her when she was tiny. she always remembers things like that. i think she's kinda sentimental." stuyvesant looked peculiar and grunted. "saw tommy dixon down town to-day," said john. a sudden flush spread across stuyvesant's face. his eyes were unpleasantly bitter. "good sport," continued john. "i disagree," said stuyvesant loudly. "don't like him, nor his rotten code." john looked on stuyvesant speculatively. he reflected that, after all, stuyv didn't know it all, and that if he wore a cassock he might have been taken for father mcgowan. his ideals were very similar. "can't train with a sunday school class," said john. "live while you're here, yuh know. damned if i haven't been good lately!" stuyvesant was worried. thus far his work had been easy, because of john's adoring following. but,--were john to follow tommy dixon with the same adoration,--then,--it _would_ be work! he thought, with an inward sneer, of the smallness of the boy's measures for life. he thought of his always following the new, and of his weak swaying, and then he thought of who had asked his help. "come to dinner with me, john," he said, while he made mental arrangement for the cancelling of another engagement. "don't mind," answered the old john, in his old tired-of-life manner. "got a date before dinner. where'll i meet you?" stuyvesant named a club, and they parted. stuyvesant went to his office. there were several matters awaiting his attention, but he pushed them aside. across the room he saw tommy dixon's insolent face. on it was the ever-present smile, that which shaded into a leer too easily.... "she says she can't forget his kisses," came with a touch of flame across his tortured brain. "god!" said k. stuyvesant. "god!" he hid his eyes with his hands. his breath came fast. it was half after eight, and john was to have met him at eight. stuyvesant looked at his watch, and frowned. the day had been hard, and had left small capacity for patience.... the mention of tommy dixon had brought back a misery he'd hoped somewhat dulled (one remembered by a stern control of thought, usually not more than once a day). now john, after stuyvesant's breaking an engagement,--was late. his casual acceptance of stuyvesant's hospitality brought a smile to that gentleman's lips. he wondered if john thought he courted the opportunity of hearing his rather young, and too often callow, opinions stated with absolute assurance as truths? at nine stuyvesant shut his watch with a snap, and went out alone to dinner. he was entirely out of humour. he allowed himself to meditate largely on tommy dixon. it was torture--exactly fitted his mood, and helped. "celie," said jeremiah. celie stopped playing the chimes of a new "piece" of jeremiah's pattern. "celie," he went on, "i done that you asked." "doctor van dorn?" she asked in a whisper. "yes," answered jeremiah. he blew his nose loudly. "_he_ asked me, an' he asked me," jeremiah explained, "an' i was that uppish! jeremiah,' he'd say, 'don't try to cast yourself for god. it won't work,' an' i'd say, 'is it going to rain, father mcgowan?' just the last time he come i seen him in the hall, an' he was pleadin' with me; he sez, 'you can control his work. see that he does no harm, but don't do more,' an' i sez, 'it's snowin' now, ain't it?' oh, dear lordy! ain't life one mess of regrets! one after the other, spoilin' your digestion, an' makin' yuh kick around of nights! ... i loved him too." "dear," said cecilia, "he knew that!" "yuh think so, celie?" asked jeremiah wistfully. "oh, yes!" she answered. her answer held an applied genuineness. it convinced jeremiah. "i give him back his rotten little factory (i was losin' money on it, anyway), and i wrote him a letter. i sez, 'dear sir----' an' i went on telling him father mcgowan an' gawd done it, not me. i sez i was his well-wisher now, wishin' him all success, an' i sez not to get funny in the hospital business on sick kids no more or i'd have him jailed. the letter was friendly and christian, all owing to father mcgowan, who doesn't know it--god rest his soul!" cecilia was smiling tremulously. "you absolute darling!" she said. she perched on the arm of his chair, and they sat in silence. "after all," she said, "hurting this little man wouldn't bring mamma her pink roses, would it, dear?" jeremiah's eyes snapped. in them was the look that certain competitors, who scorned him socially, dreaded. "it brung me mine," he stated; "it brung me mine!" cecilia laughed. a sudden lightness of spirit, like the flash of day into dawn, was hers. "dear," she said, "i believe father mcgowan knows! i believe he does!" jeremiah kissed her and smoothed her golden hair with his hand which would never become smooth. "you're like your maw," he said. it was his greatest tribute. cecilia clung to him with a pathetic hunger. "miss cecilia, the telephone," said the pompous person from the doorway. "yes, sir; yes, sir," answered jeremiah, "she's a-coming." cecilia went to an adjoining room. after her "yes" things swayed a bit. she did not need his voice, which said, "this is stuyvesant twombly." she knew. "yes," she repeated. "i _have_ to bother you," he said. "i've just had a message from john. he's been a little hurt--just a little, miss cecilia, and he wants you to come with me to where he is. he's a little hurt. you won't worry? i'll stop for you in a moment, that is, if you'll come?" "oh, of course!" she answered; "but you're sure he's not really hurt?" "yes," he answered. "do up well. it's cold." she hung up the receiver, and stood a minute, hand over her thudding heart. she was not thinking of john. as for stuyvesant, he hung up the receiver and swore loudly. he was thinking of the 'phone message which had come from john, and of john's small sister. "stuyv," he had heard john say, "i'm up here at the eagles' view house. i had a bust-up. get celie and come. i'm dying----" there had been a lull. "he's fainted," had come across the wires in another tone. stuyvesant's first amusement over the last 'phone message faded suddenly. perhaps john had made the supreme effort and had managed to speak those few words? then he abandoned speculation and telephoned cecilia. he had assured her that john was not much hurt.... the gentle care of her was instinctive. if john were right the other would come later. with a doctor in the car they drew up before the madden house. the chauffeur was not off his seat before stuyvesant was out and on the steps. "are you warmly enough dressed?" he asked of her. "yes, thank you. john?" she questioned. "he telephoned me that he had a smash-up and that he wanted you. i have a doctor; he may have some sprains or bruises," said stuyvesant. "it's so good of you," she responded. all of marjory's hints had gone. she felt his hand on her arm and felt from it a sweet sickness. "miss cecilia, may i introduce doctor holt? miss madden----" after that she settled, and felt rugs being wrapped around her. stuyvesant's hands lingered. they held a thrilling tenderness. "are they well around you?" he asked. cecilia said they were, and stuyvesant drew a long breath. the doctor looked from one to the other speculatively. he judged them lovers and himself in the way. the girl was certainly entirely lovely--the soft type who asked for gentleness in return for unbounded love. the way she looked at young twombly as he stared straight ahead was rather beautiful, thought the doctor. she jumped as he spoke. "these gay young men and their speeding," he had said. "oh, yes," said cecilia, "aren't they fearful? i think they should be reared without silly sisters to worry over them!" the doctor agreed. he imagined young madden to be a hard-muscled fellow who liked sport. in speaking of speed, his only thought had been mileage. the car had left the city and was running with difficulty over a road which was bad from a light snow. "miss madden is skidding quite a bit (pardon me, miss madden) alone on that back seat. you'd better get back there, mr. twombly," said the doctor. he smiled. he thought he had done something very kind, and done it neatly. mr. twombly stuttered something that sounded like, "i'm glad; i'd be glad--pleased----" cecilia stared agonizedly ahead. the car made a turn, and, alone on the broad seat, she swayed, slid half across the seat, bumped. stuyvesant turned his chair. "may i, miss cecilia, or the doctor? we're going so fast. you'll be so jolted." in answer she turned back the rug, and stuyvesant settled by her. after that there was quiet. cecilia looked ahead, through steamed glass, at the ears of stuyvesant's chauffeur. stuyvesant sneakingly looked at her. "only ten," said the doctor; "we're making good time." "pardon?" said stuyvesant, and at the same time from cecilia, "excuse me. i didn't hear." under cover of the dark the doctor smiled. cecilia flushed, and stuyvesant bit his lip. he clasped his hands together very tightly, for he was afraid that if she looked toward him he would put his arms around her and draw her close. the doctor began to criticise the administration, as people always do when they know little of the facts. stuyvesant clutched the straw, and argued hotly first on one side, and then the other. the doctor was pleased, for k. stuyvesant was illustrating a pet theory of his, universal insanity. "now if van dorn could hear this!" he reflected. "why, the man could be locked up! he's much worse than millions in asylums!" the car jolted, and turned. cecilia swayed, and bumped against stuyvesant's arm. it slipped back of her protectingly, and closed around her. "that was a jolt--" he said shortly, "these roads,--did it jar you?" "no," answered cecilia, "thank you." his arm had been pulled away with a jerk. cecilia stared ahead at the chauffeur's ears. they were large and floppy, and the whole world seemed like them, a misfit. she felt chilled, alone, afraid. she wished the car would jolt again. she wished so brazenly. she didn't care,--she did! at the eagles' view cecilia was ushered up creaking stairs to a cheap, little room. it was shabby, and hung with soiled cretonnes. there were pictures on the walls, entitled "the bathers,"--"playful kittens,"--"a surprise!" some more lurid with titles impossible. stuyvesant had followed cecilia and from the doorway, over her head, he caught the impression. he had expected it, but it hurt cruelly. his spirit was a mixture of longing to press her face against his shoulder, and a great hankering to kick john. "i'm dying!" gasped john. "my dearest!" said cecilia, and caught her breath sharply, then she slipped to her knees by the bed. she put her arm beneath his head, which was too low, and turned to stuyvesant. "where is the doctor?" she asked. at that moment he appeared in the doorway. "well, young man," he, said, "speeding?" "i'm going to die," answered john in gasps. cecilia had grown very white. "nonsense!" said the doctor. "now if you people will just leave us for a few moments----" he began to open his case as he spoke. "want me?" asked stuyvesant. "no," he was answered; "you take care of miss madden." the door opened and a girl appeared. her hair was streaked from bleach, and dark at the roots; her expression insolently daring. "how yuh feel, honey boy?" she asked of john. john turned away his face. he looked sicker. "one of your friends?" questioned cecilia. john did not answer. "yes," replied the girl. "i'm miss lemain. me and john have been pals for this long while." "i'm john's sister," said cecilia, and held out her hand. miss lemain took it with a limp and high gesture cultivated as "elegant." "pleased to meet yuh," she murmured, and then, "i'm glad you've came. my nerves is that shook up! mebbe the gent'man would get us something to drink. my nerves is all shook. i feel fierce." they descended the rickety stairs, the girls followed by stuyvesant. if john had been well something would have happened to him. as it was stuyvesant was fiercely protective of the small sister in a curt, silent way. his anger was almost overpowering.... he thought of cecilia on her knees in that evil room. he thought of her gentle treatment of miss lemain.... he was humbled by her sweetness, and furious from its cause. "is he your gent'man friend?" asked miss lemain while stuyvesant ordered the drink. cecilia shook her head. "thought he was. seems like a cute fellah. gawd, my nerves is shook! jacky speeds so! i sez, 'jack, you'll do this trick once too often!' an' he sez, 'i'm running this boat, girlie,' an' i sez some more, an' then he kissed me; yuh know what a kidder he is! an' the car a-running like that! then the next thing she was over, an' i was in a field. jack was somewhere in the road. this ain't the _first_ accident i been in. i believe in a short life an' a merry one. all my gent'men friends has cars. no fords neither. i hope jacky ain't suffering. he's a sweet boy, an' some sport!" cecilia's hands were locked tightly together in her lap. her eyes were tragic. "my nerves is shook up fierce!" echoed miss lemain. "i'm sorry," said cecilia. stuyvesant had appeared in time to hear the last of the recital. "you'd better go lie down," he said decidedly. "it will do you good, and miss madden needs quiet." "an' 'two's company, three's a crowd!' ain't that it?" questioned miss lemain with a giggle. her sally was not greeted with enthusiasm. she left, terming stuyvesant a grouch, and cecilia sweet, but lacking pep. alone, stuyvesant stood looking down at cecilia. his arm was on the mantel. the shadows and lights from an open fireplace played on them. the rest of the room in half dark brought them close. constraint was impossible because of the situation and cecilia's dependence on stuyvesant. "the money came too quickly," she said meeting his eyes. "john has to spend it in the way that makes the most noise. i--i am so tired of it! so bruised by it! i wish we were back in that little flat, with john laying bricks as my father did. perhaps then he would be a good man. that is everything to me." "he is going to be a good man, cecilia," said stuyvesant. neither noticed the use of her first name. "he will be a good man. this is a relapse,--a recurrence of growing pains. there are good things in him. when he's awake he has a sense of humour. that is a darn good thing to have, you know. i think, next to god, it's the best thing a man can own." cecilia pressed her handkerchief against her lips. "you will help him again?" she whispered. "i will," said stuyvesant. he put out his hand in pledge and hers was swallowed in his huge grasp. at the touch of her hand he gasped, "cecilia!" but she did not answer, for the doctor's step was heard on the rickety stairs. "two broken ribs," he said; "scratch on his arm. now we'll take him home. he'll probably yell over the bumps, but i judge the yells will do him good. where's his companion? send another car for her, or take her along?" "send for her," said stuyvesant. "no," disagreed cecilia, "if you don't mind, we'll take her. i think it would be better." stuyvesant looked annoyed, but sent the oily proprietor to call the lady of the shook-up-nerves. she descended immediately, wrapped in a large fur coat, and with a cerise motor scarf about her head. "i couldn't get no rest," she called; "i'm all fussy. how's jacky darling?" "_she_ isn't going with us?" said john at the top of the stairs. he stopped and leaned heavily on stuyvesant. "my god!" he exploded. "stuyv, she _can't_! celie can't meet her! she can't! tell her we'll send a car. i don't want celie to see her." "they've been talking for half an hour," said stuyvesant. "your sister insists on taking her in." "oh, lord!" said john. "oh, lord!" "come along!" said stuyvesant roughly. "i really thought i was dying," said john in a shamed way. "shut up!" ordered stuyvesant. "you make me sick!" they went down with no more conversation. "how are you, dear?" asked cecilia. "oh, celie!" said john. he reached for her hand and clung to it. "oh, celie!" he echoed. until dawn stuyvesant relived the night. the ride home had made the deepest impression. a girl with a painted soul and face had chattered loudly, and with a cheap sentiment reeking in her talk. she had spoken often of "jacky darling." while jacky darling, from shame and pain, had groaned in deep, shaky groans, his head had lain on his sister's shoulder. on the other side stuyvesant had sat. the doctor had disposed of the case as typical, and was thinking of an article which he'd just read in the _medical journal_. "dearie," fanchette lemain had said, "your fur's open." she had reached toward cecilia's throat, but stuyvesant reached first. he fastened the clasp with shaking hands, and the back of one hand touched her chin. then he had sunk back to dream his impossible dreams, and wonder why she should have cared. he knew he was a duffer! but he was almost sure that she once had cared,--for him. chapter xviii forgiveness "celie," said john, "honestly he was devilish to me, and i deserved it!" john was lying on a lounge, covered and looking wan. the library fire burned cheerfully, and the portrait of an irish mother smiled down on cecilia and john. stuyvesant twombly had just left. he had uttered some scathing truths. "he said i was a 'callow pup,'" said john. "he said i shouldn't have called you to that place if i'd been half dead. cecilia dear, he was right. celie, forgive me!" "dearest!" said cecilia. she sank to her knees by the lounge, and pressed john's face to hers. he felt her tears. "i never will again!" he said huskily. "god help me!" she didn't reply. she couldn't, but only pressed him closer. "i can't bear to see you take the tawdry and cheap," she whispered at length, "for, john dear, it does crowd out the real. i know it does." he nodded. "kiss me," he ordered. she turned her face, and then the door opened. "i beg pardon," said stuyvesant uncomfortably, "i thought you were alone." cecilia had gotten to her feet, and stood, shy and flushing adorably. "cecilia's been weeping over the prodigal pup," explained john. "i told her i was sorry. i am. if you and she will give me another chance----" he held out his hand with his words, and stuyvesant took it. "i came back to say i was sorry i was so darn brutal," he said, squeezing john's hand, "but i'm afraid i meant it all." cecilia left them with a word or two. at the door she turned. stuyvesant was looking after her, oblivious to john's presence. "celie's tears," said john, using a handkerchief on his cheeks. he recalled the new leaf, and added, "three or four of mine too, i guess." his expression was sheepish, but that vanished, for in stuyvesant's face was approval. "john," said stuyvesant, "you're _all_ right!" john coughed. the genuine gruffness of stuyvesant unsettled him. "i'm awfully glad you came back," said john. "you'll stay? let's play rum." chapter xix spring "what are _you_ doing here?" stuyvesant asked of annette. considerable surprise was in his face and voice. "oh," answered annette, "i have been telling cecilia madden that i was a pig. i asked her to forgive me. i feel much better!" they had met on the long drive that ran on the inland side of the sound house, toward the main road. "i'm stopping at a house up the road for sunday," explained annette. "cecilia wanted to motor me back, but i needed air. indigestion and conscience are so much alike. you want to breathe deeply after the easing of both." "yes," agreed k. stuyvesant absently. "how could you ever dislike her, annette?" "she came into school," said annette, "the rawest little person you ever saw. i felt the injustice of her having money, while i, who knew so well how to use it, had to scrimp and save. i saw her with everything in the world that would have put me into heaven and she was miserably unhappy. it was my first taste of injustice. i hated it. i never was a resigned person, you know, stuyv." "how did the girls treat her?" asked stuyvesant. he was becoming gruff. "we put her through a refined form of hell," answered annette, "the cruelties of which were only possible for the feminine mind to evolve. stuyv, _do_ look what you're doing! the gardener will be grateful to you!" stuyvesant had been switching a cane viciously. he had taken off many heads of a particularly dressed-up variety of tulip. "i'll be darned!" he said, looking at them with surprise. "couldn't you see how dear and all that kind of thing she was?" he queried farther. "i don't see how even a set of simpering, half-witted, idiotic, jealous girls could _help_ seeing----" "so you're in love with her?" interrupted annette. stuyvesant looked on his cousin with surprise. then he answered. "of course," he said, "but how'd you know?" annette laughed. after her laughter she slipped a hand through his arm. "stuyvesant," she said, "your soul and mine are cut from a different pattern. it was always hard for me to understand you, but something has happened lately which has made me larger, much decenter. stuyvesant, i want a long talk--a heart-to-heart effect. will you walk back with me?" "of course," he answered. "you'll be glad to know," she went on, "that after cecilia had pneumonia she was quite the idol of the school. there was one of those complete shifts so characteristic of our american youth, and every one liked her but me. she used to try to make me like her with the most transparent little appeals. heavens, i was a devil! she sent me violets at one time when i had a cold, and i gave them to the maid, and then spoke loudly before her of unwelcome attentions and social climbers." stuyvesant was walking in jerks. his arm beneath annette's was rigid. "she's forgiven me," said annette, smiling. he relaxed. "i am a darn fool!" he said, "but honestly----!" he stopped and shook his head. "doesn't she care for you?" asked annette; "turned you down?" "i haven't asked her. she's shown very plainly what she thinks of me." "rubbish!" said annette shortly. "no man in love is a judge of anything! he only knows that she has blue eyes, or he can't just remember, maybe they're brown, but anyway they're beautiful!" annette's cousin grinned sheepishly. "what colour are they?" asked annette. "i don't know, but i guess they're brown. i know they're unusual, now aren't they, annette?" annette giggled. "very ordinary," she answered, "and they happen to be blue." "they're not ordinary. you know they aren't! it doesn't make any difference to me, of course. i'm not in love with her looks, but they're _not_ ordinary!" "it is not like you," said the girl, "to give up anything you want in that half-hearted way. i don't quite understand, stuyvesant." "i----" he began, then stopped. "well?" questioned annette. "i didn't give it up without being sure. her friend marjory, well, she made me see a few things." he was staring moodily ahead. a car whizzed by, leaving a trail of dust. "damn!" said stuyvesant. annette laughed. "you see now if i asked her," he continued, "i'd lose my chance of seeing her. i don't suppose you or any one else could know what that means to me!" "you might not lose it. i don't trust the green-eyed lady. i never have." "but she's cecilia's best friend," objected stuyvesant, "and why would she do anything to hurt her?" "i used to think you posed," she answered despairingly. "now i imagine it is only feeble-mindedness. take my advice, stuyvesant: _ask_ her! the other course is so spineless." "you don't know what i'd lose!" "you wouldn't lose it!" "i wouldn't?" he repeated. "excuse me, annette, but really you don't know what you're talking about. i do. i know too well." his voice had become bitter. she looked at him and saw that in the year past he had changed greatly. "and now about you?" he said in a changed way. "are you still set on this working business? i hope you aren't. i honestly want to help. it worries me like thunder!" "you're a dear!" responded annette, "and that is quite a tale. can't we sit on this wall? whose is it? ... the maddens own all this? heavens!" she perched on the wall and he lit a cigarette. "no, not now," she answered as he held out the case. "the small saint cecilia doesn't, does she? well, she couldn't. she might revert to the cob pipe." it was a flash of the old annette. stuyvesant looked unpleasant. "my tale--" said annette. "you know mamma is a worshipper of the long-haired. any one who can create _anything_--futurist painters, pianists, the inventor of a new cocktail. you know her, stuyv." "yes," admitted stuyvesant. "well, what with their bleeding and papa's insane investments, he never provided properly for us, stuyv. mamma used to go to him and really cry! it was pathetic! and all he would say was that he had no money." "he hadn't," answered annette's cousin. "i'd expect you to sympathise," she said. "you men always do, but that isn't my story. when he died his affairs were in such fearful shape that mamma and i were terribly pinched. she never liked you, stuyv, or she might have asked your advice. as it was, she invested in lovely nut groves in southern california. the promoters quite misrepresented them; they didn't pay at all or declare dividends or whatever they do. in fact they assessed the owners of the common stock for irrigation or something like that. i don't just understand business. about that time i met dicky fanshawe, who doesn't do anything original--only works--fearfully poor. i fell in love with him, but mamma saw me as the mistress of some gilt and pink salon, with a long-haired genius as a husband, and was simply devilish about dicky. you know her, stuyv." "yes," answered stuyvesant. "i do." "then you know the altshine failure took us in too." "yes," he answered. "i know. why were you so stiff-necked about my help, annette? i have enough to help you all you need, and i want to. you know it." "mamma has never liked you," said annette, "but when the crash came, well, she was willing to live on you. for the same reason i was not. i know you disapprove of me. my ideals are not many, but under the circumstances----!" "you make me feel an awful dub!" said stuyvesant. "i haven't any right to disapprove of you or be lofty." "but you do. well, mamma saw me retrieving the family fortune in some romantic and bohemian manner. i was to create something, a book, or be a decorator for the smart, a reader of east indian poems. she had splendid ideas, but the fact is, i've found, you have to have a hint of something inside to do anything successfully outside. i hadn't it. "i descended to a social secretary and chaperoning that horrid woman's nasty little white pups, and from that mamma has consented to my marrying dicky. he only has ten thousand a year, and i'm going to marry him on that! i love him terribly! isn't it splendidly romantic?" "um," grunted stuyvesant. "annette," he said, "i want you to let me provide for your mother. you will? ... no, don't thank me. it irritates me. oh, please!" after his last plea she stopped her effusive thanks and pressed his arm. suddenly she laughed. "what are you laughing at?" asked stuyvesant. "cecilia advocated pink for the poor," annette explained, "and i never understood how they felt until my terrible employer asked me not to wear frills. she said they weren't suitable for my position! it's all so relative, isn't it? cecilia saw the panorama. i saw only my corner." annette slipped from the wall. "must go," she said. "dicky's coming out at eight. you want me to be happy?" "of course," said stuyvesant. annette's face changed. "stuyv," she said, "it's everything when you find the one who fits your heart and mind.... _ask_ her. please, stuyv. i can't believe she doesn't care." "you're awfully good," he answered huskily. "lord, annette! if you were right----!" annette stepped near him. for the first time since the nursery days she kissed him. "stay here," she ordered, "and think it out. bye!" with a wave she left. at the first turn in the road she looked back. her cousin was still sitting on the wall, and he was staring intently at the cigarette between his fingers. annette had seen that it had gone out before she started. "poor boy!" she said. "poor boy!" and then she thought of dicky, who had turned her hard little heart softer to all the world. she forgot the "poor boy" who sat alone on the wall. she forgot money and things, the two which had mattered most to her, and once had been her life. with a new look on her face, she dreamed of a future--a future at which she once would have laughed. hers was the spirit that puts glory into the face of the tired mother in the overcrowded flat; beauty into the face of the tawdry little girl who sits on a park bench with her "gentleman friend"; youth into age, waiting for soft and endless night; a little touch of god, a hint of something larger, veiled for eyes too young; the proof intangible, sublime. chapter xx pulling off the thorns the heat of june in the city drew forth a hot, damp steam. it made white faces and brought to mind sunstrokes, not june's country thought--roses. "gee, it's hot!" said john. he sat opposite stuyvesant twombly in a restaurant famed for its coolness. "come out with me to-night!" he added. "dad and celie will be glad to have you, too. come on! awful nice and cool out there." stuyvesant answered absently, and smiled a little as he did. the idea of "celie's" being glad to see him amused, even while it hurt, him desperately. he thought with a cankered humour of his trying to find out whether there was a spark of hope for him, after the talk with annette had made his dreams too daring, and had made him need, all over again, proof of how little he mattered. he had gotten the proof. his first talk had been full of marjory,--marjory,--marjory. he had not wanted to talk of marjory. again he had hated her for coming between them. cecilia had told of what marjory's letters had held,--how dear marjory was (cecilia had been a bit breathless at this point)--how she, cecilia, loved her,--where marjory was,--where she was going. it had been a very surface talk, not once touching anything personal, at least no more than the small cecilia's great love for her friend. then john had appeared and cecilia had excused herself with much relief and gone quickly away. it was as always, her avoidance, and what in a less sweet nature would have shown as marked distaste. stuyvesant had understood, and held on to his small privilege doggedly. "then i'll leave," stuyvesant heard john say; he didn't know what had come before, "but i'll get home from school often and see you." "i'm going away myself for a while," said stuyvesant,--"i don't know just where. i'm tired of business,--everything. i guess i need a change." he thought miserably of the "change" he needed, and then shut his heart on her sweet image. he made up his mind to stop thinking of "that kind of thing," and his heart laughed at his decision. [illustration: cecilia stopped and gasped. it was harder than she had dreamed] "stuyv!" said john aghast, "what am i going to do without you? why, stuyv! you can't go, at least for long. you don't mean a long trip?" "'fraid so," he was answered. "i guess i'd better, john. i--the fact is i've wanted something i can't have. i don't want to baby about it, only i'm,--well, i can't forget it here. i'm going to try a change. damn it! what did i say that for? i hate to whine." "stuyv!" said john. he reached across the table, and squeezed the hand that was drawing designs on the tablecloth with a strawberry fork. stuyvesant felt the sympathy, and looked up. the boy on the other side of the table gasped. "is it as bad as that?" he asked. stuyvesant shook his head, and then he uttered his own word and convincingly. "gosh, john," he said, "it's the limit. i'd never have believed it possible." "would it help to tell?" asked john. stuyvesant smiled a little. "not exactly," he replied. "i did tell one person," he continued after a pause, "and after that it was worse. this person meant well too. rot it, if i couldn't run a world better than it's run! i'd have people that love each----" he stopped, and looked wildly around. then he mopped his forehead. "it's awful hot," he finished inanely. "yes," agreed john. "lord, i'll miss you!" john was utterly despondent. "there's no one like you, stuyv," he said in an embarrassed way. "you know how hard it is to say some things, but you can bet i know what you've done for me! i do--so does cecilia. i had the wrong idea." "i've been glad to be your friend," answered stuyvesant. "you'll write me and tell me how,--how you all are?" "certainly," responded john. "why, of course i will, but i don't know how i can say good-bye! stuyv, i depend on you awfully. you know,--you know with dad, that is, i can't take his advice because i don't respect him." "why not?" broke in john's companion. "i'd like to know why not?" john's mouth flew open. "his grammar----" he began. "trimmings," said k. stuyvesant. "crudeness," said john. "companion of strength," said k. stuyvesant. "mentioning money all the time," said john, "how much things cost." "better than spending it without mention on dubious objects." john looked away as stuyvesant replied. "look here," continued stuyvesant, "you and i both know the honest goodness in your father--his rugged ideas of a decent life--his respect of them. the other things are tinsel balls on the christmas tree. desirable trimmings, but not essential for the tree's strength. a few more years will convince you,--absolutely convince you. some day you won't even wince when your father forgets and uses his knife to eat from." "never," stated john. "you prefer a man who is slippery both inside and out?" questioned stuyvesant. "they get along better with the world," said john. "oh, no," said stuyvesant. "they get along better with the empties. a few people, those that count, look for something on the inside." john suddenly leaned well across the table. "look here, stuyv," he said, "is this a bluff? damned if i understand you! i was lying in the hammock on the porch last summer when marjory and cecilia came from the courts. they didn't see me, and i thought i'd hear about some beau and have a joke. i heard marjory say that you said the old man should be kept in the garage. not just those words, but smooth--marjory's way. i never saw celie so mad! she turned white as----" "did she say that?" shouted stuyvesant. "lord, stuyv!" said john, "everybody's lookin' at you. yes, of course she said that. what's the matter with you?" "what else did she say?" asked stuyvesant. he was somewhat breathless, but for the sake of john more restrained. "well, marjory told cecilia what a hell of a case you had on her, talking about her eyes, and all that kind of stuff. trust girls--they blab everything. gimme the salt, will you?" stuyvesant shoved his glass of water toward john. "the salt, man!" said john, and then as he surveyed stuyvesant with sad eyes, he added, "i hope it isn't catching." "you go telephone her that we're coming out," said stuyvesant. "who?" "your sister, of course. tell her not to have any one else there. i've got to see her, john,--got to! honestly, john, i've _got_ to. i've got to see her a little while alone. i really must." "i think you've made it plain," replied john. "you say you must see cecilia. you did mention that, didn't you?" there was no room for anything but heaven in stuyvesant. he nodded seriously. "yes," lie answered, "i must! really, i've got to, john!" john howled. "the heat!" he explained, then he sobered. "look here, stuyv," he said, "_did_ you say that?" "what?" asked stuyvesant, then he remembered, and for the first and last time made a certain utterance. "she lied," he said quietly, and then, "oh, my _gosh_, i'm happy! i believe i'm going crazy." "oh, no!" replied john, "impossible." "yes, john?" said cecilia. "stuyv's coming out with me," she heard him say. "yes, dear," she answered. "any one coming to dinner?" "no, dear. shall i ask one of the welsh twins? they're always so sweet about coming." "no," said john; "stuyv and i were talking about dad, rather marjory, and he's got a hunch that he's got to see you alone. got to,--got to,--got to!" cecilia did not understand, and was rather bewildered at john's laughter. "certainly he shall, john," she replied. her heart beat in her voice. "good-bye, dear," she ended, and heard the click of his receiver. "talking of marjory" ... cecilia turned away from the telephone and went to stand by the sea window of her room. she would help them both all she could. all she could.... she closed her eyes, for she felt sick and faint. "how can i help him?" she questioned, for marjory's letters had not held a mention of him, although cecilia's had tactfully recorded his every move. she looked out on the world--it was grey like the frothing sound. "i will help them to be happy," she whispered unsteadily. "father mcgowan-dear,--i am learning. some day i will learn to think of it, and smile----" then she turned to dress. norah came in, and looked on happily. cecilia was not vain after all. no, she didn't care which frock she put on, and she told josephine not to fuss so over her hair, that it bored her. "what is the difference?" she had asked a little bitterly, and then to norah she had said, "i didn't mean that! i didn't! what made me say it? i am not bitter, am i, norah?" "and why should you be," norah had answered, "with everything in the world that money can buy?" chapter xxi pink roses at five k. stuyvesant and john started for the sound house. the sun beat down cruelly with the same murky, hot-damp feel. the car wove between the traffic of the crowded streets like a huge shuttle. both men in it were silent--stuyvesant breathless and afraid to trust his hope, yet hoping; john despondent over stuyv's going away. all that that gentleman had done came to john with a new force,--came when the possibility of losing stuyv even for a few months was thrust before him. stuyvesant spoke: "takes so long to get out to-day," he said; "we seem to crawl. look at that fellow ahead. won't let us get past; have to crawl! lord! say, john, let me drive." "i will not!" replied john with decision. "i have a distinct fondness for life. what's wrong with you?" "nothing," answered stuyvesant loudly, "nothing at all!" then he began to speak of certain affairs downtown, talking quickly, as if afraid of silence. john looked at him with wonder. it was very unlike stuyvesant to be hectic. he recalled the mentioned disappointment. that, also, brought wonder. stuyvesant didn't seem to care for girls. in business he seemed to get what he wanted. what could it be? suddenly an idea, which seemed to john almost insane, flew across his mind. he couldn't recognise it in the face of cecilia's and stuyvesant's open avoidance of each other, but in spite of that, the idea clung. "got to see her, got to----" echoed in john's ears. he swallowed convulsively. if it were true! and it was not marjory after all,--well, wouldn't he be the happiest fellow on earth? well, rather! the last months had brought john to a state of adoration of cecilia and stuyvesant. more than love it was. to be as sure of stuyv's always closeness,--to have cecilia so cared for.... "can't you let her out a little?" he heard stuyvesant say impatiently. john answered with a gentleness absolutely new, but it was not noticed. he ran the car faster and well, and his best efforts were greeted with: "this thing seems to crawl to-night. darned if i don't want to get out and push!" "you're in a hurry!" said john bravely. "oh, no, no!" answered stuyvesant, looking on john suspiciously. then he mopped his forehead, leaving it streaked with the dust that came off. "hot," he said. they rounded the last hill before the madden gateway, and through a gap in some stately poplars they caught a glimpse of a white speck on an upper terrace. "cecilia!" blurted out stuyvesant. "oh, gosh! john, is my tie, that is, do i look----" "sure, you do," said john, comfortingly. stuyvesant mopped some more. his face looked like a futurist painting of "the dancers" or some one's aunt. they rounded up the hill slowly. evangeline bounded from the shrubbery and barked welcome. "evangeline," said stuyvesant, as one in a trance. "yes," answered john; "norah named him for cecilia. norah is an old family servant." had stuyvesant heard, he might have smiled, but stuyvesant was past hearing. "you poor boys!" said cecilia. "how hot and tired you must be!" then she looked at stuyvesant and laughed. "i judge it was dusty?" she said. "no, that is, i mean quite so," stuttered stuyvesant. he stood before her silent, openly staring. when john saw cecilia flush he put his hand on stuyvesant's arm. "come on," he said. "we'll go brush up." john's manner was as gentle as cecilia's. stuyvesant followed him. on the broad porch he paused and looked back. evangeline was telling cecilia that he loved her, in dog fashion--wag code. cecilia patted him. "gosh!" said stuyvesant, and then he mopped his forehead, making another picture in the dust. dusk came before dinner time. it crept down stealthily, like the thief it is of day. shadows darkened and lengthened. greens grew black. cecilia in the half light on a wide porch watched a certain big and unusually gruff man. something, she could see, was making him like a wistful boy--a boy so heart-set on his want that he fears the risk of refusal. cecilia thought of marjory across the seas. there was a chance to play traitor--a chance to rekindle the little spark she had once fired in stuyvesant. the idea danced about her soul and burnt its edges. "father mcgowan-dear," she appealed inside, "please help me! i am trying, but i _am_ so little!" a breeze from the sound came with a swish and moaned gently in and out among the loving arms of trees. the lights in the dining room were soft. they shone gently down on a large bowl of pink roses which were in the centre of the table. their hearts were a deeper colour and they nodded and seemed to talk when the steps of two pompous persons who passed things shook them. stuyvesant looked at cecilia and then quickly away. he did not know what kind of a frock she wore except that it was white. he knew that she looked good, gentle and pure; that her eyes held the depths that hurts bring and the deep loyalty of love. there was a little droop to her lips that made him ache to see. he wondered at it, dared to hope that it had come because of him, and then he put the thought away. unbelievably sweet it seemed. and cecilia? "marjory across the seas," she thought, "to subdue jeremiah just a little----" she closed her eyes. "oh dear!" she thought, "what _is_ the matter with me? these awful thoughts!" she opened them again and saw jeremiah leaning on the table. his fists were closed about his knife and fork, and he held them upright, the handle ends resting on the cloth. john, curiously enough, did not seem bothered by this. he was watching stuyvesant, who sat opposite. "after that i started makin' bricks instead of layin' 'em. (celie, ask that young feller to loan me a piece of bread. i want bread with my supper. i don't care what the style is.) so i begin to make bricks, an' when i look around and think that bricks done it all----" jeremiah's voice faded. he left the rest to the imaginations of his listeners, while he laid a piece of bread flat on the table, and spread it _en masse_. "i wisht my wife could have saw it," said jeremiah as he loosened the piece of bread from the cloth. "she deserved everything. i never gave her nothing." "you gave her a great deal," disagreed cecilia. "you know you did! we were happy in that little flat. i remember that. we loved each other and we had enough to eat." cecilia was aware of stuyvesant's eyes. they were so dear! she wondered if it was very wicked to love them, for she knew she always would.... and he had intimated that if jeremiah were less prominent--cecilia swallowed hard. the gods are visited with temptations, and too often they come to little humans. cecilia was meeting hers. for the minute she felt anything possible, justifiable for the end she craved, and in the middle of her minute the white spark in her little heart flared. "papa," she said, "please tell mr. twombly about the time you hit the boss on the ear with a brick." the request of that tale was her crucifixion on the cross of loyalty ... her proof beyond all doubt that her heart was in jeremiah's rough old hands. jeremiah looked pleased. his face lit rather pathetically. cecilia answered his happy smile, and then she looked down at her plate. her throat felt full and stiff. she found it hard to swallow. through a numbed consciousness she heard a long and much loved tale. "i love him, i love him!" she chanted inside. "he and john are _everything_!" she looked up and found stuyvesant looking at her. the way he looked made her gasp a little, and below the table she closed her small hands so tightly that her nails hurt her palms. "an' then i sez, 'yuh can lay yer own bricks,'" came in the voice of jeremiah. "'an' here's one to begin with.' (it took him on the ear.)" he ended in parenthesis. "your stand for liberty--was--well--timed. it was--certainly the best thing you could have done," commented stuyvesant in jerks. he was trying very hard not to look at cecilia, and it was work not to. "celie," said jeremiah, "what _has_ this fellow did to the potatoes? he does be-devil 'em so. he puts on so many airs that yuh hardly recognise 'em fer potatoes!" "i don't know, dear," answered cecilia, "but i'll see about it to-morrow." "mebbe celie couldn't fry potatoes!" said jeremiah. he smacked his lips loudly in remembrance. "these here furriners," he went on, "that we hire to cook,--poor things, _they_ don't know no better!" and thus jeremiah disposed of french chefs. the lips of one of the pompous persons curled a little. the roses nodded and bobbed. to stuyvesant, who stared resolutely on them, they all whispered, "cecilia!" to cecilia they shouted "keefer, the butler." to john they were lovelier that night from a new hope, and, of his father, a new understanding. but to jeremiah madden they brought back only the heat of an overcrowded flat--the woman who held his heart dying by inches, when money might have made her live.... money! ... a little tired-eyed girl struggling under a woman's load. a little boy who always cried for things he couldn't have. "the bunnit with pink roses." life's question mark,--fate's smile,--or god's hand? jeremiah looked away from the roses, and absently stuck the corner of his napkin in his collar. then he looked about to see if any one had noticed, and hastily took it out. cecilia saw and her heart leaped with love. it seemed to her that the saints had made jeremiah do that then. do it to show the little earth maiden her work in life. the taking from her father the shame which a son would have him feel, and giving him a substitute for the love that left him too soon,--too hungering. they got up at last. cecilia took a bobbing rose from the centrepiece. she began to break the thorns from it, but stuyvesant's hands took it from her. he removed them methodically, and surely,--as he would. when he gave it back to her, there was nothing left to hurt. "thank you," she said. "i wish i could take them out of the world for you," he answered gruffly. she shook as she crossed the room to where her father and john waited at the door. her temptation was past. her heart was strong, but she prayed that he would not say such things so much as if he meant them. it made it too hard. "i am so weak," she thought, "so weak!" stuyvesant walked laggingly across the soft grass. john had said that he would find her by a white wall with a greek relief, that that was her favourite spot. stuyvesant knew that he dreamed of that spot because of her, but his connection with it influencing her, he never thought of. his spirit, always humble with her, knelt. he thought of john's understanding, and whispering, "good luck, stuyv, dear!" and of his gasping, "john,--you'd be willing?" john had whacked him on the back and had answered convincingly. then he'd gone unsteadily down the steps, and had lagged across the close-clipped grass. he wanted as he had never wanted anything to see her, but he was shaken and unsure ... sick from longing and fear. ahead of him in the half light he saw the stretch of wall standing out among the shadows. he stopped, heart pounding, at the corner of the hedge-sheltered path. the little irish maiden who was his key to heaven sat on the wall. behind her the sound was black. the soft stillness enveloped everything. the half night throbbed. cecilia looked up, and saw the tall shadow in the shadows. "john, dear?" she queried. stuyvesant didn't answer for his voice was gone, but he stepped toward her. he put out a hand and laid it on a white wall. the world was reeling for him. "oh," she said, "i thought it was john, but--but you wanted to see me?" he nodded. "marjory----" she began, then scolded herself for a too abrupt start. she drew a quick breath, and tried to control reason and tact. "she is so lovely, mr. stuyvesant," she went on, "but sometimes she doesn't let people know when she likes them. she's like that." cecilia stopped and gasped. it was harder than she had dreamed. "has she been a good friend to you?" asked stuyvesant in a queer, tight voice. "oh, yes!" answered cecilia, "so good! i do love her so much! i would do anything to make her happy!" "you _darling_!" said k. stuyvesant. he spoke loudly, but his words shook, for his heart was pounding with a sickening speed. with his words cecilia caught her breath so deeply that it seemed a sob. doubts vanished,--seemed incredible,--but she spoke what would always be her truth, though her heart famished from it. she looked stuyvesant squarely in the eyes: "i love my father," she said, "and i am proud of him. i am proud to be his daughter." "of course you are," he answered. "you should be. cecilia, i am very little, but i am large enough to see what you love in him. have you misunderstood what i thought?" she nodded. white, she was, and her eyes were on his face, imploring in their new hope. "i loved you," said stuyvesant, "on the boat. i saw how wonderful you were, but, cecilia,--when i saw you here! when i see you turn and kiss your father when his eyes grow hurt because of john's unkindness.... oh, my dear! every instant of this year i've loved you, and more and more. i love you so ... no one could be worthy of you, but, little saint,--no one could love you more! no one." he stopped, choked. "i dream on my knees," he went on: "i'll dream of you until i die. but,--what's the use of saying all this? i love you! i love you so! that's everything." he put a hand out toward her, then drew back. "cecilia," he whispered, "you are so sweet!" he looked down and drew his breath sharply. he wondered if she would ever speak. he heard her slip from the wall.... perhaps she would leave him without a word. dully, he wondered how he could go on living if she did that. and then the world turned over and then it ceased to be, for cecilia's hands lay on his shoulders. he felt them move and creep up and around his neck. it was true.... he felt a wonderful, shaken strength. "cecilia! cecilia!" she heard him gasp. after a time she pushed him away and laughed tremulously. "dearest keefer stuyvesant," she whispered shakily, "whose tears are these? yours or mine?" there was no room for laughter in keefer stuyvesant's soul. he drew her close again and answered gruffly: "there is no yours nor mine any more, little saint. they're ours, dearest,--ours. oh, cecilia, _gosh_, how i _love_ you!" the end * * * * * * * * charming books for girls may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list when patty went to college, by jean webster. illustrated by c. d. williams. one of the best stories of life in a girl's college that has ever been written. it is bright, whimsical and entertaining, lifelike, laughable and thoroughly human. just patty, by jean webster. illustrated by c. m. relyea. patty is full of the joy of living, fun-loving, given to ingenious mischief for its own sake, with a disregard for pretty convention which is an unfailing source of joy to her fellows. the poor little rich girl, by eleanor gates. with four full page illustrations. this story relates the experience of one of those unfortunate children whose early days are passed in the companionship of a governess, seldom seeing either parent, and famishing for natural love and tenderness. a charming play as dramatized by the author. rebecca of sunnybrook farm, by kate douglas wiggin. one of the most beautiful studies of childhood--rebecca's artistic, unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand on midst a circle of austere new englanders. the stage version is making a phenomenal dramatic record. new chronicles of rebecca, by kate douglas wiggin. illustrated by f. c. yohn. additional episodes in the girlhood of this delightful heroine that carry rebecca through various stages to her eighteenth birthday. rebecca mary, by annie hamilton donnell. illustrated by elizabeth shippen green. this author possesses the rare gift of portraying all the grotesque little joys and sorrows and scruples of this very small girl with a pathos that is peculiarly genuine and appealing. her book and heart, by george madden martin, illustrated by charles louis hinton. emmy lou is irresistibly lovable, because she is so absolutely real. she is just a bewitchingly innocent, hugable little maid. the book is wonderfully human. stories of rare charm by gene stratton-porter michael o'halloran, illustrated by frances rogers. michael is a quick-witted little irish newsboy, living in northern indiana. he adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. he also assumes the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and onward. laddie. illustrated by herman pfeifer. this is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in indiana. the story is told by little sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs of older members of the family. chief among them is that of laddie and the princess, an english girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose family there hangs a mystery. the harvester. illustrated by w. l. jacobs. "the harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. but when the girl comes to his "medicine woods," there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic quality. freckles. illustrated. freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great limberlost swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "the angel" are full of real sentiment. a girl of the limberlost. illustrated. the story of a girl of the michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of the self-reliant american. her philosophy is one of love and kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. and by the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. at the foot of the rainbow. illustrations in colors. the scene of this charming love story is laid in central indiana. the story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. the novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. the song of the cardinal. profusely illustrated. a love ideal of the cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and humor. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york illustration: "flowers, ma'am? tuppence and a penny a bunch." (artist unattrib.) better than play. by mabel quiller-couch. author of "a waif and a welcome," "zach and debby," "the story of jessie," etc. london the religious tract society bouverie street and st. paul's churchyard, e.c. contents. chapter. i. washing day tempers. ii. how the day ended. iii. the little herb-bed. iv. sage bushes and rose bushes. v. what aunt maggie suggested. vi. first customers. vii. what lay beyond the milestone. viii. rocket's help is required. ix. home again. x. christmas. xi. a step forward. xii. success. chapter i. washing day tempers. down at the henders' cottage all was misery and discomfort; the house was full of bad temper, steam, and the smell of soap-suds. it was washing-day, and the children hated washing-day. for one thing, aunt emma was always very cross, and for another, they never knew what to do with themselves. they were not allowed indoors, for they "choked up the place," she said, "and there wasn't room to move,"; so they had to stay outside; but they must make no noise, for she could not bear it, and they must not wander away to play, for they might be wanted at any minute, to run an errand, or chop up a few sticks. bella, too, the eldest of them all, was needed every now and again to hang a few things on the bushes; but that was all the break they had in the weary day. bella often wished her aunt would let her do more to help her. she was sure she could, and it would have been ever so much more pleasant than standing around seeing everything go wrong, yet doing nothing. her aunt was always scolding her for being idle, and grumbling at the amount of work she herself had to do; yet, if bella attempted to help in any way, there was a great to-do, and her aunt grew so angry about it that bella soon gave up attempting. it grieved her dreadfully, though. the home had been so different when her mother was alive, so neat and pretty, and all of them so happy. there had rarely been any scolding, and certainly there was never any grumbling about the work. "why, work is pleasure, if you take it in the right spirit," mrs. hender used to say, cheerfully; "it means life and happiness--but everything depends, of course, on the spirit in which you take it." certainly aunt emma did not take it in 'the right spirit.' she was always grumbling, and never what you would call cheerful. if she had to go up the few stairs to the bedrooms, she grumbled, and if she had to go to the door to answer a knock, she grumbled. if the children used an extra cup, or the windows got dirty, or the steps muddy, she complained bitterly of the hardship it was to her. and few things are harder to bear than to have to live with a perpetual grumbler, to listen to constant complaints, --especially, too, if the grumbler will not let any one help her to do the work she grumbles so much about. a grumbler spoils every one's pleasure, and gets none herself; and the worst of it is, it is a disease that grows on one terribly. in the henders' case it was doing great harm, as bella was old enough to see. her father had always, in the old days, come home after his work, and, after they had all had a cosy meal together, had worked in the garden through the summer evenings, or, in the winter, sat by the fire reading the paper or a book to his wife while she sewed. he had long since ceased all that, though, for one can't sit and read in any comfort in a kitchen that's all of a muddle, and to a woman who is grumbling all the time; and soon he found there was a cosy, quiet resting-place at the 'red lion,' with plenty of cheerfulness and good temper, and no grumbling. the children, too, never came indoors if they could stay out, and as aunt emma complained of their noise if they played in the garden, they naturally went farther away, if they could manage to escape. but for bella, this was not so easy. she was useful, though her aunt would never admit it, and she liked to have her within call. there was nowhere that bella cared to go, except to mrs. langley's, farther down the lane, and thither miss hender did not allow her to go very often, though no one knew why. mrs. langley, or 'aunt maggie,' as the children had been taught to call her, had been their mother's greatest friend and nearest neighbour, and during their mother's lifetime they had felt almost as much at home in her house as in their own. little margaret, indeed, had been called after her. altogether life was very, very different now, and to bella's mind the present seemed anything but a happy time. she sat on the step to-day, and looked soberly at the sky. the weather was dull and gloomy, with a moisture in the air which would entirely keep the clothes from drying; and a bad drying day is in itself enough to try the temper of the most amiable of washerwomen. "oh, i do wish the sun would shine," she thought anxiously; "it would make such a difference." bella spent her days in a state of mingled hope and dread--hope that things would happen to please her aunt, and dread of things happening to ruffle her. the baker's cart drew up at the gate, and the man, springing lightly down, came up the garden-path with a basket of loaves. "now she will be vexed at having to answer the door," thought bella. "i wish i knew what bread to take in." that, however, was more than she dare do, so she contented herself with going in, to warn her aunt of the baker's approach. "the baker is coming, aunt emma," she said quietly. "well, s'posing he is! surely you'm old enough to take the bread from him; or do you want me to do it while you look on? it won't soil your hands to touch a loaf of bread." "how many loaves shall i take in?" asked bella patiently. "oh, i don't know! i don't know what we've got, and i can't stay to see. three would do, i should hope." bella looked at the baker's basket, and her spirit sank; there were pale loaves and brown ones, and loaves of all shapes. which should she take? which would please her aunt? at last she picked up what she thought was a nice tempting-looking one. surely that would do for one, she thought. the baker interposed. "miss hender don't like that shape," he said shortly; "she thinks 'em too crusty. most folks prefer 'em," he added meaningly. bella laid down the loaf and took up another. "miss hender don't----" the man began again, but stopped. what did it matter to him, he thought, what the cross-grained woman liked or didn't like? he had trouble enough when she came to the door herself; so he hastily put two other loaves in bella's hands, and left as quickly as he could. of course, when aunt emma caught sight of the loaves, there was a nagging and a scolding. they were wrong in shape and colour and size, and everything else. "i should have thought a great girl like you might have known the kind of loaf we generally have, and not have taken in such things as those!" "as you are always complaining of those we do have, i thought you'd like a change," was the retort that trembled on bella's lips, but she kept the words back. "i thought these looked nice," was all she said. indeed, they looked so nice and smelt so deliciously, she could have eaten a large crust of one then and there. she was very hungry, poor child; but on washing-days the children were not expected to be hungry, and, as a rule, no meal was got for any one between breakfast and the evening one, when their father came home. on washing-days nothing could be attended to but the washing. bella heard little margery crying softly in the garden. the child was hungry too, she knew. she was but four years old, and she needed something. bella's heart ached for her baby sister, the little one who had been the pet and darling of the household during her mother's lifetime. as she listened to the plaintive crying, the thought would come into her mind, "what would her mother feel if she knew that her baby was hungry, and neglected and unhappy?" and at last she could bear the thought and the crying no longer. summoning up all her courage, she went out to the scullery, where her aunt was bustling about, grumbling to herself all the time. "aunt emma," she said half-timidly, "may i give margery something to eat? she is so hungry. i hear her crying." miss hender did not answer. "have you seen the poker?" she demanded, impatiently. "one of those boys has walked off with it, i'll be bound! and here is my fire going out for the want of a stirring up. how anybody can be expected to get on where there's a parcel of children----" "i am sure the boys haven't had it, aunt emma," declared bella patiently. "i saw it here just now, and they haven't moved from the garden; they've been reading all the morning." "well, i can't waste any more time," cried the angry woman, "i'll take this," and impetuously catching up the stick that she used for lifting the clothes out of the copper, she thrust it into the fire. bella stood by wondering and embarrassed. the fire burnt up the better for its stirring, it is true, but the stick was ruined for its usual purpose. blackened and charred as it was, it was only fit for putting back into the fire again as fuel. even to bella's childish mind the foolishness and wickedness of such a hasty action was only too plain. a moment later, when the copper-stick itself was wanted, it was unusable, and there was no other at hand. one would have to be bought, or made, or found. while looking for something that would do in place of it, the poker was found lying on the table, amongst the pans and things littered there. this only made miss hender more irritable than before. "to think it should have been there all the time, and me wasting all that time looking for it!" she exclaimed, as indignantly as though the poker were actually to blame. in the corner of the scullery was a chair with one leg loose, waiting for the father to find time to mend it. miss hender's flashing eye fell on this, and seizing the leg and plunging it into the boiling copper, she lifted out the clothes into the washing-tray with it. the chair leg was dusty and it was covered with yellow varnish and paint, but in her foolish and senseless rage she never stopped to think of this, and for months and months after the stains on the clothing stood as a reminder and a reproach, for not even time and frequent washings could remove them altogether. bella turned away miserable enough. the chair was ruined, of course, as well as the clothes, and she was old enough to understand the wicked waste such an outburst of temper may cause. "it was one of those mother saved up for and bought," she said to herself, the tears welling up in her eyes, "and she was so proud of them. i wish father had mended it at once, then it wouldn't have been lying about in the scullery, in her way." a voice from the garden, though, drove the other thoughts from her mind; it was margery's calling softly to her, "bella, i'm so hungry. give margery something to eat, she's so hungry." bella's misery deepened to anger against the cause of all this wretchedness; the bad-tempered woman who was spoiling all their happiness. "it isn't her house," she argued to herself; "it's father's house, and ours, and i am sure he wouldn't have margery or any of us go hungry. it is cruel to starve a little thing like that, and i've a good mind to go to the larder and get her something to eat." but fear of the storm such an act would raise, and fear lest some of it should fall on margery, a feeling of respect too for her aunt's authority, kept her from doing this, but did not lessen her determination to relieve her little sister's wants, and an idea came to her that sent her quickly to the garden with a brightened face. "tom," she said softly to the elder of her two brothers, "margery is so hungry, and i believe there won't be any dinner at all to-day. aunt emma hasn't said anything about it, and she's in an awful temper." tom and charlie groaned, "and we're starving!" "i shall go and pull up a turnip to eat," said charlie defiantly. "i wish the apples were big enough to be any good." "i wish i'd got a penny to buy some buns," said tom. bella's face grew thoughtful. she had four-pence of her own in her money-box, that she had been saving to buy herself a pair of gloves for sundays. she had long wanted them, and twopence more would enable her to get them, but---- "i'll give you a penny each to buy some buns," she said impulsively, "if you will do something first, and promise to be very careful." of course they both promised vigorously. "well, i want you to take margery down the lane to aunt maggie, and ask her if she will give her something to eat. i am sure she will, if she knows how hungry she is. then you can run and buy your buns, and you must go back and fetch margery again, and bring her home, without aunt emma's knowing anything about it. it would only make her more angry." of course the boys promised again to do their best. a whispered word stopped margery's wailing, the pennies were soon abstracted from the money-box, and then the little trio made their way quietly down the garden, and out at the gate into the lane. once outside their pace, spurred by hunger, quickened considerably, and famished little margery was very soon sitting perfectly happy in aunt maggie's kitchen, with a mug of milk before her and a large slice of bread and butter and sugar. chapter ii. how the day ended. bella stood for a moment looking out at the cold grey sky and the neglected garden, but her thoughts were with the children, and her ears following the sounds of their retreating footsteps. her mind was greatly relieved by the thought that they would soon be having some food. for herself and her own hunger she did not care, and she would not let herself think of the two pennies she had given up, and the gloves that she had been so looking forward to possessing, but would now have to do without. a thrill of dread passed through her at the thought of her aunt. would she be very angry, she wondered, if she found out what she had done? most probably she would, thought bella, though there was no harm in it. it never occurred to her that nothing could have been much more annoying to miss hender than for a neighbour to be asked to feed the children she was supposed to be there to look after. it was making public her neglect and bad temper. it would have been far better to have done the straightforward thing, without any deception; to have gone to her bravely and asked to be allowed to give the children some food, and have borne patiently her annoyance and angry words. now bella's great anxieties were that her aunt should not find out that the children had gone, and that they should be back before she should miss them. the thought of this sent her quickly into the house. "are there any more things for me to hang out, aunt emma?" she asked, cheerfully. "there seems to be a little breeze springing up." miss hender, without replying, handed her a dish piled high with wet clothes. "hang them so that they'll catch the wind, if there is any." and bella went out, anxiously wondering how one did that, but not daring to ask her aunt. in her perplexity she stood for a few moments looking at the garments already on the lines, to see if some were blowing out more than others, but, apparently, the little breeze had not power enough to stir them, and bella had to hang up her last load and trust to chance for its being according to her aunt's pleasure. she had very little hope, though, of such good fortune. when she got back to the kitchen again miss hender had emptied the tub she had been washing at, and was preparing to dry her wrinkled, water-soaked fingers. "i've finished the white clothes, so now i'll see about giving you children something to eat, before i take the coloured things out of the copper," she said, speaking less snappishly than before. she was, in fact, somewhat ashamed of her recent display of temper over the missing poker, and was anxious to make a better and more dignified impression on bella's mind. all bella felt was a great sinking of her heart. what could she do? what would be best? would it be better to confess at once and tell exactly what had happened, or should she let her aunt go on and get the meal, and trust to the children's being back before it was prepared, and to the incident of the buns and bread-and-butter meal never being found out by her? after all, she had told them they would get no food until the washing was all done, and no one could have guessed that she would have changed her mind within so short a time; and there was no real harm in bella's putting them in the way of getting something to eat when they were so very hungry. so poor bella argued and argued with herself, her courage sinking lower with every preparation her aunt made. if only miss hender had been a little kinder to bella, if only she had taught her to trust, and not to fear, her, bella would have explained then and there, and all would have blown over. while bella was thinking it all out and trying to make up her mind what she should do, she was standing idle--and that, to begin with, was not the way to please and pacify her aunt, tired as she was with long hours of hard work, exhausted from want of food, with her back aching, and her feet throbbing with long standing on the stone floor. if only bella had made her a cup of tea and got the simple meal ready while she sat and rested a little, what a relief it would have been, and what good it would have done her, but her own temper prevented that. for one thing, bella would not have dared to touch anything without being told she might, and, for another, she was so frightened now at the thought of what she had done and of her aunt's probable anger, that she stood absorbed and perplexed, and did not even do the things she might have done. naturally the weary woman grew irritated by such thoughtlessness. "i don't know how long you expect me to wait on you!" she said tartly, "while you stand by, too lazy even to do the little you know how to. go and draw a jug of water this minute, and tell the children to wash their hands. i s'pose you're capable of doing that much." bella, still without explaining, took the jug and went out to the pump. by the time she came back her aunt had cut off several slices of cold bacon and put some on four plates, one for each of them. bella felt perfectly ill with fear when she saw these preparations. "aunt emma!" she began, but so tremulously that her aunt did not hear her. "where are the children? didn't you tell them?" demanded miss hender tartly. "they aren't there," stammered bella nervously, "they haven't come back----" "back from where?"--bella's manner struck miss hender more than her words--it made what was apparently a trifling matter seem important. "i--they--they were so hungry, and--i didn't know there was going to be any dinner, and--and i gave them money to go and get some buns." "and you trusted those two boys to take margery right down to the village----" "no," broke in bella, anxious to explain; "they took her only as far as aunt maggie's, and when they'd got their buns they were to come back there for her, and----" "couldn't she have waited here for her bun? whatever made you send her to mrs. langley's?" bella grew more embarrassed than ever. "she--was so hungry," she began; "she kept on crying for bread and butter, and i sent her to--to ask----" but her words failed her altogether at the sight of the expression on her aunt's face. "you didn't send and ask mrs. langley to give margery something to eat, did you?" she demanded slowly, dwelling on each word with an emphasis that nearly drove bella crazy. "i--i only--yes, i did!" the last words bursting from her as though she could explain or justify herself no more. miss hender's eyes blazed. "you as good as told that woman that i kept you hungry, that you hadn't food to eat, and were afraid to ask for it. you as good as told her that i ill-treated and starved you!" her words caught in her throat. step by step she had been drawing nearer to the frightened child, her mouth set, her eyes glowing with rage. bella, for the first time in her life, almost screamed with terror. "i--i didn't mean that!" she gasped. "you couldn't come and ask me! you couldn't be straightforward and honest, oh no, you must go mischief-making to that woman down the lane, when you know i hate her! why," with a sudden clutch, at bella's thin arm, "couldn't you have come and asked me? answer me that! do you hear? answer me, i tell you!" "i was afraid," stammered bella. "afraid? i'll make you afraid of me yet, you young hussy! i'll give you something to make you afraid of me. i s'pose you told her, too, that i treated you so bad you were afraid of me. did you tell her that, too? answer me!" giving bella another shake. bella's fear gave way to anger. "there was no need to," she said cruelly. "everybody knows it." the next minute she was staggering across the kitchen from a violent blow on the side of her head, and then, before she could recover herself or realise what had happened, her aunt was beside her again, raining down blow after blow upon her thin shoulders. "take that, and that, and that!" gasped the infuriated woman; "and now go out and tell every one. and there's another to teach you to speak properly to me, or you or i leave this house!" how long the blows would have continued to pour down on bella no one knows, had not scream upon scream suddenly rent the air, startling every one near. they did not come from bella herself, for, after the first startled cry, she made no sound. they came from the three children who had reached home just in time to be witnesses of the terrible scene, and were frightened almost out of their senses. miss hender dropped her uplifted hand and sank exhausted and speechless into a chair. bella, white and almost fainting, lay on the floor motionless. at sight of her charlie began to scream again. "you've killed our bella! you've killed our bella!" he cried, while margery ran over to the still heap on the floor. "bella, look up, look up! bella, it's me, it's margery; speak to margery!" tears poured down her little white cheeks, and one, falling on bella's, roused her. putting out one stiff, aching arm, she feebly drew her little sister to her and kissed her. margery was delighted, for she had really thought bella was dead, and she hugged her in an ecstasy of relief. "can't you get up?" she asked. "oh, do get up, bella." bella made an effort but she was too exhausted, and falling back again, she, for the first time, lost consciousness. and so, when tom presently arrived with his father, whom he had rushed at once to fetch, they found her, with margery beside her weeping and beseeching her to speak; charlie standing at the door, too scared to go nearer; and miss hender seated, white and frightened and ashamed, gazing at her temper's handiwork, too ashamed to go near to render the child any aid after reducing her to that, for in her heart of hearts she felt that after the scene of that afternoon bella would shrink from even a kindness at her hands. without a word the father strode across and picked his little daughter up. "get some water," he said, in a low, hoarse voice to tom, and, still holding her in his arms, he bathed the brow and the limp, lifeless hands, and the pale cheeks, where the scarlet patch across one told its own tale. emma hender rose stiffly from her chair and handed him a soft cloth, but he would not take it from her. "keep away!" he said harshly; "don't you dare to touch her again. you've done enough harm for one day, you and that temper of yours!" emma hender shrank back without a word, then, after a moment's struggle for self-control, dropped into a chair and burying her face in her apron burst into violent weeping. she was so tired, so faint, and so ashamed of herself, and no one cared, she thought bitterly; no one cared for her, or believed her, or pitied her. she worked for them all, and looked after their home from morning till night, but it was all nothing, she told herself bitterly, and felt herself a very ill-used person. but what she did not tell herself, or perhaps did not realise, was that it is not so much what we do for people but the spirit in which it is done, that makes it a real kindness and wins their affection. there was one tender little heart there, though, that bore her no ill-will, that, indeed, forgot everything but that she was in trouble and needed comforting. "auntie emma, don't cry! bella'll be better soon. don't cry, auntie emma, or margery'll cry too!" and two soft little hands tried to pull the work-worn ones away, and a gentle baby voice tried to bring comfort and cheer to the unhappy woman. aunt emma, in a burst of real feeling, let the little hands uncover and gently pat her face, then, clasping the baby form to her, kissed her passionately again and again. "you do care for your auntie, don't you, dear?" she sobbed, but softly and sorrowfully now. "you always will care for your poor auntie, won't you, dear?" "oh yes," promised margery readily, anxious only to comfort and cheer, "when auntie isn't cross," she added innocently. miss hender's loving clasp loosened a little. "everybody is cross sometimes," she muttered excusingly. but many and many a time after that the memory of margery's words came back to her, and stayed the first angry word or ill-natured act, and so averted a storm and hours of reproach. "bella is better! look, her eyes are open!" and margery clambered joyfully down from her aunt's lap and ran over to her sister's side. for a moment bella looked about her in a dazed fashion, then, memory returning, she raised herself and tried to stand. "i am all right, thank you," she said, but she was glad enough to drop on to the old sofa and rest. miss hender rose too. "i--think she'll be better for a cup of tea," she said; "we all shall." it cost her an effort to speak, for she felt awkward and embarrassed, and her words were very faint and stumbling, but she went to the fire and stirred it up to make the kettle boil. then, by degrees, recovering herself, she quietly cut some bread and butter for all, and made the tea. bella shrank a little from her aunt when she handed her cup, and beyond the faintest "thank you," did not utter a word. she was still suffering from the shock of the sudden assault and the blows. her nerves were quivering, her head throbbing, and the only feeling she as yet experienced strongly was a kind of shame--shame for her aunt and for herself. it was a most uncomfortable meal that, in spite of miss hender's efforts. william hender sat morose and thoughtful; bella, like her aunt, was embarrassed and very silent. the two boys and margery alone found anything to say, or spirit to say it, and though all felt better and more cheerful for the meal, no one was sorry when it was ended. miss hender was the first to rise. she returned to her washing-tub, william hender to his work, and the children went out to their play in the garden. all went on as usual, and not a word more was said of the scene that had brought them all together. yet all felt that in that short hour things had altered, and for ever. that something had happened which meant changes, perhaps not great, but changes for them all, and that life would never be quite the same again. chapter iii. the little herb-bed. for some days after that unhappy monday bella and her aunt scarcely exchanged a word. it was not that bella was sulky, or bore malice in her heart; it was chiefly that she felt embarrassed and awkward still. indeed, they both felt so. that scene seemed to be for ever between them, and neither could forget it. it was holiday time, too, so there was no school to take bella away from her home, and as she did not like to ask miss hender to give her something to do, she wandered about, idle and unhappy, not knowing how to fill her days. consequently she wandered more than once down the lane to mrs. langley's little cottage. the peace and the cheerfulness of that little home drew her irresistibly. "oh! if only our house was like this!" she exclaimed one day. "so quiet, and tidy, and clean. i should like to live in a little house like this all by myself when i grow up." mrs. langley looked at her with a shade of sadness in her gentle brown eyes. "my dear, don't say that! it isn't from choice, you know, that i live alone, and it is terribly lonely sometimes. if i had been allowed to have my way, my home would have been as full and noisy as ever yours is; but god saw fit to take them all first, and leave me to follow in his own good time. i expect he has work for me to do first; in fact, i know he has, for he has some special work for each of us, though we don't understand at the time what it is." bella felt vexed with herself, as soon as ever the words had left her lips, for she knew quite well the story of the tragedy that had left that home empty--of the fatal epidemic that had taken from it the husband and four children, and left the poor mother alone and heart-broken. before she could say anything mrs. langley's last words arrested her attention. "has he got special work for me?" she asked eagerly, her interest swallowing up her shyness for once. "oh no, he couldn't have, i am so young, and i don't see that there's anything i can do. i only wish there was," she added hopelessly. "i don't seem to be wanted anywhere, and i haven't got any money, and----" "don't you make that mistake, dear. it isn't money that's most wanted, it is the wish and the will. children can do a very great deal, and you especially have many fine opportunities right at your hand, in your own home." "but aunt emma does everything, and she won't let me help." "i think she would, dear, if you went to work in the right way. either ask her boldly to give you some part of the work to do, for you would like to help, and you feel you are old enough now; or bide your time, and do all the little things you can, without making any fuss or display. then, if you do them well, you will find that in time they are left to your care to do always. even if your aunt will not let you do that much, surely there is plenty to be done outside the house. your garden is not kept as it was in your mother's time." "father doesn't stay at home in the evenings now, like he used to," said bella, sadly. "well, can't you coax him to? can't you help to make his home more cheerful and comfortable? all this is part of the work god has for you to do, bella. it seems to me a lot. can't you show an interest in the garden, and ask your father to help you to make it neat and nice again? i think he would; i am sure he would." bella sat with a very thoughtful face, but not such a hopelessly depressed one as she had been wearing. suddenly, so it seemed to her, a bright light had been flashed upon the road she had to travel, and so many things stood out that she had not seen before, so many hills to climb, so many pleasant valleys to cross, that for a moment she felt awed and silenced. it was cheering and bracing to feel that she was needed, that, after all, there was work for her to do. lots of work! "and then there are the boys and margery. you have many duties to them, dear. they have no mother, and you are left to take her place, as far as you can, and make their lives happy, and teach them to be good. oh, there is so much for you to do, child. i almost envy you, there is so much." bella looked up with shining eyes and a flush on her cheeks. "aunt maggie, i came to-day to ask if you would help me to get a little place. i felt as if i couldn't go on living at home as it is now. it is so uncomfortable, and i thought i would like to go out in service. i know i am very young, but----" mrs. langley was looking at her with a grave face, but very kindly eyes. "i know how you felt, dear; but it seems to me plain enough that your place is at home. you see, you're the eldest, and the others are but little things, and if you want margery to know anything about her dear mother, you must teach her, and 'tis you must help to train her up to be what her mother would have wished her to be." bella's bright, eager eyes filled with tears. "i wish mother was here," she cried, "it's all so different now, and so miserable!" "i know, i know; but, child, you must try and remember how it would have grieved your poor mother, if she could know that her children's home was unhappy, and then tell yourself that it is going to be your work to make it different--to make it what she would wish it to be." bella's tears gradually ceased. "but how can i begin, and when?" she asked hopelessly. "begin to-day, and with the first chance you see. be content to begin with little things in a little way. don't expect to make great changes, and set all right at once. you have to take these words as your motto, 'patience, pluck, and perseverance.'" bella's face brightened. it cheered her heart to feel that she could do something, and do, too, what her mother would have had her do. it was with less reluctance than usual that she got up to go back to her home. "i often wish, aunt maggie," she said affectionately, "that i could live with you, but it would never do, would it?" "i often wish so, too, dear. good-bye now. run home quickly, you may be wanted." bella ran up the lane with a very much lighter heart than she usually bore. she was fired with the thought of her new endeavours, and anxious to begin. she would keep her eyes always open to see things that she could do,--and almost as the thought was passing through her mind her chance came, for as she opened her own gate she saw that the fowl-house door was standing wide, and that the hens were scattered all over the garden, scratching up the beds. "tom promised to put a nail in the latch of that door," she sighed, "and he has never done it." then the thought flashed through her mind that here was a beginning! here she could help. by the aid of a long pea-stick she collected the greedy hens and drove them all into their run again, and fastened them in securely; but it took her some time. "wherever have you been?" demanded aunt emma coldly; "here's tea-time nearly, and you've been out all the afternoon." "i was down at aunt maggie's part of the time, and when i got back i found the hens all out and all over the garden, and i drove them in and shut them up." "oh!" aunt emma was visibly mollified. if there was one thing she disliked more than another, it was struggling with stupid, obstinate hens, as she called them, and she was really thankful now that she had been spared the task of getting them out of the garden. in her relief at this she forgot her annoyance at bella's having been down at mrs. langley's. "if there's time before tea i'll go and put the nail in the latch,", said bella, "for it won't stay shut very long, unless the latch is mended." the hammer, though, was not to be found, and the only nail was a crooked one, so the latch-mending was put off till after tea. the children came in from the orchard, and went to the pump to wash their hands and faces. bella spread the cloth and arranged the cups and plates and mugs. as a rule, she put them down in any haphazard fashion, but to-day she did try to arrange the things nicely. miss hender was busily taking out cake and cutting bread and butter. bella knew it would be of no use to offer to do either of these, but she did ask if she might put some water in the teapot to warm it, and, to her astonishment, her aunt said, "yes, you may if you like." the meal would have been a very silent one if it had not been for the children, but with their chatter it passed off pleasantly enough, and when it was over they all made a hunt for the lost hammer and another nail, and then trooped out with bella, to mend the latch of the hen-house door. "that's easy enough," exclaimed tom, as he watched bella; "i could have done that." "then why didn't you?" retorted his sister. "that bit of latch has been hanging loose for weeks, and the hens were always getting out." "i didn't think about it. why didn't you tell me?" "i didn't think about it, either," admitted bella; "but i am going to try and remember things better. tom, if you want a job, there's one of the palings of the pigsty broken away. if it isn't mended, the pig'll break it away more, and get out, and there's no knowing what trouble we shall have. you can mend that, i'm sure." tom, well pleased, went off at once. it made him feel manly to be doing real work. charlie, of course, followed his brother. bella was strolling back through the untidy garden with margery by her side, when a sudden thought sent her hurrying back to the house. "aunt emma, can i help you wash up the tea-things?" she put her question rather nervously, and her cheeks were rosy red, but she had broken through her shy reserve, and was glad of it. miss hender was standing at the table with a pan of water in front of her. "i've nearly finished," she said shortly, in her usual ungenial tone, but added, a moment later, "leastways i soon shall have." bella had seen that although several cups and plates were washed, none of them were wiped, so she took up the tea-cloth lying on the table, and began to dry the things and put them away. she was very anxious to do it all carefully and well, so that her aunt might have no cause for complaining. it almost seemed as though miss hender did not want to find fault if she could help it, for when bella hung the cups on the wrong hooks on the dressers, she only said, "i don't know that it matters;" which was so unlike her usual self that bella marvelled. "i s'pose you didn't see any sage in the garden when you were there just now?" she asked presently. "i wanted some sage and onions to cook for supper, and i don't believe we've got either. there doesn't seem to be scarcely anything in the garden." "i'll go and see," said bella, "but i don't believe there's any." she walked down the rambling old garden, and all over it, and looked in all directions, but not a leaf of sage or any other herb could she see. the herb-bed was empty and trampled flat, a few onions lay ungathered in the onion-bed, and there were some potatoes, but that was all, except some gooseberry bushes and roots of rhubarb. when bella remembered what their garden used to be, and all that they used to get out of it, she, young though she was, was startled. she was more than startled, she was shocked too, for if this was the state of things now, what were they going to do for vegetables all the rest of the year? there was nothing to come on for the winter, no carrots or turnips, no onions or cabbages, leeks or celery,--and they used to have all in abundance. the difference between care and neglect, thrift and waste, plenty and want, were brought home to her very plainly at that moment. she had always been so much with her father and mother and other grown-up people, that she understood as well as a woman how much they depended on the garden for food. tom and charlie came up and joined her, wondering what she was looking at so solemnly. "what's wrong?" they asked. "what are you looking for?" "sage," said bella, gravely, "and there isn't a bit; there isn't anything. whatever we shall do all the winter, i don't know." "where's the herb-bed?" asked tom. "here, we're looking at it. mother used to keep it nice and full, she used to see how many kinds of herbs she could grow. oh, you remember, tom, don't you?" "yes," said tom; "she had thyme and lemon-thyme, parsley, and sage, and endive and borage, and--oh, i forget. she used to make me say them over, and tell her which was which. i wish we'd taken more care of it," he added, with sudden shame for his neglect. a brilliant idea flashed into bella's mind, filling her with pleasure, "oh!" she cried, excitedly, "i know what i'll do, i'll make it nice again, i'll take care of it, and plant herbs in it, just as mother used to do. where's the fork, tom? i want to begin." "i'll get it, but let me help. let me dig it over the first time; shall i, bella?" bella agreed, but reluctantly. she wanted to do it all herself. "i wonder where i can get parsley seed, and all the rest of it. oh, i know, aunt maggie will give me a little sage-bush, she has lots; and p'raps she'll be able to give me some lemon-thyme too!" and away she ran through the garden and out of the gate and down may lane as fleet as a hare. miss hender saw her dash past the house, and pressed her lips tightly together. "forgotten all about what i sent her for, of course," she said sourly. "i thought that new broom was sweeping too clean." when bella returned in about ten minutes' time, carrying a basket full of roots, and a sage-bush on the top, her aunt came to the door to greet her. "how about that sage i asked you to look for?" she began, but when her eye fell on the basket the rest of her scolding died away,--"oh, so you've got some. well, it isn't too late," she stammered, trying not to look foolish, and to speak graciously. it was bella's turn to colour now. she had completely forgotten all about her aunt and the supper. "there wasn't a bit, aunt emma, and--and i forgot to come in and tell you, but i am going to plant some fresh things in the herb-bed. tom's digging it over, and i am going to look after it. i asked aunt maggie to give me a root or two, and you can have some of the sage leaves before i plant it; but "--and she put down her basket, and began to grope in the bottom of it--"aunt maggie sent you a bottle of dried sage, and one of parsley. she dried them herself. she said if you hadn't got any at any time, they might be useful,"; and she put the two little bottles into her aunt's hand with great joy, looking up at her to read her approval in her face. but miss hender's face showed nothing of the sort. "i don't believe in such new-fangled notions," she said ungraciously; "here, give me a bit of that," breaking off a sprig of sage, "i want something that's fit to eat, and has got some goodness left in it!" the light and pleasure died out of bella's face. it always hurt her to hear her aunt maggie, or anything of aunt maggie's, spoken contemptuously of, and sudden anger at such petty spitefulness swelled up in her heart, for it was petty of her aunt, and it was spiteful, and bella knew it. indeed, every one knew it, but no one dared say anything to the foolish woman, for fear of making matters worse. in her pleasure, though, at the sight of the work tom had done in her absence, bella recovered herself, and this time she did not forget her aunt or the supper, but coming upon a few onions she gathered them into her basket and sent them in by margery. by the time miss hender came to the door again to call them all in to supper and bed, the sage bushes and thyme, the roots of mint and borage, were standing sturdily erect in the newly-turned bed, which was neatly outlined by large stones. bella went to bed that night very tired and very happy, and dreamed of her mother. while the children lay asleep, their father, coming home late and taking a turn round his neglected garden while he finished his pipe, drew up before the little herb-bed with almost a startled look on his face. he stood there minute after minute, gazing at the newly-turned earth and the sturdy little bushes showing out so clearly in the moonlight; the one neat and hopeful spot in the whole untidy waste, it seemed almost to speak reproachingly to him. what his thoughts were no one knew, but he sighed deeply more than once, and when at last he moved away his pipe had gone out, though it was not empty. chapter iv. sage bushes and rose bushes. the next morning william hender was more than usually silent at breakfast, and he went off to his work without making any reference to what he had seen in the garden over-night. the children's thoughts, though, were full of it. as soon as they were dressed in the morning they ran out to see how everything looked, and how their new treasures had borne the night. "bella, i am going to have a bit of garden too," cried tom, as soon as he saw her. "father wouldn't mind, i'm sure. he doesn't seem to want it now, and it'll be better for me to have a little bit than to let it all be idle." tom had thought of it in the night, and could hardly wait until daylight to begin. and, of course, as soon as charlie heard of the plan, he must do the same. "so shall i," he cried sturdily. "i shall have a garden, and grow strawberries and gooseberries, and--and all sorts of things. won't it be fine!" "margery wants a garden too. margery wants to grow fings." margery was tugging at bella's skirt, and dancing with eagerness. "what can margery do?" asked bella gently. she was always gentle and kind to her little sister. "little girls like margery can't dig up earth." "margery'll grow flowers," urged the little one eagerly, "margery wants to grow flowers, woses and daisies, and pinks, and sweet peas, and--and snowdrops, and--oh, all sorts. do give margery a little garden, please, bella, please. only just a little tiny, weeny one." the baby voice was so urgent that bella could not say 'no'; nor had she any wish to. anything that pleased margery pleased her, and would, she knew, please her father. "come along, then, and choose which bit you will have." "i want it next to yours." "very well. i don't s'pose father will mind." "let me dig it over for her the first time," urged tom, and he left the marking out of his own new bed to come and dig up margery's. charlie and bella and margery herself collected large stones to outline it with, and by dinnertime there was a very neat and inviting-looking patch beside bella's herb-bed. "what'll you do for flowers to put in it, though?" laughed charlie. "have you got any?" "i've got the double daisy that aunt maggie gave me, and chrissie howard is going to bring me a 'sturtium in a pot. she said it was to put on the window-sill, but i shall put it in my garden." "i can get you a marigold the next time i go past carter's, on my way to woodley. billy carter offered me one the other day; they're growing like weeds in their garden." margery danced with joy. "that'll be three flowers in my garden; i'll be able to pick some soon, won't i?" that night william hender came home earlier from his after-supper gossip at the 'red lion,' and, as usual, strolled about outside the house while he finished out his pipe. to-night his footsteps led him down his garden, and instinctively he went in search of the herb-bed again. before he reached it he came upon fresh signs of digging and raking, and a larger patch of newly-turned earth, with the tools still lying beside it. "this must be for one of the boys," he thought to himself, as he stooped to look closer. he admired the thoroughness of the work, or as much of it as he could see in the moonlight. on his way to the tool-shed with the tools he passed bella's herb-bed, and then the newly-turned piece beside it caught his eye and brought him to a standstill. "that must be the little one's," he said to himself, as he looked down at it. "of course she must have what the others have! i wonder what she's got planted in it?" he bent lower and lower, but in the uncertain light he could not distinguish what the little clump of green was, and at last he had to go down on his knee in the path and light a match. "one double daisy, bless her heart! it's that daisy root she has set so much store on ever since maggie langley gave it to her. bless her baby heart!" he said once more and very tenderly, and as he rose from the ground again he sighed heavily, and passed his hand across his eyes more than once. "i'd like to give her a s'prise," he thought to himself. "i'd dearly love to give her a s'prise, and i will too. it'll please her ever so much." the thought of it pleased him ever so much too, and he went in and went to bed feeling in a happier mood than he had done for a long time. the mood was on him the next morning too, when he came down to breakfast. "where are the children?" he asked, as he went to the scullery for his heavy working boots. "oh, out in the garden. they are mad about the garden for the time," said aunt emma, with a laugh. "bella seemed troubled 'cause there was nothing in it, so they're going to set matters right. she has planted a few herbs, and charlie is making a strawberry bed. i don't know how long it'll last, i'm sure. they soon tires of most things." "ay, ay, children mostly do," was all that their father answered, but as soon as his boots were fastened he sauntered out into the garden in search of them. "breakfast's ready," called his sister after him. "call the children, will you?" "i'll go and fetch them," he said, and made his way to where he heard their voices. when she caught sight of him margery left the others and ran towards him. "daddy! daddy! come and look at my garden. bella says she thinks my daisy has taken root! now it'll soon have lots of daisies on it, won't it? and i'll give you a piece of root. wouldn't you like that? daddy, won't you have a garden too, and have flowers in it?" "why, all the garden is father's," cried charlie, laughing at her, and with one accord they all turned and looked over the garden which was 'all father's,' and the untidiness, the look of neglect stamped upon everything, brought a sense of shame to the father's heart. "but there aren't any flowers," sighed margery. aunt emma's voice was heard calling them in to breakfast. "no, there ain't any now, but there will be," said her father gravely. the words, though to margery they sounded so simple, were a promise made to himself and to his dead wife to do better in the future than in the past. "by god's help!" he added, under his breath. that evening, when he came home from work, he made his way at once out into the garden. he had brought home some bundles of young cabbage plants, and was going to make a bed for them. "it's too late for most things, but i can do something with the ground," he said to himself, as he went to the tool-shed for his fork and shovel. the children had gone into woodley on an errand for their aunt, but might be back at any moment now. the four tidy little patches of ground made the rest of the garden look more wretchedly neglected than ever before; they were to him like four reproaches from his four neglected children. he began to dig with almost feverish haste, in his desire to get some more of the ground in order, and so absorbed did he become in the improvement he soon made, that he forgot about time and tea, and everything else. a shout at last made him look up. it was a joyful shout from little margery, who, catching sight of him at once, came flying along the path to him. "oh, daddy's got a garden, too!" she cried delightedly. "daddy is making a garden too! oh, how nice! what are you going to grow in your garden, daddy? flowers?" "ay, i must try and have a few flowers here and there; but i've got to have cabbages and leeks and potatoes, and all sorts of things in my garden,--things that ain't so pretty as flowers, but are more useful." margery stood for a moment looking very soberly at the newly-turned earth, and holding tight a paper bag that she had been carrying very carefully all the time. suddenly she held the bag out to him. "i'll give you that for your garden, daddy," she said, eagerly, "then you'll have a flower." her father took the bag from her and began to open it. "what is it? what have 'ee got there, little maid?" "it's a 'get-me-not root. mr. carter gave it to me for my garden; but i'll give it to you, daddy, 'cause there isn't anything pretty in your garden." the man's heart was very full as he looked in on the little root; then, without speaking, he laid it gently down, and taking his little girl very tenderly in his arms he kissed her. "daddy'll plant it this very minute, little one;" and to himself he added, "and i'll plant it where i can see it best--in case i should forget again." a voice came calling down the path to them, "father, supper's ready. margery, come in to supper;" but the little forget-me-not had to be planted first, and margery had to stay and help, of course. when it was firmly placed in the ground in a nice little puddle of water, and the earth pressed tightly about its roots, margery stood back and gazed at it contentedly. "i think it looks lovely there, don't you, daddy? and you see i've got my daisy and a marigold in my garden, so i have plenty; and p'raps i'll get something more 'nother day." that night, after supper was over and the children were in bed, william hender went softly down the garden again to margery's very neat but very bare little garden plot, and at the back of it, against the wall, he carefully planted a fine rose bush. he had brought it home with him on purpose for her, and, that the children might not see it, he had hidden it in the hedge in the lane until he had an opportunity of planting it, for he wanted it to be a surprise for the little maiden. all the time he was planting it he was picturing to himself what she would say and do when she first saw it; and he laughed to himself more than once, but very tenderly, as he pictured the surprise on her face. in the morning he was up and dressed before any of them, and out in the garden at work. he had a glance first at the forget-me-not, and then at margery's rose bush and daisy. all of which were looking very healthy and happy in their new surroundings. then he began to dig up a piece of ground not far off, where, while pretending to be paying no heed to them, he could hear all that they said and did. then, as the minutes went by, he began to grow impatient for the children to come, but his patience was not tried for long, before the house-door was flung open, and a stampede along the path announced their coming. "why, father is up already!" he heard tom exclaim, "and just see what a lot he's done." "how nice it looks! doesn't it make a difference?" said another voice that he guessed was bella's. "wait a minute; i've got to let out the fowls, and give them their breakfast. come along, margery, if you want to throw it to them." for once margery was quite indifferent to the fowls. "is your 'get-me-not growing, daddy?" she shouted anxiously, as she raced up to him. "my dear life, yes! i should just think it is. you give it a look as you go by. i think it is wonderful." "oh, it is, isn't it? i think it's lovely. i am so glad i gave it to you. are you glad, daddy?" "glad, i should think i am, and no mistake! never was gladder of anything in my life," said her father heartily. margery's face was radiant with joy. "what are you going to plant in your garden now, daddy?" "cabbages." "oh!" disappointedly, "i don't like cabbages, they haven't pretty flowers, and they haven't a pretty smell." "well, we can't have everything pretty, and glad enough we are of cabbages for dinner sometimes. the hens like them better than any flower, don't they?" "yes, so they do. i'll be able to give some of the leaves to the fowls, won't i?" "yes, if you don't give them too many." "i must go now and see if my daisy is growing, and the marigold. i'll be back again in a minute," and away she trotted. the others were sauntering slowly back from the fowl-house, and pausing to look at charlie's strawberry plants on their way, when suddenly the silence was broken by a succession of squeals and shrieks and frantic calls to each one by name. "oh-h-h! oh-h! oh!! bella! daddy! tom! do come here. charlie! oh, look, do look! there's a lovely rose bush growed up in my garden through the night, and it's got leaves on it! oh, how did it come? daddy, do come and see it. you never saw anything so wonderful." they all ran, of course. bella and the boys nearly as excited as margery, and full of curiosity, their father full of pleasure with the success of his surprise. "daddy, do come and look. it is a real one, isn't it?" clutching him by the hand to hurry him. "it isn't a fairy rose, is it?" anxiously. "it's a real one right enough, in my opinion," said her father, looking very grave, and stooping down to inspect the little bush. "it's a real one right enough," he assured her solemnly, as he straightened himself again. "looks healthy too." "do you think the fairies put it there for me?" she asked, breathlessly, watching her father closely and trying to read his face. "or do you think god sended it to me 'cause i've been a good girl?" "have you been a good girl?" doubtfully. "are you sure?" "yes, i think so," hesitatingly; "haven't i, bella?" turning her anxious little face from one to the other. "yes," said bella loyally, "you've been very good." "that's it, then, i expect it has been sent to your garden because you've been good." "p'raps god telled the fairies, and they put it there," and her little face grew all bright again at this wonderful explanation. the beauty and wonder and mystery of it all took up so much of their time and attention that there was no more work done that morning, for when aunt emma's call to breakfast came sounding along the path they were still gathered about margery's little garden, gazing and marvelling at the mysterious rose. "i must have one look at my herbs before i go in," said bella to herself as the call to breakfast reached her; "they are not as lovely as margery's rose, but my herb-bed was the beginning, and--and oh i do hope it is all going to be nicer again, and as happy as it used to be. it really does seem as if there was a difference already." chapter v. what aunt maggie suggested. bella was right,--there really was a difference already, and, best of all, the difference continued. never again could any one say that the henders' garden was neglected and untidy. as of old, william hender worked there every evening, but now he usually had one or more of his children with him, and the garden in time became a perfect picture. bella had another and a larger piece of ground given her, in which to grow flowers, and, as her father often remarked, she must have had the true flower-lover's hand, for she had only to put in roots or seeds or cuttings of any kind, for them to grow and blossom their best, and throughout the spring, summer, and autumn her garden was a picture. a year passed by, and charlie's strawberry bed had yielded its first crop, and tom's vegetables had provided more than one meal for the family, and, of course, had tasted better than any others that were ever grown. over the wall at the back of margery's garden the fairy rose had grown rapidly, covering the old stones with clusters of snowy blossoms. the whole of margery's garden was well stocked by this time, for night after night mysterious plants had been placed there,--planted, as she firmly believed, by the fairies, who had 'been telled by god' to take it to her because she had been good; and that must have been the reason, she felt sure, for whenever she was very good, some new flower always appeared. another winter passed over the little household, a happy one, on the whole, in spite of stormy scenes at times with aunt emma, sharp words and sharp answers. the boys, as they grew older, found it harder to bear with her short, cold answers, her sharp commands, and constant snubbings of them in almost everything they said and did. bella, who had never quite recovered from the shock of the scene when her aunt had beaten her so unmercifully, had an anxious time trying to stave off quarrels between them, and soften harsh words and pert answers, which might lead to them. bella had never forgotten that dreadful monday, nor had she ever forgotten the talk with aunt maggie after, and the aim she had set before herself to do her best to make the house more comfortable and happy, and more what her mother would have made it had she been alive. she often failed, very often, in fact, and often despaired, but she never quite gave in, or, if she did, it was for a little while only. there were many hills to climb on the road she had chosen, but there were many pleasant valleys too, and if sometimes her feet faltered and stumbled, and she felt weary and disheartened, and looked at the next hill hopelessly, feeling that she never could mount it, there were also happy hours, and sweet flowers and sunshine to cheer her, and sometimes there was such a feeling of hope and joy over all as made her heart sing and her spirits dance. for the house really was tidier and less neglected, her father came home regularly now, and was with them more, and she herself had something to do, some object in life, some work that she could do herself, and take a pride in. thus it was, when the spring came that was to bring such changes to their lives, such steep hills to climb that they wondered sometimes if there was any valley beyond, where they could rest a little, or any sunshine anywhere, so heavy were the shadows. bella's flower-beds were a picture that year, and her herb-bed too, with its great sprays of curly parsley, and bushes of mint and thyme, sage and borage. in fact, all the garden was a goodly sight, and no one would have recognised it for the garden of a year ago. there were rows of peas and beans, just coming to perfection, and every other kind of vegetable that space could be found for. the fruit bushes were laden with promise of supplies in store, and already miss hender was making jam of the rhubarb, which filled up one corner of the garden with its handsome great leaves. "it does seem a pity sometimes that i can't do more with all my flowers," said bella one day. she had carried a glorious bunch of sweet peas and a basket of vegetables to mrs. langley. "i give away a good many, but most people have their own, and don't really want any more, and they just grow and flower and fade, and nobody but ourselves see them. aunt emma won't let me bring in more than one little bunch at a time, so they just waste, and it does seem a pity when there's a lot, and all so pretty." mrs. langley looked at her lovely nosegay thoughtfully. "child," she said at last, "why don't you do up some bunches, and carry them into norton on a market day, or any other day, and try to sell them? why, i've known my missis, when i was in service, give shillings for flowers no better than you bring me day after day, and not as fresh and strong either, by a long way." "sell my--flowers!" the suggestion, coming so suddenly, made bella gasp. "oh, but, aunt maggie, how could i? i should have to go to people's houses and ask them to buy, shouldn't i? i don't believe i'd ever be able to make up my mind to." bella looked alarmed at the mere idea, but though alarmed she was also pleased with the daring suggestion, and her cheeks grew rosy red with excitement. mrs. langley nodded thoughtfully, but she did not reply at once. with many girls she would not have approved of such a plan, but she thought bella could be trusted. "yes," she said at last, "i think you could be trusted, child, not to grow bold and rude and pushing, even if you had to ask people to buy your flowers. you might, perhaps, be able to arrange with a florist to take all you had every week. of course, he would want to make a profit, so you wouldn't get so much for them, but you would be saved a good deal of time and trouble, maybe." "oh, but, aunt maggie, do you think i could? do you think i should ever sell any?" bella was still half bewildered by the suddenness and boldness of the new proposal. there were so many sides to it, too, pleasant and unpleasant. it would be splendid, she thought, to be able to turn her garden to account, and to feel her lovely flowers were not wasted. it would be splendid, too, to be able to put her money each week in her money-box. she had been longing for some time past to be able to buy a glass frame to protect some of her seedlings through the winter,--and who knew but what her flowers would make this possible for her? the thought thrilled her. on the other hand, she did shrink shyly from the prospect of going up to people and asking them to buy, and also from the thought of what her father and aunt emma would say. she mentioned this last thought to aunt maggie. "if you would really like me to," said mrs. langley, "i will speak of it to your father before you do, and then, if he falls in with the plan, he can talk to your aunt about it. you see, bella, child, there is another thing to bear in mind. you are nearly fourteen now, and before very long you'll have to be thinking about earning your living, and you'll have to go to service, or think of some way of earning it at home." "i've been thinking of that, aunt maggie;" and a moment later she added sadly, "and if i went to service i'd have to leave all my flowers." "of course you would, dear. it would be a great loss to you, wouldn't it?" "oh," sighed bella, realising for a moment how great a loss it would be, "i don't believe i could ever bear it." aunt maggie smiled sadly. "you could, dear. you will have far harder trials than that to bear, i am afraid, or you will be more than fortunate," and she added after a moment's silence, "we can make our garden wherever we are, and plant our seeds, and raise our flowers." "not in service, aunt maggie?" cried bella, incredulously, "they wouldn't give me a bit of ground, would they, anywhere i went?" mrs. langley smiled. "they might in some places where the servant makes it her home, and the mistress tries to make it a real home to her, they let her have a little bit of ground to call her own. but i was thinking, dear, of another kind of garden,--the garden of life, where we can sow good seed or bad, and raise flowers, where we and others have to tread. flowers of patience and honesty, good-temper, willingness, and cheerfulness. they are very precious flowers to most people, for few get many such along the way they have to tread; and a sunny smile or a cheery word, or a kind act will often lighten the whole of a dull, hard day. don't ever forget to grow those flowers, my dear, or to shed sunshine wherever god may order you to dwell." "does god order that, aunt maggie? does he tell people where they must go? and shall i have to do as he tells me, and go where he sends me?" "yes, dear, and you can trust him. he will only send you where you are needed, and where it is best for you to be." bella went home in a very, very thoughtful mood that night. "i wonder where god is going to send me, and what work he has for me to do?" the idea filled her mind until, as she reached home, the thought suddenly rushed into her head, "i wonder what father will say, when he hears what aunt maggie wants to talk to him about!" what her father did say when first the plan was mooted, was a downright "no! i can keep my children as long as i can work, and bella can find enough to do at home." "yes, i know," answered aunt maggie gently, when he had repeated this more than once, and each time more emphatically. "and what about the time when you can't work, william? or, if anything was to happen to you? do you think it is right or fair to bring up children without any knowledge that'll earn them a decent, respectable living?" william hender had no answer ready, and sat trying in vain to find one. "if she were to begin in a small way, such as i'm suggesting, who knows but what, in time, she might work up a little business, and be able to make quite a nice little living out of her flowers and things? she has a wonderful gift for raising them and understanding them, and it does seem a sin not to make use of it. don't you think so?" william hender nodded thoughtfully; this new way of looking at things impressed him. he was proud, too, of bella's skill with her garden, and his thoughts flew beyond the present to the future, where in his mind's eye he saw a tidy little shop well stocked with fruit and flowers and vegetables, and bella the prosperous owner of it all, and his heart swelled with pride. "you are right, maggie," he said, as he rose to go. "you always are, i think. i'll talk to emma about it, and i'll look about me the next time i go to norton, and see if there's any shop there that'll be likely to take her flowers. it might be better for her to sell them that way. good-night." bella's heart beat fast and furious when she heard that her father approved of the scheme, and when the children were told about it they all flew into a state of wild excitement. of course they all wanted to be market-gardeners at once. "why can't we all go shares in a stall in norton market?" cried tom. "bella can sell flowers and herbs, and me vegetables, and charlie fruit, and margery----" "fairy roses," said margery eagerly. she always called her flowers that had come so mysteriously 'fairy flowers.' "i was in norton market-house once," went on tom, "and oh, it's a fine place!" norton, their nearest and largest market-town, was five miles off, and as there was no railway to it, and they had no cart to take them, a visit to the town was one of the rarest treats they knew. when the first excitement had worn off, and aunt emma had been talked to and won over, and all that remained to be done was for their father to go to norton and look out for a florist, matters seemed to go no further. he was at work on every day of the week except saturday afternoons, and then there was always so much to be done at home he never seemed able to spare the time. five miles to norton and five miles back was a long distance to cover, with no other means of covering it than one's own two feet, or a chance 'lift'; and he kept on putting the matter off. "all my sweet-peas are passing," sighed bella, when another saturday had come and gone, and her father had not again spoken of going to norton. "tom, i've a good mind to go myself next saturday, and take some flowers, and try to sell them. will you come with me? do you think you could walk so far?" tom was indignant at this reflection on his manliness. "walk it! i should rather think so! i can if you can, anyhow!" "it's a good long way," said bella reflectively; "p'raps we could get a lift home. i wonder if aunt emma will let us go? oh, tom, i wish she would. i shall hate it at first, but it does seem a pity to waste all my flowers, and i do want to earn some money to buy a hotbed and some more seeds; there's ever so many kinds i want to get." to their great surprise, aunt emma agreed quite willingly to the scheme as soon as she was told of it. she saw nothing to object to in it, she said, and it never entered her head to think that the walk might be too long for either of them. "if saturday turns out wet or rough, you needn't go," she said cheerfully. "i should have to if i'd got customers waiting," thought bella; but she did not argue the point; she was thankful to have won the permission she wanted, and too fearful of losing it, to run any risks. how the four children lived through the excitement of the next few days they scarcely knew. for charlie and margery there was disappointment mingled with the excitement,--disappointment that they could not go too; but there was much that was thrilling, even for those who stayed at home, and they were promised that they should walk out along the road to meet the others at about the time they would be expected back. tom, on the whole, got the most enjoyment out of it all, because for bella there was a good deal of nervous dread mingled with the excitement and pleasure. "i do hope i meet with nice customers," she said to aunt maggie the day before, when she went down to ask her to help her re-trim her rather shabby sunday hat for her. "i hope they don't speak sharp when they say they don't want any flowers." "you generally find folks speak to you as you speak to them," said aunt maggie consolingly. "if you are civil, you will most likely meet with civility from others. look, i've got a large shallow basket here that i thought would do nicely to hold your flowers and show them off prettily. the cover will help to keep them fresh. you'll have to be up early to gather them, child. and do give them a drink of water before you start. you'll find they'll last fresh twice as long. in fact, i believe it would be even better to gather them the evening before, and let them stand in water all night, then you would only have to arrange them in bunches before you start." bella thanked her delightedly, and ran off home with her new basket and her old hat, feeling as proud and pleased as any child in the land. that night she went to bed early, but scarcely a wink did she sleep, and glad enough she was when the old grandfather's clock in the kitchen at last struck four. she got up then, and very quietly began to dress herself, after which she called tom. it was early, but not too early, considering all that they had to do. for this once, at any rate, the flowers had to be gathered and arranged in bunches and given a drink. bella and tom had to dress themselves in their best, and make themselves look as neat and nice as possible, and walk the five miles and be in norton in good time, for aunt maggie had told them that the ladies of the place would most probably be the best and most pleasant customers, and that as a rule they went out to do their shopping as soon as they could after breakfast. "you ought to be there by ten at he latest," she had said, and bella promised not to be later. chapter vi. first customers. on such a beautiful morning, before the sun had grown too hot, walking was pleasant enough, and bella and tom, excited and very eager over their new experience, did not feel tired; and if they did wish the distance shorter, it was only that they might be on the scene of action more quickly. for the first part of the way they had the road mostly to themselves, but as the morning advanced, and as they drew near to norton, they were constantly being overtaken by carts laden with all sorts of people and things: live fowls in coops, calves, little pigs under nets, or a fat sheep fastened in at the back of a market cart. many of the market carts had women seated in them, carrying large white baskets full of fowls and ducks, or eggs and butter, all carefully tucked away under snow-white cloths. there were smaller carts, too, full of vegetables and fruit; and one which particularly roused bella's interest was a florist's cart laden with beautiful ferns and flowers in pots, and, alas! for her own little supply, boxes of cut flowers. a wave of hot blood swept over her cheeks. her pretty bunches, so daintily and carefully arranged, seemed to her suddenly to become poor and shabby and worthless beside that handsome show of hothouse geraniums and roses, maidenhair and other ferns, and her step grew slow as her spirits sank. how could she ever go on and face all the people, and show them her poor little store? tom looked round at last, to see what the matter was, but he only laughed when bella told him. "oh, well," he said cheerfully, "i don't suppose he began with a pony and trap, and who is to say that we shan't be driving one some day! my eye, bella, wouldn't it be fine to have a little turn-out like that!" and he capered in the road with delight at the thought. bella's spirits rose again. "if i had a greenhouse," she said, "i dare say we could grow maidenhair ferns, and roses too. tom, do you think it would cost a lot of money to build a greenhouse?" "no," said tom sturdily; "i believe we could build one ourselves if we'd got the stuff. bella, i'm going to learn carpentering, you see if i don't, and then i'll be able to make lots of things, hot-beds and greenhouses, and hencoops, and wheelbarrows." bella laughed. "we seem to be going to do a lot--some day, but i think we shall be old men and women before that day comes." tom's enthusiasm was very cheering, though. "there are lots of lovely flowers i can grow without a greenhouse," she said, more contentedly; "just think, tom, of stocks and carnations and roses, and--and lavender. oh, tom, won't we have a load to bring, in time, if we can get people to buy them!" they had reached the town by this time, and all tom's attention was taken up by the busy crowds. "we'd better go to high street first, hadn't we? that's where all the shops are, and the market-house, and most of the people." "we'd better uncover our baskets first, and show what we've got to sell, hadn't we? i don't think it's too soon, do you?" bella rested hers against the railings of a church they were passing at the moment, and lifting off the cover, and turning back the damp cloth, she carefully raised her pretty bunches, and arranged them to what she thought was the best advantage. her spirits rose again at the sight of them, for they certainly were very lovely, and so sweet! there were bunches of sweet-peas of all colours, and some of white only, and pink only, and some of every shade of violet, from the deepest to the palest. there were roses too, and 'boy's love,' mignonette, stocks, and pinks. "oh, they are sweet!" exclaimed bella, as she drew in great breaths of their fragrance. "i am sure i should want to buy them if i saw any one else selling them." "come on," said tom impatiently; he could not see that it mattered much how the bunches were arranged. they strolled slowly on again, bella feeling very conscious now, and very shy. she was wondering how she must begin. must she go up to people and stop them, and ask them to buy her flowers? tom was so taken up with watching a sheepdog guiding a flock through the busy street, he forgot all about his duties as a salesman. "do stand still a minute and watch," he pleaded, and bella stood. how long they had stood she never knew, when she was suddenly recalled to the present, and her duty, by a voice saying, "what a perfectly lovely show of flowers! and, oh, the scent!" and looking quickly round, she found two ladies standing beside her gazing at her basket. "are they for sale?" asked one of the ladies, looking at bella with a pleasant smile. "oh yes, ma'am, miss, i mean," stammered poor, shy bella, and, to hide her blushing cheeks, she bent and lifted out some of her flowers that the ladies might see them better. "how much a bunch are they?" "tuppence each the big ones, ma'am, and a penny the little ones," stammered bella. she longed to give them to the lady, and ask her not to pay any money at all for them. "some are all shades of one colour, and some are mixed." "it is wonderful," she heard one lady say softly to the other. "i gave a shilling in london a day or two ago for a much smaller bunch than this." "where do you get such beautiful flowers?" she asked, turning again to bella with her pleasant smile. "i grow them myself, ma'am," said bella, with shy pride. "do you really? well, you must be a born gardener, i am sure, and you deserve to get on. mary,"--turning to her companion again,--"i will have pink sweet-peas of different shades for the dinner-table to-night, and then that point will be settled and off my mind. nothing could be prettier. can you,"--to bella--"give me six bunches of pink ones? at least four of pink, and two of white?" bella turned over her store eagerly, and found the number wanted. "i must have some of your mignonette," said the other lady, "for the sake of the smell, and a bunch of those roses too. how much each are they?" "tuppence the roses, and a penny the mignonette, ma'am," said bella. "there is my money," said the sweet-pea lady, handing her a shilling. "and there is my threepence," said the mignonette lady. "do you come every week with flowers?" "i am going to try to, ma'am," said bella. "this is the first time i've been." "well, if you will call at my house when you come, i dare say i shall often be glad to have some of your flowers." bella's face brightened. she was so glad she would have this kind, friendly lady to go to; it would be splendid, too, to have a regular customer. that was what aunt maggie had hoped she would get. "i live in the house next to the church. do you remember passing a church at the top of the street, just as you come in to norton?" "oh yes!" bella and tom exclaimed together. "we stopped by it to arrange our flowers." "well, the house next to it is mine. you won't forget, will you? mrs. watson, no. i high street." "oh no, we shan't forget," they both answered her earnestly. "as if we could," said tom, as he watched their two customers disappearing down the street. "i wish we could meet with some more customers like them." half an hour went by without bringing them another of any kind. the fact was, they were so shy they stood back in a quiet corner, where they were hidden by the crowd from any likely customers. "i'm afraid the flowers will begin to droop, if we don't sell them soon," said bella at last; and the thought spurred her into going up to a house near by and knocking at the door. "please, do you want any flowers?" she asked timidly of the rather grim-looking woman who came to the door. "no, i don't," snapped the woman crossly. "the idea of bringing me to the door for nothing! anybody'd think i'd got nothing else to do!" and the door was shut in bella's face with a bang. "doesn't it make a difference how anybody speaks?" said tom, receiving unconsciously a lesson in good manners and bad that he never forgot to the end of his life. but the woman's bad manners and temper had affected bella so strongly that her eyes had filled with tears, and the little courage she had had ebbed away. "i shall know now what it feels like to be spoken to so," she said in a husky voice, as she hastily wiped her eyes. "flowers, ma'am? tuppence and a penny a bunch. fresh this morning," said tom brightly. an old lady was peering closely into his basket, examining the contents. "give me three of those that are smelling so sweet." tom picked out one of stocks and 'boy's love,' and one of pinks and mignonette, and a bunch of roses. "have you got any lavender?" "no, ma'am." "i could bring you some in a week or two, ma'am," said bella promptly, forgetting the snub she had received in the old lady's enjoyment of her flowers. "it isn't quite ready to cut yet." "very well, bring me two shillings' worth. i make it up into cushions to sell for missions. if it is nice, i may order more." "thank you, ma'am; i'll cut it fresh the morning i bring it," said bella delightedly. "very well; i live in this house we are standing by," and she pointed to the very one they had just been turned away from. bella's face flushed at the mere thought of having to face the bad-tempered servant again, but, as she remarked to tom afterwards, they were told to call, and they wouldn't have gone unless they had been. "that makes eighteenpence," said tom, as bella slipped the money into her purse, "and an order for two shillings' worth for another week. ain't we getting on!" "if we can only sell a few more bunches we'll go and get something to eat," said bella. "i'm hungry; ain't you?" "starving," said tom, with emphasis. "let's get into a better place, where the people can see us." "flowers, penny a bunch," he called to the people as they passed by, and so many turned and looked, and then stopped, that they had soon sold half a dozen of their big bunches and many of the small ones. their flowers were certainly very good and very cheap, and norton people had not had the chance of buying such before. the florist who had passed the children on the road had a stall in the market-place, but he only sold hothouse flowers, and charged very highly for them. "we have only six bunches left," said bella joyfully; "we'll go and have something to eat now. where can we go for it, tom?" "there's a stall in the market-house where they sell limpets and cockles, and----" "oh, i don't want limpets and cockles! i want a glass of milk and some buns. don't you?" "rather," said tom; "let's buy some buns at that shop down there, and go somewhere quiet to eat them. i wouldn't like to eat them in the shop, with every one looking, would you?" "no; but we can't take milk away without something to carry it in." "well, we'll drink water. there's sure to be a pump or a drinking-fountain near." so they went to the shop, and very proud bella felt as she took out her purse and paid for the four buns the woman put in a bag for her. "anything else, missie?" "no, thank you," said bella, but rather regretfully, as her eyes fell on the tarts and sausage-rolls, and the bottles of sweets, and on the glasses of milk labelled 'penny a glass.' a glass each would have cost twopence, and that with the buns would amount to sixpence. "it would be a dreadful lot out of what we've made," thought bella, and bravely turned away. the smell of the new buns was very enticing to two hungry little people who had had nothing to eat since their seven o'clock breakfast, and they did not dawdle on their way back to the friendly shelter of the church steps. "won't charlie and margery be excited to hear all about it?" laughed bella, as she munched in placid content. "we ought to take something home to them." "we'll take them one of those peppermint walking-sticks," said tom, "shall we? they love that. i had one once, and charlie always wanted one like it. i saw some in the market." "we'll take them one each. isn't it lovely to have money, and be able to buy things for people?" "rather," agreed tom heartily. "bell, i'm going to bring something from my garden next week. i've got french beans and marrows ready to cut." a lady passed, and looked hard at the children and at the baskets standing beside them. "flowers, ma'am?" said ready tom. the lady paused. "i must see if i have any change," she said, and stood still while she looked in her hand-bag. "yes, i've just threepence," and she went away carrying two of their remaining bunches. for a few minutes longer they sat on, loth to move. "my legs are aching a bit, aren't yours?" asked bella. tom nodded. "i shouldn't be sorry if we were at the other end of the five miles, should you?" "i wish we were," sighed bella, "and just meeting charlie and margery. i wonder if they've started yet?" a lady came along pushing an invalid carriage, on which a little girl was lying. she lay perfectly flat, and looked very white and ill. as she passed she looked with wistful, weary eyes at tom and bella. bella had picked up her basket to make room for the carriage to pass. "oh, what lovely flowers!" cried the little girl. "mummy darling, do buy some. are they for sale?" she added quickly, looking at bella, a hot blush passing swiftly over her pale face. "yes, miss," said bella, blushing too. "i am sorry, darling, but i came out without my purse. i haven't a penny with me." "oh!" there was deep disappointment in the little invalid's tone. bella picked out the nicest bunch she had left. "will you please to accept one?" she asked, blushing again, but very prettily. "i grew them myself. will you take one, miss?" the lady looked pleased, yet embarrassed. "it is very, very kind of you," she said, hesitating, "but i hardly like to. it seems almost like asking for them, and i expect you wanted to sell them?" "we have sold a lot, nearly all we brought in. please take them, ma'am;" and the lady, feeling it would give bella more pleasure to have them accepted as a gift than paid for, did so with many thanks, and the little lady's delight was the richest payment bella had had that day. "oh, thank you, thank you very much!" she cried delightedly, pressing the flowers to her pale face and breathing in the scent. "do you come here often with flowers?" "this is the first time," said bella; "but we want to have some to bring every week. we've sold all we brought but these." the lady looked in her basket. "if only i had my purse with me i should be glad to have those from you. do you mind coming back to my house with me? it is not very far." "no, ma'am, we'll come, but,"--bella hesitated, wanting to say something, yet hardly knowing how to--"but if you don't want to go back, and--and if you like to take them, we'll trust--i mean, next week will do." it was out at last, amid a great deal of blushing. the lady smiled. "well, that is very thoughtful of you, and if you are sure you don't mind trusting me i shall be much obliged to you, for i have to be at my mother's house at one o'clock, and i think it must be that now. stella, darling, you would like to carry the flowers, wouldn't you? that's it. then i owe you fourpence for two twopenny bunches. i will not forget. perhaps i shall see you here at this same place at the same time next week?" "yes, ma'am." "good-morning, and thank you." "good-morning, ma'am," they both answered; and the little invalid called back gratefully, "good-bye, and thank you ever so much for my lovely flowers." "now," said tom excitedly, "all we've got to do is to walk home." "when we've got the children's walking-sticks," corrected bella, and they both hurried down to the market-house to get them. "we'll take home some cinnamon rock to aunt emma," said bella; "she likes that better than anything." at last, with their baskets empty save for their purchases, they proudly and joyfully turned their faces homewards, delighted in every way with their day's experiences. the walk home certainly did seem rather long, far longer than the walk out, but they were very tired, of course, for they had been on their feet, with scarcely any rest, since four in the morning. the sun was hot too, and the road dusty, and such a number of carriages and carts passed them that the air all the time seemed full of a haze of dust--at least it did until they had got a couple of miles or so away from norton. after that it grew less bustling and much pleasanter. and then by the last milestone, which was a good mile from may lane, they found their father and margery and charlie waiting for them. all their tiredness vanished then in a trice, and the last mile was covered and home reached almost before they had begun to tell all they had to say. it was not much past four o'clock by the time they reached the cottage, but aunt emma had finished all her scrubbing and cleaning, and had tidied herself, and got tea all spread ready for them, and she actually came out to meet them, seeming really glad to see them, and when they gave her the cinnamon rock it was plain to see that she was really pleased that they had thought of her. "now come in and take off your boots, and put on your old slippers to rest your feet; you must be tired out," she said kindly. they certainly looked very tired, though they were too excited just then to feel so. "there's apple-tart for tea," whispered margery, as she followed bella upstairs. "i saw aunt emma making it. it's for you and tom!" bella could hardly believe her ears, but when they sat down to table there was the tart, sure enough; and as they sat there eating and talking over their adventures and drinking their tea and laughing, bella thought she had never known such a perfectly happy, lovely day in all her life before. and how splendid it was to hear them all exclaim when bella took out her purse and counted out on the table the money she had earned that day! "and there's sixpence owing, and four-pence we spent on buns, that would make ten-pence more!" she said proudly. "you must put it in the savings bank towards buying your cold frame," said her father; "and it won't be so very long either before you'll have enough to get it with, if you do as well every week as you have to-day. you can't always expect, though, to have such a lot of flowers as you've got just now." "i think i shall take some bunches of herbs in with me next time," said bella. "don't you think they'd sell, father?" "i should think most people grow their own," said her father; "still, you can but try. the weight of them won't hurt you, even if you have to bring them back again." "bella, if i've got some flowers next saturday, will you take in a bunch and sell them for me?" asked margery excitedly. "then i'll have a penny to put in the bank too." "oh, yours are fairy flowers," teased charlie; "they would die on the way, or turn into something else." margery was not going to be teased. "p'raps they'd turn into fairies," she said, nodding her head wisely at her brother; "then they'd turn all bella's pennies into golden sov'rins, and make a little horse and carriage to drive her home in." "i'll find you some sandwiches or cake or something to take with you next week," said aunt emma; "it's a pity you should spend your money on buns and things. it'll be better for you, and cheaper, to take your own with you." tom and bella could scarcely believe their ears, but they felt very pleased, and thanked her very gratefully. chapter vii. what lay beyond the milestone. the next week the children went off far more heavily laden than they had been when they made their first venture. bella had added a few bunches of herbs to her large supply of flowers, and a bunch or two from margery's garden, and she had to carry both her baskets herself, for tom's vegetables proved load enough for him. he had wanted to take some currants for charlie, but his father would not allow that. "they ain't good enough," he said; "it won't do for to begin offering poor stuff to your customers, or you'll lose those you've got and never get any more, and you'll have all your load to carry for nothing. you learn to grow better ones, charlie, my boy, and then another year you'll be able to make something by them." charlie's face fell, but he had not given the time or care to his garden that the others had, and he knew it, and that only made him more vexed. life was disappointing to charlie just then. it seemed to him, and to margery too, hard that they also could not go to norton every saturday. the ten-mile walk they forgot all about, they only thought of the pleasure of being in the midst of all the people and the bustle, and the shops and market-stalls, with their loads of fruit and sweets and buns. the great aim of margery's life then was to grow big enough to carry in a basketful of flowers too, and sell them, and to possess a purse to put the money in, and a savings bank book, just as bella had. as the summer wore on and the days grew hotter and hotter, the eagerness of both died down a good deal. it was far more pleasant, they found, to stay at home and play in the cool lane or orchard, than to get up at four in the morning and tramp about all day long under the weight of heavy baskets. some days they even found it too hot to walk with their father as far as the milestone. those were trying, tiring days for tom and bella, days that put their courage to the test, and made their perseverance waver more than once. the walk in the morning was lovely still, but the standing about in the close, narrow streets, crowded with people and animals, without even a rest at the end of their five-mile walk, was so wearying that bella often longed to sit down on the edge of the pavement to rest her aching feet. her cheeks would grow scarlet, and her head throb, and her eyes ache with the glare, and the heat and the weight of the baskets, but she could not do anything to get relief. she had to stand or walk about, trying to sell her flowers as quickly as possible. there was nothing else to be done. the poor flowers suffered too, and hard work it was to keep them looking fresh. sometimes a farmer or carter would offer the two tired little market-gardeners a 'lift' on their homeward way, but this did not happen often, for, as a rule, they were all going in the opposite direction. there were few besides bella and tom who left the town so early; and it would have been cooler and pleasanter for them if they had waited until the evening and the heat of the day was over, but they were always anxious to get home, and they really did not know where to go or what to do with themselves all the weary day until five or six o'clock. that was a very long, hot summer. the flowers opened and faded quickly, in spite of the hours the whole family spent every evening watering them; and more than once, if it had not been for the fruit from the orchard and the vegetables, bella and tom would have had but a scanty supply to take to their customers. as it was, they could not carry enough to make very much profit, for fruit and vegetables are heavy, and to carry a load of them for miles is no joke. several times that summer, when she awoke after a hot, restless night to another stifling, scorching day, bella felt inclined to shirk her business and remain at home. it would have been so jolly to have spent the day lazily in the shady orchard, instead of tramping those long, dusty miles. tom felt the heat less, and his energy helped to keep her up. "we'll have a donkey before so very long," he said cheerfully. "if we can have a good sowing and planting this autumn, and good crops next spring, father and all of us, we'll have enough to carry in to make it worth while to hire mrs. wintle's donkey." so with the thought of all they were going to do in the future to buoy them up, off they would start again, hoping that before another saturday came the heat would have lessened, and some rain have fallen to refresh the land and lay the dust. yet, with all its weariness and hard work, that summer ever after stood out in bella's memory as a very happy one; and the evenings after their return, and the sundays, remained in her memory all her life through. even if charlie and margery did not come to meet them, their father was always there to carry their baskets home for them. and then there was the change into cool, comfortable old garments, and the nice tea, and the long rest in the orchard, or sitting about in the porch outside the door, while they talked over all that had happened during the day. they all went to bed by daylight on those light nights, and bella, as she stretched out her weary body restfully on her little white bed, could see through the open window the stars come up one by one in the deep blue-black sky. she was always quite rested by the time sunday came, and was up and out early for a look at her garden before getting ready for sunday-school. she loved the sunday-school, and she loved her teacher, and the service after in the dear old creeper-covered church, where the leaves peeped in at the open windows, and the birds came in and flew about overhead, and all the people knew and greeted one another in a friendly spirit. on sundays, too, it was an understood thing that bella should go to tea with aunt maggie, and this was to her, perhaps, one of the happiest hours of the whole week, for aunt maggie had a little harmonium, to the music of which they sang hymns. sometimes, too, she told stories of the days when she was young, and of people and places she had seen--told them so interestingly, that to bella the people and places seemed as real as though she had known them herself. they had long talks, too, about all that bella was doing, and the things that puzzled her, and her plans for the present and the future. "you never seem to be years and years older than me, aunt maggie," bella said one day, "for you always seem to understand and to like what i like." aunt maggie smiled. "some people's hearts don't grow old as fast as their bodies," she said thoughtfully. "i think it must be that which makes them understand." "i hope my heart won't ever get old," said bella seriously. "it must be dreadful not to take any interest in people or anything." one sunday, the last of this old life, so comparatively happy and free of care, mrs. langley stopped bella just as she was leaving. "i want you to come in to see me to-morrow," she said, "and bring tom with you. i am making a print frock for you, and a holland coat for him to wear to market on saturdays. they'll be much more comfortable for you both than your thick cloth ones." then, in answer to bella's cry of delight, "you must thank your aunt emma, too; 'twas she thought of it first, and i told her that if she'd get the stuff i'd make the things. there now, run away home, it is time you were putting margery to bed. no, i shall not tell you the colour," laughing, as she loosened bella's arms which she had flung round her in her delight; "you will know to-morrow." "i hope it is pink," said bella earnestly, eyeing her aunt closely, to see if she could read anything from her face, but mrs. langley only smiled. "well, you will know by this time to-morrow. now, run away, or they will be wondering what has become of you." "to-morrow is such a long way off," sighed bella. "it'll never come!" to-morrow came, as all to-morrows do, and, to bella's great delight, the frock turned out to be as pretty a pink as she could possibly desire. it was very simply made, with just a plain skirt and belted bodice, but when she saw it finished, and with little white collar and cuffs added, bella thought it the prettiest frock she had ever seen in her life. perhaps it was the prettiest she had ever possessed, for aunt emma did not understand that clothes could be pretty as well as serviceable, and most of poor bella's frocks had been of heavy brown or black stuff, made without any trimming, and with never a vestige of white at neck or wrists,--a dainty finish which bella loved the look of. in spite of the heat and the long walk in it, bella waited impatiently for the following saturday, and surely, she thought, never had a week been so long in passing. it was september now, but the weather was as hot and stifling as it had been in july. the days were shorter, and the sun went down earlier, but, apart from the sun, the oppressive heat lasted on throughout the nights, which were almost as trying as the day. the earlier summer flowers were over, and the drought had prevented the later ones from coming on well, so that it was difficult to get a good supply week by week. bella and tom no longer carried in the things from their own little gardens only, or they would often have found they had not enough to make it worth their while; but all contributed something that they had to sell, and it was quite a serious business to make up the accounts and divide the money when the little market-gardeners got home from market. each one now had a money-box or savings bank account. aunt emma was delighted. "it is ever so much better for them than wasting their time playing," she said to mrs. langley one day. "much better." "they ought to play, too," said aunt maggie quietly; "this is their play-time. all the rest of their life will be taken up with trying to earn a living. let them play too, when they can." as bella and tom started off that morning in their nice new cool garments, they thought that work would be ever so much nicer than play, if one could only go about it dressed like that always. tom felt quite grown-up and business-like in his linen coat, and bella felt another being, her frock was so much lighter and so pretty, too, and cool and clean. "i think our new clothes have brought us good luck," she said, as long before the morning was over they had sold out most of what they had brought. the 'good luck' was that in their new garments, looking cool and fresh, they attracted the notice of those who had overlooked them in their heavier, uglier clothes. when the time came for them to have their meal, they had sold out everything, to the very last apple. "we could start for home now," said bella, who was suffering much less from the heat than usual, "only that i've got some shopping to do for aunt emma." "and we've got to buy the seeds," said tom. "it wouldn't do to start back too early; father wouldn't have time to get to the milestone to meet us." so they went and had their lunch in a leisurely, lazy way, talking all the time they munched at their sandwiches and apples. "i've got four shillings for father, and threepence for margery," said bella, counting up her takings, "and two shillings for myself." "and i've got two shillings too," chimed in tom. this was a large sum to children brought up in the country, where the best-paid workmen earned only twelve and sixpence a week. their meal ended, they went back to the shops and people again, and made their purchases, and at last were able to turn their steps homeward. "instead of being early, we're later than usual," said tom. "father will have to wait a bit for us." "never mind; i dare say we shall be able to walk a little faster to-day," said bella, "and make it up. margery said she would come to meet us. i wonder if she will. she's dying to wear her pink frock like mine, but i don't s'pose aunt emma will let her. i shall be able to see as soon as we turn the last bend of the road. the pink will show out fine against the hedge. oh dear, i wish we were there! i shall be glad to give these baskets up to father, these groceries weigh heavy," and bella sighed wearily. "only one more hill and two more bends, and we shall see him," said tom cheerfully, for one of the chief pleasures of their day was to catch sight of the milestone where their father had never yet failed to meet them, to take their baskets from them, and listen to their account of the day's doings. "only one more hill and two bends!" the thought sent them trudging on with renewed spirit, and the hill was climbed before they realised it. then one bend in the road was rounded, then the other, and there in the distance could be seen the milestone. but, except for the milestone, the road was empty! "why, father isn't there!" cried bella disappointedly; "he is late." "p'raps somebody has met him, and kept him talking," suggested tom; "we shall see him hurrying along in a minute." so they finished the rest of the distance with their eyes eagerly scanning the white road stretching away before them. "we will have a rest here, shall we?" said bella, placing her baskets on the ground by the old grey stone; "he won't be more than a few minutes, i expect. oh, i am so tired, aren't you?" tom, seated on the milestone, only nodded, his eyes never wandered from the road along which their father was to come. it was very still and quiet there, almost oppressively so. no one passed, and no sound, except the voices of the birds and the distant mooing of a cow, broke the silence. "p'raps after all we'd better go on," said bella at last, after restlessly fidgeting about, and staring along the dirty road until her eyes ached. "it doesn't seem to be much use waiting," said tom quietly, and they started on their way again, but far less cheerfully now. indeed, for such a trifling and easily explained incident, their spirits were strangely cast down. a dozen simple things might have happened to prevent their father's coming; he might have been detained at his work, or have met some one, and be staying talking to them; or he might have been busy and have forgotten the time. perhaps it was because they were over-tired and hungry, and in the state to look on the gloomy side of things, that they could not take a cheerful view of the matter, or shake off the feeling of depression which filled them. whether this was so or not, they felt anxious and troubled, and all the sunshine and pleasure seemed to have gone out of their day. it was almost as though a foreboding of the truth had come to them--that when they left the old milestone they were leaving their light-heartedness and childhood behind them, never quite to find them again. never, at any rate, the same. when they left it they set their faces towards a long, dark road, with many a weary hill and many a desolate space to cross, and with a heavier burden to bear than any they had yet borne. had they known, their hearts might have failed them altogether, perhaps, though the way was not to be all as dark and stony for their tired feet, as at first it had seemed to promise. there would be sunshine on the road for them too, and pleasant resting-places. to them then, as they trudged along in silence, the road they had to tread seemed hard and gloomy enough, even though it was the road towards home. every yard seemed as six, and never a glimpse did they catch of their father, or margery, or charlie. bella walked that mile often and often in the years that followed, but never again without remembering that afternoon. at last, as they drew near the top of 'their own lane,' as they called it, they saw a woman standing; she had no hat on her head, and appeared to be waiting and looking eagerly for some one. when she caught sight of the children, she hurried forward to meet them. bella soon recognised her, it was mrs. carter, billy carter's mother, and she wondered why she was there in her working-dress, and why her face was so white. "where's father?" asked bella sharply. she never could tell afterwards why that question sprung to her lips, or why with a sharp thrill of fear she knew what the answer would be, before it was spoken. "i've come to tell you, my dears,--your--your father's bad; there's been an accident, and--and you've got to be very quiet." "what is it? what's happened? what accident, oh, do tell!" cried bella in an agony of alarm at once. it seemed to her then that she had known of this all along, or expected it. "is--he--dead?" gasped tom, white and shaking. mrs. carter seized on the question with some relief. it was one she could answer with some comfort for them. "no, he isn't dead. he is hurt very bad, but the doctor thinks he'll get over it--in time--with care. he's got to go to the hospital, though. here, let me help you, dear." she took bella's baskets from her, and putting her strong arm about the child's trembling body, helped her along. "what happened?" gasped bella through her poor white, quivering lips. "a wall fell and crushed him." "will he get well again?" "yes, dear, oh yes, for certain. we must all hope for the best, you know, and we must be as brave and cheerful as we can. he's hurt a good bit, and some bones are broken, but they can't tell exactly what's wrong until they get him to hospital. oh yes, dear, he'll get well again, and come home as right as ever he was,--only it'll be a long time first, perhaps." she was a capital person to have been sent to break the bad news to them, for she herself was cheerful, and hopeful, and sympathetic, in spite of the real dread at her heart. "we were hoping you would have got home sooner," she added. "it seemed such a long time i had to wait for you. he wants to see you before he starts." the fact of his being taken from them came home to bella then with a rush. "oh, they mustn't take him away!" she cried, almost hysterically. "why can't they let him stay at home? we can nurse him. i know he'd rather----" "hush! hush!" said mrs. carter, "he'll hear you!" for they were nearly at their own gate by that time. "bella, dear, you want to do what's best for your father, don't you, and you don't want to think about yourself? well, he has to be where he can have good nursing, and doctors night and day, and lots of things he couldn't have at home; and if you want him to get well at all, you must bear with his being taken away from you for a bit. you mustn't mind it's being harder for you now, if it's going to be better for him later." "but i want to help." "help! my dear, there'll be plenty of ways for you to help! more than you can reckon. i don't know, i'm sure, how,"--but mrs. carter broke off abruptly. she did not want to add to their trouble now. tom, who had been walking along silently all this time, guessed what she meant. "we shall have plenty to do," he said gravely, "there'll be all of us to keep while father is away, and you and me'll have to try to do it, bella." by this time they were inside the gate, and at the sight of the ambulance standing in the garden bella nearly broke down again. her father had already been brought out and laid in it, so they were spared that ordeal, but at the sight of his grey-white face, and closed eyes, and bandaged form, bella almost fainted, and tom had to clench his hands tight, to try and stop their trembling. "he wants to speak to you," said the nurse, beckoning to them to come forward; "he would not go until he had seen you." almost timidly they drew close to his side and leaned over him. for a moment he did not look or speak; then, very feebly, his eyelids fluttered and opened, and the pallid lips moved, but the words that came through them were so faint they could barely catch them. "you'll look after them--till--i come back?" "oh yes, yes," sobbed bella passionately. "we'll take care of them, father," said tom, speaking very slowly and distinctly, trying hard all the time to keep his lips steady and his eyes from growing misty. "don't you worry, we can manage. they shan't want for anything, if we can help it. shall they, bella?" "no, no! only make haste and come back, father!" wept bella. "god bless you both!" gasped the poor injured father. "now kiss me, bella; you'll look after the little one? tom, boy, take care of them all." they both promised again, as they bent down and kissed him. "and you'll come and see me--in the hospital--saturdays?" "where is it you are going?" asked bella hurriedly; she had forgotten that in her excitement. "to norton," he gasped, his strength fast failing. then some one led them away, and the ambulance started on its slow journey. chapter viii. rocket's help is required. "there will be plenty of ways for you to help." mrs. carter had never spoken more truly than when she said this, by way of consoling and bracing up bella. when the first shock and excitement and grief had calmed down, the little family at 'lane end' found themselves faced with a problem which gave them enough to do and to think about. this was, how were they all to be fed, and clothed, and warmed, and their rent paid during the weeks that lay ahead of them? fortunately, their poor father had received his week's wages just an hour or so before he met with his accident, and fortunately the money was found still safe in his pocket, when his clothes had to be cut off him. this was something, but they all realised that it was the last that he would earn for many a day, and that there were five of them to support, and that money must be earned by some one to support them week by week. miss hender grew nearly crazy, and gave way to black despair. she was always one for looking on the black side of things, and adding trouble and depression where there was more than enough already. "it is a terrible thing to be left without a minute's warning, with four children to support, and enough to do already, without having to earn a living for them. i had better ask for parish relief; i don't see what else i can do," she groaned. "oh, aunt emma, don't do that!" cried bella, horrified. "it's all very well to say 'don't do that,'" her aunt answered impatiently. "i must do something. you wouldn't like to starve, i'm thinking, and if i let you, i'd be had up for neglect and sent to prison!" and she collapsed into tears and groans again. "aunt emma, don't go on like that! we'll get on somehow, and nobody shall blame you. we can make enough out of the garden to keep us yet for a bit," said tom gravely. these last days had changed tom from a child into a man. he had not said much, but he had thought a great deal, and done more. after the sunday, that strange, quiet sunday, when he had been into norton with his aunt and bella to see the poor sufferer in the hospital, he had quietly set to work in the garden with all the energy and determination he possessed, for he had realised that the garden was likely to prove their great 'stand-by,' and that to provide for the future, it must be cared for now. aunt emma, instead of thinking and acting, only sobbed and moaned and despaired, and instead of comforting the children, left them to comfort her. perhaps in the end it was best for them, for it is only by helping and comforting others that one grows strong oneself. "we made nine shillings on saturday," went on tom hopefully, "and that wasn't one of our best days." "and you think that five of us can live on nine shillings a week!" "couldn't we?" asked tom disappointedly, "with the eggs and the apples and the stuff out of the garden?" aunt emma sniffed scornfully. "with good management we might get along," she said shortly. "there is no knowing what you can do till you're brought to it." bella began to lose her temper. "why couldn't aunt emma try and make the best of things?" she thought impatiently, "instead of making them all more miserable than they were already. it was very unkind of her, and, after all, it was harder for them than for her;--but it had never been aunt emma's way to try and make the best of things." yet in her inmost heart miss hender did not really think the outlook so very black. at any rate, she realised that it was very much brighter than it might have been, if there had been no garden, and the children had not made that little start of their own; and in her own mind she was planning how she would take in a little washing, to help them all along. but poor aunt emma's fault was that she would never let people know she saw any brightness in life at all. she was afraid they would not realise how much she suffered, and how much she had to bear. with spirits greatly damped, tom and bella walked away out into the garden, and there the sweet fresh autumn air and the sunshine soon cheered them again. "what will there be to take in next week?" asked bella, glancing about her. "we must carry all we can, for aunt emma's sake." "there'll be apples," said tom, "plenty of them hoarding pears, and cabbages. i wish we had a hand-cart!" he broke out impetuously: "for there's heaps of stuff, potatoes, and turnips, and carrots, if only we could get them to norton, but what we can carry hardly pays for the time and trouble." "i shall have some early chrysanthemums," said bella, looking lovingly at her flowers, "and asters, and a few late roses. oh, i ought to have opened my hotbed," and away she darted, her face full of eagerness. it was only a few days before the accident that she had bought a nice second-hand frame with her earnings, and her father had fixed it for her. it was already full of pots of mignonette seeds and fairy-roses, cyclamen and lilies of the valley, which she was hoping to bring on to sell through the winter, when flowers would be scarce. for once tom stood by, and paid no heed. he was absorbed in a new idea that had come to him. "bella," he said at last, "do you know what i've a good mind to do?" bella could see from his face that, whatever it was, he was pleased and excited about it, so she was prepared to back him up. "what is it? do tell!" "i've a good mind to ask old mrs. wintle to let us have her donkey and cart on saturday; then we could carry in potatoes and vegetables enough to make it worth while." "wouldn't she charge a lot?" asked bella doubtfully. "doesn't she ask half-a-crown a day and his food? that would be a lot out of what we make, and aunt emma would grumble like anything!" "of course it would cost something, but see what a lot more stuff we could take in to sell. i believe it would pay, and i've a good mind to chance it. i tell you what i'll do. i'll pay for the donkey for a week or two, out of what i've saved, and then we shall see if it's worth it or not, and if it isn't, well, aunt emma won't be any the worse off." "but you will!" "i am going to risk it; i'd rather spend my money on that than anything. i believe it'll answer. anyway, we shan't know till we try. think of the time we shall save too! we needn't start so early by an hour or two, and we shall get back in time to do a bit of work out here too." "that would be fine," agreed bella, "and we shouldn't be so dreadfully tired either." the long walk had begun to be rather a trial to her. "will you tell aunt emma about it, tom? she takes things better from you." to the surprise of both of them, miss hender 'took the news' very well indeed, and fell in with the plan at once instead of opposing it. "you'll save ever so much in shoe leather," she said, "and any amount of time and trouble. and look here," holding out her apron, in which were a number of large brown eggs, "couldn't you carry in some of these and sell them? there's some to go to your father, but there's a-plenty more, and they're fine ones too." bella's face brightened. "why, of course we could! however didn't we think of it before? it'll be fine, aunt emma," and she longed to skip for joy. "if we'd had them, you couldn't have carried them, you'd got load enough already; but with the donkey-cart it'll be different." when saturday came, and they began to load up the cart, the wisdom of tom's plan was only too plain. there were baskets of flowers and herbs, one of eggs, and one of pears, a large hamper of apples, a sack of potatoes, and hampers of turnips and carrots, beets, and onions, leeks, and parsnips; not to mention a box of celery and one of tomatoes. bella laughed delightedly. "we shall be taking fowls and ducks too, some day, perhaps!" "and why not?" asked tom. "yes, why not?" said miss hender quickly. "what a good thing! why didn't you think of it before, bella? i could see to all that, and i could make pretty nearly as much by them as all the fruit and flowers put together. if i'd only thought of it,"--growing more and more enthusiastic--"i might have got a pair of fowls ready to send in to-day. never mind, i'll be ready another time!" and from that chance word of bella's began what they later on laughingly called 'aunt emma's poultry farm.' charlie and margery watched the proceedings that saturday morning with eyes full of envy and longing. they wanted so much to go too, and it did seem hard to stay behind for the whole long, dull day. "you must come to meet us," whispered bella, "and you shall have a drive home. we shan't be any earlier, for we're going to the hospital to see father; then, if he's better, you and charlie are to come in with us next week to see him; aunt emma says so." bella in her pink frock, and tom in his holland coat, clambered up into the cart, and while tom gathered up the reins bella picked up the two most precious of the baskets, and away they started. once clear of the lane, and out on the level high road, rocket broke into a smart little trot, and carried them along in fine style. to bella it seemed the very height of luxury and enjoyment to be getting over the ground so quickly, and with no heavy load to carry. the first milestone seemed to be reached in no time, but when they came to it bella had to turn away her head and blink hard, to keep the tears out of her eyes, so vividly did the sight of it bring back the happy meetings there, and the thought that not for weeks and weeks, if ever, would they all meet there again. it was a good thing for them both that they were not walking that day, for the drive, the donkey, and the excitement of the new venture, helped to lift their thoughts off their trouble, and helped them through. some of the people they met stared wonderingly at the little pair of market-gardeners in the gay green cart. some smiled and nodded encouragingly, others called out cheerily, "hello, young market-gardeners, you're getting on! that's good, stick to it, and you'll do yet!" by this time the regular market-folk who arrived early in the day had come to know the two children who were so regular and so punctual. they both felt very pleased with the attention they received, but they felt very self-conscious indeed when they drew up at the house by the church, where their first customer, mrs. watson, lived, and even more so when they went on to mrs. adamson, whose little invalid daughter joan had bought flowers of them every week since that first meeting. joan grew quite excited when she saw the donkey and cart, but when she heard of the accident, and the trouble they were all in, she wept for sympathy. "oh, mummy," she cried, "we must do something to help!" and mrs. adamson, who had been listening intently to the tale of trouble, decided that one of the best ways of helping would be by buying as much as she could of what they brought in to sell each week. so of eggs and vegetables, fruit and flowers, she laid in quite a store, and the children went on their way in high spirits. just before they left, joan called her mother aside for a whispered consultation. "mummy, darling, do let me send the poor man one of my bottles of eau-de-cologne. if his head aches, he will be so glad of it; shall i?" "certainly, darling, and when he is better we will send him some magazines. shall we?" in a state of great delight joan handed over the eau-de-cologne to bella. "but we will have the cork drawn first, for he might be glad to use it at once, and i'll leave the dear little corkscrew in. he'll like to have that, won't he?" "oh yes, miss," said bella gratefully; "he's never seen one like that before. thank you, miss, i'll tell him you sent it." then joan had to be carried to the window to look at rocket and the cart, and see tom and bella start on again. "do you think you will ever sell all you've got there?" she asked, with wondering eyes. "yes, i think so. i hope so, miss. i've got a good many regular customers now, and p'raps we shall get some more. we're going to try it for a week or two, anyway, just to see." tom's courage was certainly rewarded, for long before the hour when visiting-time at the hospital began, they had sold out all they had brought, and were able to take good, patient rocket to the stable and his dinner. they had not counted up their takings yet, but bella felt sure that there was close on a sovereign in her purse; and they had besides an order for half a sack of potatoes, a bushel of cooking apples, and a pair of fowls. they scarcely knew what to do, they were so delighted. "oh, tom, won't father be glad!" bella kept on saying; "and won't he be surprised when he hears about rocket! he'll think we are getting on fine, and won't he be pleased about it!" "it'll help to get him better, i reckon," said tom, with quiet delight. tom both felt and acted as though he were ten years older than when he was in norton, a week ago. the shock and the responsibility, acting on his thoughtful, steady nature, had changed him from a boy to a man. not a sad or too serious man, yet one who felt that he had to act now, not to play; to think out what was for the best, and to do it, and not let things slide, or take their chance, and he took up his responsibilities with a brave and cheerful spirit. there was no self-pity about tom; it never entered his head to think he was ill-used or hard-worked. "'tisn't any hardship, ma'am," he said brightly, when mrs. adamson condoled with them on all they had to do, now they were left alone. "i like work better than play. you feel then that you'm doing something. i get tired of play. i like a game of cricket or football, but i mean the other sort of play." bella, who remembered only too well the dull, miserable years when aunt emma did not like her to play, and would not let her work, agreed with tom heartily. "yes, i like work better than play too," she said emphatically. "i think it's fine to have a lot to do. there isn't anything makes you so miserable as doing nothing." from two to four were the visitors' hours at the hospital, and long before that hour had struck tom and bella were waiting anxiously for the doors of the hospital to open. there was quite a little crowd of people besides themselves, and every one had some little luxury they were taking to the poor invalids inside. tom and bella had fresh eggs and flowers, and, best of all, the good news of their success that day. they had actually earned a whole sovereign and threepence! to poor william hender this was good news indeed, for it meant that his dear ones were not in want--at any rate for the present--and the knowledge lifted a heavy load from his mind. "thank god for sending me such help in my trouble," he murmured gratefully. "i am blessed with good children, and no mistake!" but bella's happiness had almost vanished at the sight of the poor pale face on the pillow, and the weak hands that he could scarcely raise. she had, somehow, expected to see her father much better and more like himself, but he looked so dreadfully, dreadfully ill and altered that an awful fear swept over her and gripped her with an icy clutch. in her anxiety she forgot her shyness, and went boldly up to one of the nurses, who was standing a little way off. "do you think father is really better, miss?" she asked timidly, while every nerve quivered with dread of the answer. "he is getting on," the nurse answered cautiously. "it will be a long time before he will be well, of course. you mustn't expect to see much difference for a good while yet." "you do think he will get well? you don't think he is--is----" bella could not finish her question, her lips quivered so. the nurse, who was not supposed to talk about the patients to their friends, could not refuse those frightened pleading eyes. "oh no, no! you mustn't be thinking of such a thing. he is going to get well presently, and you will have him home for christmas. what you have to do is to keep his spirits up, and cheer him all you can, and the doctor will cure him, and we will take care of him and send him home in time to eat his christmas dinner." bella smiled through her tears, and with the worst fear lifted from her heart she turned to her father again. till four o'clock they sat by him and talked, and he listened contentedly. he was anxious to hear every little detail of all they had been doing at home. he was too weak to talk much, but he joined in now and then, and laughed a lot at the funny things they told him. he was very much pleased when he heard about rocket. "i'm thankful you thought of it, my boy. i've been troubling about bella's having that long walk in all weathers, and the mornings and evenings getting darker and darker. rocket's a good steady donkey too, i remember him; 'twas i advised poor old mother wintle to buy him," and he laughed at the recollection. the laugh raised bella's spirits again, and their tongues wagged so fast after that, that when the bell rang at four o'clock for the visitors to leave, they felt sure there must have been a mistake. "it can't be more than three!" said bella, quite distressed. but all the clocks in the town were striking four, and all the other visitors in the ward were preparing to leave. bella's spirits sank again, it seemed so dreadful to go away and leave her father there, and it took all her courage to keep from breaking down and weeping bitterly. "never mind," said tom, trying to be cheerful, "one week has gone, and the worst one for father, i expect, and p'raps in two or three more he'll be home again." "the nurse said he would be home for christmas," said bella dolefully; "but i think she must have made a mistake, and meant michaelmas, for christmas is more than three months off yet. he'll be sure to be back before the fair, won't he, tom?" "oh yes," said tom decidedly, with never a doubt. the nurse had said christmas, and she meant christmas, though, mercifully for the children, they continued for some time to feel sure she had made a mistake, and hope burnt brightly in their hearts week after week, and their spirits were never daunted. chapter ix. home again. the nurse had spoken truly enough. william hender did not die, and he got back to his home in time for christmas. all through september and october the children kept up their hopes, each week they felt sure the next would bring the news that he was well enough to return to them; but the weeks went by, september had slipped into october, and october into november, and still he did not come. the heat had suddenly broken up at the end of september, and the weather turned wet and stormy and depressing. bella and tom found the work in the garden almost beyond their power, and they longed for their father's help and advice; but week after week went by, and still he could not come, and the work had to be done somehow, by somebody. then, in november, the blow that some had feared all along fell on them. the doctor told miss hender that her brother might return to his home in a few weeks' time, but that he would never again be fit for hard work. he would be able to walk about a little, but he would always be a cripple and an invalid, and quite unable to carry on his old occupation. the news fell on them all with crushing force. miss hender fell into her gloomiest mood, and drew the most miserable pictures of the future, with six to feed and clothe, rent to pay, an invalid man to keep, and only the children's earnings to do it all on. bella saw only her poor father's sad fate--a helpless cripple for the rest of his life, tied to the house, and with nothing to occupy his time, he who had always been so strong and active, who had never been able to stay patiently indoors for an hour, unless he had something to do. and she felt that her heart would break with her sorrow and love for him. little margery realised only the joy of having him back, and instantly became full of preparations for his coming. she had a new rose to show him, and her sunday-school prize, and she had five shillings in her money-box, about the spending of which she wanted his advice. tom, watching her plans to give their invalid a happy welcome, decided that margery, after all, was the one to imitate, and he tried to throw off the sickening sense of misery which had overwhelmed him since he had heard the stunning news, and to follow her example. "we've got to make the best of it for his sake," he said to bella and charlie, as they worked away together, turning over an empty strip of ground. "it is worst of all for him, and if he sees we are all miserable, he'll feel it is his fault, and it will make it harder than ever for him." "i don't believe father'll be a cripple always," said charlie sturdily; "he's sure to get better some day, and there's certain to be something he can do." "but the doctors say he mustn't do anything," said bella despondently. "doctors don't know everything! everybody makes mistakes some time," he added quickly, for the doctor at the hospital was one of his special heroes. it was a comfort to the others even to be unable to contradict him. "anyhow," said tom, "we will go on as though we thought he was going to be better soon, and he'll be able to tell us what to do in the garden, and how to do it, and p'raps by degrees he'll find little things that he can do without hurting himself." and so by making plans to help the poor invalid to be happy and comfortable, they made themselves happier too. "i don't think we can do better than go on as we are," said bella. "if i was to go out to service, or tom was to get work anywhere, it would be one less to feed, but we shouldn't be able to earn as much for the rest as we do now." they all agreed on that point, and aunt maggie, who was called in to talk matters over, agreed with them. "i think you've got a good opening that it would be a sin to waste," she said heartily. "i think the best thing you can do is to try to increase your business all you can." "if i could have a bit more of the garden for a run, and could get the money to put up a bigger house for my fowls," said aunt emma eagerly, "i believe i could do very well with them." "i am sure you could," agreed mrs. langley warmly. she did not add that this was just what she had been wanting to suggest, but was afraid to, lest it should give offence. emma hender's face quite lit up with pleasure. "if it isn't too damp for you, i wish you would come down the garden with me and see what i think would be a good place to have a house." "i'd like to come," said aunt maggie warmly, only too glad to be friendly if miss hender would let her. "shall we go now?" down the garden they all trooped, for, of course, margery must be in everything, and charlie was more interested in ducks and fowls, or any other live creature, than he was in flowers or fruit. they examined the present poky fowl-house and run, and then they surveyed the land, and each one gave an opinion on the matter. "i think if we were to put the new house next to the old one it would be best, don't you?" said aunt emma. aunt maggie looked about her for a minute thoughtfully. "well, no," she said at last. "i think, if it was mine, i should have a new house close there by the orchard, and give them a run that would go right through the hedge, so that they could have the run of the orchard too. they would enjoy that, and it would keep them healthy, and they could pick up so much food you wouldn't need to feed them more than twice a day. what do you think about it?" miss hender looked thoughtful for a minute. "yes, i think it might be a good plan," she said. she did not speak very heartily, but it was a wonderful change for her to agree at all with any suggestion made by mrs. langley. "but there," she sighed, dropping back into her usual melancholy manner, "what does it matter? i don't suppose it will ever be my lot to get it. i don't see where the money is to come from," and she returned to the house with all the air of a much injured woman. that afternoon, as tom and bella went round shutting up the hot-beds, tom confided a new plan he had formed. "i am going to learn carpentering this winter," he said eagerly, "just plain carpentering, you know. i want to see if we can't build aunt emma her fowl-house by the spring. i'm sure she'd make it pay, and i believe she'd be better-tempered if she'd got something of her own to look after, and earn a little by." "i believe she would," said bella soberly. "i know i was." it was only a few days later than this that william hender came back once more to the house he had been absent from for a quarter of a year. the day before christmas eve was fixed on for his return, and in the double joy of christmas and of having their father back, the children forgot for the time the trouble that hung over them all. to them his return made the season seem a more than usually joyful one; but aunt emma felt that, because of the trouble, christmas should be ignored by them that year, and not kept up in any way. "i am sure your poor father won't feel up to eating any christmas dinner, or having any fun, or anything," she said gloomily. "we'd better let christmas go by just like any other time. i've worries enough on my mind to keep me from rejoicing, and your poor father the same." bella felt her temper rising. "as if the trouble isn't more to me than it is to her," she thought impatiently. "a fine thing it would be if all sat down and groaned and cried!" tom looked puzzled. he felt that they ought at any rate to try to seem bright and cheerful for their father's sake, but he didn't want to seem unfeeling; yet the trouble would not grow less by looking miserable about it, and making every one else miserable too. "we shall have father back," he said quietly, "that'll be enough to be glad about. i think we ought to keep it up a bit this year, just to show how glad we are." "can't you say you're glad when you see him? won't that be enough?" charlie put his own feelings quite plainly. "oh, aunt emma, we've never let christmas go by yet; do let's keep it up this year! let's have a nice dinner and some fun! aunt emma, do. p'raps we shan't all be here by another one." charlie was miss hender's favourite, and, as a rule, got what he asked for, though not, perhaps, the first time. miss hender was impressed by his last words. "p'raps we shan't all be here by another, one." he had only meant that perhaps one of them might be out in service, but to her mind came only the thought of a longer and a final parting, such as they had so narrowly escaped, and the thought touched and awed her. "very well," she said at last; "if you are all set on a christmas dinner, i'll cook it for you. i can't undertake more, my hands'll be full 'tending on your father." "i can 'tend on father," bella was about to say, and sharply, but fortunately she checked herself in time, as she remembered that there were many hours and some whole days in each week when she could do nothing for him, and he must be left entirely to aunt emma's care, and depend on her for all his comfort. so she said nothing, and she and tom went off to their work, feeling thankful to charlie for having gained so much for them, and determined to think of some other way also in which to keep up the happy season. this was on the monday, and on the wednesday the invalid was to return, so that already there were great bustle and excitement at the cottage, preparing and making ready, for there really was a great deal to do. the room which had always been used as a parlour was now to be turned out and whitewashed and papered, and turned into a bedroom for the invalid, that he might not have to go up and down the stairs. indeed, the whole house was made sweet and bright inside and out, the garden rails and the front door were given a coat of paint, and the garden itself made as neat as a december garden could be, though it was robbed of some of bella's finest chrysanthemums to decorate the house on the longed-for day. their father was to leave the hospital soon after the midday meal there, reaching home early in the afternoon before the light began to wane, but by one o'clock the four children had taken up their position at the top of the lane to watch for the coming carriage. as the time drew near when it might be expected, aunt maggie came and joined them, and further along the road they saw mrs. carter waiting to wave a welcome to their invalid, and presently others came, until there was quite a little gathering, anxious to show their neighbour how glad they were to see him back. when the long-looked-for carriage came in sight, and tom and the children darted forward to meet it, bella could not go with them. such a lump rose in her throat, such blinding tears to her eyes, such a feeling of love and pity and sorrow welled up in her heart, she could scarcely restrain herself from sobbing aloud, and turning quickly she walked stumblingly back to the empty house. mrs. langley saw her go, but she did not follow, something in bella's face told her she would rather be alone; but when tom and margery, missing her, ran back after her, aunt maggie did not stop them. she thought it best to let them go. charlie, as usual, went his own way, and when the carriage drove slowly down the lane and drew up at the gate, he was riding triumphantly on the step, the door-handle in his hand, ready to open it. bella stood by, nervously dreading the alterations she might see. tom looked on, very grave and silent, but margery, forgetting everything but that her father was come back, rushed towards him with a glad cry of welcome, "oh, daddy, daddy! i'm so glad you've come back," and, flinging her arms about him, drew his face down to be kissed. in spite of the suffering inseparable from it, it was a very happy home-coming. the invalid was helped into the house and put in his chair by the fire; but before they could begin to tell or hear all there was to tell or hear, the carriage had to be unloaded and all his belongings brought in; so, to get it done quickly and come back to him, they all trooped out to help. and what a cry of excitement went up at the sight of what the carriage contained! for, first and foremost, on the seat that had been facing him, they found a real little christmas-tree. "i saw it!" cried charlie; "i saw it directly i got on the step." but no one paid any heed to charlie's shouts, for they were bringing in the tree in triumph. tom flew off to get a big pot to stand it in, and when he had planted it and brought it in and stood it in the place of honour in the kitchen, how cheery it looked, and how fragrantly the scent of it filled the cosy, warm room, and how excitedly they all discussed what should be hung on its branches, until their father, sorting out one box from the rest of his luggage, opened it and displayed little glittering candlesticks and pretty glass ornaments which were for nothing in the world but to hang on a christmas-tree, and make it look perfectly beautiful. there was a bright blue peacock with a spun-glass tail, and a top-knot of the same on his head, a rosy apple and a yellow pear, a bunch of grapes, and two balls that flashed and glittered, and all were as pretty as pretty could be, as they caught the glow of the fire and flashed it back in dozens of different lights. "the sister gave them to me; they had a lot sent them for the hospital tree--more than they could use, and she thought you would like some." "oh!" sighed margery, breathless with delight, "i wish it was to-morrow now, and that there wasn't any night, for i'm afraid if i go to sleep i shall wake up and find it is only a dream." night came, though, and the next day, when tom and bella had to go to norton--for the market was to be held on the thursday, christmas eve, rather than on the bank holiday--and never, since they began, had the two found it so hard to start off on their day's work. there was so much to talk over and to do at home, so much to show their father; things they had done in the garden, and things they meant to do. he consoled them a little, though, by promising that he would not look at anything until they were there to show him round; and then, to cheer them in their work, there was his interest in the donkey and cart, and the packing up of their load, and his astonishment at the number of different things they carried in it now. to-day there were holly and ivy and mistletoe, as well as all the usual things. the weather was ideal christmas weather, and the drive in was so beautiful, no one's spirits could go on remaining low. in the town, too, all was bustle and excitement. every one seemed to be pleased and full of pleasant mysteries and nice secrets. the shop windows were full of lovely things, and the shops full of people buying them. "i don't suppose we shall find any one at home," said bella ruefully, as she dismounted first, as usual, at mrs. watson's door, and, indeed, mrs. watson was out 'shopping,' the maid said, but she had left an order for some chrysanthemums, and two shillingsworth of holly, if they had any. then, how glad tom was that he and charlie had spent that long day on monday gathering christmas decorations! it was charlie's suggestion, and charlie was to have half the profits. bella rejoiced doubly at every branch of holly that was sold, for, in the first place, it had been anything but pleasant as a travelling companion, and, in the second, the money it sold for helped to fill up her purse, and now, more than ever, were they anxious to earn every penny they could. the next place they stopped at was mrs. adamson's. here they found joan and her mother both at home. joan's face was full of excitement when bella was shown into her own little private room; but bella thought it was all on account of a pot of hyacinths that she was bringing her, to give to her mother as a christmas present. joan had ordered them weeks before, and bella had taken special pains to bring them on nicely, and now they were to be handed over to the little owner, and hidden until the next day. bella soon found that it was not the hyacinths only that were causing joan's excitement. "i've got something for you, too," she said eagerly, and she drew out from amongst her cushions and under her rug several interesting-looking parcels. "they are secrets, and you mustn't look inside them until you get home," she said firmly. "that one is for your father, and that is for your aunt, and this is for you; that is for tom, and that for charlie, and this one is for margery. i can't help your seeing it is a dolly, for i can't wrap it up any better, it is so big and bulgy." bella tried her hardest to thank the kind little invalid as warmly as she felt, but her surprise and delight nearly robbed her altogether of speech. "oh, and they shall all go on father's tree!" she gasped delightedly, as the idea suddenly came to her. then, of course, joan had to be told about the little tree that their father had brought home with him, and she grew almost as excited as bella herself. "do put my parcels on it, and don't, please, tell them anything about them until the tree is lighted up. have you got candles for it?" bella shook her head. she had not thought about lighting up the tree. "will you, please, pass me that box on the table?" asked joan, and when bella had done so, she opened it and took from it six little christmas candles. "i have lots," she said; "do, please, have these." "i do think christmas is the most lovely time of all the year!" said bella to tom, as, with her parcels carefully hidden at the bottom of her big basket, they drove on again, and tom agreed. inside the shops and outside the christmas spirit reigned that day. buyers and sellers all seemed possessed with it, and so busy was every one that there was no dawdling over the making of purchases, and the children, though they had an even larger supply than usual, had sold out their store quite early. "we could start for home at once," said bella, as the clock struck one, "but i would like to take home just one or two little things for the christmas tree, and some oranges and nuts--and oh, i wish we could get some nice little present for father, and something for aunt emma. do you think we might, tom?" "yes," said tom, without hesitation; "we'll spend the holly money--my share of it, i mean. you see, it won't be like wasting it; we will get them something useful." "let's go and look at the shops," cried bella delightedly. "oh, won't it be fine when they see the things on the tree! we won't let them know anything about it till then, will we?" they went down the street, and up, and down again, looking in at every shop window most intently, but quite unable to decide on what to lay out their money. they wanted two things that must be cheap, and must be useful, and must suit their father and aunt. at last tom grew impatient. "look here, we've got to make up our minds and settle on something, for it's time we were getting home." they were standing outside a drapery store at that moment--the kind of store where they sell not only drapery, but all kinds of things--and almost as tom spoke the shop and window burst into a blaze of light. being christmas eve, they were going to spare no expense in making the place look attractive. tom and bella drew near for another look, and almost at the same moment their eyes fell on the very thing they wanted, a pair of soft warm felt slippers. "those will do for father, they'll be splendid!" they exclaimed in one breath; and the next moment bella was in the shop, so afraid was she that some one else would be before her in securing them. having made sure of them, she was able to look about her, and, hanging over the counter, she caught sight of some little grey woollen turnovers. "one of those will be just the thing for aunt emma," she whispered to tom, "to put over her shoulders when she goes down to the fowls." so a shawl was purchased, too, and, almost too excited and pleased to know what they were about, the children hurried off for rocket and the cart, and started for home. chapter x. christmas. with the thought of the warm stable awaiting him at the other end of his journey, little rocket stepped out so briskly that they were home in good time after all. bella's thoughts and tom's were far more perplexing ones, for they had to decide how they were to get their mysterious parcels out of the cart and out of sight without any one seeing them. "i can get them out of the cart easy enough," said tom, "but to get them into the house is another matter. would it do to leave them in the shed all night?" "it'll have to, it's my belief," said bella perplexedly. "i think it's the best we can do, and then i'll try to go down for them and hide them upstairs before margery wakes in the morning." so she put the precious parcels in one of the round hampers, and covered them over with some of the waste cabbage leaves they had saved and brought back for the fowls. "are those for me?" miss hender asked, when she saw the leaves. "yes," said tom calmly. "i'll carry them down and put basket and all in the tool-house for the night;" and he was gone before any one could stop him, and bella, with a deep breath of relief, was able to think of other things with an easy mind. it was splendid, they both thought, to come back and find their father awaiting them once more, glad to welcome them, and eager to hear all their doings. by the time rocket had been taken home to his supper and bed, the afternoon had gone and darkness fallen, and then they all had tea by the light of the blazing fire in the kitchen, which was sweet with the mingled scents of the little christmas tree and one of bella's pots of roman hyacinths, which she had given to her father. there was something of a festive air, too, about the little gathering. father was home, christmas was at hand, and they had earned enough that day to keep them all in comfort for another week. they had got in a store of coal and wood, the rent was ready in the rent-box, and their minds were free from debt or pressing need. there was much to tell and much to hear as they lingered over their meal, but tom and bella found it far from easy to talk of their day's doings without bringing in any reference to the 'surprises' now lying in the tool-shed, and more than once they were thankful that the light in the room was flickering and uneven, for it helped to hide embarrassed looks and quick blushes, which would certainly have roused suspicion if charlie's or margery's quick eyes had seen them. charlie was in a state of great delight with the three shillings, which was his share of the holly money. "what shall you do with yours, tom?" he asked, but fortunately he did not wait for an answer. "do you know what i am going to do with mine?--but no, i shan't tell you yet; you'll know soon, and then we shall have a fine time." "i know," said margery, who was full of curiosity, and wanted to surprise charlie's secret from him, "rabbits!" "rabbits!" scornfully, "i wouldn't be bothered with them!" "canaries?" asked bella, "or bees, or pigeons?" "never you mind," said charlie, somewhat hastily. "it isn't any good for you to go on guessing. you'll know when you see." and he pointedly turned the conversation, and actually managed to go to bed with his secret still kept. so did bella and tom, but theirs weighed on bella's mind far more heavily than did charlie's on his, and she was never more glad to get up than she was on that christmas morning. it was still so dark that she could not see margery in her little bed across the room, but she heard her breathing steadily and deeply, and as she did not speak when bella moved about the room a little, bella knew she must be fast asleep. she did not even move when bella struck a match and lighted a candle, nor when she opened the bedroom door and crept downstairs. it had become bella's habit now to go down first and light the kitchen fire, so if they heard her no one would take any notice, and, once downstairs, it was easy enough to open the front door and slip out. it was not so easy to grope one's way to the tool-house and find the hamper and its contents. it was a bitterly cold morning, a keen wind swept along the garden path, and every now and then something soft and cold touched bella's face, or rested on her hair. "i believe it is snowing," she said, as she held out her hand to try to catch a flake. in the sky the stars were still twinkling, and suddenly from somewhere in the distance the bells rang out their glad peal. to bella out there alone with the stars and the snow and the bells, it all seemed wonderfully beautiful and impressive. her thoughts flew to her mother, and the past christmases when she had been with them, and, as she turned her face up to the sky and the stars, it seemed to bella as though they must be looking straight into each other's eyes. "we don't forget you, mother," she whispered. "even when we are talking and laughing, we'll be thinking of you too, and wanting you;" and one little star flashed and gleamed as though it understood and answered her. in the tool-house she found the hamper and its precious contents quite safe, and gathering all the parcels in her apron, she replaced the cabbage leaves, and scurried back to the house. how she got in and up the stairs she scarcely knew. margery stirred as she entered and spoke, "is that you, bella?" "yes," said bella, "i'm going down now to light the fire and get father some tea. you go to sleep again; it is too early to wake up yet;" and sleepy margery turned over in her snug bed and was asleep almost before bella had ceased speaking. it was not easy to stow away a dozen paper-covered parcels in a small space, and without making a sound. bella found this the hardest part of the whole task, until it entered her head to lay them flat under her bed. "it's lucky i make my bed myself!" she thought, as she drew the bedclothes straight again. "it is a splendid place, nothing shows a bit!" and she hurried about her usual tasks full of excitement and relief. there was a christmasy look about the world out of doors, and a christmasy feeling throughout the house indoors. the sun shone, and a few flakes of snow fell in a lazy, casual way--enough to convince margery that christmas had really come, but not enough to inconvenience anybody else. to margery snow was a part of christmas, which was not complete without it, and as soon as she stepped out of bed she ran to the window and looked out anxiously. "well," she said doubtfully, "there is snow, but very little. i hope it doesn't mean that it is going to be a very little christmas." long before the day was over she admitted that, in spite of there being only a very little snow, it was one of the nicest christmases she had ever known in all her life. almost as soon as their father was dressed and settled in his arm-chair by the fire, aunt maggie arrived with a big and heavy basket on her arm. "happy christmas to you all!" she cried cheerfully. "isn't it good to be together again? how are you feeling this morning, william?" "pretty well, thank you, maggie, and glad enough to be home again! you are coming to dinner with us, of course?" "no, i am not, thank you," said aunt maggie; "an old friend of mine is coming to dinner with me. she was alone, and i was alone, so i asked her. i've brought you your plum-pudding, if you'll accept it instead of me, and there's a little parcel for each of you." "maggie, you've got to come to us! you knew we should expect you! whatever made you go and ask somebody in?" "well, i knew you'd be better alone, as you ain't very strong yet, and miss hender has got her hands full, i know. but if you'll let me come up to tea, i will, and be glad to." "and bring your friend too," said aunt emma, quite genially. "thank you; i am sure it is very kind of you, and she'll be delighted to come, i know. i must run home now, for i've got my dinner to get ready." bella and the children, who had disappeared soon after aunt maggie's arrival, came running in again. "aunt maggie," said bella, almost breathless with haste, "we were coming down with these on our way to church, but--but we can't wait! that's with my love. i've been bringing them on on purpose for you!" and she put down before aunt maggie a pot of beautiful lily of the valley almost in full bloom. the fragrance of them filled the room. "lilies!" cried mrs. langley delightedly, "lilies? why, however did you get them now, child? i never saw anything lovelier in my life? old mrs. twining'll go crazy over them. i never knew anybody love flowers as she does. thank you, bella, dear," and she kissed the little flower-grower warmly. "i've made you a besom, aunt maggie, but it isn't very good, i am afraid," said tom shyly. "i ain't very clever at it yet." aunt maggie's pleasant face beamed. "bless the boy!" she cried heartily, "he always knows what i'm in want of. i shall find it ever so useful, tom." "and i've got an orange for you," broke in margery, who could keep quiet no longer. "and i've got some peppermints," said charlie. "now fancy you two remembering what i like! thank you, dears, ever so much. well, i didn't expect to carry my basket back full, i can tell you. i am sorry i've got to hurry away now, but i'll be up again about four o'clock. i hope you'll have a comfortable day, william. if i can do anything to help, i shall be only too pleased. you will tell me, miss hender, won't you? well, good-bye for the time, and a happy christmas to you all!" and aunt maggie ran off as fast as she could go. then what excitement there was, as they all eagerly opened their parcels. there was a warm muffler for their father, an apron for miss hender, a pair of warm gloves for bella and a thick pair for tom for driving; for charlie there was a book, and for margery a silver thimble. "just the very things we want!" cried bella delightedly, "i shall wear my gloves to church presently; i wanted some to keep my hands warm." "i can't wear my fimble to church, i s'pose?" questioned margery, looking at it longingly. "oh no!" said bella, "and if you could it wouldn't show under your gloves." "could i carry it in my pocket?" pleaded margery; she could not bear to be parted from her new treasure so soon. "you would most likely drag it out with your handkerchief and lose it. what would you do then? you leave your thimble at home with father, and i will lend you my muff, to keep your hands warm--if you will promise to take great care of it." "oh, i'll be ever so careful," promised margery eagerly, for one of the ambitions of her life was to have a muff to carry. bella had a little old-fashioned black one that had belonged to her mother, and margery yearned for the time when she too should have one. they were all pleased with their presents, even aunt emma. "well, i did want an apron," she said, as she turned it over and examined it. "it might have been a trifle longer, but it looks a nice one." this from aunt emma was wonderful praise. "i must go and see about the dinner now, and, bella, it is time to get ready for church; you'll see that they are all clean and tidy, won't you?" "yes," promised bella; and when presently they all started on their walk no one could have found fault with their appearance, not even aunt emma. the snowflakes had ceased falling now, the sun was shining brilliantly, but a keen little breeze was rustling the dead leaves still clinging to the bushes, and nipping the noses and fingers of those who faced it. across the fields sounded the peals of the church bells, and along the roads and lanes came little groups of people stepping out briskly in the frosty air. every one had a greeting for every one, and almost every face bore a brighter, more friendly look than usual. the service, with its hymns so heartily sung, was cheerful too, particularly the part that the children loved so much, when carols were sung in place of a sermon. this was a treat they would not have missed for a good deal. they all waited eagerly for their own especial favourites, and when the choir broke out with-- "once in royal david's city stood a lowly cattle shed." margery looked up at bella triumphantly. she had her favourite, at any rate, so her anxiety was over. charlie's favourite was, 'god rest you, merry gentlemen,' but he was doomed to disappointment that day; and tom did not get his-- "the holly and the ivy now both were full well grown." bella had so many favourite carols, she was almost sure of hearing one or the other, and to-day her face lighted up with pleasure when the choir began-- "it came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the earth, with news of joy foretold. peace on the earth, goodwill to men, from heaven's all-gracious king, the world in solemn silence lay to hear the angels sing." as they walked home the air and the words still rang in her head:-- "and ye, beneath life's crushing load, whose forms are bending low, who toil along the arduous way, with painful steps and slow; look now! for glad and joyous hours, god's messengers will bring. oh, rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing." as she sang them her thoughts flew first to her father, and then they travelled back over the past twelve months, and all the trials and changes it had brought to them, and all the good things too. god had been very, very good to them. he had given them their father back, they had wanted for nothing, and he had enabled them to keep a home for their father to come back to. it rested with them still to keep a roof to shelter him, to find food and clothing, and everything that was needed, but bella did not let herself feel afraid. "i am not going to worry, god will help us," she thought, with childlike faith in him. "he has taken care of us so far, and i am sure he will go on taking care of us." "how quiet you are! what are you thinking of?" cried margery, tugging at bella's hand. "oh, rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing," sang bella, softly, as they turned into may lane, and tom took up the refrain. "look! look! look! there's father, standing at the gate! oh, do look!" cried margery excitedly, and, taking to her heels, she dashed to meet him, followed by the others. father had to hear all about the service, and the carols, of course, but before he had heard a half, and admired the new gloves, and shown off his own new muffler, aunt emma was out, to say he ought not to stand about in the cold, and that dinner would soon be ready, and the children had better come in and get their hats and coats off. such a dinner it was, too, and such appetites they all had. there were two roasted fowls, a piece of bacon, a suet pudding, and potatoes and brussels sprouts of their own growing; and after that there was aunt maggie's christmas pudding. "i think it has been a lovely dinner!" said margery, with a deep sigh of content; "and i s'pect presently i shan't feel as though i had eaten such a 'normous lot. i think i'll be comfor'abler when i don't," and she was surprised that the others all laughed. they sat a long time over their dinner, talking and enjoying themselves, and the short december daylight was actually beginning to wane before they made a move. "now," said aunt emma, with a sigh, as she rose, "who is going to help me with the dishes?" bella looked at tom, and tom at bella. "well," said the latter, at last, "i want to help you, but--but tom and i have a big secret that we want to--to arrange, and we want to be here by ourselves,--except father, of course,--for a bit." "is it a nice secret? a real one?" asked charlie, "a s'prise?" "yes, a very nice one." "we'll help aunt emma; come along, margy." "i wish i knew what it was," said margery, still lingering and looking anxiously at bella. "shall i know by an' by?" "yes, yes," said bella impatiently; "if you run away you will. if you don't, you see, we shan't be able to attend to it----" "oh!" gasped margery, and the next moment she had disappeared, and was in the scullery. then, for nearly an hour tom and bella found so much to do, they scarcely knew what to do first. their father had to be told all about the secrets, all the treasures had to be brought down from upstairs, the candles fixed in the candlesticks, and the presents arranged on the tree or around it. they never could have been ready in time, had not their father helped them; and, as it was, darkness had fallen before they had done, and they had to light the lamp. at last everything was really fixed and ready, all but the lighting of the christmas candles. "now," said bella, "we will put out the lamp, and stir up the fire to make it blaze, for there mustn't be any other light but that and the candles. tom, you go out, and see if aunt emma and the others are ready. if they are, they must wait till we call, and then we will light the candles at once." "they are ready," said tom, returning in a moment; "and you had better hurry, for they won't wait much longer." one after another the yellow flames gleamed out against the green branches. "you can call them now, tom," bella gasped, breathless with excitement and haste. tom, only too ready, put his head round the door. "ahoy there!" he began, at the top of his voice, and almost as if in answer came a knocking at the door. "that's aunt maggie and mrs. twining," whispered bella; "that's nice, now they'll be able to see the tree too!" tom ran out and opened the front door quickly, for it was not the weather in which to keep people waiting, and so it happened that the little group from the door and the little group from the scullery met in the passage, and entered the room together. "oh-h-h!" squealed margery. "i say!" cried charlie. "well, i never! and to think that at my age i should see a christmas-tree for the first time!" exclaimed old mrs. twining. "it makes me sad to think of what i've missed!" "however did you manage it? and where did you get all the things?" cried aunt emma, amazed, for she had no suspicion of what was going on. for a while all was chatter and admiration and excitement, the elder ones content to gaze and admire only, the younger ones eyeing the parcels with eager, inquisitive eyes. "whatever can be inside them all?" gasped margery. "oh, i don't know how to wait until i know!" and margery was not the only one who felt like that. indeed, to keep them waiting long was more than bella or tom could do, and very soon the parcels were being handed round. that was a glorious moment for them all, but especially for bella; she alone knew all the secrets the tree held, and to whom each parcel belonged, and she was pleased and proud, excited and nervous, but supremely happy, all at the same time. there was something for every one, even for old mrs. twining, for, when bella realised that she would be there, and heard how much she loved flowers, she had brought in one of her precious pots of roman hyacinths for her, and placed it under the boughs of the tree in readiness for the old lady. "i s'pose i ought to keep it for market," she had sighed, as she picked out the nicest she could see. but no price that could have been paid for it could have been half as precious as the overwhelming delight of the poor lonely old woman, and her joyful thanks. for aunt maggie there was a little vase that they had bought in norton for her; for their father the slippers, and for aunt emma the shawl, and they all seemed quite overcome to think there were such nice presents lurking in those branches for them. then came what were surprises even to bella,--joan adamson's presents, which she had not even felt through the wrappings. the little lady must have thought the matter out very carefully, for she had sent to each exactly what they wanted. for margery there was a doll, fully dressed, even to the little laced boots that could be taken off and laced on again. for tom there was a fine big book with pictures of shipwrecks and fights and wonderful adventures. for charlie there was a strong clasp-knife, which made him, for the first time, cease to envy his father. while for bella there was the prettiest little brooch she had ever seen. it was only a little frosted silver daisy with a yellow eye, but to bella, who had never possessed but one brooch, and that an old one of her mother's, which she was afraid to wear, it was perfect, and filled her with rapture. for aunt emma there was a nice jet hat-pin, and for their father two white handkerchiefs. no little christmas-tree that ever existed could have given more pleasure than that one did, and even after it was relieved of its burden of presents, the children could not tear themselves away from gazing at it, until the candles had burnt right down in their sockets, and there was no light left to gaze by. with a sigh of regret that the joy of it was over, they all turned away, but only to gather round the fire, as happy a little party as one could find that christmas day. the mingled scent of the flowers and the fir-tree made the kitchen sweet, the pretty glass toys on the little tree caught the light of the fire and flashed back its glow. father put on his warm slippers, and aunt emma her apron and little shawl, charlie dropped on the rug before the fire to examine his knife again by its light, and margery sat at her father's feet hugging her doll in an ecstasy of delight. "let us have some carols, children, shall we?" said their father presently. "aunt emma and i haven't heard any yet, and christmas doesn't seem perfect without a few carols." so on they sat in the firelight and sang all they could remember, one after the other, until at last the fire died down, and the room grew dark. "i think it is time now to light the lamp and see about having some tea," said aunt emma, rising from her chair. "what does every one say to that?" "i don't know that i want any tea, but i should like the lamp to be lighted," said margery, with a deep sigh of pleasure; "for, though i know what my doll feels like, i can't say i have seen her properly yet. but i've been busy all the time, i've been thinking about a name for her, and i've made up my mind that i'm going to call her 'christmas.'" chapter xi. a step forward. "aunt maggie," said bella, "what does that line in the carol mean, 'and hear the angels sing'?" it was the day after christmas, and bella was having tea with mrs. langley. for a moment aunt maggie sat gazing thoughtfully into the fire. "i ain't very clever at putting things into words," she said at last, "but i think what it means is, that we must stop every now and then from thinking only of the worries and troubles of life, and the hard work, and the squabbles and disappointments, and let our thoughts dwell instead on what is beautiful and good--on god, who has done so much for us, and jesus, who died for us. we must think of the beautiful things that god gives us every day, the birds and the flowers, and the children, and our homes and friends. if we do that, we shall be strong and hopeful, and there will be many glad hours for us, when we shall hear the angels' voices in our hearts." "i think i understand," said bella gravely. "we have had lots of trouble, but we have had lots of nice things too. i like to stop and think about it all; don't you, aunt maggie? it makes one feel happy and glad." "yes, dear, and it is always wonderful, when looking back over the past, to see the way god has led us, and all the experiences we have been through. if we could look ahead, we should be frightened and daunted, probably, but if we put our hands in god's hand and let him lead us, and if we take each day as it comes, and each duty, content to do our best, and to do without grumbling the work that he sets us, we shall come through without fear or alarm, and find our way smoother for us than ever we had dared to hope for." "i suppose every one has some work to do," said bella; "but it seems as if some people only play." "most people have something to do, and a good many find their play harder than work; but it doesn't matter to you or to me or to any one what others have or haven't. god has given us certain work to do for him and his people. he can't give the same work to everybody. one has to fill one post, and another another post. it doesn't make it any harder for us that some have very little to do. we aren't any the worse off, are we?" "no," said bella. "in fact, we are better off. if everybody worked, there would be nothing left for those who want to live by their work. if everybody grew flowers, nobody would want to buy yours. if you had to make your own boots and clothes, you couldn't make your garden pay as you do. but i see the kettle is boiling, and we'll have some tea, and we won't grumble because we've got to get it ourselves, will we?" "i'd rather make it myself," said bella, laughing. "aunt maggie, do you know what is going to happen?" "no. something nice, i hope, dear?" "yes. father says we'll have a large fowl-house put up, there by the orchard, and we'll keep a whole lot of fowls. aunt emma has done so well with them this year. he says he will be able to help with them, chop up their food and feed them, and collect the eggs and wash them and date them." "oh, that will be splendid! i know it will be a comfort to him to be doing something, and it will be good for him too. why, bella, child, you will be having a stall in the market soon." bella coloured, and laughed shyly. "that is one of the things i wanted to manage this year if we could, but perhaps we'll have to wait now. the fowl-house will cost a good bit, and we must pay for that first." "never mind, child. it will soon repay you again, and perhaps by the next christmas market you will have your stall." bella's face was radiant. "aunt maggie, i wanted to ask you about something else i want to do. can't i bottle some of my herbs to sell? i've got ever so much parsley and mint and sage, and it is only wasting." "of course you could! why ever didn't we think of it sooner?" cried mrs. langley, vexed with herself. "it is the wrong time now; you must gather it before it flowers, but we will take care we don't forget another season, and in the meantime we must collect some nice bottles and corks." "a stall in the market," said aunt maggie to herself, when bella had run home. "it strikes me that before very long they'll be opening a shop of their own, and right well they deserve to succeed too. it isn't many children of their age could or would support a whole family, and be so happy in their work too." though the days were short now, and the hours few when they could work out of doors, the fowl-house was built and tarred and roofed, and fitted with perches before a couple of weeks were past, for the man they called in to help them with the job had little else to do at that time of the year, and there was so little to be done in the garden, the boys were able to help a great deal; and never in their lives had they seen aunt emma so pleased as she was with the new fowl-house and run. 'my poultry farm,' she called it, and she was full of plans as to where the chickens were to be kept, and how they were to be fed, and the different kinds she was going to keep; but it is only fair to say that her greatest pleasure lay in the interest her brother took in it all. the hens were soon installed in their new quarters, and every day the poor invalid collected the scraps of the house and chopped them up, and every night he put the pans of food in the oven to warm, and every day, unless the weather was very bad, he managed to creep out to give the fowls their food and drink, and to collect the eggs. he always washed and marked them and arranged them for market, so that they should look most tempting, putting all the dark brown ones together, and the light brown ones, and the creamy white ones. "i don't see that there's any call to take all that trouble," aunt emma remarked, rather scornfully. "if people want eggs they'll buy them, no matter if they're clean or dirty, brown or white." "but very often they don't feel that they want them until they see them looking clean and tempting," answered her brother quietly. "a dirty-looking egg will take away some folks' appetites, whereas a clean one will make them feel hungry. there was never anything but good done yet by taking a little trouble over things." aunt emma looked unconvinced, but of one thing she could not help being convinced, and that was the good that the work and the interest of it were doing her brother. he no longer worried so cruelly at having to be idle; he felt less depressed, and, as he grew more cheerful, so he grew stronger, and by and by the pain he suffered lessened, and he was able to walk better and do more. so the months wore away, and march came on them all too quickly, and with each week the work in the garden grew heavier. "i do believe we shall have to have in a man to help us another year," sighed bella, pausing in her digging, and seating herself on an upturned flower-pot for a rest. tom groaned. "and he'll cost more than he earns, most likely," he said soberly. "not if----" began bella; but what she was going on to say was never said, and will never be known now, for at that moment charlie burst through the gate and along the path in a great state of excitement. "guess what i've done! guess what i've bought! quick, quick, quick!" "rabbits," said bella; "and if you have, you must keep them shut up or they'll eat everything." "'tisn't rabbits. guess again." "pigeons?" guessed tom. "a pair of shears?" said bella. "a pig?" cried tom. but charlie only shook his head more and more emphatically. "why, a swarm of bees," he burst out, unable to keep his secret any longer, "bee-skip and all; and the man is bringing them almost at once." "bees?" cried tom. "what do you know about bees?" "nothing; but i s'pose i can learn. come and choose a place for the bee-skip to stand. where shall they go?" "oh, not anywhere near me!" cried bella; "i don't like bees." "p'raps you'll like the honey. the man says he had pounds and pounds of honey last year. come on, bella. come and help me choose a spot." bella went, but not very joyfully, and tom followed. "you won't expect me to help you look after them, will you?" she asked nervously, "for i tell you i am afraid of them." "oh no," said charlie seriously; "and when the honey is ready for market, i'll walk behind the cart with it, for fear it should sting you." bella laughed. "tom," she called back, "can you paint a sign-board? i'm sure we ought to have one over the gate to say 'fruit, flowers, vegetables, honey, eggs, fowls, porkers, and dried herbs sold here.'" the idea pleased the boys immensely. "can't we sell anything else?" cried charlie. "do try and think of something." "perhaps aunt emma will sell cakes and apple-pasties, and provide tea and coffee for twopence a cup." "and a penny more to watch charlie's bees," laughed bella. "oh, here comes margery. perhaps she has come to say she has bought a cow! wouldn't it be fun!" charlie burst into a peal of laughter. "hullo, margery!" he shouted; "what have you got? a cow?" margery stood still in the path and stared at him, her blue eyes full of puzzled surprise. "a cow?" she repeated, as though she could hardly believe her ears. "how should i have a cow? what do you mean?" looking questioningly from one to the other. "do you mean to say you haven't brought home anything new?" "why, yes, i've got two of the dearest darling little white ducks you ever saw in all your life. bella, do come and see them! mrs. carter gave them to me, and i've brought them home in a basket, but i've been a long time, because i let them paddle in all the nice big puddles we came to, and oh, they loved it. do come, all of you. oh, they are so pretty, and i think they know me already. i've called one snowdrop, and the other daisy. hark!" she cried, as they hurried after her, "don't you hear them calling to me?" "i should think i did," laughed tom. "they were shouting, 'mag, mag, mag,' as plain as could be. i hope charlie's bees won't begin shouting to him, too, or we shan't be able to hear ourselves speak. i shouldn't be surprised if we grew to love them best of all, because they are nice and quiet." "you wait till they are angry," said charlie knowingly, "or are swarming----" "that's just what i shan't wait for," said bella. "oh!" cried margery, as though her patience was exhausted, "don't keep on talking so, please. i do want to hear my ducks. there!" as they suddenly came on the little yellow, waddling, screaming creatures, "ain't they lovely?" "lovely?" cried charlie. "why, you said they were white." "well, they will be," she explained eagerly. "of course they are yellow to begin with. all the best ones are. look at their feathers beginning to come already. hush, hush, dears, don't cry so! i expect they were frightened 'cause i went away," she explained, as she knelt down and took them both in her arms. "where are they going to sleep to-night?" asked bella. margery looked up with a troubled face. "i s'pose aunt emma wouldn't let them sleep in my room, in a basket? they would be very good, i'm sure. i wish she would." but bella assured her there was no hope of that, and that it would be better for the little ducks to be out of doors in the sun and fresh air. so snowdrop and daisy were, to their great delight, turned loose in the orchard, and at night a nice roomy chicken-coop was provided for them, and there they grew plump and white, and were as happy as the days were long. "tom, you really must put up that sign," said bella, laughing, as they all trooped back to the house to get ready for dinner. "well, if i don't do it soon," said tom, "i shall have to have too, that's certain." but there was no time for sign-painting for the next few months, for already the work was almost more than they could get through. all of them, even aunt emma, lent a hand with the digging and raking and planting out; but, there was no doubt about it, they did seriously miss their father's help. all the weariness, the aching backs and bones, and galled hands were forgotten, though, when the hardest of the work was over, and they began to see the results of all their toil. the long stretch of grey-green bushes in bella's lavender-bed was a sight that year, and her flower-beds were a picture. charlie's bees soon discovered them, and bella often declared that except for the time when the beans were in flower and drew the bees away, she had no peace or pleasure with her flowers from the time they began to bloom until after they were gathered and sold. "i am sure i ought to have half the profits from the honey," she laughed, "for i nearly keep the bees!" that summer rocket's loads grew so large that a pony had to be hired to take his place sometimes, for aunt emma's fowls and eggs added considerably to the weight and to the number of baskets they had to get into the cart. so soon did they repay themselves for the cost of the fowl-house, that before autumn was past bella had begun once more to hope that her dream of a stall in the market might yet be realised, and shortly too. they had so much to sell now, and such a variety of things, that it took them a very long time to find customers for all, and it was very, very, tiring work, they found, to go round from house to house, all over the hilly little town. it meant long, weary hours of tramping, and often they could not get home till quite late. then, quite suddenly, one day, when they had got home late, and more than usually tired, the next and long-hoped-for step was decided upon. they would rent a stall in the market for the winter months, at any rate, and they would begin on the very next saturday as ever was. when once this great step was decided upon, preparations had to begin at once, and in earnest, for long white cloths to cover the shelves had to be bought and made, to make them look clean and dainty. in a state of great excitement they all practised on the kitchen table how they would arrange the things, and how they should be laid out to look their best and be most attractive. margery looked on with the keenest interest. "oh, aunt emma, do let me go with them on saturday. just this once," she pleaded eagerly. "i don't weigh very heavy, and i'm sure the pony wouldn't mind me, and i'd be ever so good. i wouldn't be a bit of trouble, not the very least little bit. may i? daddy, do say yes! tom and bella will take care of me." aunt emma looked at her doubtfully, but there was a smile at the corner of her mouth. "well, take care you don't get sold too," she said; "if you do, i shan't buy you back, i promise you. i've a good mind to walk in myself in the afternoon," she added, turning to her brother. "i haven't seen norton market for years, and i've often felt i'd like to. i little thought i should ever be helping to have a stall there. i really think i must go in, william." "you could drive home," said tom readily. "bella can manage the pony, and i'll walk." bella was looking at her father, all her thoughts centred on him. the only shadow on their day, the day when they would reach the height of their ambition, was that he would not be there to see it. she knew that he was feeling it too. it would have been such a pleasure to him, such a grand break in the monotony of his life, if he could have gone too. "oh, it must be managed somehow; some way must be found," she thought desperately--and then inspiration came to her. "father, you must come too," she cried, "or--or it won't be a bit right. aunt emma, can't we manage like this, just for once? suppose you drive in with tom and all the things in the morning,"--and she choked back her disappointment that, after all her dreams and hopes and longings, she would not be there herself to arrange her first market-stall,--"then i will drive father in later in mrs. wintle's donkey-cart. do you think you could bear the drive, father?" she asked anxiously, her eyes alight with excitement. "i believe it would do me good," he answered eagerly. his face had been growing brighter and brighter all the time bella had been speaking, and his poor tired eyes were as full of a wistful longing, as were margery's a few moments before. "i've thought many a time how nice a little outing would be, and i do want to see the children make their new venture," he added, turning to his sister. "it's one i've been wanting for them ever since the beginning." so it was all settled, and in her joy and pride at taking her father for his first outing, she quite forgot her desire to arrange their first stall. to margery there was nothing wanting in her pleasure. to be allowed to go to norton and sit like a real market-woman behind a real stall with scales and paper bags and measures; to see the people come up and buy, and open their purses and hand money to tom or aunt emma, and then to see tom or aunt emma go to the cash-box and put in the money and take out the change, was all wonderful and lovely enough, but to have her father there too made everything quite perfect; and her only trouble was that so many hours had to be lived through, somehow, before these wonderful things could happen. after all, it was not so very long to wait. to the others the time was all too short for all they had to do. there were fowls and ducks to pluck and truss, and pack in the snow-white cloths in the big shallow baskets; and eggs to pack; flowers to gather and tie up in tastefully arranged bunches; vegetables to scrub and trim, and baskets of honey, bottles of herbs, and home-made jams to pack. there was a great deal to do, but their hearts were in the work, and all felt proud enough of their little show when it was ready. to margery's relief the great day came at last, and, as though it knew what was expected of it, it dawned as bright and beautiful as any one could desire. all were up early, but charlie was the first to start, as he was going to walk the whole distance. tom and aunt emma and margery started an hour later, but bella and her father did not leave until eleven, when the day was at its warmest and brightest, and as they drove along the sunny road with the beautiful fresh breeze blowing gently on their faces, bella thought she had never, never in her life before felt so glad and proud. whenever they passed a cottage the neighbours came out to tell the invalid how good it was to see him as far as that again; indeed, every one they met had a warm greeting of some kind for him. then, when they had passed all the people and the houses, and had the road to themselves, their minds went back to the past. when they came to the old milestone where her father used to wait for them, bella almost stopped the donkey, and, for the first time since that dreadful day when they had waited there in vain for him, she could bear to look at the old grey stone. "i wonder when----" she began, but stopped for fear of hurting him. he guessed what she had been going to say. "i b'lieve i shall walk again that far to meet you," he said cheerfully. "you will find me standing there some day when you ain't expecting it;" and if bella could have been happier than she was before, she was then. when they reached norton the town was already full, and the market in full swing. bella had never before arrived at this time, and to her it all seemed new and strange, and most intensely interesting. but of course the market-house was the goal they were making for, and they could not loiter on the way. she was to put her father down there, and then drive on and leave rocket at the stable, so that she, the beginner of it all, the founder of the market garden, would be the last to see this, the great climax to their toil. for just a moment she did feel a sense of disappointment. here was the day half gone already, and she had not set eyes on their stall yet. but the thought was soon followed by one of shame for her ingratitude, and when she reached the market at last she felt she would not for all the world have had things other than they were, or have come at any other time. for there, behind the stall--now showing large empty spaces made by many purchasers--sat her father, looking more perfectly happy and content than she had ever remembered seeing him. and there, beside him, stood margery, looking on at everything with an intensely interested face. aunt emma was hovering between the poultry and the flowers, trying hard to serve two customers at once, while even tom, though so much more accustomed to it, seemed puzzled to know which customer to serve first, so many were coming to him for fruit or vegetables, or to leave orders for things to be delivered through the week, or to be brought there on the following saturday. charlie was bustling around, lending every one a hand. and then bella noticed that her father was taking charge of the till, and her eyes grew blurred with tears when she saw the pleasure on his face as one after the other they went to him for change. he was helping them again, he too was taking part, and at their first stall too, and his evident joy in it was so pathetic that she had to turn away to recover herself before she could go up and let them know that she had come. chapter xii. success. two years have passed away since william hender drove in to see his children open their first stall in norton market, and now, to-day, he is waiting for them once more by the old milestone. many a weary mile of life has he trodden painfully since last he stood there, a strong, hale man. many a hill of despair has he faced, and valley of despondency; many a time has he wondered if he could ever reach the top of the hill which rose before him, the hill of disappointed hopes. it had seemed to him at times that as soon as he reached the top of one another had sprung up beyond, sometimes whole ranges of hills of pain, helplessness, weakness. there had been many pleasant miles too, when he had paused by the sunny wayside 'to hear the angels sing,' and had gone on his way again refreshed and thankful for all god's goodness to him. and now he had, for the first time, walked to the old milestone again, to await his children's return-- walked it without help or pain; and as he stood there waiting his heart was very full of gratitude to his father above, who had cared for him so tenderly, and led him back to health again, and had given him such good children and friends. he had brought a little camp-stool with him to rest on till they came, for he still had to save his strength and walk through life carefully. a flush of excitement was on his thin cheeks, and his eyes were bright and eager as they looked along the road; for this was a surprise he had planned for them. "i always looked for you as we came round the last bend of the road," bella had told him, "and i always shall, i think. i never seem able to give up expecting you." and to-day her expectation was not to be in vain, and the father knew something of what their delight and excitement would be. at last, round the bend of the road came the cart, drawn by a sturdy horse now--their own--and as he caught sight of them william hender rose to his feet, for he wanted them to see him, and to see him standing upright and strong as of old. he had to rest his hand on the old granite stone, for the excitement of the moment had left him trembling a little, and though stronger than any one had ever thought possible, he would never again be the strong man he used to be. on they came, jogging along comfortably enough. he could see their two heads together, evidently discussing something very earnestly; he saw bella raise hers suddenly--he could almost hear her exclamation of incredulity, of surprise; he saw her spring to her feet and throw out her arms in delight. then the horse's pace was quickened, and they were beside him--and "oh, father!" was all they could say, but bella's eyes were full of tears, and both their faces were radiant. "and i ain't tired," he said proudly, "though i think i will ask for a lift home," he added, with a happy laugh. scarcely knowing what they were doing from excitement, they helped him up into the cart, and on they jogged again, with tom on one side of him and bella on the other, but bella turned more than once and glanced back affectionately at the old milestone, for to her now it seemed an old friend, so connected was it with the joys and sorrows, the struggles and successes of their lives. "i am sure it understands," she was thinking to herself; "it really looks as though it does," when her father's voice brought her thoughts back to him. "well, what about the shop?" he asked anxiously. "oh, father! we've taken it!" and bella gasped, as though alarmed at the desperateness of the plunge they had taken. "i forgot everything else when i saw you, but oh, there's such a lot to tell. tom, where shall we begin? you tell it all, will you?" "i--i seem to have so much in my head i can't get anything out," laughed tom. "we'll wait till we get home, then, p'raps it wouldn't be fair to hear it all before aunt emma can. charlie will be home, too, by the time we are. he's been with the donkey-cart to take one of his pigs to mr. davis, and he has taken a message about renting the little field. the rent is low, and we could keep the horse there, and the pigs, too, sometimes. it would be fine!" bella laughed. "if we've got a field we shan't rest till one of us has a cow to put in it, that's certain!" "well, i don't know but what 'twould be a good investment," her father answered, thoughtfully; "there's no getting milk enough anywhere hereabouts." bella laughed again. "i can see that cow already," she cried, "a nice little guernsey, and aunt emma milking it. why, there is aunt emma herself! whatever is she doing? nursing a chick?" they had reached their own gate by that time. "i wonder what she'll say when she sees me?" chuckled their father. "doesn't she know?" cried bella. "oh, aunt emma, aunt emma!" she called. "aunt emma!" shouted tom, at the top of his voice. "quick, come here!" miss hender hurried to the gate with the chicken in her arms still. "he's hurt his foot----" she began, but the rest of her remark was lost in her astonishment. "why, william!" she cried, "where have you been? i thought you were in the orchard!" and she stared at him as though she did not trust her own eyes. "orchard?" laughed bella; "why, we picked him up by the first milestone, and if we hadn't stopped him there's no knowing where he'd have been by now. i believe he was so anxious to see his new shop he couldn't wait!" she was standing with her arm round her father's shoulder, looking from one to the other with eyes full of love and gladness. they were all of them, indeed, so excited and pleased they scarcely knew what they were doing. "oh yes, the shop!" cried aunt emma. "i'd forgotten that for the minute. there are more surprises nowadays than i seem able to take in. well, what about it?" "we've taken it!" cried tom and bella in one breath; "we've actually taken it. what do you think of that? isn't it enough to frighten one to think of? we are actually full-blown tradesmen, aunt emma. 'hender and co., florists and market-gardeners. fresh eggs and poultry daily. moderate prices.' that is what is to be painted over the shop window. oh, aunt emma, can you believe it? i can't. it doesn't seem real a bit," and she threw her arms round aunt emma too, and hugged her in her excitement. "well!" gasped miss hender, really overcome. "well!" and for a time she could not find another word to say. "i can't believe it," she said later, as they sat around the tea-table. "p'raps when i've seen the place and the name painted up i shall be able to." "and when you see the brass scales----" "and have the cleaning of them," put in aunt emma, with a knowing nod. "if you are all given up to growing things and selling them, somebody must do the housework and the cleaning, and that'll be my part, i reckon." "mine too, aunt emma; i'll keep the shop tidy." "you can help at any rate," said aunt emma, for margery, strangely enough, had, as she grew, shown a greater liking for housework than for gardening. "i would clean the shop, and polish the scales and things," said bella meekly. "oh no, you couldn't," interrupted aunt emma, feeling that she had perhaps been a little severe. "you can't do everything. if you help earn our living for us all, it is our work to look after the house. you haven't got time and strength for both. don't you be trying to do too much, bella. you're barely seventeen yet, you know." aunt emma's voice trembled a little, for she still found it hard to let any one see the kindly feeling that was in her heart. "will you have to live in norton altogether?" asked margery dolefully, for she did not like the thought of losing tom and bella. bella, who read her feelings, hastened to comfort her. "oh no," she cried; "we've only taken the shop and a room behind it. such a nice little room, aunt emma. you will have to come in and have tea there sometimes. the top part of the house is let to some one else. we shall drive in every day with the fresh things to sell, and come home at night. i think florists and greengrocers--doesn't it sound grand, daddy?--don't do much after the morning, and i should think we could shut the shop at four or five in the afternoon every day but saturdays. don't you, father?" "may i come in sometimes and serve the customers?" asked maggie eagerly. "of course you shall." "when i've got a pig to sell will you carry it in too and sell it for me?" asked charlie quite gravely. "you would put it in the window for me, wouldn't you, so that people could see it?" "of course," answered tom, with equal gravity, "if you would sit there and make it behave. we don't want the window broken, for we haven't insured it yet, and we don't want all our things spoilt." "it would be a wonderful attraction," went on charlie thoughtfully, as though he had not heard his brother; "it would draw crowds, and give you such a start-off. i think you'd have to pay me so much an hour, it would be such a fine advertisement." "it would draw people to the window, but i don't know that it would bring them inside," laughed bella. "of course people would think you were for sale too," said margery; "it would be awkward if they wouldn't buy the pig unless you went with it----" but her sentence was never finished, for charlie chased her out of the kitchen, and they finished their dispute in the garden. "we'll begin tea; we won't wait for those harum-scarums," said aunt emma, lifting a tart out of the oven; and the four drew cosily round the table. bella always loved those evening meals at the end of the long day in market, when they sat and enjoyed at their leisure the good things aunt emma provided, while they talked over all that had happened at home and abroad. to-day seemed a day set apart, a special day, for had not their father walked to the milestone to meet them? this, in bella's eyes, was a more important event than the taking of the shop. from the garden came sounds of laughter and screaming, the sober clucking of the hens, and the louder calling of margery's ducks. "we shall be very lonely, emma, when these two are away all day, shan't we? i don't know what we shall do, do you?" their father spoke half-jestingly, yet there was something in his tone which was far removed from jesting. tom looked from bella to his father and back again. with his eyebrows he seemed to be asking her a question, and evidently she understood and signalled her answer. "father," said tom nervously, for he was always rather shy of speaking before others, "we've thought out a plan, and we wondered if you'd fall in with it, or--be able to, or----" "well, my boy, i will if i can, if--well, if it isn't one to benefit me only. it seems to me you're all thinking always what'll be best and pleasantest for me, and i ain't going to have it; i ain't a poor invalid any longer." "well, it isn't to benefit you only, father," chimed in bella eagerly; "we think it will be best for all of us, and i think you'll think so too. go on, tom." "well," said tom, "it's this,--that you go in to the shop every day with bella; you can keep accounts and do that sort of thing better than i can, and----" he broke off suddenly, almost startled by the look of pleasure which broke over his father's face, the sudden lightening of the sadness which, unconsciously, always showed now in his eyes. to be at work again! to be able to give real help, to be a working partner! to the man who had for so long borne an enforced idleness, who had had to sit by and see others work beyond their strength because he could do nothing to help--it seemed too good to be true, a happiness almost too great. "do the work?" of course he could do it. it would put new life into him to be a man again and worker. "but what about you, tom? it would be a bitter disappointment to give it up, wouldn't it?" "disappointment?" cried tom; "why, there's nothing i'd like better. you see, if you can be in the shop, i can stay at home and give all my time to the garden, instead of having only the evenings after i get back. then aunt emma and charlie and i can look after things here; and, if we run this place, and you and bella run the other, we ought to get on a . don't you agree, everybody?" tom gained courage as he went on, and, indeed, his father's undisguised pleasure in the plan was enough to encourage any one. but tom was cautious too. he put all the arguments before his father, as though he had shown reluctance, and had to be won over; for what they wanted, above all things, was to make him feel that his help was really needed. he succeeded in his aim, too, and without any help from bella, for the pathos of her father's joy brought a lump into her throat and a mist before her eyes that prevented her speaking a word. "i think i'll go for a little stroll," she said quietly, when she rose from the table, and something in her voice and face prevented any one from hindering her. out through the garden she went, and along the quiet road, where the soft mist of evening was creeping up and the birds were calling their last good-nights. on she went, and on, until she reached the old grey church, standing so protectingly in the midst of the green graves, which seemed to nestle about its sides as about a mother. bella opened the churchyard gate and walked along the path to a far corner, where a white headstone gleamed out distinctly from the dark holly hedge behind it. "in loving memory of isabella, wife of william hender. aged ," ran the inscription. bella sat down on the curb which outlined the long, narrow grave, and leaned her head against the stone. "oh, mother, mother, if only you had been here too, everything would have been just right!" she put her arm around the little cross caressingly, and leaned her cheek against it, but the coldness of it brought back to her memory the coldness of her mother's brow when last she had kissed it, and she drew back quickly again. it seemed so hard and unresponsive. "she knows, though she isn't here. i am sure she knows," and she turned her face up to the darkening sky, where already the stars were beginning to shine. "like silver lamps in a distant shrine, the stars are all shining bright, the bells of the city of god ring out, for the son of mary is born to-night, the gloom is past, and the morn at last is coming with orient light." the lines and the haunting air of the old carol came pouring into bella's mind. "it isn't christmas, but all the rest fits to-night and--and every time," and there in the gathering darkness she sang softly to herself-- "faith sees no longer the stable floor, the pavement of sapphire is there, the clear light of heaven streams out to the world, and the angels of god are crowding the air, and heaven and earth, through the spotless birth, are at peace on this night so fair." all the way home along the quiet road the lines still haunted her-- "and heaven and earth, through the spotless birth, are at peace on this night so fair." she was singing softly as she reached her own gate. she did not see her father standing inside and looking over it. "lassie, that's what i was feeling, but didn't know how to put it into words," he said, with an unusual gentleness in his tone. "oh, father, are you here? isn't it damp for you to be out?" she asked anxiously, for bella was always nervous for him. "i couldn't go in, child, till you were home. it seemed to me you weren't happy about something." bella, as she tucked her hand through his arm, reassured him. "why, father, i was too happy, that was all! i was so happy i had to go away by myself for a bit, so that i--shouldn't make myself silly, and i've come back happier than ever. there's aunt emma at the door calling to us. there's such a lot to talk about, that if we don't go in and begin we shan't have finished till morning;" and she led him back between the neat flower-beds to the open door, where, in a glow of warm light from within, aunt emma stood awaiting them. the end printed by morrison & gibb limited, edinburgh. prentice hugh by fm peard illustrations by fb published by national society's depository, london. this edition dated . prentice hugh, by fm peard. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ prentice hugh, by fm peard. preface. there are differences of opinion as to bishop bitton's share in the transforming of exeter cathedral, and i have followed that expressed by archdeacon freeman, who, after speaking of the prevalent idea that the present choir was the work of stapledon, states that, from the evidence of the fabric rolls, it was done by bitton, whose episcopate lasted from to . after noticing the facts which point to this conclusion, archdeacon freeman adds: "we thus establish, as i conceive, with absolute certainty, the date of the completion of the _eastern half of the choir_, a point entirely misconceived hitherto. to bitton and not to stapledon it must be ascribed. and we shall see reason presently for ascribing to him all the substantial features of the remainder, and the vaulting of the whole." with regard to the story itself, no one can be more conscious than i am myself of the dangers inseparable from attempting to place it at so early a date, when the author is at once plunged into a very quagmire of possible anachronisms. i can only ask the indulgence of those who, happening to cast their eyes upon these pages, detect there the errors in manners and customs which i am too conscious may exist. it may be convenient, for the unlearned, to notice that the value of coins was about fifteen times as much as in the present day. thus one pound equalled fifteen pounds, and one mark (or shilling) fifteen shillings. a groat contained four silver pennies, and there were two hundred and forty pennies in a silver pound. chapter one. at stourbridge fair. "have at him, peter!" "roll him in the mud!" "nay, now, 'twere rarer sport to duck the lubber in the river!" these and a hundred other taunts were hurled with entire freedom at the head of a sturdy boy, to judge from his round and rosy face not more than eleven years old, by six or eight urchins, who were dancing round him with many unfriendly demonstrations. apparently there had already been an exchange of hostilities. one of the half-dozen had received a blow in the eye which had half closed that organ and another showed signs of having suffered on the nose, much to the damage of his clothing; these injuries had evidently enraged and excited the sufferers. prudence, however, was not forgotten. they egged each other to the attack, but at the same time showed signs of hesitation, perhaps for want of a leader who might organise a simultaneous rush. the boy, meanwhile, though he too bore marks of the fray, for his clothes were torn, and a streak of blood on his cheek showed where he had been hit by a stone or a stick, kept a valiant front. he stood with his back against a fine oak, and flourished a short stout cudgel. "come on, come on, all of you!" he shouted. "a broken crown the first shall have, i promise you!" "he's threatening thee, jack turner. hit him over the pate!" "look at his jerkin--he's one of the flemish hogs." "flemish!" cried the boy indignantly. "better english than all of you put together. no english that i know are cowards!" the dreadfulness of such a charge overcame all fears of broken heads. with a yell of rage the urchins rushed pell-mell upon their foe, and battle, indeed, arose! he defended himself with a courage and vigour worthy of all praise, hitting at weak points, and bestowing at least two of his promised broken heads. but numbers will prevail over the most determined bravery, and here were at least a dozen kicking legs and encumbering arms. do what he would he could not shake them off, blows rained upon him under which he turned dizzy, and his evil case would soon have been exchanged for a worse, if an unexpected ally had not rushed upon the group. a splendid deer-hound crashed in upon them, upsetting two or three of the boys, though more as if he were amusing himself with a rough frolic than with thought of harm. the urchins, however, did not stay to consider this, for, picking themselves up with cries of terror, they fled as fast as their legs could carry them, leaving sundry spoils behind them in the shape of apples and a spice-cake, which latter the dog, doubtless considering himself entitled to his share of the booty, gobbled up without a moment's hesitation. the boy who had been the object of attack was the only one who showed no sign of fear. he stood, breathless and panting, his cheeks crimson, his clothes torn, but with so resolute a determination in his face as proved that he was ready for another fight. seeing, however, that the hound had no ill intentions, he straightened and shook himself, picked up the cap which had fallen off in the fray, and looked round to see who was near. he saw for the first time that two persons were watching him with some amusement. one was a boy of about fourteen, the other an elderly man in the grey dress of a franciscan friar. "thou art a sturdy little varlet," said the friar, coming forward with a smile, "and held thine own right well. but i doubt me how it would have gone, had wolf not borne in to the rescue. no shame to thee either, for thou wast sorely overmatched. what had brought such a force of rascaille upon thee?" the boy had grown rather redder, if that were possible, but he spoke out bravely. "holy friar, they were angry because this morning i saved a monkey out of their hands. its master, an italian, had died, and they called the poor beast a devil's imp, and were going to stone it to death." "i would wolf had served them worse! but why did they not fight with thee at the time?" "they were but three then," said the boy with a laugh. "hum. and who are the little varlets? give me their names, and they shall have a goodly thrashing." the boy for the first time hung his head. the other lad, who had been listening impatiently, broke in in french. "set wolf at them in another sort of fashion. i see them still skulking about, and peeping at us from behind the trees--the unmannerly loons! they need to be taught a lesson." "gently, edgar," said the friar, laying his hand on his young companion's arm, "wolf might prove a somewhat dangerous chastiser. come, boy, let us have their names," he added, turning to the other. "holy friar," said the boy eagerly, "i know the french." the friar lifted his eyebrows. "i thought thy tongue had a strange trick about it, but i could have sworn it was flemish that it resembled." "we have just come from flanders." "not english," cried edgar angrily. "if i had known he was one of those blood-sucking foreigners, who fasten like leeches upon our poor country, wolf should never have bestirred himself to the rescue." "peace," said the friar more sharply, but before he could say more the younger boy broke in indignantly-- "we are english, good english! my father has but been in flanders perfecting himself in his trade of wood-carving." "and 'twas there you learnt the french?" "ay, sir, from the monks." "perhaps also thou hast learnt to read?" pursued the friar, with the smile with which in these days we might ask a ploughboy whether he knew hebrew. "a little," said the boy modestly. so unexpected was the answer, that the friar started back. "why this is amazing!" he said. "edgar, dost thou hear?" "ay. he is training, no doubt, for the monastery," said the lad carelessly, though looking at the other with amazement. "nay," said the boy sturdily; "no monk's hood for me. i would be a soldier and fight for king edward." "and what knowest thou of king edward?" inquired the friar, who evidently found amusement in questioning. "what all the world knows," the boy answered sturdily, "that never was a nobler king or truer englishman." "ay? learnt you that in flanders?" said the friar, lifting his eyebrows in some astonishment. "well, wherever you had it, 'tis good teaching and true, such as men by-and-by will look back and own. and so nothing will serve thee but hard blows? what is thy name?" "hugh bassett, holy friar." "come to the great stourbridge fair with thy father and mother?" "my mother is dead. my father has brought some of his carvings here to sell, and we lodge in the sacristan's house because 'tis too cold in the fields." wolf, at a call from the young lad, had come back from an investigation among the oaks, and was now slobbering affectionately over his young master's hand; hugh watching him with deepest interest. "there is one thing thou hast all but forgotten," said the friar; "the names of thy tormentors? see, they are still watching and peeping." the boy again hung his head. "what now? hast lost thy tongue?" "nay, father, but--" "but what?" then as hugh muttered something, "what, i am not to know? yet they were for serving thee badly enough!" "i would fight them again," said the boy, looking up boldly. "i warrant thou wouldst," said the friar, laughing heartily. "and without a mother, who will mend thy clothes? they have suffered more damage than thy tough head, which looks as if 'twere made to bear blows." hugh glanced with some dismay at his torn jerkin. it was not the first time that the question had presented itself, though the friar's questions had driven it out of his head. and the elder lad now showed symptoms of impatience. "may we not be going back, sir?" he said to his companion. "the jongleurs were to be at their play by now, and we are not like to see much out in this green tangle." "as thou wilt," said the good-tempered friar; "i will but make one more proffer to our valiant friend. see here, hugh, i have a fancy to know the name of the biggest of thine enemies, the one who set the others on thee. will a groat buy the knowledge? there it is before thine eyes, true english coin, and no base counterfeit pollard. only the name, and it is thine." "not i!" cried the boy. "i'll have nothing to do with getting him flogged." "yet i'll answer for it thy pocket does not see many groats, and what brave things there be to be bought at the fair! sweets and comfits and spices." "they would choke me!" the friar laughed long, with a fat, noiseless chuckle full of merriment. "well," he said, "i keep my groat, and thou thine honour, and i see that wolf hath shown himself, as ever, a dog of discretion. shall we take the boy back to thy father's lodgings, edgar, and persuade mistress judith to bestow some of her fair mending upon his garments?" "so as we waste no more time here, i care not," said the lad impatiently. bidding the boy follow, friar nicholas and his companion walked away, leaving the wood with its undergrowth of bracken, already looking rather brown and ragged with the past heat of the summer, and first touch of frost sharpening the nights in the low-lying eastern counties, as is often the case by michaelmas. at that time, towards the end of the thirteenth century, it need hardly be said that the country presented a very different appearance from that which we see now. parts were densely wooded, and everywhere trees made a large feature in the landscape, which was little broken by human habitations. the chief clearings were effected in order to provide sheep walks, wool being at that time a large, if not the largest, export; although matters had not as yet arrived at the condition of some fifty years later, when, after england was devastated by the black death, and agricultural labour became ruinously dear, serfs were evicted from their huts, and even towns destroyed, in order to gain pasturage for sheep. under edward the first things were tending the other way; marshes were drained, waste land was brought into cultivation, and towns were increasing in size and importance. wheat was dear, animal food cheap. some of the greater barons lived in almost royal state, but the smaller gentry in a simplicity which in these days would be considered absolute hardship. with an absence of shops, and with markets bringing in no more than the local produce of a few miles round, it will be easily understood how fairs became a need of the times. they began by people flocking to some church festival, camping out round the church, and requiring a supply of provisions. the town guilds, setting themselves to supply this want, found here such an opening for trade that the yearly fairs became the chief centres of commerce, and had a complete code of laws and regulations. privileges were even granted to attract comers, for at a fair no arrest could be made for debts, saving such as were contracted at the fair itself. and it was a fruitful source of revenue, because upon everything bought a small toll was paid by the buyer. gradually these fairs increased in importance. english traders travelled to those across the seas, to leipsic, to frankfort, even to russia. foreigners in their turn brought their wares to england, where the principal yearly fair was held at stourbridge, near cambridge, another of scarcely less importance at bristol, and somewhat lesser ones at exeter and other towns. the scene at these fairs, when the weather was favourable, was one of extreme gaiety and stir. as the friar and his young companion, followed by hugh, walked back towards the town a soft autumnal sun was shining on the fields, where were all sorts of quaint and fantastic erections, and where the business of the fair was at its height. such people as could find house-room were lodged in the town, but these only bore a moderate proportion to the entire throng, and the less fortunate or poorer ones were forced to be content with tents, rude sheds, and even slighter protection. these formed the background, or were tacked on to the booths on which the varied collection of wares were set forth, and which with their bright colourings gave the whole that gay effect which we now only see in the markets of the more mediaeval of foreign towns. to this must be added a large number of motley costumes: here not only were seen the different orders of english life--the great baron with his wife and children, his retinue, squires, men-at-arms, pages; the abbot riding in little less state; friars, grey, black, and white; pilgrims--but foreigners, men of flanders with richly dyed woollen stuffs, woven from english wool; merchants from the hans towns displaying costly furs; eastern vendors of frankincense, and spices, and sugar; lombard usurers; even the chinaman from cathay, as china was then called, with his stores of delicate porcelain--each and all calling attention to their wares, and inviting the passers-by, whether nobles or churls, to buy. the fair originated in a grant to the hospital of lepers at cambridge, bestowed by king john. it opened on the nineteenth of september, continued for two or three weeks, and was under the control of the master of the leper-house, no slight undertaking when the great concourse of people is considered, for not only had they to be housed and fed, but at a time when carriages and carts were unknown, and men and merchandise were alike carried on horses and mules, there must necessarily have been a vast number of beasts to keep. protection had to be afforded against possible attacks of robbers or outlaws, and-- almost the most difficult task of all--it was necessary to check as far as possible quarrels which frequently arose between the haughty barons or their retainers, as also to protect the foreigners from the rough treatment which it was not unlikely they would receive should anything excite the people against them. particularly, and it must be owned justly, was this at times the case with the usurers. but though the nominal business of the fair consisted in trading, money-getting, and money-lending, there were plenty of shows and amusements to attract those who loved laughter. in one part a number of lads were throwing the bar, in another they were playing at what seemed a rough kind of tennis. merry andrews tumbled on the green, rope dancers performed prodigies of activity; here men played at single-stick, wrestled, or shot at a mark; at another place were the jongleurs or conjurers, and in yet another a bespangled company of dancing dogs, which excited the lordly contempt of wolf. "these fellows have rare skill," said edgar, watching a conjurer effect a neat multiplication of balls. "stay and watch them," said the friar. "thy father will not yet have ridden back from cambridge, and thou art not wanted in the house. i will go and do my best to gain mistress judith's good aid for this urchin, and after that, if he will, he may show me where he lodges." sir thomas de trafford, knight of the shire, and father of the lad edgar, had found accommodation for his family in a house which we should now consider very inadequate for such a purpose, though it was then held to have made a considerable stride towards absolute luxury from being able to boast a small parlour, or talking room. neither glass nor chimneys, however, were yet in use, although the latter were not unknown, and had crept into some of the greater castles. fires were made in the centre of the rooms, and the pungent wood smoke made its escape as best it could through door or windows, which in rough weather or at night were protected by a lattice of laths. the friar, however, went no further than the passage, where he called for mistress judith, and was presently answered in person by a somewhat crabbed-looking personage, who listened sourly to his entreaty that she would do something towards stitching together hugh's unfortunate jerkin. "the poor varlet has no mother," he ended. but mistress judith pursed her mouth. "the more need he should be careful of his clothing," she was beginning, when suddenly with a rush two little golden-haired girls of not more than four or five came running along the passage, calling joyfully upon friar nicholas, and clinging to his grey cloak. "thou wilt take us to the fair, wilt thou not?" "and let us see the monkey that runs up the ladder, and the dancing bear, and--we have some nuts for the monkey." mistress judith's face relaxed. "nay, now, children, ye must not be troublesome. the good friar has doubtless other business on hand--" "i'll take them, i'll take them," said the friar, hastily, "if you will put the boy in order by a few touches of your skilful handiwork. as soon as i have bestowed him in safety i will return for them." "to see the monkey," persisted little eleanor. "ay, if thou wilt--" he was interrupted by a pull of the sleeve from hugh. "so please you, holy friar," said the boy shyly, "the monkey is at our lodging." "what, is that the poor beast which those young villains would have stoned? nay, then, hearken, little maidens. the monkey has been in evil case, and was like to be in worse but for this boy, hugh bassett. and the cruel varlets who would have killed it set upon him for delivering it, and though he fought right sturdily he would have been in evil case but for wolf." "our wolf?" "even so. what say you now?" "he is a good boy," said the little anne gravely. eleanor went nearer, and looked steadfastly at hugh. "is the poor monkey at your house?" "ay, little mistress." "shall we come and see him?" hugh looked uncertainly at the friar, and the friar at mistress judith. mistress judith threaded her needle afresh. "if my lady--" began the friar. "my lady does not permit my young mistresses to run about the fair like churls' children," interrupted the nurse sourly. "marry, come up! i marvel your reverence should have thought of such a thing." she was interrupted in her turn. eleanor had clambered on a chair and flung her arms round her neck, laying hold of her chin and turning it so as to look in her face, and press her rosy lips to her cheek. "nay, nay, mother said we should see the monkey! thou wilt come with us, and friar nicholas, and this good boy. say yea, say yea, good nurse!" mistress judith, rock with all others, was but soft clay in the hands of her nurslings. she remonstrated feebly, it is true, but eleanor had her way, and it was not long before the little party set forth, the children indulging in many skips and jumps, and chattering freely in their graceful _langue de provence_. there was so much to see, and so many remarks to be made on many things, such wonderful and undreamt of crowds, such enchanting goods, such popinjays, such booths of cakes, such possibilities of spending a silver penny, that it seemed as if the sacristan's house would never be reached, and 'twas easy to see it cost the children something to turn from the fair towards the church. perhaps anne would have consented to put their object aside and remain in this busy scene of enchantment. but nothing to eleanor could balance her desire to see the monkey, and they went their way with no further misadventure than arose from the bag of nuts slipping from her little fingers, and the nuts scattering in all directions. the sacristan's house consisted of but one room, with the fire as usual in the centre. the sacristan himself was in the church; over the fire sat a thin pale-faced man, engaged in putting the last strokes to a carved oaken box of most delicate workmanship. the monkey, which had been sitting with him, directly the little party appeared, uttered a cry of fear, sprang on the high back of a bench, and from thence to the uncovered rafters of the roof, where it sat jabbering indignantly, and glancing at the visitors with its bright eyes. the man, who was stephen bassett, hugh's father, rose and greeted them respectfully, though with some amazement at seeing his boy in unknown company. "welcome, holy friar," he said. "if you seek john the sacristan, hugh shall run and fetch him from the church." "nay," said the friar, with his easy smile, "i fear me we are on a lighter quest. these little maidens had a longing to behold the monkey, and thy boy offered to bring them here for that purpose." mistress judith looked unutterable disgust at the poor room and her surroundings, though she condescended to sit down on a rough stool, from which she first blew the dust. the friar entered into conversation with stephen bassett, and the little golden-haired girls pressed up to hugh. "make him come down," said eleanor pointing. "he is frightened--i know not," said hugh, shaking his head. he was, however, almost as anxious as the other children could be to show off his new possession, and, thanks either to an offered nut, or to the trust which the monkey instinctively felt towards his deliverer, the little creature came swiftly down, hanging by hand and tail from the rafters, to intensest delight of both anne and eleanor, and finally leaping upon hugh's shoulder, where it cracked its nut with all the confidence possible. it was small and rather pretty, and it wore much such a little coat as monkeys wear now. eleanor could not contain her delight. she wanted to have it in her own arms, but her first attempt to remove it from its perch brought such a storm of angry chattering that anne in terror plucked her sister's little gown and implored her to come away. eleanor drew back unwillingly. "why doesn't he like me?" she demanded. "i love him. what is his name?" "agrippa." "agrippa! and can he do tricks? yesterday he did tricks." "he knows me not yet, mistress," explained hugh. "his master died suddenly, and he had no other friend." "but thou wilt be his friend," said eleanor, looking earnestly at the boy, "and so will i. i will leave him all these nuts. anne, i would my father would give us a monkey!" "i like him not," said anne, fearfully withdrawing yet closer to mistress judith. eleanor knew no fear. she would have taken the little creature in her arms, regardless of its sharp teeth, or of the waiting woman's remonstrances, but that hugh would not suffer her to make the attempt. he looked at the two little girls with an eager pride and admiration, felt as if he were responsible for all that happened, and had he been twice his age could not have treated them with more careful respect. chapter two. stolen away. meanwhile the friar and stephen bassett conversed together, seated on a rude bench at the other side of the dimly-lit room. the friar was a man of kindly curiosity, who let his interests run freely after his neighbours' affairs, and, attracted by the boy, whose education had far overpast that of the knight's son, edgar, he made searching inquiries, which stephen answered frankly, relating more fully than hugh how in flanders, where he had travelled in order to perfect himself in an art not yet brought to a high pitch of excellence in england, his wife had died, and he having been left with the boy on his hands, the child had excited the interest of the monks, who, finding him teachable, had instructed him in the then rare accomplishments of reading and writing. "he is like to forget them, though," he added with a sigh, "unless in our wanderings we fall upon other brothers as good as those, which is scarce likely." "have you thought of his taking the habit?" "nay, his bent lies not that way," said bassett, smiling. the other smiled also. "truly, it seemed not so by the lusty manner in which he laid about him but now. and i mind me he spoke of his wish to be a soldier." "that i will not consent to," bassett replied hastily; "he shall follow my trade. it would break my heart if i thought that all my labours died with me." he was interrupted by a fit of coughing. "and where," inquired the franciscan, "where dost thou purpose going when the fair is ended?" "in good sooth, holy friar, that is what troubles me. i had thought of london, but i wot not--" the other leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, and his chin in the palm of his hand. "i wot not either," he said at last, "but in these days there is much noble work akin to thine going on in the great churches and minsters of the kingdom. there is st peter's at exeter, now. one of our order was telling me but lately how gloriously the bishop of that see is bringing it to perfection. the air in those western shires is soft and healing, better for thy cough than london, which has many fens giving out their vapours, to say nothing of the smoke arising from that vile coal the citizens are now trying to burn, and which pours out its choking fumes upon the poor air. were i thee i would not bestow myself in london." "exeter," said bassett reflectively; "i thank thee for the suggestion. my wife came from those shires, and a bishop with a zeal for decoration might well give me employment." "the journey is long," put in the friar, with a desire that prudence should have her share in this advice of his which the wood-carver seemed so ready to adopt. "we are used to journeys and i dread them not." "nor fear robbers?" "i am too poor to tempt them. besides, our great king has done much for the security of the country, by what i hear. is it not so, holy friar?" "truly it is. but scotland has taken more of his thought lately, and when the lion is in combat, the smaller beasts slink out to fall on their prey. but if you make your way to exeter and would go first through london, our house in newgate street will give you hospitable lodging.--how now, mistress eleanor?" "it is the monkey, friar nicholas--might he not bring it for madam, our mother, to see? he says that wolf would eat him." "and in good sooth that were not unlikely. better be content to come here again and see the little pagan beast, if mistress judith does not mislike it. fare thee well, master bassett. i will meet thee again, and hear whether exeter still has attraction." mistress judith rose and shook her skirts before folding them round her, an operation which the monkey, happening to be close to her on hugh's shoulder, resented greatly, chattering at and scolding her with all his might. eleanor screamed with delight, while anne hid her face; and hugh, somewhat abashed at mistress judith's displeasure, retired with agrippa to the back of the room, while his father escorted his guests a few paces beyond the door. he came back and found hugh enthusiastic over his new friends. "the dog, father, a noble beast! i would you had seen him! i warrant me peter the smith's son has had enough of fighting to last him a while. he ran like a deer!" "and how fell it out?" thus questioned a long story had to be told of the ill deeds of peter, who had been the chief offender; and the damage to hugh's garments, which mistress judith had but hastily caught together, was ruefully exhibited. stephen shook his head. "another time keep thy fighting till a woman is near to back up thy prowess with her needle. yet--i'll not blame thee. 'twould have been a cowardly deed to have suffered that poor beast to be stoned. and at least i can mother thee for these bruises and scratches." he fetched some water as he spoke, took out a few dried herbs from a bag, set them in the water on the fire, and as soon as the decoction was ready bathed the boy's many hurts with a hand as gentle indeed as his mother's could have been. while this was going on he talked to the child with a freedom which showed them to be more than usually companions in the fullest sense of the word. "what thinkest thou the good friar hit upon? he thought i might find work at one of the great churches which are rising to perfection in the land. and, hugh, thou hast heard thy mother speak of exeter? at exeter there is much of this going on, and if we could get there, i might obtain the freedom of one of the craft guilds, and apprentice thee." "ay"--doubtfully. "well, why that doleful tone?" "i would be a soldier, father." "serve thy 'prenticeship first and talk of fighting afterwards. dost thou think king edward takes little varlets of eleven years old to make his army? besides--speak not of it, hugh. my heart is set upon thy carrying on my work. life has not been sweet for me, and 'tis likely to be short; let me see some fruit before i die." the boy flung his arms round bassett's neck. "father, talk not like that! i will be what thou wilt!" "thou wilt? promise me, then," said his father eagerly. "i promise." stephen bassett's breath came short and fast. "see here, hugh. thou art young in years but quick of understanding, and hast been my close companion of late. thou art ready to engage, as far as thou canst--i would not bind thee too closely," he added, reluctantly--"to renounce those blood-letting dreams of thine, and follow my trade, and, as i well believe thou wilt, make our name famous?" "ay," said the little lad gravely, "that will i do. only--" "what?" "if i must needs be cutting something, i would sooner 'twere stone than wood." "sayest thou so?" said the carver, rising and walking backwards and forwards in the room. he was evidently disappointed, and was undergoing a struggle with himself. but at last he stopped, and laid his hand kindly upon the boy's shoulder. "as thou wilt, hugh," he said; "i would not be unreasonable; and truly i believe thy hand finds more delight in that cold unfriendly surface than in the fine responsive grain of the wood. so thou art a carver, choose thine own material. stone and wood are both needed in the churches. we will go to exeter. i mind me thy mother had cousins there. we will but wait for the end of the fair, and there will be folk going to london with whom we may journey safely." the man's sanguine nature as usual overleapt all difficulties. his cough and his breathing were so bad, that others might have well dreaded the effects of a long and toilsome journey, but he would hear of no possible drawbacks, and hugh was too young to be alarmed, and took the over-bright eyes and occasional flush of the cheek as glad signs that his father was getting well again. thanks to hugh's new friends, moreover, bassett sold his work, and sold it well. dame edith de trafford sent for him, desiring he would bring his boy and some specimens of his carving. hugh begged sore to be allowed to take agrippa, for the joy it would give to the little eleanor, but his father would not have it. the monkey, though it had attached itself devotedly to hugh, was capricious with others, variable in temper, and at times a very imp of mischief, and stephen feared its pranks might offend their new patroness. agrippa was, therefore, consigned to the rafters, where he chattered with displeasure at seeing his master go out without him. "if he is to journey with us, we must get him a cord," said bassett. "as it is, we shall pass for a party of mountebanks. see that the door is safely closed, for john the sacristan will not be back yet awhile." the night had been wet, and the gaiety of the fair much bedraggled in consequence. under foot, indeed, the mud and mire of the trampled grass made so sticky a compound that it was difficult for one foot to follow the other. the poor folk who had been obliged--as numbers were--to sleep on rough boards, raised on four legs from the ground, and but slightly protected from the weather, were in sad plight. happily the sun had come out, and though there was not much heat in his rays, they served to lessen some of the discomfort, and to bring back a touch of cheerfulness. peter the smith's son, with one or two others, pointed and grimaced at hugh as he passed on, without venturing to approach nearer. the goldsmiths were hanging up costly chains and sets of pearls with which to tempt the noble ladies who approached, while a hans trader called attention to the fact that winter was coming and his furs would protect from cramps and rheumatism. presently down through the booths rode a party of knights and javelin men, none other than the high sheriff with the four coroners and others, on their way to the shire court, which was to be held that day under the shire-oak a few miles distant. a number of countrymen had already gone off to this meeting, and in a few minutes hugh saw wolf bounding along by the side of a smaller group of knights; edgar was behind with a younger party, and evidently sir thomas de trafford as one of the knights of the shire was proceeding to join the assembly. many remarks were made by the bystanders, to which bassett, who had been long out of england, listened attentively. he found that much satisfaction was in general expressed, though one or two malcontents declared that each assembly was but the herald for a demand for money. "parliament or no parliament, 'tis ever the same," grumbled one small cobbler, drest in the usual coarse garment reaching just below the knees, and headed by a square cape, too large for his shrunk shoulders: "wars to be waged, and money to be squeezed from our bodies." "thine would not furnish the realm with the weight of a silver penny," said a burly countryman, glancing with much contempt at the cobbler. "and when does the king ask for aid except in case of need? if thou hadst, as i friends in cumberland, i reckon you would be the first to cry out that a stop should be put to these scotch outlaws harrying the borders." "and hast thou friends in gascony, too, dick-o'-the-hill?" demanded the little cobbler spitefully. "nay, it's been a scurvy trick of the french king, that getting hold of gascony," put in a baker who had joined the group; "i'm all for fighting for gascony." "well, i'll warrant that our burgesses, master dennis and master small, will speak their minds against any wicked waste," persisted the cobbler. "'tis time the king were checked." "and who has given you burgesses to speak for you, ay, and passed laws putting the ay and the nay into your own hands?" broke in stephen bassett indignantly. "i have been out of england for many a long year, but i mind the time, my masters, if you have forgotten, when the parliament was called, not to vote whether or no the money should be raised, but to raise it. few laws had you in old days, and little voice in them!" "he speaks the truth," said a grave franklin standing by. "when, since the days of alfred, has there been an english king like our king edward?" added dick-o'-the-hill. "one that ever keeps his word." "and makes laws for the poor." "i say that none speak against him except traitors and false loons," said the baker, squaring up towards the cobbler in a threatening manner. "nay, my masters, i meant no harm," urged the cobbler, alarmed. "the saints forbid that i should say a word against king edward! doubtless, we shall pay our twelfth, such of us as can--and be as much better as we are like to be." he added these words under his breath, but stephen bassett caught them. "ay," he said, "so long as we are saved from sinking into a nation of curs such as thee." the cobbler cast an infuriated look at him as he walked on, the flush which hugh loved to see on his cheek. "that was an evil man, father," said the boy. bassett was silent for a space. "there are many such discontented knaves," he returned at last, "eating like a canker into the very heart of our nation. self, self, that is the limit to which their thoughts rise. and they measure all others by their own petty standard--even the king. it makes one sick at heart to think what he has done for his country, and how--to hear some of these mean-spirited loons talk--it is turned against him, and besmirched, till fairest deeds are made to look black, and nothing is left to him but his faults." if hugh could not understand all, he took in much, and remembered it afterwards. but the delights of the fair drove all else out of his head for the moment, and he could scarce be torn away from the dancing bear. "hearken," said his father at last with a laugh, "whatever happens, i'll have none of the bear! his masters may die, and he be baited by all the dogs in the town, but he shall never be my travelling fellow. come, 'tis time we were at the lady's." this time they were passed through the passage to the talking room, where dame edith was sitting on a bench or low settle. the walls were unplastered, its rough floor uncarpeted, its windows unglazed, to modern notions it would have seemed little better than a cell, but dame edith herself created about her an air of refinement and delicacy. after the new fashion, instead of the plaits which had been worn, her fair hair was turned up and enclosed in a network caul of gold thread, over which was placed a veil. she wore a kirtle of pale blue silk, and a fawn-coloured velvet mantle, with an extravagantly long train embroidered in blue. she looked too young to be the mother of edgar, and indeed was sir thomas's second wife, and the very darling of his heart. the twins, especially anne, strongly resembled her; eleanor had more of her father's and her step-brother's eager impetuosity, but anne bade fair to be as sweet-mannered and dainty as her mother. bassett and his son had hardly made their greeting, before the little maidens were in the room, eleanor so brimming over with questions about the monkey that she could scarce keep her tongue in check. dame edith smiled very kindly on the boy. "i have heard all the tale from friar nicholas," she said, "and of how discreetly wolf came to the rescue. and so thou wouldst be a soldier?" hugh coloured, and his father broke in-- "nay, lady, he hath laid by that foolish fancy. he will be a carver, like myself." she lifted her pretty eyebrows. "in good sooth? now we had settled matters quite otherwise. i had won my good husband to consenting that he should be taken into our meine, and there he might have risen. is the subject quite decided?" "quite, lady," bassett said firmly. "i thank you very humbly for your goodness, but hugh and i must hold together while i live, and i have set my heart upon his carving a name for himself with a lowlier but a more lasting weapon than the sword." his cough shook him again as he spoke, and dame edith, though unused to opposition, was too kindly natured to show displeasure. she asked to see what he had brought, and was soon wrapt in admiration at the free and delicate work which was displayed. meanwhile, eleanor could whisper to hugh-- "hath agrippa eaten all the nuts? doth he like spice-bread or figs? i'll give thee some. but oh, i wish, i wish thou hadst brought him! wolf is gone to the shire-oak. and see now, bend down thy head, and hearken to a secret. madam, our mother, has a silken cord for thee to hold him with. when may we come again and see him? i should like it to be to-day." dame edith was a liberal purchaser. her last choice was a beautiful little reliquary box, minutely carved, yet with a freedom of design which enchanted her. she would scarcely allow them to leave her, and the afternoon had advanced before father and son found themselves on their way back to the sacristan's house. he met them at the door--a little, withered old man--in an indignant temper. "folk should shut the door behind them, and not leave the house to be pillaged," he said, crossly. "here i come back and find all in disorder, and the door wide open to invite all the ill loons in the place to come in and work their will." "we left the door safely shut," said bassett, in surprise. "father--agrippa!" cried hugh, bolting into the house. his fears were too true. no agrippa chattered his welcome to them from the rafters, and as he always remained in that place of refuge during their absence, and was too timid to come down to any stranger, it was evident that some dire abduction had taken place. hugh, who had grown very fond of the monkey, was like one distracted. john, the sacristan, who loved it less, was disposed to be philosophical. "well, well, well," he said, "if the varlets have taken nought else i wish them joy of their bargain, and 'tis well it's no worse. by 'r lady, 'tis a foul thing to break into a man's house, and we shall see what the master of the college will say to the watch." "i'll find the poor beast, if he be still alive," said hugh, with a choke in his voice, "wherever they've bestowed him. 'tis peter's work!" he was rushing out when bassett checked him. "softly, softly," he said, "prudence may do more than valour in this case. let us ask a few questions to begin with. master john, at what time came you back?" "at four o' the clock, and found the door open--thus, and the tankard of ale i had left emptied. the scurvy knaves! but there's no virtue left in the watch since master simpkins got the upper hand, and hath upset all the ancient customs." scarce restraining hugh's impatience, his father made inquiries at some of the houses round, and ended at last in gaining information. goody jones was sick of a fever, and her little grandchild, playing at bob-apple before the door with another, had seen peter, the smith's son, and two other boys, whom she named, go into the sacristan's house. pressed to say whether she saw them come out again, she said nay. her grandam had called her, and she had run in. link the first was therefore established. hugh was for rushing at once to peter, and forcing the rest out of him, but bassett counselled more wary walking. "'tis a deep-laid plot," he said, "and it were best to meet craft by craft. besides, if they are accused, they may kill the poor beast to save themselves and spite thee. let us go out to the fair, and maybe we shall pick up some tidings." it was dreadful to hugh to behold peter in the distance, and to be restrained from falling upon him, and the fair had quite lost its charm, though the noise and stir had increased. costard-mongers were bawling apples--red, white, and grey costards--at the top of their voices; pig-women inviting the passers-by to partake of the roast pig which smoked on their tables; tooth-drawers and barbers, each proclaiming his calling more loudly than the other. the abbot of a neighbouring monastery had his palfrey surrounded by a group of clothiers, while a fool in motley was the centre of another group. among these the wood-carver spied a sturdy yeoman, the same dick-o'-the-hill who had opposed the cobbler earlier in the day. it struck him that here was a man for his purpose, and he managed to extract him from the others, and to tell him what they were seeking. honest dick-o'-the-hill scratched his head. "if you knew where they had disposed the beast," he said, "and breaking of heads could do it, i'm your man. but as for finding where 'tis hid, my wife would tell you i was the veriest numskull!" the next moment he brightened. "i have it! there's my cousin before us, carrying that fardel of hay. he's the wisest head for miles round, and i'll warrant he'll clap some sense on the matter. hi, mat! ancient mat!" thus adjured, a small, dried-up, pippin-faced man paused on his way, and waited till his cousin overtook him and explained what was amiss. he listened testily, showing profound contempt for honest dick's straightforward, though somewhat heavy-handed, suggestions, but more deference towards stephen bassett. "more likely that the knaves have sold than harmed the creature," he pronounced at the end of the story. "find out where it is, and i'll do what cracking of crowns is needed," said dick. "mend thine own, which is cracked past recovery," growled the other. "hearken, master,"--to bassett--"who is likely to buy such a beast?" "some noble household." "rather some puppet-show or party of mountebanks; those who have dancing dogs or a bear." "right!" cried stephen, joyfully. "what a fool was i not to think of it!" "i said he had the best head in the shire," said dick, with triumph. "and," continued matthew, unheeding, "thou wottest that the licence to all foreigners expires to-day, and that they must leave the fair? see there, those flemish traders are putting their wares together, and the abbot has made a good bargain for his silken hangings. my counsel is to go to the watch, and, when the bear and his masters are on the march, search for the monkey. if i mistake not they will not be able to hide him." "well thought of, friend," said bassett, heartily. "no need of the watch, though," put in dick-o'-the-hill; "i'll bring a stout fellow or two who'll do what is necessary." "ay, and get us trounced up as the trailbastons the king hates, numskull," said his cousin. "but 'tis nothing to me. go thine own way for an obstinate loggerhead!" dick, who seemed to regard mat's railing as something rather honourable than otherwise entered into the proposal with extreme zest. he produced a quarterstaff, which he flourished with formidable ease, declaring himself ready with its aid to encounter the bear himself. stephen bassett hoped to carry the matter through peaceably, but he felt that his efforts might go more smoothly backed up by a display of force, and welcomed dick's assistance, as well as that of a neighbour whom he offered to fetch. there was not much time to lose, and they agreed to meet at a certain spot within half an hour, a time which to hugh's impatience seemed interminable. his father had enough to do in keeping him quiet, and in finding out where the watch, whose business it was to keep order at the fair, were bestowed. matthew, having disposed of his hay, rejoined bassett, really desirous to know whether his surmises turned out to be correct; but, as he declared, solely that he might help to check his cousin dick's ignorant zeal. four of them, therefore, to say nothing of hugh, took up their position in the field just on the outskirts of the fair, and waited patiently or impatiently, after their natures, for the event. soon a motley crowd began to emerge from the booths. the most picturesque features of the show, indeed, were departing, for foreigners were not allowed to compete with the english traders beyond a certain number of days; and flemish, italians, chinese, streamed forth, to find a night's lodging as best they might beyond the forbidden limits. this expulsion was accompanied by a good deal of coarse jesting and railing from the other sellers, who rejoiced at the departure. it was not long before the bear appeared, led by two men. "father, father!" cried hugh, in a tumult of excitement. "speak the word, master, when thou desirest an appeal to my quarterstaff," put in dick-o'-the-hill, "or even give me a nod, and i'll warrant i'll not be backward. i'll answer for the bear." "ay, i verily believe thy head to be as thick as its own," said matthew. "when wilt thou learn that brains are better than fists? peace, and keep back." stephen bassett had stepped out, and civilly informed the men that a monkey had been taken from his house, and that he had reason to think it might be in their possession. "going beyond known facts," muttered matthew, "yet one must sometimes make a leap in the dark. they shake their heads and deny. what next? friend stephen presses his demand, and all four knaves wax violent in vowing lies; and dick is puffing and blowing with desire to break heads. they have the beast, but where?" his quick eyes, darting hither and thither, had soon answered this question. one or two of the men had bundles on their backs, and a boy carried something of the same sort, though smaller. matthew noticed that, at a word from one of the men, this boy slipped out of the group, and, avoiding the side where dick and his neighbour hob were mounting guard, passed round near matthew himself. in an absolutely unexpected moment he found himself caught by the arm, and though he fought and kicked he was held in a vice. the men turned upon matthew with threatening gestures, and dick, in high delight, flourished his quarterstaff, and pressed up to the defence with one eye on the bear, who in a free fight might be held to represent an unknown quantity. finding they had fallen into powerful hands the italians confined themselves to pouring out violent ejaculations, while hugh flung himself upon the bundle. his fingers trembled so much with excitement that he could hardly drag out the wooden skewers which served to keep it together, but in a minute or two it was unrolled, and the terrified monkey sprang out. he had made one frightened leap already when hugh's call checked him, and the next moment, with a cry of delight, almost human in its intensity, he ran to the boy, and clambering on his shoulder gave the most unmistakable signs of pleasure. "the monkey is his own jury," said matthew, sententiously. "tried and found guilty, my masters." the italians, however, had no intention of giving up their booty without a struggle, and they called upon several jongleurs, who had crowded round, to assist them. one went so far as to seize the monkey, whereupon dick's cudgel, describing a circle in the air, came down upon the head of the assailant with such force that he dropped like a stone, and hob following up with another blow scarcely less formidable, it seemed likely that here would be a battle royal. two men fell upon matthew, who would have been in evil case had not dick done as much for him as he had for the monkey; and stephen bassett was set upon with a vigour which soon left him breathless, although hugh, clasping agrippa with one hand, with the other arm laid about him to such excellent purpose that he hoped to save his father from hurt till dick could come to the rescue. but might has been often found to get the upper hand of right, and both stephen and dick had fallen into the common english error of underrating their opponents. a good many of the foreigners had closed round with the desire to help their own body, and without knowing anything of the quarrel; and the english, who would have stoutly taken the opposite side, could only see that some quarrel was going on, and supposed the strangers to be fighting among themselves. dick had done prodigies of valour, and dealt furious blows with his quarterstaff, but he was hampered by numbers who clung to his arm, and by the charge of protecting his cousin, and he was reluctantly framing a call for rescue when a party of horsemen rode into the very thick of the struggling mass, and scattered it in all directions. chapter three. rescued. it was time. stephen bassett was all but spent, and hugh, trying his best to shield him, was pressed backwards until, to his terror, he found himself close to the hairy form of the bear. but the instant the knights appeared the throng opened and fled, except the bear-leaders, who, hampered by their unwieldy animal, prepared to put the best face they could on the matter. for the first few minutes, indeed, there was nothing but trying to quiet the horses, frightened out of their senses by finding themselves in close neighbourhood with the bear, and this gave time for hugh to look, and to cry out joyfully-- "father, it is sir thomas de trafford! he will see justice done." "how now, my masters?" cried the knight, a dark-haired, bright-eyed man with a red face. "what means this brawling?" "your worship," said dick-o'-the-hill, wiping his face with the back of his hand, "these knaves have been taken in the very act of stealing." "is that you, dick simpkins?" said sir thomas, with a laugh. "i might have guessed that heads could not be broken without your having a hand in the breaking. but the king will have none of this violence, and the master of the hospital will have thee up for it, neck and crop." dick, looking somewhat sheep-faced at this view of his conduct, was yet going to reply, when his cousin matthew pushed forward. "hearken not to him, your worship," he began; "he is an ignorant though a well-meaning knave. but i humbly bid your worship take notice that these men be the culprits who have stolen our property, and, when we would have reclaimed it, set upon us, and were like to have killed us." "killed us forsooth!" muttered dick, stirred to anger at last. "--had your worship not come to our rescue. and as witness, knowing all the circumstances--none better--i claim, if they are put upon their trial, to take my place as one of the twelve jurors. it is a case of flagrant delict." the culprits, conscious of their guilt, but not understanding the conversation, stood as pale as death, glancing from one to the other. "let us hear in plain words what hath been stolen," said sir thomas, impatiently. "please your worship," said hugh, stepping forward and holding out the monkey, "it is agrippa." "a monkey! why, thou must be the urchin my little maidens are for ever chattering about. and edgar--where is edgar? not here? the youngster is stopping in the fair. and did these fellows steal thy monkey?" bassett, who had recovered his breath, put in his word. "ay, your worship; when we were away at your lady's, showing her the carved work of mine she would see. we left the door of john the sacristan's--where we are lodging--shut, and came back to find it open and the monkey gone." "might he not have escaped?" "he was too timid unless he had been driven forth. besides, we have evidence that the boy, who hath shown much ill-will already in the matter, was seen to go in at the door with two others. if these men are questioned i believe they will tell us that they bought the beast from these boys, and your worship may hold their fault the less." the knight growled something in his beard which was not flattering to foreign traders; but his sense of justice led him to take the course which bassett suggested, and he put his questions in french to the italians, who, watching the faces of those around (of whom a considerable number had now collected), were in mortal terror of short shrift. by all the saints in the calendar they vowed that no thought of stealing had crossed their minds. a boy had brought the monkey; they could understand no more than that he wanted to sell it, and, as they were glad of the opportunity, they gave him ten silver pennies for their bargain. matthew was greatly vexed not to understand this defence, in which he would have been ready enough to pick holes; but bassett, knowing that, though true in the main, their story said nothing to explain their denial of having seen the monkey or of its concealment in the bag, kept merciful silence. the men, at any rate, had been punished by fright, and when sir thomas de trafford asked if he demanded that they should be haled back and given over to the college authorities he shook his head. "e'en let them go, so we have the monkey," he said. the knight administered a sharp rating, and bade them tie up their comrade's broken head and be off; a permission of which they were only too glad to avail themselves, the bear shuffling after them and causing a fresh panic among the horses. "quiet, saladin!" said sir thomas, irritably. "master carver, somebody must suffer for this, and the boy who stole and sold the beast is the worst offender. thou--what is thy name--hugo? hugh?--what sayest thou should be done to him?" "your worship," said hugh, tingling all over with eager thrill of hope, "your worship, i should like to fight him." "trial by combat," said the knight, laughing. "nay, nay, he's a false loon, and that were too honourable a punishment. here, dick-o'-the-hill, thou knowest every knave for miles round, go to the watch, and bid them take the thievish young varlet to the whipping-post, and let him remember it. tell them i will answer for them to their masters." "tell them," matthew called after him, "that it is a case of flagrant delict." "here, master carver," said sir thomas, moving his horse a few paces off and beckoning to bassett, "that boy of thine is a gallant little urchin, and my babies have taken a fancy to him. wilt thou spare him to us? he shall be well eared for; my lady has but too soft a heart, as i tell her, for the youngsters of the household." "i am deeply beholden to your worship," returned stephen, hastily. "it sounds ungracious to refuse so good an offer, but i cannot part with him while i live. you may guess from my face that that will not be for long." at the first part of this speech sir thomas had frowned heavily, but he could not be wroth with the end. "the more reason," he said, "that the boy should have a protector." "true," bassett answered. "i have thought much of that. but i hope to have time yet to place him somewhere where he can follow my craft and build his own fortunes." "and you would throw away his advancement for a dream?" "is it a dream?" said the carver. "believe me, your worship, that, although you may find it hard to believe, we men of art have our ambitions as strong in us as in the proudest knight of king edward's court. hugh has that in him which i have fostered and cherished, and which i believe will bear fruit hereafter and bring him, or his art, fame." "small profits, i fear me," said sir thomas. "that is like enough. it may be not even a name. but something will he have done, as i believe, for the glory of god and the honour of his art." "well," said the knight, half vexed, "i have made thee a fair offer, and the rest lies with thyself. where go you after the fair?" "by friar nicholas's advice, gentle sir, as far as to exeter. he thinks i may meet with work there and a softer air." "since thy father will have nought better, i must find a gift for thee, boy," said the knight, reining back his horse. he drew a richly-chased silver whistle from his breast and threw it to the boy. "take good care of agrippa; my little nell would have broken her heart if she had heard he was gone. good day, friend matthew; good day, master carver." the next moment the little party had clattered away, leaving hugh with thanks faltering on his tongue, and matthew on tip-toe with pride at his own discernment. "never would you have seen your monkey again if i had not collared the knave," he said. "now, there is my cousin dick, an honest fellow as ever swung a flail, but with no thought beyond what he can do with fists and staff; no use of his eyes, no putting two and two together. i'll warrant me by the time he reaches the watch he will have forgotten the words i put into his mouth; and yet they are the very pith of the matter. i'll e'en go after him." he started off, while bassett and his boy made their way back towards the church, hugh ill at ease because, while the pommelling of peter seemed a fine thing, his doom to the whipping-post, though no more than justice, gave him an uneasy feeling. but his father would hear of no going to beg him off, and, indeed, it would have been bootless. peter's offence was one for which whipping might be held a merciful punishment-- "and may save him from turning into a cut-purse later on," added bassett. so agrippa went back to his rafters and met with no more adventures. the fair ran its usual busy course; the friar came often to talk with stephen bassett and to give hugh exercises in reading and writing; while, more rarely, eleanor and anne appeared with mistress judith--in great excitement the last time because the next day they were to set forth for their home. september was drawing to an end, the weather was rainy, and bassett began to make inquiries as to parties who would be travelling the same road as himself. dick-o'-the-hill was certain that his cousin mat would find the right people. he had implicit faith in his sagacity, and came with him in triumph one day to announce success. it seemed that a mercer, his wife, and son were going back to london and would be glad of company. and then it came out that matthew himself was strongly drawn in the same direction. "a man," he explained, "is like to have all his wits dulled who sees and hears none but clodhoppers. i feel at times as if i were no sharper than dickon here. now in london the citizens are well to the front. there is the alderman-burgh, with the law courts and the king's bench, there is the lord mayor, there is the king's palace at westminster and the great church of st paul's; much for a man of understanding to see and meditate upon, master bassett, and i have half a mind--" "have a whole one, man," cried the carver, heartily; "and i would dick would come too." "nay, in london i should be no better than an ass between two bundles of hay," said honest dick, shaking his head. "but if mat goes he will bring us back a pack of news, and maybe might see the king himself." it did not take much to give a final push to matthew's inclination. he had neither wife nor child, and, as he confided to bassett, his bag of marks would bear a little dipping into. he bought a horse--or rather dick bought it for him--the carver agreeing to pay him a certain sum for its partial use during their journey to london, and they set out at last, leaving the fair shorn of its glory. folk were travelling in all directions; but london was the goal of the greater number, and the little knots of traders with one consent, for fear of cut-purses, kept well within sight of each other. the road was not bad, although a course of wet weather might quickly convert it into a quagmire; and it was easy enough to follow, for one of the king's precautions against footpads was the clearing away of all brushwood and undergrowth for a space of two hundred feet on each side of the highway as well as round the gates of towns. a great deal of talk passed between the different groups, for fairs were the very centre of news, foreign and english, political and commercial, with a strong under-current of local gossip. the hansards, easterlings, and lombards had brought the latest information about the french claims to gascony, as well as much trading information from bruges, which was then the great seat of commerce; the english merchants discussed the king's wise and politic measures to promote the unity of the kingdom, a cause which edward had much at heart, as necessary not only for the greatness but the safety of that england for whose good never king toiled more unselfishly. it was all deeply interesting to stephen bassett, who had left his own country many years before, and was amazed at the strides civil liberties had made since that time. before this the making and the keeping of laws had depended upon the fancies of the reigning king, checked or enlarged as they might be by the barons. it was edward the first who called his commons to assist in the making of these laws, who summoned burgesses from the principal towns throughout the kingdom, who required the consent of the people for acts proposed in parliament, and enforced the keeping of these laws so powerfully that his greatest lords could no more break them with impunity than the meanest churl. he set up a fixed standard of weights and measures. up to this time all attempts in this direction had been failures, and the inconvenience must have been great. he tried to encourage the growth of towns, freeing them from petty local restrictions and introducing staples or fixed markets. under him taxation became more general and more even. he made a survey of the country yet more important than that of domesday. and if that honourable hold of plighted word was--at any rate until late years--the proud characteristic of an englishman, this national virtue, which does not come by chance any more than does a personal virtue, is owing in no small degree to the steady and strong example of the great king, who on his tomb left that bidding to his people--"pactum serva"--keep covenant. hugh, for love of his father, listened as well as he could to the talk; but he had good play-times as well, for there were many boys and girls on the road, and, indeed, the mercer with whom they travelled had his lad of thirteen with him. agrippa, held by dame edith's silken cord, was an immense object of interest; the mercer's wife made him a new little coat of scarlet cloth, and, besides the black rye bread which he shared with his masters, the children were never tired of bringing him nuts, costard apples, and spice-nuts, so that he fared well. he showed great affection for hugh, and was never so happy as when on his shoulder; tolerating stephen and detesting matthew. the hostels were crowded, and the accommodation of the roughest; but it was always a matter of rejoicing to have got through the day's journey without encounter of outlaws. highway robbery was one of the evils with which the king had vigorously to contend, and at their last halting-place the host's wife had such a number of terrible stories at her fingers' ends as made the more timorous shake in their shoes. she discoursed volubly as she brought in an excellent supper, which they ate with knives, forks being as yet a great luxury. "alack-a-day, my masters!" she said. "i wot that shameful things have happened on this very road not so long ago. my lord abbot from the neighbouring house, having but one brother with him, was seized and robbed, and left bound in the ditch. the thief made off with his palfrey, and that led to his being taken and hung; but the abbot, holy man! has scarce recovered from the shock." one story brings another, and matthew was seldom behindhand when anything had to be said. "things be better, however, than they were ten years ago. then was a time of riot. i mind me i had a cousin, living in boston, when there came to the gates one night a party of monks wanting room in the monastery. fine monks were these, for, when all honest citizens were in bed, out they slipped, stripped off their gowns, appeared in doublet and hose of green, and never trust me, my masters, if these merry men did not take the town so completely by surprise that they sacked and set fire to it before they left." "there, see now!" cried the hostess, lifting up her hands; "and they might do the same by us now, and we sleeping in our beds like babes!" "i warrant that was what caused the king to ordain that town gates should be closed between sunset and sunrise, and makes him so strict in the matter," said a monk who was seated at table, with a good helping of a fish called cropling on his trencher. "nay, good mistress, look not mistrustfully on me. i wear no cassock of green, only that which belongs to the habit of st austin, of which i am an unworthy brother." "there be land pirates and sea pirates," said the little red-faced mercer, pompously; "both be enemies to an honest man's trade." "alack, i know not how any can venture on the seas!" added his wife, putting her head as much on one side as her stiff gorget would allow. "there's terrible venturesome folk nowadays," put in the hostess, pouring out a tankard of ale. "they do say that ships be going so far as spain; never will they come back again, that's certain." bassett listened, smiling, to these doleful conjectures; at the same time, hearing more of the dangers of the highways made him think with some anxiety of the long journey to exeter which lay before them. his strength had been tried by that now going on, and he wished it had been earlier in the year, when the days had been longer and roads better. but he was naturally hopeful, and, comforting himself with the thought that on the next day, if all was well, they would reach london, he listened patiently to much which hugh had to tell about his comrades on the road and agrippa's cleverness before stretching themselves on the hard pallet which fell to their share in the common room. chapter four. god save the king! the last day's journey was a heavy one, owing to the rain which fell persistently. all the travellers wore their long pointed hoods, and carried tall, stout sticks, but their legs were not very well protected except by thick hose, and bassett's cough was none the better for the journey. he was glad enough when they came near the clusters of houses or villages which marked the outskirts of london, and saw the mist hanging over the city which, helped by the moisture from the marshes, the new use of coal was already beginning to produce. matthew was in a high state of delight. "truly something of a city!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands, "sheltering within its walls something like forty thousand souls. a noble city! i'll warrant a man of parts might make a name here. there are the walls." the carver was almost too weary to bear hugh's questionings as to the franciscan monastery in newgate street where they were to lodge, and whether the prior might object to the presence of agrippa. when they reached the monastery, indeed, he was so sorely spent that the good friars at once called one of their number who had studied physic and consigned bassett to his care, giving him, moreover, the best room in the guests' quarters. it must be said that the monkey was very doubtfully received, indeed he might probably have been altogether refused, for some of the brethren looked upon him as an actual imp of satan, or perhaps satan himself. but the prior was of a larger nature, so that hugh was suffered to take agrippa with him into the room he shared with his father. and here, in spite of his impatience, bassett was forced to spend a week, friar luke altogether refusing to allow his patient to leave the room until the cough and pain in his side were subdued. had it not been for his strong longing to reach exeter and see hugh started as an apprentice this would have been a time of peace for the carver. his quarters were sunny and cheerful; friar luke was a herbalist, and in his search for healing plants would bring him back what autumn flowers yet lingered, and talking of them would draw out stores of simple learning. agrippa, moreover, somewhat to friar luke's discomfiture, had shown a strong attraction for his master's physician, and would come flying down from all manner of unexpected places to greet him. sometimes the prior would visit his guest, and, being a man of thought, his presence was a real delight to stephen, while the prior was glad to hear the experiences of a man who had travelled largely and seen something of the world. as stephen grew stronger friar luke allowed him to attend the services in the chapel. then hugh would come in, rosy and excited with his walks with matthew, who would see everything, even to the hangings on the tyburn elms. they went to mass at st paul's, then surrounded by its own walls; they walked down the grassy spaces of strand; they looked with some dread at the round church of the new temple, and heard tales of the templars fit to make the hair stand on end; they passed another day to the village of westminster, where was the king's palace and the beautiful abbey, together with the great hall where parliament, when it met in london, assembled. it amused hugh very well at first to see the crowds of suitors who poured up the stairs--those who had some complaints to make, grievances to be redressed, or petitions to be laid before the triers. no hindrance was put in their way; everyone was free to come, each had a fair hearing. outlaws came to beg for pardon, when, if the triers thought fit, they were recommended to the king's grace; men and women sought redress from wrongs inflicted perhaps by the lord of the manor; jurors who had perverted their office were brought up to receive judgment--all these lesser matters were as much the business of parliament as granting aids to the king for carrying on the wars, and so fascinated was matthew with the scene that hugh was wearied to death of it before he could drag him away. he got him out at last, muttering to himself that had he but known how easy matters were made he would have looked up a case of his own against the university of cambridge. hugh, stirred by ambition to have to do with an actual suitor, which was much more exciting than looking on and listening to matters he did not understand, was for his going back again at once. great was matthew's indignation at the idea. "thou silly oaf!" he said, angrily. "to go without preparation!" "they but told a plain story," returned hugh, sturdily. "anyone could do as much." "seest thou not the difference? they were ignorant men with whom the council was wondrous patient, overlooking all their clipped words, and mercifully stooping to their simpleness. but for a man of understanding to put a case matters must be very different. fit words must he use, and just pleadings must he make, and be ready to give good reason. their worships know well with whom they have to do. i will take thee to the guildhall one day, and there thou shalt see the lawyers in their white coifs. they are no longer monks, as once they were." "i would liefer go down the river and see the ships," said hugh wearily. matthew, who was really good-natured, yielded to this desire, and they picked their way along the swampy ground as best they could, and past the tower. the great trade of london, even at this time when commerce was ever made secondary to politics, was so large that a number of vessels were in the river. strange craft they were and of all shapes and sizes, the largest resembling nothing so much as a swollen half-circle, broadening at one end, and coming round so as to form a sort of shelter, and curving sharply to a point at the bow. no such thing as sea charts as yet existed, so that a voyage was a perilous matter, and, in spite of the crusades and of the trade with the mediterranean, few vessels ventured through the straits of gibraltar. edward was turning his attention to the navy, and was the first to appoint admirals, but, so far, england's strength lay altogether in her army and her famous bowmen, and the sea was no source of power, nor her sailors famous. still, though matthew professed the greatest contempt for his taste, hugh found the river more delightful than the council hall, and was for lingering there as late as he could. some of the vessels were unloading, others embarking corn from the eastern counties, so that there was much stir and turmoil, and more vessels were in than was usual, because the time of the autumn equinox was dangerous for sailing. children, too, were, as ever, playing about, and one group attracted hugh, because in it was a little maid much about the size of little eleanor, and with something of her spirited ways. the boys, her companions, were rough, and at last one pushed her with such force that she fell, striking her head violently against a projecting plank. hugh flew to avenge her, but the boys, frightened at seeing her lie motionless, fled, and matthew stood growling at the manners of the age. hugh, used to sickness, ran to the water's brink, and scooped up a little water in his two hands. by the time he had poured it on her face and raised her head on his knee she opened her brown eyes with a cry of "mother!" and the next moment a man in a sailor's dress had leaped ashore from one of the vessels which were lading close by, had run to the group and taken her in his arms. "art thou hurt, my moll, and where?" "father, 'twas robin bolton pushed me." "ay, and i wot robin bolton shall have a clout on his head when he comes within my reach. but there, thou wilt soon be well again. thank thee for thy help," he added, more roughly, to hugh. "if you stand in need of a witness," began matthew, but the sailor interrupted him-- "witnesses? no! what she stood in need of was water, which thy boy fetched. he is quick enough to be a sailor," he added, with a laugh. "wilt thou come on a voyage to dartmouth?" "i should be frighted on the sea," said hugh sturdily. "nay, it's not so bad, so you fall not in with pirates, which are the pest of our coasts. i've been lucky enough to escape them so far. but then," he added with a wink, "they know me at dartmouth, and folk sometimes tell evil tales of dartmouth." he was of a talkative nature, or perhaps thought it well to keep his moll quiet on his knee, for he went on to tell them that his wife and child lived near the spot where they were, while he went on trading voyages, bringing up cornish ore from dartmouth and carrying back other ladings. he was very proud of his vessel, and yet prouder of his little maid, whom it was plain he did his best to spoil; and when he saw that she had taken a fancy to hugh, he told him he might come on board his vessel one day before he sailed. "which will be in a week," he said, confidently. "the storms will be over by then." hugh was glad enough of the bidding, for matthew, with his love for the law courts and for all that concerned the state, was but a dry companion to an eager boy. he went back to the monastery in high glee, to tell his father all that he had heard. friar luke was with stephen, having brought his patient a decoction of coltsfoot, and also a little bunch of flowers which he was examining with enthusiastic patience. "see here," he said, with a sigh, "though in good sooth one needs eyes of more than human power to examine so minute a structure. there is a talk that one of our order, friar bacon, who died not many years ago, could by means of a strange instrument so enlarge distant objects as to bring them into the range of a man's vision. i know not. many strange things are told of him, and many of our brethren believe that he had dealings with the black art. it might be he was only in advance of us all. but while he was about it i would he had taught us how to enlarge what is near. and, indeed, there is talk of a magic beryl--" "father, father!" cried hugh, rushing in breathless; "we have been to the river, and there was a ship, and a little maiden called moll, and the master has bid me on board the ship before he sails for dartmouth." he poured out the history of the day, standing by his father's knee, with agrippa nestling in his arms. bassett heard him so thoughtfully that hugh began to think he was displeased. "mayn't i go?" he asked, tremulously. "ay, ay," said his father, absently. "friar luke, tell me truly, do you still dread for me this journey to exeter?" "rather more than less," answered the friar. "the fatigue?" "ay, fatigue and exposure, but chiefly the fatigue." "yet i must go." "ay, ay, there is ever a must in the mouth of a wilful man," said the friar, testily. "and then you fall sick, and it is the fault of the leech." "that it can never be in my case," said the carver, gratefully, "for never had man a kinder or more skilful. but i will tell you why i ask. hugh's encounter has put into my mind the thought that we might go to dartmouth by ship." "the saints forbid!" said the friar, rapidly crossing himself. "you must be mad to think of it, master bassett." "nay, but why?" "the dangers, the discomforts!--shoals, rocks, pirates!" "dangers there are in all journeys. the discomforts will no doubt be great, but put on the other side the fatigue you warn me against." "you should not go at all," said friar luke. "remain here where you can be cared for. hugh shall be a serving-boy, and take the habit when he is old enough." "wilt thou, hugh?" demanded his father. a vehement shake of the head was his answer. "nay, holy friar," said bassett, with a smile; "i am bending the twig so far that the strain is great, but your proposal, i fear, would snap it altogether. but about our voyage. i am greatly inclined to hugh's new friend. when does he sail?" "in a week," said the boy, with some reluctance. he had not liked the voyage from flanders, and this promised to be worse. still he felt it incumbent upon him to show no fear. "that would do well. i tell thee what, hugh, thou shalt ask the master to come and see me here if he has a mind for another kind of cargo." with his usual hopefulness, the idea had taken hold of the wood-carver so strongly that he turned aside all remonstrances, though the prior himself came up to beg him not to be so foolhardy. but it was true, as bassett maintained, that each kind of travelling had its dangers, and, if the sea offered the most, he felt a sick man's longing to be spared trouble, and a feverish desire for the salt breezes. matthew, too, thought it philosophical to be above listening to the tales of sea-perils which the brethren related, it need hardly be said, at second-hand; but it must be owned that he showed no desire to extend his own travels so far as exeter. hugh went down the next day and talked to the master, who at first shook his head. "two landsmen on board? where could we stow ye? and if we met with rough weather we should have you crying upon all the saints in the calendar. a sick man, too! how could he put up with our rough fare?" "my father does not get frighted," said hugh, indignantly, though pleased to be counted a landsman. "thou art a sturdy little varlet," said the master, looking at him approvingly. "if my moll had been a boy, i should have been content had he likened thee. but i would not have her other than she is, and thou wast good to her the other day. i'll come and see thy father, and if he is a good, honest man, and none of your dandy long-toed fops, he and thou shalt have a passage to dartmouth." the next day was sunday, and, to the scandal of the grey friars, matthew insisted upon taking hugh to st bartholomew in smithfield, the noble norman church of the augustinian friars. there was a good deal of jealousy between the orders, and each was ready enough to listen to or to repeat tales which told to the discredit of the others; so that, as matthew said, black, white, and grey, each held their colour to be the only one in which a friar might travel to heaven. mass being over at st bartholomew's they went to great st paul's. this was in that day a splendid gothic church, twice as big as the present building, and with a dazzling high altar. but, in spite of its magnificence, and perhaps partly on account of its size, it was a notorious haunt of cut-purses and brawlers, and all manner of crimes were committed in the church; so that a few years before the king had given the chapter leave to surround it with walls and gates, treating it indeed as a town, and keeping out suspicious characters. by this means matters had mended a little, but there was still a great deal of unseemly conduct which caused scandal to the more devout. hugh came back to the monastery bursting with all he had to tell, and he was beyond measure delighted when his father said he would himself go out the next day. before the sun had mounted high enough for friar luke to allow this the master of the _queen maud_ arrived, and stephen saw a sturdy, sunburnt man, with an open countenance, blue-eyed, light-haired, wearing a garment of coarse cloth which reached to his knees, who looked as uneasy at finding himself in a monastery as a freshly-trapped pony from his own wilds of dartmoor might have looked in a walled town. his discomfort made him surly, so that he gave the carver no encouragement for the voyage. "hard living and a perilous life, my master." "that does not affright me." "because you know it not," said the other, impatiently. "here you sit in a drone's hive and hear the winds blow outside, and have no fear. with a plank for your wall you would tell a different tale." "i have tried the plank," said bassett, with a smile. "though, as you say, master shipman, we know not other's lives till we try them, and maybe you, if you lived here, would think more kindly of what you call a drone's hive." "the church and the pope swallow up all a poor man's savings," said the sailor, less gruffly. "'tis nothing but fresh taxes, and these lombard usurers are every whit as bad as the jews. i would the king could make as clean a sweep of them. to make money without working for it is a sin and a shame." "the king does what he can." "ay, does he," said the other, heartily. "he is the poor man's friend." "truly." the sailor looked at him. "why, then," he said, "if thou lovest king edward--" "no question of that." "e'en come along with us. i am but taking down some bales of cloth and of silk, and as thou mindest not a rough life, and i have a fancy for thy boy, we may perchance rub along together." so it was settled, and, in spite of the friar's forebodings, stephen bassett thought of his venture with an excellent heart. hugh was naturally fearless, and, though the sea was a great object of dread in those times, he believed his father knew best, and began to look forward also. but first he would have bassett come forth for his promised walk, and without matthew. "he has been very good to thee," said the carver reproachfully. "ay, but he has always something to say against everything. this might be better, or that couldn't be worse. i believe he would find fault with king edward himself." "poor matthew! he has the critical spirit," said stephen, smiling. "is that what makes him so thin?" demanded hugh, innocently. "ay. it often works that way, and is bad for the owner. nevertheless, it has its advantages. look at that bowl. if i listened to the good brothers i should deem it perfect; but when matthew says, `hum--i know not--is there not something lacking?' i begin to search for a way of bettering it, and presently find that he was right. so his fault-finding does me a better service than all their praise. keep that in mind, hugh. now we will forth. i will buy some cloth and take it to one of the tailors' guild, that you may have a cloak for rough weather like mine." this was a delightful errand, and when it was ended stephen had not the heart to refuse hugh when he begged that he would try to go towards st paul's and see the noble church. the boy was very happy in acting as showman, pointing out the beautiful spire while they were yet at some distance. he had begged to bring agrippa, promising to keep him covered by a piece of cloth, and the monkey was sufficiently alarmed by the strange noises and cries in the street to keep quiet. hugh found it a rare opportunity to ask questions which matthew had been either unable or unwilling to answer. "look, father, look quickly! there is a woman with bread in her panniers! what is she doing?" "i have heard of her," said stephen, stopping. "friar luke told me that, instead of folk being forced to fetch the daily bread from the bakers, there was now a woman who had got leave to take it round from house to house. she has the thirteenth loaf for her pains. truly there's no knowing to what a pitch of luxury we may come! are we nearly at our journey's end, hugh? my legs have fallen out of the way of walking, and are true sluggards." he was in truth standing somewhat exhausted in the road under one of the black-timbered houses in ludgate hill, when a small cavalcade of knights and squires, some in armour, some in the scarlet cloaks of the hospitallers, came sharply round the corner, so sharply, indeed, that in the narrow road one of the squires' horses struck stephen and sent him staggering against the wall. the party reined up at once. hugh had uttered a cry and sprung to his father's side, dropping the monkey as he stretched out his arms. half a dozen men-at-arms crowded round; one of the red-cloaked knights leaped from his horse, but they all drew back before one who seemed the principal knight, a man of great stature, with brown hair and thick beard, and gravely searching blue eyes. "is he hurt?" he demanded. "that is your squire's rough riding, sir john de lacy." "my liege, 'twas but a touch," urged an older knight. "i saw it all. he can scarce be hurt." stephen, indeed, had well-nigh recovered himself, though dizzy with the shock, and scarcely knowing what had happened or why he was surrounded by horsemen. hugh, seeing him revived, stared at the group with all his might, while the monkey, frightened to death at the horses, had run up a projection of the house and perched himself upon a carved wooden balcony, from which he scolded and chattered. "it is nothing, i am not hurt," faltered stephen; and then the colour rushed back to his white face, and he bent his knee hastily. "my lord the king," he stammered, "is it not?" "ay," said edward, with one of his rare kindly smiles; "but it was not i who rode over thee. art thou not hurt?" "nay, my liege, it is but that i have been ill. it was no more than a touch." it had all passed quickly, but a knot of bystanders had by this time collected, kept off by the men-at-arms. "he speaks truly, my lord," said one of the hospitallers who had dismounted. "he has not been hurt by the horse, but--" he paused significantly, and edward glanced at hugh. "come hither, boy." so hugh, crimson with wonder and delight, stood by the king's horse, and answered his questions as firmly as he could. his father was a wood-carver. they were going to exeter to seek work--by ship, as he took care to state; and meanwhile, because father had been so ill, they were lodging at the franciscan monastery in newgate street. "and is that thy beast?" asked the king, whose quick eye had caught sight of the monkey between the carved work of the balcony. "how wilt thou catch him? let us see." hugh promptly stood under the balcony, opened his arms, and uttered a call, to which agrippa responded, though fearfully, by swinging down by tail and hands and dropping into his master's arms. "well climbed indeed," said edward; and seeing that stephen was in some degree recovered, he bade one of the men-at-arms lend him his horse and go with him to the convent. "and here is a gold piece for thee, boy-- for remembrance," he added, tossing him the coin as he moved off. "and a silver one for the monkey," said a young knight, with a merry laugh, stooping to offer the mark to agrippa, who cleverly clutched it, and then trotting after the king. all had passed so quickly that hugh scarcely knew where he was or what had happened. he stood staring at the gold noble in his hand, while the bystanders closed up curiously, and one rough fellow, who looked as if he had been drinking, made as though he would have snatched it from his hand. a fat monk, with a red good-natured face, hit the fellow a sound buffet; the crowd laughed, and the man-at-arms made haste to get bassett on his horse, and to hurry his charges away, the king being always roused to anger by any brawling in the streets. "keep close to me," he said to hugh; "and give thy money to thy father. now, where are we bound? the grey friars? i warrant me they brew good ale there, and supper-time is nigh enough to make a tankard right welcome." "and that was the king," said hugh, drawing a deep breath. "ay, the king. what thinkest thou of him?" "i would i could fight for him," burst out the boy. "why, so thou shalt!" said hob trueman, with a laugh. "eat good beef, and drink good ale, and grow up a lusty yeoman. the king's a good master, i have nought to say against him--saving that he is somewhat over strict," he added, with qualifying remembrance. "we should be near by this time--" that night, before lying down in the wooden crib which served for bed, stephen bassett called his boy. "hugh, thou hast not forgotten thy promise," he said anxiously. "no, father;" in a low voice. "fight for the king thou must, or be ready to fight. that is the law for all englishmen. does not that content thee?" silence. then--"i should like to be near him, to be one of the men-at-arms." bassett sighed. "i cannot yield to thee, hugh." "no, father." "and i have no breath for talking to-night. we will speak of it again." chapter five. the voyage, and what came of it. stephen bassett was not the better for that day's work, though the accident was too slight to have harmed a man in fair health, and it made a sound reason for friar luke to urge upon him that he should give up his wild project of going west in the _queen maud_. but the carver was, if possible, only the more bent upon the scheme. he wanted to get hugh out of london, where was more stir of arms and rumour of wars than in the shires, and have him safely bound apprentice where there should be no withdrawing. "he will not fail me, poor little lad," he said; "but were i to be taken from him here his task would be ten times harder. besides, i see no opening for him except what the good brothers offer, which he would hate worst of all." so he kept the tales of his aches and weakness to himself as much as he could, though it cost him not a little to avoid friar luke's reproachful eye when he came in from the garden with his herbs; and, armed with a letter from the prior--written in latin on a strip of vellum--to the head of the franciscans in exeter, and accompanied to the water's edge by several of the brethren, and a hospitable store of provisions with which they insisted on supplying them, the little party and their gear got safely on board the vessel, and would go down the river by the next tide. little moll and her mother were there, which made it seem more friendly to poor hugh, who looked about him with dismay, and had had all possible mischances put before him by the friars, who thought bassett's action nothing less than flying in the face of providence. still, when the farewells had all been spoken, the cumbersome anchor dragged out of the mud, and the great square sail with its sprawling centre device rigged up, they went merrily down the river. it was getting towards the middle of october, and the great buildings of london, the abbey of westminster, the church of the templars, the gothic spire of st paul's, the tower, and various beautiful conventual buildings, stood, mostly surrounded by fine trees, in all the glory of autumnal gold and red. the lesser buildings--the very hovels--were picturesque, the river ran clear and strong, the vessels flaunted bright sails, colour was everywhere, and the soft blue mists but made a fair background for the scene. stephen bassett stood watching, with a feeling that it was for the last time, when andrew the ship-master joined him. "a fair prospect," said the carver. "ay, though i love my red devon hills better. but, tell me, master, is it true, as thy boy relates, that you met king edward yesterday and spoke with him?" "i said not much, i had no breath left in my body," said stephen, smiling; "but it is true that the king spoke to us, chiefly to hugh, and was very gracious." "to think of that!" said the sailor, staring. he walked away, but after this it was evident that his respect for his passengers was mightily increased, and he seldom came near stephen without putting some question as to how the king looked and spoke, while hugh had the same to answer from them all--more, indeed, since he never tired of the subject, and his pride in it was immense. his father had sewn his gold piece into the lining of his vest; hugh never intended to spend it, it was for "remembrance," as he was never tired of telling his father; and stephen used laughingly to inquire whether hugh had begun to persuade himself that he had been the hero of some courageous adventure, for reward of which the king had bestowed the token upon him? the boy used to redden at this, for there was a certain truth in the jest, and finding himself listened to with such interest by the sailors was like to turn his head. fortunately, as usual, there was a depreciating element. the youngest on board was a round-shouldered somewhat misshapen lad of seventeen, ill-favoured in temper as well as face, unpopular among his mates, except for one gift, that of storytelling. he could relate or invent tales with amazing ease, and on days when there was an idle calm the men, who at other times knocked him about roughly, would listen spell-bound for hours. this was his moment of glory. but on this voyage his power seemed gone. the real explanation was very simple: the wind had shifted so as to follow them favourably, they had got safely round the dangerous goodwins, and swept down the channel past dover, its castle and old british church standing out sharply above the white cliffs, while the setting sun shone like fire on the great sail of the vessel. they cast anchor in the first convenient creek; this required care and labour with the oars to avoid shoals, and the men were too sleepy afterwards to listen to stories. so it went on; the breeze blew freshly from the east, stephen, crouched under what shelter the stern could afford, shivered, but andrew the master rubbed his hands, and there was no slackening sail or delay. this was really the reason why the sailors would not listen to the boy jakes, but he chose to lay it to hugh's charge. "young fool," he muttered, "always boasting, and telling about the king, i wonder they hearken!" such spite as he could work he was not slow to show. many rough practical jokes he played, which stephen counselled his boy to receive good-humouredly. but hugh was set up with his ludgate hill adventure and the notice it had brought him, so that it made him mad to be jeered at for feeling sea-sick, or tripped up over ropes, or brought to the ground when he imagined himself to be sitting on something solid. jakes was afraid of agrippa, never having seen a monkey before, and fully sharing the idea that here was something uncanny, which was quite able to revenge itself if any harm was attempted. jakes, therefore, let him alone, and even preferred to play his malicious jokes upon hugh when the monkey had climbed the ropes and was out of reach and sight. the voyage had on the whole been a success, and the _queen maud_ was at length coasting along under the white cliffs of dorsetshire, with the red ones of devon lying rich and soft against a blue grey sky before them, and the sea leaping and whitening under the easterly wind. "strange that it should blow so long at this season," said the master, standing by bassett and looking forwards. "if it goes on, we may get in to-morrow night?" "ay, if it doesn't freshen into a gale, which the saints forbid! i mind not a gale in my teeth, but rocks before and the wind driving behind is what i mislike. methinks, master," he added, abruptly, "it will be well for you to get to your journey's end." "i have a longer before me," said stephen, with a smile. "ay, to exeter," answered andrew, misunderstanding, "and i have been thinking i would put you ashore at teignmouth, and save you a piece of your journey. i might try exmouth, but--there are ill tales of exmouth, as i told you there were of dartmouth," he added, with a laugh; "at dartmouth they know me, but at exmouth--there might by chance be a mistake." stephen thanked him heartily, saying, and truly, that the shortening of the road would be a great gain. they put in that night at a small harbour formed for the convenience of coasting vessels, but though their start was made with the first glimmer of dawn, jakes, who generally had to be aroused by a rope's end or a kick, had been on shore, and came back carrying a bag and grinning from ear to ear, so that hugh was forced to ask him what he had got. "apples," he said, still grinning; "rare fine apples. bide a bit, and shalt have one." hugh, who loved apples as well as any boy with a wholesome appetite should do, kept an eye on jakes and his promise without suspecting that there might be anything unfriendly in this sudden change of disposition. the wind had freshened, of that there could be no doubt, and the sailors were busy with the lumbering sail, when jakes beckoned hugh forward to the bow, where was the bag. "put in thy hand and pull'm out, quick!" he said, running back to his work; and, thinking no harm, hugh thrust in boldly, to have his fingers instantly seized in a nip which made him feel as if by the next moment they would be all left behind in the bag. he cried out lustily, and dragged out his hand, to which a fine blue-black lobster was hanging, a creature at least as strange to hugh as the monkey was to jakes. the more he shook the tighter the lobster pinched, and when one of the sailors looked round the sail he could do nothing but split his sides with laughing. hugh, crimson with pain and fright, was dancing about, vainly trying to disengage his hand. jakes, the next to appear, broke into uproarious merriment. "ha, ha, ha!" he yelled, "told him there were apples in the bag, and he went for to steal 'em! serve him right, serve him right! how like you your apples, my master?" the buffeting of the wind in the sail and the rising noise of the sea had kept much of this from stephen, but he at last became conscious that something unusual was going on, and made his way to the bows. "father!" cried poor hugh, flying to him. "why, my little lad!" said bassett, unable himself to avoid a smile, "what coil have you got into?" "what is it?" demanded the boy, in a shamefaced whisper, as his father proceeded quietly to loosen the great claws. "a lobster. didst never see his like? he will be a dainty morsel for supper, and will change his blue coat for a scarlet. there," he added, as he finished his task, "i counsel agrippa not to let his curiosity jeopardise his tail. but how did he fasten on you?" "it was that wicked jakes!" cried hugh, with flashing eyes. "were a stealing my apples," jakes retorted, defiantly. "told him there was apples in the bag, and he put in his hand and the lobster caught un." and clapping his unshapely hands on his knees, he roared with laughter once more, until he bent himself double. hugh flew at him like a tiger, but the other sailor pulled him off. "never heed the great lozel," he said. "it was but an apple." "he told me--he told me to put in my hand and take one out," panted hugh, struggling with his captor. "he's a false liar!" "softly, hugh, softly," said his father gravely. jakes was for telling his story again with fresh detail, when the master's voice was heard calling angrily. stephen got hugh back into shelter, and agrippa, frightened by the creaking of the mast and the straining of ropes, clambered down to take refuge in his master's arms. hugh's face was like a thunder-cloud. he burst out presently-- "to call me a thief!" stephen was silent. "if dickon had left me alone, i would have made him own it was a false lie. i would i were a man!" "why?" "i should be strong and could fight," the boy said, surprised at the question. "i often think of that time," returned bassett thoughtfully. "i may not be here to see it, and i would fain know--" he paused. "what?" asked hugh. "who thou wilt fight?" "who? mine enemies," said hugh, lifting his head. "if you know them." "i shall know them, because they will try to do me a mischief. jakes-- he is an enemy," fiercely. "thou hast worse than jakes, my poor little lad," stephen said, tenderly, "and nearer at hand. thine own passions will truly do thee a mischief, except thou keep them under. there's fighting ground for thee. and, see here, i have long meant to say something to thee about king edward, only i have an ill-trick of putting off. thou thinkest the only way of serving him is by hard blows. he himself would tell thee that there be better ways. serve the state faithfully as a peaceful citizen, keep the laws, and work for the glory of god and the honour of england. he would tell thee more. that his hardest work of government has been the task of governing himself. that is what has made him a great king. it seems small to thee just now, but one day, my hugh, my words may come back." a fit of coughing stopped him. hugh's ill-temper had had a little cooling time, but it had not by any means left him. it was not the pain, perhaps it was not even so much the being called a thief, for no one on board was like to listen much to jakes, and as for his father he had not even cared to allude to the absurd accusation. what hugh really so much hated was the being laughed at. he had heard the men roaring with merriment after dickon joined them, even his father had laughed; it would be for ever a sort of standing joke. what turned his thoughts more than anything was the weather. anyone could see how much the wind had strengthened since they put out to sea. the colours, which had been clear and distinct, now had become blurred; a wet mist, not yet rain, but near it, was driving up from the southeast; the waves had grown larger and rushed past them in wild hurly-burly; the air was full of noisy tumult; the clumsy vessel groaned and laboured on her way, and stephen and hugh could not find shelter enough to protect them from the clouds of spray which swept across the vessel. andrew, the master, was too closely occupied with his work to come near them; he shouted directions to the man who was steering, but kept by the sail, and bassett knew enough of the sea to suspect that they were in a position of some peril. for himself he thought it mattered little. he knew that he was even more ill than he outwardly appeared, and the wetting under which he was shivering was likely to quicken matters. but for hugh? he could resign himself, it was a far harder matter to resign this young life, so full of vigorous promise--to give up with him all the hopes in which he had indulged of fame to come to his name, though not in his life. he had dreamt of late much of this; had pictured hugh leaping to eminence, leaving his mark as a stone-carver in some beautiful cathedral, where age after age his work should stand, and when men asked who had done this great thing, the answer would be--hugh bassett. was it all to end in an unknown grave under the grey waters which leaped so wildly round their prey? every half-hour the storm seemed to increase in fury. the shores on either side were now blotted out, and the steering was a matter of great difficulty. andrew took it himself for a time, but his quick eye and steady courage were needed for the look-out, and he went forward again until he gave orders to strike sail. then he once more came back and stood near bassett and hugh, looking as undaunted as ever. but when he spoke they could scarce hear his voice for the turmoil of the sea. "rough weather, goodman!" "ay! will the boat hold?" andrew, who had stooped down to catch the carver's words, straightened himself with a laugh. "ay, ay, the boat will hold. no fear of her failing. but where she will carry us i would i could say so certainly. thou wouldst fain be back in the drones' hive hearkening to book and bell, eh?" "i am right glad to be remembered in the good brothers' prayers," said stephen, quietly. "well, it may be as you say. those i have known--i would not have given a base pollard for the pardon-mongers' prayers; but there are false loons in every craft." they were silent again, for their voices were pretty well stormed down, and the sea broke so fiercely over the vessel that two or three of the men had to be constantly baling it out. still she held her way gallantly. the shipmen of that day were not without an imperfect form of compass, in which the needle was laid upon a couple of straws in a vessel of water, but these contrivances were apt to get out of gear at the very time when they were most needed, such as a storm like that now raging round the _queen maud_, and hardy sailors trusted rather to their own skill and courage or their knowledge of the coast. nothing was, therefore, so dangerous as fog or mist. to hugh, however, what seemed most terrible was the wild driving storm and the rush of the waves against the boat, which shivered under each stroke as if she had received a mortal blow. agrippa, wet and miserable, cowered in his master's arms, and turned up a piteous little wrinkled face full of inquiry. hugh crept closer to his father, and at last put his question-- "shall we be drowned?" stephen turned and caught his hands in his. "nay, my little lad, i know not, i know not! i should not have brought thee!" the boy looked in his face gallantly. "i am not frightened," he said, "only i wish poor agrippa were safe." they were silent again after this. andrew was evidently uneasy; he shouted orders to the sailors, and strained his eyes through the baffling mist as if he feared what might be in advance of him. his hope, and it was a feeble one, consisted in the chance that he might strike the estuary of the teign, avoiding the bar, and, as the tide would be full, getting into the shelter of the river. he was one of the most skilful of the sailors of the west, knowing all the currents and dangers thoroughly; but navigation was then in its infancy, and vessels were clumsy, lumbering things, suited but to calm weather, when they would coast along from creek to creek. the bolder craft chiefly belonged to pirates. still, england was beginning to awake to her sea powers, and henry the third had taken the title of ruler of the seas in honour of a victory gained over the spaniards. andrew himself had been down as far as spain, and was held to be over-daring; moreover, he wanted to hasten his voyage and get back to his wife and to moll, otherwise he would hardly have put out that morning in the teeth of a possible gale. and now, although nothing was to be seen except perhaps what seemed like a thickening of the mist, stephen knew from the master's face that the danger was worse. he was so numb and cold himself as to feel indifferent to his own fate--besides, as he reflected, at the most it was but shortening his life by a month or two--but his love for hugh went up in a yearning cry that he might be saved. he touched him, and made the boy put his ear close to his mouth. "see here, hugh," he said, with labouring breath, "if you are spared out of this coil thou must make thy way to exeter. the franciscans will take thee in at first, but thou must seek out james alwyn. i mind me that was the name of thy mother's cousin. get him to apprentice thee where thou canst learn thy trade. thou hast it in thee--do not forget." "no, father," said poor little hugh, glancing fearfully round. it was but a minute after that, or so it seemed, that they heard a cry from one of the sailors. the wall of mist had suddenly become solid; it loomed before them in unmistakable cliffs, so near that the man who was steering dropped the rudder and fell upon his knees. with a cry of rage andrew leaped back from the bows, seized the rudder, and using all his strength forced her head somewhat round. it was a strange sight, this struggle of the man with the elements. the man standing undaunted in the midst of a hurly-burly which threatened quick death, facing his danger without flinching, resolute, bent upon snatching every advantage which skill could give him. that the vessel was drifting against the wall of red rock before them was plain; stephen, clutching hugh in his arms, wondered that the master should hope to avert it. suddenly he saw andrew's face change. he set his teeth, and slackening the rudder drove straight for the cliffs. there was a breathless pause; the next minute the vessel struck a small sandy beach, driven up it and wedged there by the uplifting force of the waves. the master's keen eye had noted the one comparative chance of safety, and had tried for it. almost as the ship touched the sailors sprang forward and leaped into the sea. only andrew, bassett, hugh and agrippa remained on board. chapter six. a weary journey. the first sensation had been one of deliverance. the second was more like despair. the waves breaking against rocks and shore looked more terrible than out in the open sea, and this sudden rush for safety on the part of the men had something about it so cowardly that it produced in stephen a wretched sense of desolation. he supposed that in another moment andrew would have followed his fellow sailors, and they would be left alone. andrew had in fact rushed to the bows as the men leaped over, and stephen, bitter in spirit at such a cruel desertion, strained his boy in his arms so that, if he could do no more, he might at least hide death from him. he almost started when he heard a voice. the master was standing over him with a face full of rage. "the cowardly loons!" he cried; "i would the waves had choked them! no devon man would have played such a trick. i knew they were helpless oafs, but to save their skins like that! if they had stopped it would have been easy enough, but now we must think how to get thee on shore." stephen sprang up. "think not on me. my life is nothing. save hugh, and i ask no more." andrew stared at him and began to laugh. "prithee, dost thou suppose i should leave thee here to drown? why one of thy precious drones' hive would scarce be so unmanly, though, in truth, i can say nought against them after those base knaves of mine. but now, see here, if i fasten a rope round the mast--which will hold yet awhile--and go ashore with the other end, canst thou find thy way?" "the boy first." "ay, the boy first, and the monkey with him, if the beast has the sense to hold on. thou wilt want both hands for thyself, hugh." "i will tie him to me," cried the boy, hopefully. his hopes had risen with andrew's cheerfulness, and as for bassett, with the revulsion of feeling, a new and extraordinary strength seemed to have come to him; he helped the master to fasten the rope securely, and stood, unheeding the buffet of wind and waves, watching the sailor when he had cast himself into the sea, and was fighting his way towards the shore. once or twice he was sucked back by the retreating water and nigh overwhelmed, and the time seemed endless before they made out that he had gained a footing, and was with the other men on the beach. his shout only faintly touched their ears. "now, hugh," said bassett firmly. they had bound poor agrippa as closely to him as they could, while round his own neck the carver had disposed a bag with money and such small specimens of his workmanship as were portable. his tools he was reluctantly obliged to leave behind him; his breathing could bear no further weight. "thou wilt be sorely scratched by agrippa," he said. he was so hopeful he could smile. but the monkey was so cowed that he only clung closely, turning his head piteously from side to side, and realising that something terrible was about to happen. hugh bore himself manfully. one or two of the sailors who had escaped, finding themselves safe, were ready to help andrew with the rope, and though the boy was half choked and sorely beaten by the waves, he held on, reaching the shore after a tremendous tussle, by the end of which he was so spent that he fancied he must drop, when he felt himself clutched by andrew and drawn through the remaining waves. he lay for a time exhausted on the beach; but life was young and strong in him, and he staggered to his feet, tried to comfort and warm the poor monkey, and to watch for his father's coming. andrew had scarcely thought that bassett would have the strength to bear the passage through the surf. it relieved him greatly to find that the carver was slowly nearing the shore. now and then he disappeared under the crest of a great wave, but he always reappeared, holding on with a tenacity which was little less than miraculous. andrew, though even his strength was pretty well spent, again cast himself into the sea to help him in his last struggle, and the carver by his aid managed to reach the shore, but in so terrible a plight that hugh cried out and flung himself by his side. and now a very dreadful thing happened, for, as stephen lay there like a log and hugh knelt calling on him to look up, the waves, which had but just had their prey snatched from them, as if they meant to show that in another case they had had their way, brought up something large and dark and motionless, and flung it at their very feet; and while hugh, scarcely recognising what it was, yet shrank from it as from some fearful thing, two of the men ran hastily down and seized and dragged it beyond the water's reach. hugh caught the face then, and gave a cry of horror; it was the boy jakes--dead. he must have swooned after this, for when he came to himself again he was lying higher up, at the mouth of a small natural cave formed in the sandstone rock. his father sat by him, and in the cave a fire of brushwood had been lit, close to which crouched agrippa, munching black rye bread soaked in sea water, and jabbering with satisfaction. "father," said the boy, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, "are we safe?" "saved by a miracle, my little lad." "but jakes--his face--what was it!" "he was drowned," said bassett, gravely; "he never got to land with the others. eat some of this bread; i had it in my pocket." "is anyone else drowned?" asked hugh, shuddering. "no, thank heaven! and the master has gone off to see if perchance there might be some hut or cottage near where we can get lodging for the night and means of reaching exeter." "father, you must be spent. think no more of me. sit by the fire, and take off your clothes to dry." hugh was almost himself again, although evidently deeply shocked at the death of jakes, and with the burden on him of remorse for unkind thoughts which is hard to bear. but fire and food comforted them all in some measure, and andrew came back before long to tell them that he had been lucky enough to reach a serf's hut not far away, where they could at least find shelter, with hope of a horse. "you have done everything for us, and have lost more than any," said bassett, gratefully. "nay, i know not what i have lost yet," returned the sailor. "the bales of silk and woollen are spoiled; no hope for them. but maybe, if the gale goes down, i may have my boat again. i can put up with the rest." when they had rested awhile they made their way up through a sort of gully piercing the red cliffs. this same redstone amazed hugh, for the pools of rain were crimson to look at, and he had never seen anything like it before. but glad enough he was to turn his back on the wild sea. "i hate it! i would i might never see it again." "thou wouldst be a poor crusader," panted stephen, whose breath was sorely tried by the ascent. they stumbled on through tussocks of grass until they reached the top, where trees grew thickly, though somewhat one-sided and windblown with south-west gales. andrew was not with them, but he had directed them fully, and they soon came upon a rough hovel, built of a mixture of mud and straw called cob, and coarsely thatched. a wild-looking herd and a wilder-looking woman stared at them from the doorway; but though uncouth they were not unkindly, and had got a fire of logs burning, together with bread and bacon and a large tankard of cider on the table. as usual, the monkey caused the greatest astonishment, and hugh dared not loosen his hold of him because of a sheep-dog, who growled angrily at the strange party. the other sailors were already there, eating and drinking and drying their clothes, and presently andrew came in. he was very short and surly with the men, though, as he told stephen afterwards, unable to cast them off altogether, as he would willingly have done, because, if there were a chance of saving the boat, he would need their help in getting her off and in sailing her. all depended upon the abatement of the gale. if the wind went down with the tide there was a chance of floating her in calmer weather and of repairing damages. she was strongly built, and, so far, showed no signs of breaking up. to hugh's eyes his father seemed scarcely worse or more feeble than he had often been before. he was very pale it is true, his breathing was laboured, and he had a short, sharp cough, which scarcely ceased; but he was keen to push on, and would not rest until he had urged the herd to go that evening to the sheep-farm where he worked, and where he thought a horse might be bought. they were, as stephen ascertained, not more than fifteen or sixteen miles from exeter, the spot where they were wrecked being a little north of the mouth of the teign; and this he was feverishly anxious to declare they could ride in a day. a strong horse could easily carry two; it was madness for him to think of remaining where he was for rest, since if he became worse there was no means of procuring a leech. "e'en go thy way," said andrew, half angrily, half sadly, for he had done enough for his passengers to feel a sincere liking for them. the hut, as usual, consisted of but one smoky room, in which they all bestowed themselves for the night. andrew saw that stephen had the best of the miserable accommodation; but little rest came to him owing to the constant torment of his cough, and he was up as soon as the sailor and out in the air, though not strong enough to go down to the cove. but what a change was there since the former night! the wind had shifted to the south-west, and blew as softly as if it had never known violence. the sun, though not yet showing much face through misty grey clouds, filled the air with delightful promise. all the land colouring was rich and varied, for the trees, though shaken by the past storm, were in their fullest and most gorgeous autumnal colouring, and the deep red of the soil, the vivid green of the grass, and the brown of the bracken made a splendid harmony of tint. the sailors followed the master to the cove; the herd went off to his work, promising that the horse should come when the morning was a little advanced, after the nine o'clock dinner; the wife made much of hugh; and stephen, looking and feeling wretchedly ill, tried to wear off his restlessness by wandering towards the edge of the cliff, but his strength giving out he was forced to crawl back and sit quiet. the horse arrived, and proved a strong, serviceable beast. stephen could scarce touch the coarse food, being too feverish. andrew came up quite hopeful, and laden with the carver's tools and other possessions, which, though somewhat marred by the salt water, he was thankful to see again. the woman of the house dried the clothes; all the gear was securely strapped on the horse, and then came the farewells. the master would not consent to receive a penny for the cost of the voyage. "nay," he said, "we feasted on the grey brothers' good cheer, and, by my troth, i shall never have the heart to call it a drones' hive again. one of these days moll and i will go and have speech with friar luke, and let him know what befell. nay, i tell you, i can be obstinate too, though with no hope of evening thy powers in that matter. wonderful it is that so little mischief has been done with all that turmoil; if the poor fool jakes had but stayed on board he would have saved his skin." "have a mass said for his soul," said stephen, pressing a little money into his hand. "nay, thou must not refuse, it is conscience money." "well, it shall go to the grey brothers," said andrew, who seemed to limit his new-born tolerance to the one monastery. "hearken, hugh, if thy father is spent, get him to stop for a night on the road. some day i shall come to see thee at exeter." the kind-hearted sailor stood watching the pair when they had started, stephen riding, hugh stepping manfully through the bracken, and both turning back and waving their hands until they were lost in the thicket of underwood through which they had to pass before reaching the road. road, indeed, it could scarce be called, for at this season the best were in some places nigh impassable, and devonshire mud when it is left to follow its own will cannot easily be beaten. in sortie parts the road was little more than a channel worn by constant running of water, and leaving banks on either side; and, owing to the rain of the day before, the water flowed down these banks in little runnels, and rushed cheerfully along the course at the foot. hugh, however, found it amusing enough to splash through these streams, or to leap from bank to bank, and clamber along through ivy and long grasses and briars and nut-bushes; such a thicket of greenery as he had never seen before. when he was tired he would scramble up behind his father, the stout grey making light of his double burden; and he was untroubled by stephen's anxiety lest these narrow lanes should offer opportunity for thieves and outlaws. they met no such dangerous folk. a ploughman passed and looked curiously at them, and a priest carrying a staff, and on his way to a sick parishioner, stopped and inquired whither they were bound. bassett's evident illness made the good man uneasy, and he would have had him rest at his house until better able to go on; indeed, pressed it on him. the carver shook his head. "i thank you heartily, sir priest, but i must push on, having, as you may judge, but little time before me. if, of your courtesy, you will point out the shortest and safest road, you will be doing us a kindness." the old man, who had a very pleasant and earnest face, assured him that, so far as he could tell, the country for some miles round was tolerably free from rogues, though he could not answer for the neighbourhood of exeter. he himself went a little way with them, and directed them the shortest path along the rocks, where the sea stretched on one side, softly grey, and only a little stirred with remembrance of yesterday's gale, and pointed out exmouth, which he said had an ill character for pirates, and then showed them the exe stretching away, and told them how they should leave it on their right and take the inland road, and so left them with his blessing. it was all that stephen could do to hide his increasing weakness from hugh. there were times when he felt that he must give it all up, drop from the horse, and let himself die by the road-side. only a will strong for his boy's sake could have given him strength to sit upright. when they paused at a little hostelry for some food he did not dare get off his horse, fearing that he might lack the resolution to mount again. his suffering became so acute that he could not hide it from hugh, and though the boy dreaded nothing worse than one of those sharp fits of illness which his father had weathered before, he did his best to induce him to seek a night's lodging on the road. but stephen refused almost irritably. nor could he bear to follow where hugh's remorse would have led him-- into talk of jakes. it seemed as if he would put aside all that was harsh and painful, and he was either silent or--as the boy afterwards remembered--let fall words which showed that his thoughts were with the wife he had lost, or dwelling upon some of the talks he had had with friar luke. once or twice hugh was sorely perplexed by what he said, fancying that he could not have heard rightly; but stephen seemed unable or unwilling to repeat the sentence, and murmured something else. once they fell in with a gay party going to a neighbouring castle; there was a minstrel, and two or three glee maidens were of the company. when they overtook stephen and hugh they were making a great noise and merriment, and the boy wondered why, on seeing them, all their jests died away and they looked almost frightened. they made haste, too, to part company, saying they had no time to spare; and hugh saw them looking back and pointing as at some strange sight. he was beginning to be alarmed himself, though not knowing why, perhaps chiefly because his father seemed to heed him so little, no longer asking if he were not tired, or noticing agrippa's merry pranks, but riding bent upon the horse's neck, and seeming only to keep his seat with difficulty. hugh called gladly to him when he saw before him a town which he guessed to be exeter, lying on a hill above the river, with the fair cathedral standing in a very beautiful position about half-way up, and stephen so far roused himself as to clasp his hands and to murmur, "god be thanked!" but with that fell back into silence. it was well that the road was plain enough to need no consultation; and poor little hugh, wearied out, for he had ridden but little of late, thinking it oppressed his father, struggled manfully on, hoping to get in before sunset. it was well, too, that the last mile or two was of a tolerable flatness, and the road wider and less heavy, though always bad; for stephen grew more and more bowed, and hugh became so fearful lest he should fall that he had to steady him as he walked by his side. thankful he felt when he came upon a few scattered hovels while the sun was yet some quarter of an hour from setting, at which time the town gates would be shut, and presently he saw the river running swiftly, swelled by the autumn rains, and spanning it a brave new bridge of stone, with houses and a chapel upon it. "father, father, here is exeter!" cried hugh, with anxious longing for some reassuring word. but he got no answer, and not daring to pause lest the gates might be shut, he joined the throng of citizens who were pressing in for the same good reason, and passed through the gate before setting himself to ask any questions. the first person he addressed gave him a shove and told him to get out of his way; but the second, who by his dress and bearing might have been some kind of trader, stopped at once, and having satisfied his own curiosity as to who they were and where they came from, showed himself of a most friendly nature. "we are in the western or high street," he said; "we have come through the west gate, and the franciscans have their house between this and the north gate. but thou art a little varlet to have so much on thy hands, and thy father looks in a sore plight. a monkey, too! how far have you come?" "some sixteen miles, noble sir." "nay, i am no noble; only plain elyas gervase. sixteen miles, and a dy--a sick man who can scarce keep on his horse! what doth he work at?" "he is a wood-carver, sir." "why, that is somewhat my own craft, since i am a stone-cutter. have you friends in this fair town?" "father has a letter to the prior, and i am to seek out a cousin of my mother's, master james alwyn," said poor hugh wearily. "the child himself is almost spent," muttered the good citizen to himself. "prothasy would make them welcome, and we are surely bidden to entertain strangers. thou and thy father shall come home with me," he added aloud, laying his hand kindly on hugh's shoulder. "my house is nigher than the monastery, and i will speak to a learned leech as we pass. both of ye need a woman's care." if the boy was a little bewildered at this change of plan he could not oppose it, nor had he any desire to do so. there was something in master gervase's honest face which instinctively inspired confidence. he was a man of about forty-five, somewhat light as to complexion and hair, his beard was forked, his eyebrows were straight, marking a kindly temper, and his eye was clear and open. he wore an under tunic of blue cloth, with buttons closely set from the wrist to the elbow of the tight sleeve, tight pantaloons, and low boots with long pointed toes. his hair hung a little below his ears, and was covered by a cap. he walked up the steep western street by the side of the horse, passing his strong arm round poor stephen's bowed form so as in some measure to support him, and he paused presently before a door, and sent in a boy to say that master gervase prayed master miles to come without delay. a few minutes after this they stopped again before a timbered house projecting far into the narrow street. without a moment's delay gervase had lifted stephen from the horse, and rather carried than led him in. "prothasy!" he called, the moment he was in the passage. "i am coming!" answered a voice, and, following the sound, a young woman ran in, small, dark, bright-eyed, and scarcely more than a girl in appearance. "how late thou art, elyas! and whom have we here?" starting back. "a sick man for thee to nurse. nay, thou shalt hear more later, when we have got him to bed. wat! where's wat? wat," as a lad hastily appeared, "go out to the door and take the horse, and see that he has good food and litter. send the boy that is there in here." it was evident that prothasy gervase was a capable woman. she asked no questions, made no difficulties, but ran to see that all was right, and stephen, too much exhausted to be aware of what was happening, was got into his crib-like bed in a little room overlooking the street, and mistress gervase had brought up some hot spiced wine and bidden hugh take a drink of it before the doctor came. then elyas took the boy down to the common room, and asked him a number of questions. he was one of the burgesses who, by a recent law, was responsible for the good conduct of twelve--some say ten--citizens, and would have to furnish an account of the strangers, so that besides the call of natural curiosity, to which he was not insensible, it was necessary that he should know something of their history. he listened attentively to the story of the shipwreck. "and what brought thy father here?" he asked at last. "he thought," faltered hugh, for his spirits had sunk low, never having seen his father in such sore plight before, "that our cousin, master alwyn, might help him to get work in the great church of st peter's." "james alwyn is dead," said gervase, gravely. hugh's face quivered. he seemed more lonely than ever. "he died a year ago, come martinmas. what was thy mother's name?" "alice alwyn." "i mind me there was one of that name lived out by clyst. and--but i warrant me thou wilt say, ay--is thy father a good craftsman?" "there is no better work," said hugh, proudly. "he will show it you, gentle sir, and you will see." "ay," said gervase, hesitatingly, "and thou wilt follow his craft?" "i would carve in stone," muttered hugh, turning away that his questioner might not see the tears which sprang into his eyes. he was tired, and his heart seemed strangely heavy. "sayest thou so!" eagerly. "thou art right, there is nought like it. we must see what can be done for thee, perchance--" he checked himself. "i must talk with prothasy," he added, under his breath. he was very good to the boy, leaving him to make a good meal while he went out to meet the doctor, a gaunt, melancholy man, dressed in bluish grey lined with thin silk, who spoke with bent head and joined finger-tips. "by virtue of the drugs i administered," he began, "my patient hath revived a little, but is in evil case." "how long will he live, sir leech?" demanded elyas bluntly. "scarce more than a few days. i am going home to prepare a cordial, and i shall cast his horoscope to-night, when i doubt not to find evil influences in the ascendent." "you may take that for granted without seeking to find out whether it is so," said the other, with a short laugh. "however, let him want no care. will you be back before curfew?" the doctor promised and kept his word. by eight o'clock all lights were out; hugh was stretched on a rough pallet in his father's room with agrippa, at whom mistress prothasy looked askance, by his side, and all was silent, indoors and out, save for the quick laboured breathing of the sick man. chapter seven. in the warden's household. it was doubtless a satisfaction to the leech's astrological mind to ascertain that, beyond a question, malignant conjunctions were threatening stephen bassett. but without this profound knowledge it was evident to the watchers that master gervase had brought home a dying man, who would not long be spared. he rallied a little, it is true, and though at times light-headed, and always taking young mistress prothasy to be his lost alice, could understand and be grateful for the kindness shown him, and speak feebly to hugh about his work. the prior's letter had been taken to the franciscan monastery, but no sign was given by that house of the kindly hospitality shown in london. "i knew it," said elyas, with some triumph to his wife. "when the boy told me whither they were bound, i could not bear they should have no more comfort than they would get from that fat prior. now, the poor man shall want nothing." "truly, no," said prothasy, quite as heartily. "but it were best that our little joan remained away a little longer with thy mother." "i suppose so," answered her husband, with a sigh. "the house seems strangely silent without joan." "we must have sent her away had she been here," she said decidedly. he went to the door and came back. "prothasy," he said, with something like appeal in his voice, "that is a comely little lad." "ay, elyas." "what will become of him when his father is dead?" "thou hadst best seek out some of his kin." it was not the answer he wished for, yet, as always, it carried sense with it; he hesitated before he spoke again. "if he would be a stone-cutter?" "thou hast two apprentices already." "ay, but a fatherless child--" "elyas, thou wilt never learn prudence. all would come upon thee." "the guild would help in case of need." "so thou sayest, but never wouldst thou apply." he made no answer, only seemed to be reflecting as he left the room. she walked quickly up and down, once or twice dropping her long dress and stumbling in it. "was ever anyone so good as he, or so provoking!" she exclaimed, half crying. "a fine dowry will come to joan, when her father spends his all upon strangers! and yet he makes me cry shame upon myself for close-fistedness, and wonder at the sweetness with which he bears my sourness. if he will, he shall have the boy as prentice, i'll e'en put up with the monkey; but, do what i will, it is certain i shall season any kindness with sharp words, and elyas will feel that all the while i am grudging. i would i had a better heart, or he a worse!" elyas, meanwhile, all unknowing of these stormy signs of relenting, went slowly up to the little bare room where the carver lay, while hugh, looking out of the small unglazed window, was telling him as much as he could see to be going on in the street. stephen, however, was paying little attention, and when gervase came in his eyes brightened at once. "leave agrippa here," he said to hugh, "and do thou run out and look at the cathedral, and bring me back word what it is like." his interview with his host was long, the more so as he could speak but slowly, and at times had to stop altogether from exhaustion. then it was necessary that elyas should see the carving, which took him altogether by surprise. "truly," he said, "this will make our good bishop's mouth water! he is ever seeking for beautiful work for st peter's, and thou mightest have made thy fortune with misereres and stalls. perchance--" he said, looking hesitatingly at the carver. stephen shook his head. "never again," he said. "but hugh, young as he is, has it in him. if-- if he could be thy apprentice?" elyas almost started at having his thought so quickly presented to him from the other side, but he did not answer at once, and stephen went on, his words broken by painful breathing-- "there is a little money put by for him--in yonder bag--i meant it for this purpose--the horse may be sold--if i thought he could be with thee i should--die happy." gervase was not the man to resist such an appeal. he stooped down and clasped the sick man's wasted hand in his. "the boy shall remain with me," he said. "rest content. i am warden of my guild. he shall learn his craft honestly and truly, shall be brought up in the holy faith, and shall be to me as a son. there is my hand." with one look of unutterable thankfulness the carver closed his eyes, and murmured something, which elyas, bending over him, recognised as the thanksgiving of the _nunc dimittis_. he said no more, but lay peacefully content until he roused himself to ask that a priest might be sent for; and when hugh came in elyas left him in charge, while he went to seek the parish priest, "and no monk," as he muttered. hugh was full of the glories of the cathedral, to which he had made his way. it had remained unfinished longer than most of the others in the kingdom, but the last bishop, quivil, and the present, bitton, had pushed on the work with most earnest zeal, and hugh described the rising roof and the beautiful clustered pillars of soft grey purbeck marble with an enthusiasm which brought a smile of content upon the face of the dying man. "would i could work there!" said the boy, with a sigh. "one day," whispered his father, "master gervase will take thee as apprentice; thou wilt serve faithfully, my hugh?" the boy pressed against him, and laid his cheek on the pillow. "ay, to make thy name famous." "no, no," gasped stephen, eagerly. "that dream is past--not mine nor thine--not for thyself but for the glory of god. say that." "for the glory of god," hugh repeated, gravely. "father?" "ay." "where wilt thou live?" there was a silence. then the carver turned his eyes on the boy. "i am going on--a journey--a long journey." hugh shrank away a little. he began to understand and to tremble; and he dared not ask more questions. the priest came and he was sent from the room, and wandered miserably into a sort of yard with sheds at the back of the house, where the stone-cutting was going on, and journeymen and two apprentices were at work. one of these latter--the younger--was the boy called wat, whom hugh had already seen. he was a large-limbed, untidy-looking, moon-faced lad, the butt of many jibes and jests from the others, careless in his work, and yet so good-natured that his master had not the heart to rate him as he deserved. the other apprentice, roger brewer, was sixteen, and had been for six years with gervase, who was very proud of his talents, and foretold great things for his future. he was a grave sallow youth, noticing everything and saying little, and with a perseverance which absolutely never failed. the journeymen, of whom there were three, were stone-workers who had been gervase's apprentices; their seven or eight years ended, they now worked by the day, and hoped in time to become masters. they wore the dress and hood of their guild, and one, william franklyn, had the principal direction of the apprentices. much of the stonework of the cathedral was being executed under gervase's orders. when hugh appeared in the yard, agrippa produced an immediate sensation, wat and the men crowding round him, roger alone going on with his work of carving the crockets of a delicate pinnacle. the boy's eyes glistened as he glanced about at the fragments which were scattered here and there, while the others, on their part, were curiously examining the monkey. "saw you ever the like!" cried wat, planting himself before him, all agape, with legs outspread and hands on his knees. "why, he hath a face like a man!" "ay, wat, now we know thy kin," said one of the men, winking to the others, who answered by a loud laugh. "where got ye the beast?" asked william, laying his hand on hugh's shoulder. "at stourbridge fair," answered the boy. he had to give an account of their adventures after this, and they stared at him the more to hear of london and the shipwreck. "and so thy father is sick to death in there?" said another man, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. the tears rushed into hugh's eyes, and franklyn interposed. "his craft is wood-carving, they say. hast thou learnt aught of the trick of it?" "nay, i shall be a stone-carver," faltered the boy. "i am to be prenticed here." "with master gervase?" "ay." william franklyn looked black. he had a nephew of his own whom he had long tried to persuade the master to take into his house. that hope was now altogether at an end. he turned away angrily and went back to his work. "what wilt thou do with thy monkey?" cried wat, hopping round in high delight. "no foreigners may work in the yard. that were against the guild laws," said one of the men. "down with all easterlings!" they were a jesting, light-hearted set, who laughed loudly, lived rudely, had plenty of holidays, yet did excellent work. at another time the boy would have had his answer ready, but now was sick at heart, and wanting nothing so much as a woman's comforting, and the men thought him sullen. he got back to his father as quickly as he could, leaving many remarks behind him. "an ungracious little varlet!" said one. "tut, man, he could scarce keep back his tears," said another who saw further. "what makes the master take another prentice? i thought mistress prothasy would never abide more than two. and there was thy nephew, william, if a third must be." "the master will do what pleases him," said franklyn stiffly. "or what pleases mistress prothasy, and most likely this is her fancy. she would have another wat in the house." this was followed by a loud laugh, for wat's awkwardnesses were well-known to bring him into sore disfavour with the mistress of the house. the day went by, and the night came on again. elyas proposed sitting up himself, but stephen refused, saying that he wanted no one but hugh. "and i think i shall sleep well," he added, with a feeble smile. afterwards, gervase thought he meant more than his words conveyed. before hugh lay down his father made him put back the shutter from the little window, and look out upon the night. all was quiet, lights were extinguished, every now and then the watchmen came up and down the street, but no other noises were abroad; the opposite houses rose up so closely that from the balconies it looked as if it were possible to touch hands, and over head, though it was late autumn, the moon shone in a serene sky, sending her silver rays into the narrow street and intensifying all the shadows. stephen listened, while hugh told him just what he could see. the boy closed the shutter and would have lain down, but stephen called him feebly to his side. "remember," he whispered, with difficulty. "for the glory of god." "ay, father." "and the--enemies. fight the right enemies." "ay, father." something the carver murmured, it might have been a blessing, but hugh caught only the word, "alice." "shall i get thee aught, father?" "nay. lie down--i will call if i need aught." it was his last self-denial for his child. the boy was soon asleep, but through the long hours, stephen lay, fighting for breath, until the struggle ended in unconsciousness, and that, too, passed into death. when elyas came in the early morning, and saw what had happened, he lifted hugh in his strong arms and carried him into the room where the other boys slept. wat was snoring peacefully with open mouth, but roger was awake, and the master hastily whispered how it was to him. "keep the boy here. tell him his father must not be disturbed," he said. it was prothasy who, after all, broke the tidings. she shrank from it at first, saying that elyas was tenderer in words and less strange to hugh, but her husband looked so grieved that, as usual, she repented, and did his bidding. and she was really kind, leading him in herself to look upon the peaceful face of the dead, and soothing his burst of tears with great patience and gentleness. the days that followed were strange and miserable to poor hugh. he had never been without his father, who had been father and mother both to him, and had made him so close a companion that in many ways he was much older than his years. and, in spite of all kindness, the sense of solitude and loneliness that swept over him when the funeral--which the guild of which elyas was warden attended--was over, and he was back in the house, with a new life before him, to be lived among those who were, in good truth, strangers, was something which all his life long he could not forget. the good master had him rightly enrolled as his apprentice, and then judged it well to leave him alone for a day or two, telling him he might go where he liked until his work began. no place seemed so comforting to hugh as the cathedral. he would go and watch the workers, and feed his keen sense of beauty with gazing on the fair upspringing lines and the noble sheaves of pillars, and wonder whether the day would come when work of his should find a place there, and his father's dream be fulfilled. chapter eight. difficulties. it was about a week after this that master gervase in working dress went out into his yard. dinner was over at an early hour, and the two meals of the day were long and plentiful as to cheer; so long and so plentiful, indeed, that there is a record in the preceding reign of thirty thousand dishes being served at one feast, and the sumptuary laws which regulated excesses in dress and food do not seem to have been uncalled for. in master gervase's household there was no excess, but abundance in every kind, and hearty partaking of beef and cider, mistress prothasy being famous for her housekeeping and capable ways, so that elyas went into his yard with all the contentment of a well-fed man. men and prentices were hard at work in their different ways. franklyn and roger had the finest cutting, and elyas paused before roger's crocket to examine his progress. "it is excellent," he said, heartily, so that the lad's sallow face flushed; "the cutting deep and clean--naught can be much better in good sooth than the workmanship. thy design is not so good." "no," said roger, quickly. "no. it wants freedom, boldness, it smacks too much of the yard and too little of the artist. there is thy stumbling-block, roger. i can give thee the means of execution, but i cannot put this into thee. see!" he seized a piece of burnt stick which lay by, and on a rough plank hastily sketched a crocket similar in form to that on which roger was working. but what a difference! what strength in the up-curved lines! what possibilities seemed to blossom out of the rapid outline! as roger watched a look of bitter mortification gathered in his face; the ease and vigour of the drawing were, as he recognised, quite beyond his grasp. when the master moved on he drew the board close to him, yet so that it was concealed from other eyes, and tried with all his skill to bring his carving into better harmony with its spirit. gervase glanced at all the work in the yard, giving a word to each, and special praise to a canopy which franklyn and another man were engaged upon, and which was an order from a neighbouring abbey. to a fourth worker, peter sim, he pointed out that his moulding was thin and wanted richness. "ay," muttered his neighbour, "he is so thin himself he can see no beauty save in leanness." "that will scarce be thy failing, hal," said gervase, good-humouredly. "now, wat, what tool is that thou art using?" "it is broken, but it cuts well enough, sir," said wat, regarding his half chisel with affection. "cuts well enough," repeated the master, angrily, throwing the tool on one side; "and what thinkest thou, prithee, the guild would say if i suffered such a tool to be used in my yard? and how came it broken?" "there never was such a one for breaking his tools," grumbled franklyn, who had picked up the chisel and was examining it; "it is my belief he uses them to dig the ground with." "nay," said wat, scratching his head, "but the stone is hard." "thou shalt spend thy next holiday in finding out whether it be hard or not," said elyas, angrily, "an thou be not more careful. how now, hugh, what work have they set thee to?" the good man's heart melted as he looked at the boy, who seemed a sad little figure among the others. he had got into a far corner, and agrippa peered down from a rafter in the shed. "why art thou in this dark corner by thyself?" demanded elyas. "they like not agrippa, sir," said hugh, listlessly. elyas looked vexed. his wife was also sorely set against the monkey, and he would gladly have had it away, yet he could not find it in his heart to deprive the boy of his only friend. he stood awhile watching hugh work, and presently went across to franklyn. "see that no harm comes to the monkey," he said in a tone which all might hear; then, in a much lower voice, "that is hard work thou hast set him to do." "he must learn his craft," said franklyn, gruffly. "but he is a little urchin." "the more need he should begin at the beginning." "his father told me he had a wonderful talent for his age." "fathers ever think their children wonders. is it your pleasure, master gervase, that i treat him differently from any other prentice?" "nay, nay," said elyas, hastily, and, knowing that the idea of favouritism would make hugh very unpopular, he pushed the matter no further. the time that followed was full of bitterness to hugh. franklyn, though not a bad-hearted man, was sore and disappointed to have his nephew, as he thought, supplanted, and, since he could not visit it upon the master himself, he visited it upon hugh. the other men sided with franklyn, and hugh made no efforts to gain their good-will; pride grows quickly, and he had been a good deal set-up on board the ship, although jakes's death had shocked him into a temporary shame. his self-importance was sorely wounded by finding himself treated as absolutely of no consequence, he, who had spoken, as he reflected with swelling heart, with king edward himself. mistress prothasy was sincerely desirous to pleasure her husband, but she loved not boys, classing them all as untidy and unmannerly. it had been by her wish that elyas had hitherto abstained from taking more than two apprentices, and, as she was proud of her influence over him, she had made it a matter of boasting when talking to gossips whose husbands were more wilful. she hated having to put up with what she now took to be their pitying smiles, and, without meaning to be unjust, her feelings towards hugh were not friendly. it provoked her, moreover, to have the monkey, which she both feared and disliked, in the house, and she was constantly urging elyas to send it away. but what hugh felt sharply was franklyn's treatment of him as of one who must be taught the very beginning of his craft. he had learned much from his father, and had been made to use his tools when he was scarce six years old, so that in point of fact he was advanced already beyond wat, who had gone through three years' apprenticeship. but of all this, and in spite of the master's hints, franklyn was doggedly unheeding. he allowed the boy nothing but the roughest and simplest work. he explained with provoking carefulness each morning how this was to be carried out, and if, as frequently happened, the boy was inattentive, he rated him sharply. the discipline might have been good, but injustice is never wholesome, and feeling himself to be unfairly treated, hugh set up his back more and more, took no pains to please, and moped in solitary corners. elyas saw that things were moving wrongly, and was vexed, but he never willingly interfered with franklyn's rule, and having an easy-going genial nature was disposed to believe that with time and patience things would right themselves. he had ever a kindly word for hugh, though not realising how the boy clung to him as to a link with that past which already seemed so far away and so happy. the weeks passed and november was well advanced. there was no lack of holidays and feastings, which hugh in his present mood found almost more irksome than work. agrippa was his chief companion, and yet his greatest care, as the monkey, if he took it with him, was ever likely to call a crowd together, and perhaps get pelted, until one day elyas, coming upon him in one of these frays, advised him to have a basket and carry him thus, by which means he was able to take him to the cathedral itself. wat was not unfriendly. he was awkward and ungainly, and ever falling into disgrace himself, but this afflicted him scarcely at all. he had a huge appetite, and stores of apples, nuts, and cakes, which he was ready enough to share, and could not understand that anything more was wanted for happiness. hugh, caring little for these joys, despised wat's advances, and would not be beguiled into friendship. he was very miserable, poor boy, and inclined to wish that he had stayed with the franciscans in london, as friar luke counselled, or to long--oh, how earnestly!--that his father had suffered him to accept sir thomas de trafford's offer and be brought up in the good knight's household. as for learning his craft, that, he said bitterly to himself, was hopeless; he was more like to forget what his father had taught, and to sink into such coarse work as wat's. in fact he made up his mind to the worst, and would scarce have been contented with easier measure. towards the end of november a new personage came into the family, small in size but of immense importance, mistress joan gervase, aged five, who had been for some time staying with her grandmother, and had remained so long, owing to an attack of measles, or some such childish complaint. great preparations were made for her home coming; mistress prothasy had the rooms furbished, and made all manner of spice-cakes, and elyas rode off one day in high spirits, to sleep at his mothers and to bring back his little daughter on the morrow. it was a bad day for hugh. he was sick of his work, and, instead of setting himself to do it as well as he could, all went the other way; careless chippings brought down franklyn's wrath upon him; he would take no pains, idled and played with agrippa, and was altogether unsatisfactory. franklyn had good reason for anger, though rather too ready to jump at it, and he was rating the boy loudly when mistress prothasy came into the yard to deliver some message with which she was charged from her husband. it was an expressed wish of his that she should never interfere with the conduct of the prentices at their work. indoors she might say what she liked, and nothing displeased him more than a sign of disrespect on their part, but in the yard it was understood that she was silent. nevertheless, on this occasion she asked franklyn what hugh had done, and hearing that agrippa was in the matter burst out with her own grievances. "the hateful little beast, i would he were strangled! i am frighted out of my life to think of what he may do to joan! but i will not bear it. hark ye, hugh, thou wilt have to dispose of him. i have threatened it before, and now i mean it, and i shall tell thy master that it makes thee idle over thy work. he or i go out of the house!" she swept away, leaving hugh in a whirlwind of grief, bewilderment, and anger. part with agrippa, his one friend? never! and yet--he knew from experience, and the men often spoke of it--master gervase never gainsaid his wife. he dashed down his tools, caught agrippa in his arms, and faced franklyn in a fury. "you have done nothing but spite me, and i hate you!" he cried. "you may kill me if you like, but i will never part with my monkey!" in his heart of hearts franklyn was sorry that things had gone so far, but such rebellion could not be overlooked, and he fetched hugh a sound buffet which made him tingle all over, told him the master should hear of it, and that he should have no supper but bread and water. hugh sullenly picked up his chisel and went on with his work, paying no heed to wat's uncouth attempts at comfort. work was to be put away some hours earlier than usual, and a feast provided for supper in honour of mistress joan's return; but hugh would go no farther than the balcony which ran outside the prentices' room, supported by wooden posts, and here he crouched in a corner, hugging agrippa, weeping hot tears of rage and turning over in his mind possible means of escape. he had heard tales of prentices running away from harsh masters, although he had an idea that dreadful penalties were due for such an offence; but he thought he might manage to avoid being re-taken, and cared not what risks he ran. where should he go? if he could get to dartmouth someone might keep him till andrew the shipman came again and took him back to london, and the boundless hope of childhood made the wild plan seem possible as soon as it came into his mind. he had the king's gold noble sewn into his clothes, and though he never intended to spend it, the feeling that it was about him gave him a sensation of riches. he had received his first month's pay, as apprentice; this amounted, it is true, to no more than threepence, but elyas had given him two groats from his father's store, and he hoped that people would be willing to pay something when he had got far enough to let the monkey display his tricks without fear of detection. all these plans he made hastily, for the more he thought over the matter the more determined he was to run away at once. he must slip out of the gates before sunset, and while elyas was absent; there would be so much excitement in the house with joan's return that he would not be missed until it was too late to follow him. wat had gone off to see some men in the pillory; hugh hastily rolled his father's things in a bundle, slipped agrippa into his basket, and was out of the house without meeting a soul. he could not help pausing at broad gate to look through it once more at the cathedral, but something in the beautiful building, some memories of his father's hopes, brought such a choking lump into his throat that he turned hastily away, hurrying down the western street and out at the west gate, and flattering himself that he had passed unnoticed by the keeper of the gate. from one cause or another he had not gone that way since the evening they entered a month ago. here was the new stone bridge; there in its midst stood the fair chapel where lay the good citizen who had given the bridge to the town, a little light burning ever before the altar. how well hugh remembered touching his father's arm to show it to him, and how he got no sign in return, and was frightened. and then but a minute or two later master gervase had come to their help like a good samaritan, and he no longer felt so lonely. it was an inconvenient recollection, because he could not help recalling with a rush how thankful his father had seemed when he came to himself, and knew in whose house they were. also with what earnestness he had prayed master gervase to take hugh, telling him that he was a good boy and would be a credit to him. "but father never knew!" cried hugh, stifling uneasy thoughts; "he never thought i should be set to fool's work, and flouted at, and agrippa taken away." he pushed on with the thought. he fancied that he remembered a house some five or six miles away, where the woman had been kind, and would have had them come in and rest. this was the place where he meant to spend the night. but travelling in november was harder work than a month earlier. the road soon became a quagmire, lain began to fall, darkness set in, and there was no moon. he trudged on as bravely as he could, but he began to be very much frightened with the loneliness and the darkness, and the uneasy sense that, unlike the time when he passed before, he was not going the way in which he could expect the overshadowing care in which his father had rested so confidently. then more than once side roads branched off; he was not sure that he was keeping to that which was right, and little as he seemed to have to steal, there was the king's gold noble which would be excellent booty for any cut-purse. the house seemed so long in coming that he began to think he must have passed it in the dark, and when at last he made it out, his heart sank to think that after all his efforts he had got no further; besides, there was not a light or sign of life about it, it looked so gloomy and forbidding that he was scarcely less terrified at it than at the lonely road. he ventured at last, however, to knock timidly at the door, but was answered by such a fierce growling that he clasped agrippa the closer and fled. fled--but where to flee? wet to the skin, hungry, miserable, before he had got six miles on his way, what could he do? creeping back to the house to see if there were no outside shelter under which he might crawl, he at last found a small stack of fuel piled close to the mud walls, and by pulling this out a little formed a small hole where he made shift to lie, shivering, and in a miserable plight. he slept, however, and forgot his misery until he awoke, cramped, aching all over, and hungrier than ever. he was too much afraid of the dog to venture to wait till the people were up and about, and set off again on his weary tramp, hoping he might reach some other hut where he could get food for himself and the monkey. rain still fell, though not so heavily, and he could not understand why he got on so slowly, and found himself scarcely able to drag one leg after the other. agrippa, too, also wet, cold, and hungry, shivered and chattered piteously. at last he reached a hut where the man had gone to work, and the woman gave him black bread and cider. but she had an evil face, and took more from him than the food was worth, casting greedy looks at the remainder, and the children ran after him and pelted him and agrippa with stones; so that hugh was forced to hurry on as fast as his aching limbs could carry him, and by the time he had gone up a little hill, felt as if all the breath were out of his body, and he must drop by the road-side. he knew now that he must be ill, it seemed to him, indeed, that he was dying, and it was horrible to picture himself lying unheeded among the piles of dead leaves, the dank and rotting vegetation, the deep red mud--no one would know, and his only friend, poor agrippa, would die of cold and hunger by his side. it was no wonder that his thoughts went back with longing to master gervase's house in exeter, where food and shelter were never lacking. after this he still struggled on, but in a dazed, mechanical sort of way, until he was quite sure that he had been walking all day, and that night must be near at hand. and with this conviction, and all the horror of coming darkness sweeping over him, he felt he could go no farther, and flung himself down upon the wet bank, under a thick growth of nut-bushes. there master gervase found him. when elyas reached home close on sunset the day before, there was so much welcoming and hugging of joan, so many messages to give, so many things to be spoken about, that he did not at first miss hugh, especially as wat was also absent. by-and-by when wat returned, open-mouthed with sights at the pillory, elyas asked for the little boy, and prothasy poured out her grievances. the monkey made him idle, and she had said it should not stay in the house, and then he had flown into a rage with william, and had been told he should have nought but bread and water. "and that is better than he deserves," she ended. "look you, husband, i am resolved. that evil beast shall not remain here with joan. thou knowest that my nay is ever nay." elyas looked very grave, but made no answer. hugh was idle, and no rebellion against franklyn could be permitted, yet his kind heart ached for the fatherless little fellow who had taken his fancy from the first. he would not interfere with the punishment, but he resolved that when supper was over, he would go upstairs and see whether he could not mend matters. and he was a little distraught throughout the long supper, whereat joan reigned like a veritable queen, and, it must be owned, tyrannised in some degree over her subjects. she rather vexed her mother by demanding the new boy. father had talked to her of him, and had told her of a wonderful little beast with a face like an old man's, and hands to hold things by; she would love to see him--where was he, why didn't he come to supper? "think not of him, joan," said her mother quickly at last. "he is no playfellow for thee. he would bite and terrify thee." this caused an interval of pondering, and prothasy fondly hoped of impression, but presently mistress joan lifted her little golden head. "i want him," she said. "i would kiss him." prothasy looked reproachfully at her husband, who was smiling. the supper, as has been said, was long, and before it was finished joan, tired out with excitement, was leaning against her father's arm, asleep. he lifted her tenderly and carried her to their room, where she slept, and where she was soon lying in her little crib, looking fairer than ever. husband and wife stood gazing at her with overfull hearts, and elyas, ever large in sympathies, let his thoughts go out to the wood-carver who had cared so much for his boy, and wished he could have taken hugh with him that day, or that he could talk him into readier obedience to franklyn. he was very desirous to temper justice with mercy when he left joan and went to seek hugh. it surprised him exceedingly to get no answer to his call. he lifted the light and looked round the room in vain, nor was agrippa to be seen overhead among the rafters. it was possible that hugh had slipped out and stayed thus late, but he had never done it before, and it was seven o'clock, dark and raining. elyas began to feel very uneasy. he sought his wife, called franklyn, who had not left the house, and questioned the other apprentices. roger never paid any attention to hugh, treating him as a little boy, whom it would be waste of time to notice; wat reported that he had invited him to go out with him, but got no answer. "he had never seen a man in the pillory, either, and here were three," added wat cheerfully. quick compunction seized prothasy, though rather for her husband's sake than hugh's; she said little, but ran hastily about the house, and even out into the wet yard, where, however, franklyn had been before her, and then she stood in the doorway, looking up and down the street. her husband's voice behind startled her. "he hath run away," he said gravely. "thinkest thou so?" she said turning quickly. "elyas, it was not much that i said, and it was not he but the monkey which provoked me." "nay, i am not blaming thee, i blame myself. he is but a little lad to be left friendless in the world, and i might have been more tender with him, and kept him more by mine own side. then this would not have happened." "where will he go?" "that i must find out at the gates, which i will do presently, though it is too late to pass out to-night. most likely he has taken the road he knew best." he came back before long, saying it was as he thought, for the keeper of the west gate had seen the boy go out. at sunrise elyas said he would mount his good grey and follow. there was nothing else to be done, and he made as light of it as he could to prothasy, saying the dreariness of the night might give a useful lesson. and so it was that early the next day, when poor hugh had got no further than a bare two miles from the place where he had slept, although he felt as if he had been walking all day, master gervase came upon a little figure lying under a clump of nut-bushes, and with a pang in his heart, sprang off his horse, and gathering hugh and agrippa into his arms, mounted again, and rode back as quickly as he could to exeter. chapter nine. bishop bitton in his cathedral. hugh's illness was severe and painful, for he was racked with feverish rheumatism, and could scarcely bear to be touched or even looked at. often he was light-headed and talked persistently of his father, imploring him not to leave him, and at other times would cry so bitterly that it was impossible to soothe him. prothasy had been terribly shocked when her husband rode up to the door, carrying his unconscious burden, and had spared neither care nor attendance upon him, rigidly carrying out the directions of the leech, which to us would sound hopelessly fantastical, and listening patiently to his long disquisitions upon aesculapius and galen. but her presence seemed to disturb the boy, and she often drew back wounded. strange to say, he endured wat's awkward though good-hearted ministrations, but the only person to whom he clung, to please whom he would take his medicine, and who seemed to have the power of causing him to sleep, was elyas. one possible reason was that master gervase had a strange quickness in finding out what troubled him. once or twice he had soothed him by putting before him his father's carvings, and more often by placing agrippa on the bed. the monkey had been ill himself after the exposure of that night, and it was prothasy who--mightily it must be owned against her inclination--wrapped him in woollen, and though she could never be brought to take him on her lap, saw that he was not neglected. but one day, when hugh was really better and less feverish, though still in pain which made him fretful and peevish, he opened his eyes upon a new sight. a little girl, with golden hair and brown eyes, stood about a yard away from the crib, gazing with deep interest and her finger in her mouth, from him to agrippa, who sat on the bed in his scarlet coat, and stared back at her. for a short time all three were silent, contemplating each other curiously. it was joan who broke the silence, pointing to agrippa. "doth he bite?" hitherto everyone who came near hugh had asked how he felt or what they could do. here was a change indeed! "no." then with an effort--"you may stroke him, mistress." upon this invitation joan advanced, stretching out two rosy fingers. but they hesitated so long on the way that hugh put forth his own wasted little hand, and conducted them to agrippa's head. joan coloured crimson but would not show fear. when she had got over the wonder of this courageous deed, she began to smile, bringing two dimples into her cheeks, and dancing a little up and down for joy. "art thou the new boy? why doesn't thou get up?" this was too much; besides, the pain of stretching his hand had hold of him. hugh shut his eyes and groaned. the next thing he felt was a dreadful shake of the crib, and a soft kiss planted upon his closed eye. "poor boy! make haste and get well!" she trotted away, but the next day appeared again, and her mother, arriving in haste, found to her horror joan sitting upon the edge of the crib, with agrippa in her arms. prothasy would have snatched him from her, but joan put up her small hand lest she should come too near. she was actually trembling with ecstasy. "he doesn't bite, and he likes me. isn't he beautiful?" agrippa had conquered. after this hugh began to improve more rapidly joan's visits brought something into his life which had been wanting before, and he could not but be conscious of the kindness with which he had been nursed and cared for, when he might have expected very different treatment. he still watched mistress prothasy with anxiety, but his eyes followed gervase with devotion which touched the good warden's heart. nothing had been said about hugh's flight during the worst part of his illness, but one afternoon in december, when elyas had come in from consultation with the bishop at the cathedral, he sat down on the boy's bed. "we shall have thee up and about by christmas," he said, cheerfully; "out by the new year, and at work by twelfth day." "ay, master," said hugh faintly. elyas turned and looked at him. "it were best for thee," he said, "to tell me what ailed thee that day. i have heard nothing from thee." in a faltering voice hugh would have murmured something scarce distinguishable, but gervase made him put all into words. it is often hard so to describe one's wrongs; things which had seemed of infinite importance lose dignity in the process, and there is an uncomfortable conviction that our hearers are not so greatly impressed as we desired. after all, except the threat about agrippa, it looked trifling seen from a distance, and even for agrippa-- "hadst thou met with so much unkindness here, that thou couldst not trust us to do what was best?" asked gervase gravely. "i thought--" began hugh, and stopped. "and how came you idle?" elyas demanded more sternly. "he ever gave me such foolish work! he would not hearken when i said i could do better!" burst out hugh. "master, only let me try, and you will see." "perhaps," returned elyas. "but there are things that i value more, ay, and thy father would have valued more, than fair carving. thou hast got thy life to shape, hugh, rough stone to hew and carve into such a temple as the master loves. all the best work that we can do with our tools is but a type of this. and what sort of carving was this rebellion of thine?" he would say no more, being one of those who leave their words to sink in. but after, when he came up to see the boy, he would choose for his talk tales of men who had become great through mastery of themselves. and when he found how hugh's thoughts ran upon king edward, he spoke of him, and how he had tamed that strong nature of his which might have led him into tyrannical acts, so that at whatever cost to himself he followed faithfully that which was right and just. and he told the story of how once, when he had been unjust towards an attendant, he punished his own hasty temper by fining himself twenty marks. "this it is which makes him great," added elyas. "and thou hast seen and spoken with him? the more need to follow him." "saw you ever the king, goodman?" "ay, truly; ten or eleven years ago he and the queen held parliament here at christmas. great doings were there, and it was then the bishop got leave to fence the close with walls. i like them not myself, they shut out the fair view of the western front; but after the precentors murder the chapter sought greater security. there is talk of the king coming again next month. if he does i warrant he will bring a sore heart, remembering who was with him last time." "and the queen was fair, goodman?" "fair and sweet beyond telling. all that looked at her loved her." hugh never got worse reproach for his conduct, but by listening to these tales of master gervase's with talk of men who took not their own wild wills, but a high ideal of duty for their standard, he grew to be ashamed of it, and to have a longing for the time when he might go to work again in a different spirit. and he changed in his conduct to wat, who was ever full of awkward good-will. it was much as elyas had foretold. by christmas time hugh was up, though too feeble to enter into all the merry-making and holiday-keeping of the time; nor, indeed, could he so much as go out with the others when, at two of the morning, the moonlight shining, the rime hanging to the elms and just whitening the roof of the cathedral, they all set forth for the parish church of st martin's. wat came back blowing his blue fingers and stamping on the ground, but radiant with the promise that next year in the mumming he should be st george himself. "rob the ostler says so, and he knows." "thou wast the hobby-horse last night," said hugh with a laugh. "ay, and i am weary of the hobby-horse, of prancing up and down, and being hit with no chance of hitting back again. but, st george! what wouldst thou give, hugh, to be a knight all in shining armour, and to slay the dragon?" new year's eve was the great day for gifts; joan had a number of toys and sweetmeats, and hugh gave her a kind of cup and ball, which he had managed to carve for her, though with trembling fingers, after the recollection of one which had been shown to his father by a merchant travelling from china, or cathay, as it was then called. it was a dainty little toy, and gervase examined it closely, feeling that hugh had some reason for fretting against the monotonous work to which franklyn condemned him. but elyas had no thought of interfering. he believed it would be wholesome discipline for the boy to have to work his way upward by force of perseverance and obedience, each step so taken would be a double gain; he had time enough before him, and should prove his powers to franklyn by his own efforts. meanwhile he kept him with him a good deal, and took him one day to the cathedral to see the progress which had been made. hugh could not rest without going everywhere, and then was so tired that, while gervase went off to inspect some of the masons' work, he curled himself up upon one of the misereres and fell asleep. he awoke with a start to find himself looked down upon by a kindly-faced man in an ecclesiastical dress, though this last was not of the sumptuous character at that time worn. other ecclesiastics were moving about the building. hugh started to his feet, but the priest, whoever he was, seemed in no way displeased at his presence. "thou art a pale-faced urchin," he said good-humouredly; "have thy friends left thee behind and forgotten thee?" "nay, reverend sir," said hugh, "i am master gervase's apprentice." "i always heard he was an easy man, and so he suffers his apprentices to sleep in working hours? but it is he for whom we were searching, and if thou wilt go forth and find him for me, thou mayest earn a silver penny." hugh had some little difficulty in discovering elyas, who had climbed a scaffolding to examine the work close at hand. he hurried down when he had heard hugh's report, saying that it was doubtless the bishop, and bidding the boy follow him. the three bishops who succeeded each other in the see of exeter, quivil, bitton, and stapledon, have each left their mark upon the cathedral. quivil's share was the most important; it was he who by the insertion of large windows formed the transepts, and to whom we owe the beautiful and unbroken line of vaulting. bitton was only fifteen years at exeter, but he carried on the designs of his predecessor with enthusiastic loyalty, and completed the eastern end of the choir. it was this on which he constantly desired to consult gervase. "the work goes on well," he said cheerfully, rubbing his hands. "you have caught the true spirit. we shall never see our glorious church finished, goodman, yet it is something to feel that we shall have left behind us something towards it. _quam dilecta tabernacula tua, domine virtutum_! i like the lightness of that stonework, and mine eye is never weary of following the noble lines of vaulting. only i shall not rest until something has been designed to unite it with the pillars. there is a blank look which offends me." "i see it, too, my lord. is it not the very place for a richly carved _surs_ (corbel)?" "ay, that is it, that is it! a corbel which should spring from the pillar, and follow the line of the arch. we must reflect on this, master gervase, and they shall be of finest cutting, and each varying from the other. but we may not think of this yet awhile, for truly there is enough on hand to call for all thy skill and industry. how fair it looks, with the winter sunshine striking on the fair stonework! _non nobis, domine_!" one or two of the canons had by this time closed up, and began to speak of what had been done. "when the western end is brought to equal the eastern," said one of them, william pontington by name, "there will be no church in our land more fair. what will the king say?" "the king is not in the best of humours with his clergy," said the chaunter or precentor, a little dried-up man, with a sour face. "what think you, my lord, of the archbishop's mandate?" the good bishop looked uneasy. winchilsey, archbishop of canterbury, was a turbulent and ambitious prelate, and the king, though sincerely religious, was forced to be ever on the watch against encroachments made by pope boniface, and supported by the archbishop, which threatened the royal supremacy. the strongest attempt of all had just been put forth in a bull from the pope, "forbidding the clergy to grant to laymen any part of the revenues of their benefices without the permission of the holy see." now as the kings of england had ever the right of taxing the clergy with the rest of their subjects, as the possessions of the church were enormous, and papal taxation of the whole kingdom far exceeded the taxation by the state, so that in a few years the pope is said to have received money from england equal to nine millions of our present money, edward promptly resisted this fresh and unheard-of claim. he did so by a simple and effectual counter-stroke. it was announced at westminster that whatever complaint was brought to the court by the archbishops, bishops, or clergy, "no justice should be done them," and this withdrawal of state protection speedily led the clergy to offer their submission to the king, in spite of the anger of pope and archbishop. but the dissension had placed them on the horns of a dilemma, and bishop bitton had no liking for speech on the subject. he muttered something in answer to the precentor's injudicious question, and turned to hugh, who was standing a short way from the group. "there is thy penny for thee," said the bishop, beckoning to him, "and now tell me, sir apprentice, whether thou art a good lad, and learning thy craft fairly and truly, so that in time thou mayest have thy share in this great work of ours?" hugh coloured crimson, and looked down, and elyas came to his rescue. "he hath not been with me yet three months, my lord, so please you, and half that time hath been ill; but he is the child of the wood-carver of whom i spoke, and, if he is industrious, i have good hope he will credit his father." "and what part wilt thou choose for thy share?" asked the bishop, with a wave of his gloved hand towards roof and walls. "the corbels, my lord," answered hugh, boldly. bitton looked delighted. "so thou hast caught our words, and wilt bespeak the work thyself? well, i shall not forget. learn with all thy might, and, who knows, some day thy carving may help to decorate this our church of st peter's?" after this, when the bishop caught sight of hugh, he never failed to speak to him and ask how his learning fared. and hearing from elyas that the boy could read and write, he arranged that on sundays he should come to the kalendarhay, where one of the kalendar brothers instructed him. when twelfth-night was over, hugh went back to the yard, where work was expected to go on vigorously after the feasting and mirth of that season, which was loud and boisterous. on the eve the town was full of minstrels, who carried huge bowls of wassail--ale, sugar, nutmegs, and roasted apples--to the houses of the well-to-do inhabitants, and wat, as it may be conceived, had his full share in these doings. in the country there was a curious pagan ceremony kept up in devonshire on this night, for at the farms the farmer and his men would carry a great pitcher of cider into the orchard, and choosing the best bearing tree, walk solemnly round it, and drink its health three times. master gervase grew somewhat red and shamefaced when his wife reminded him that he had often been the pitcher-bearer on his father's farm. "it was there i first saw thee," she said, "and my mother pointed thee out, and said thou wast as strong as edulf." "who was edulf?" asked hugh of wat, under his breath. "the strongest man that ever lived. he came to exeter in a rage, and broke the iron gate with his two hands," expounded wat, stuffing a large piece of pasty into his mouth. "the strongest man that ever lived was samson," said hugh, dogmatically. "samson! nobody ever heard of him, and i tell thee edulf was the strongest." the quarrel might have grown, but that franklyn growled at them to hush their unmannerly prating; and joan announced in her clear, decided voice that agrippa should have his special twelfth-night spice-cake. for in spite of her mother's loud remonstrances, the monkey had been taken into joan's heart of hearts, and, it was certain, was secure from any sentence of banishment. franklyn had been a good deal shocked by hugh's flight and illness, but, as was natural, the impression passed away as the little apprentice regained his health, and elyas saw that he was not inclined to change his treatment. for the reasons already given, the master had no thought of interfering, it was for the boy now to prove what stuff he had in him. it was a sort of ordeal through which he had to pass; an ordeal which might develop patience, resolution, and the humility of a true artist, and though gervase told himself that he would be on the watch, ready with words of encouragement when they were needed, he held back from more. hugh had the same rough, uninteresting work to toil upon-- indeed the stone had been set aside for his return; the same careful explanations of how to handle his tools and make his strokes, which he took to be a reflection on his father's teaching; the same lack of praise. but now he brought to it a more cheerful spirit, hope was astir; he felt sure that the master was watching his efforts, and that it rested with himself and his own perseverance to make his way. it was not easy. often he grew hot and angry; often he was tempted into careless work; but he would not give up trying, and upon the whole held on very fairly. then, in spite of his awkwardnesses and a dense stupidity about his work, wat was a good-natured companion, ready to take any trouble and to carry any blame. he had been so often told by franklyn that he would never rise to more than a mason, that he had grown to accept the verdict against which hugh was always trying to make him rebel. "he knows best," he would say, hammering loosely at the stone. "what an oaf thou art, wat! it all rests with thyself. franklyn should never make me a mason." "because--there, i have chipped it!" scratching his head in dismay. "and small wonder! give me thy tool, which thou holdest as the goodwife holds her knife--so!" "if i thought it were any use--" began the disconsolate wat. "try and see." "and thou thinkest i might catch the trick of it?" "try. there, now go on. thou knowest as well as any how to hold the tools." so far as impatience and calling of names went hugh was a harder taskmaster than franklyn, but he put more energy into his teaching, and dragged the reluctant wat along by sheer force of will, the result being that, though he got no praise for himself, some fell to his pupil, which really pleased him as much as if it had been the other way. wat was the great purveyor of news; no one knew how he picked up his information, but nothing happened in the city but it somehow reached his ears before it was half an hour old. he knew of all the quarrels between the bishop and chapter and the mayor and his twenty-four councillors or aldermen, and how two of the canons fell upon two of the bailiffs and pommelled them vigorously, before even the mayor's wife had been informed of the scandal. he it was who reported the falling out between sir baldwin de fulford and his wife, because she wanted an extravagantly fine chaplet of gold, the cost of which displeased him. it seemed that there were great expenses she led him into, for they had glass over from france for their windows, and forks for dinner, and many such luxuries, and each one wat knew quite well--though how, no one ever knew. and at last, one day in january, when there had been a fall of snow which whitened all the roofs, and gave great joy to the prentice lads, wat rushed in, powdered over with snow, so full of news that he could scarce keep from shouting it out as he ran, and so intent upon that and nothing else that he rushed up against mistress prothasy, and sent the dish of roasted apples she was carrying out of her hand. she gave him a sound box in his ear, and told him he should have no apples for supper. but even this threat could not compose wat, well as he loved roasted apples. "truly, good wife," he said, breathlessly, as he picked them up, "thou must forgive me this time for my news." "what news?" said prothasy crossly. "thou hast ever some foolish tale in thy idle head." "this is no foolish news," cried wat, triumphantly. "king edward is on his way!" "nay!" "ay, mistress, it is true. he is at bristol, and comes here in four days' time, and the mayor is almost out of his wits, and there will be a banquet at the guildhall, and the baron of dartington and lord montacute and sir richard de alwis and my lord of devon are making ready to ride to meet the king, and all the saddlers and armourers are rushing from one end of the city to the other, and there will be feasting and bonfires, and we prentices are to stand in the crollditch to shout when he comes in at the east gate, and i warrant you none will shout lustier than i!" "mercy on us, thou wilt deafen me with thy chatter!" said prothasy, clapping her hands on her ears; "but there is an apple for thee, since thy head had some reason for its turning to-day. the king so near! i must go and pull out my green kirtle." chapter ten. sword or chisel? wat's enthusiasm found hearty echo in the house. roger, indeed, ever self-absorbed and eagerly bent upon his own advancement, muttered something that such shows were fit only for fools and jackanapes, but he dared say nothing of the sort aloud, when even master gervase himself was like a boy in his delight over the occasion. great consultations took place between the different guilds. these guilds had flourished in exeter from a very early period, and were founded and preserved on strong religious lines. chief and earliest among them were the merchant guilds. craft guilds grew up later, not, as in other countries, opposed to the merchants, but under their authority, formed merely to promote and regulate matters belonging to their own crafts. master and wardens met regularly in the common hall, and every full craftsman worth twenty shillings might be a brother. generally there was a distinctive dress, or, at any rate, hood. the guilds took care that their members bore good characters, and there were heavy penalties for bad words, or what was called "misquoting." no one might work without leave of the wardens. no one might undersell a craft brother. the guilds arranged that all goods received a fair price, and that they were of the best quality. an excellent technical education was provided, and the tools that were used were closely inspected. women might have part in the guilds, widows being allowed to carry on their business under their protection. there were also craft courts to which all complaints were brought, and it will be easily understood how much guilds had to do with the local government of a town. it was now necessary to organise a banquet to be given to the king, and a day of feasting and rejoicing for the poor, and gervase was very busy over the arrangements. frost and snow still continued, but flags and gay hangings were profusely used, and nothing could have been more picturesque than the narrow streets with their beautiful black-timbered houses, snow on the steep roofs, and all manner of bright colours hanging from windows and carved balconies. the only thing there was doubt about was the sun, but after an hour or two of hesitation in the morning, it broke out in full brilliancy, giving the final touch to a gay pageant of moving colour, of which we in england now have little conception. rougemont castle, of course, put on its gayest face, but the chief preparations were at the east gate, to which the road from bristol led direct, passing by st sidwell's church. here the king would enter, and here in crollditch, the present southernhay, where the lammas fair was annually held, the apprentices intended to muster, and to see as much as they could, the greater number of the burgesses being within the gate, so as to welcome the king to the city. if it had not been for wat, hugh's chance of seeing would have been small, for as the king and his knights rode up, the bigger apprentices closed tumultuously nearer, shouting with all the force of their lungs, and the lesser boys were pushed back without mercy. but wat was a faithful friend. he held fast by hugh, and used his own strong limbs to good effect. opposite to them was a crowd of the poorest of the city. "keep thy legs, gammer--good folk, press not so closely! here they come!" "alack, alack, i can see nothing!" "there is the king on a black horse!" "nay, that is my lord of albemarle." "ay, there's the king!" "where? where?" "he rides a white horse, with the bishop by his side." "the saints preserve him! how he towers above them all! a proper man, indeed!" the sight was very striking as the gallant cavalcade swept slowly into the grim shadows of the east gate, with its walls stretching away on either side, and out into the keen sunshine beyond, where representatives from the guilds, the mayor, bailiffs, and councilmen were drawn up with every mark of pageantry. loud shouts broke from the crowd, many cries of blessing were raised, and some appeals for "justice, my lord king!" were heard. all the way down the high street the narrow way was so thronged with citizens that edward and his train could scarcely make way, and there was time enough for wat and hugh to rush down a side way and get round to their master's house before the king reached it. joan was in the balcony with her mother craning her little neck to see the show, and beckoning to hugh, but the boy had a design in his head; rushing up to catch agrippa, and, when he had got him, determinedly squeezing his way to the front. in this he might not have succeeded but for the good nature of my lord of devon's jester, who was a favourite in the town, and now in his motley suit had taken up his position before master gervase's house. he pathetically implored the crowd to make room for his grandfather, and the roar of laughter which followed when this turned out to be the monkey secured agrippa's position. hugh's heart beat fast as he saw the men-at-arms clearing the way with no little difficulty. "hold thou on to my sleeve," whispered the good-humoured jester, "and we'll not budge." he was as good as his word, and as the king passed with a smile on his grave face, for he was touched by the fervour of his welcome, hugh and his monkey were so close that edward's eye fell upon him. he was certain that he was recognised, for the king's smile deepened, and he said something to the bishop, who raised himself in his stirrups to get sight of the boy. nor was this all. the monkey attracted the attention of the _suite_, and a knight suddenly reined up his horse and bent down. "why, thou art the little varlet that was at stourbridge fair! i mind me now thy father spoke of exeter. how goes it with him? has he a choice bit of his work that i can take back to my lady? what, dead! nay, that is sad, but he looked scarce like to live. thou mayest come to the bishop's palace, where we lie, and ask for my squire, john wakefield, if thou wilt." he nodded and rode on, and hugh was besieged by inquiries of who he was, and what had led him to speak. "sir thomas de trafford," repeated the jester. "a fair name and an honourable. prithee forget not a poor cousin, if there be preferment to be had. i would almost renounce my cap and bells to be dubbed a knight." but joan overhead was clamouring for hugh, and prothasy's curiosity was getting past bearing. she had never quite believed the boy's story of the gold noble, but all had seen the king's amused smile of recognition, and now she questioned hugh sharply, while he was longing to be off with wat, who was in the thick of the crowd which had closed up on the heels of the men-at-arms, and was following the king down the high street, for to pleasure them he rode as far as the carfax or conduit, the central point of the city, which stood at the junction of north and south street, where much business was transacted, before going to the quarters prepared for him in the bishop's palace. hugh got away at last, but he was in the rear of things, and could get no nearer than the tail of the procession, every now and then catching the gleam of armour in the distance as some corner was turned, while the people were cheering and pushing with all their might, and gathering the largesse freely distributed. gervase came home in high good humour, for the king had received the guild officers very cordially, and promised a hearing for the next day, the townspeople having certain matters to plead against the clergy with reference to the walls of the close--a very fruitful source of dispute. "'tis a pity though, goodman, that the king is lodged in the palace where the bishop will have his ear," said franklyn. "pish!" answered elyas. "little thou knowest of edward if thou thinkest him to be so easily turned! he will look into the affair and judge according to right. no favour beyond that need bishop nor mayor look for. but there is no doubt that the ecclesiastics are pushing their privileges as to right of way too far, and i wish there were as good a chance of getting countess weir removed, and restoring the navigation of the river." "father," said joan solemnly, "i saw the king, and i kissed him my hand." "didst thou so, my popinjay? and i warrant that pleased him. he hath a joan of his own, what thinkest thou of that?" "little, like me? father, there was a beautiful shining knight that spoke to hugh and agrippa, and hugh is to go to the palace to-morrow." so gervase had to hear this story. he looked grave over it, for he knew what were the boy's secret longings, and stephen had told him of sir thomas de trafford's offer, and how it had fallen in with them. and though hugh was his sworn apprentice, and could not be removed, yet the king, who had a high respect and liking for sir thomas, might ask for his release as a personal favour which the stone-cutter could not refuse. elyas felt, moreover, that the boy's first days of apprenticeship had not been of a kind to lead him to care overmuch for his craft. franklyn had succeeded in making them full of discouragement, and though of late hugh had worked steadily and well, he had been given no opportunity of getting on, and might well be out of heart. elyas felt very doubtful as to the result of this visit, and was grieved not only because his promise to stephen had been to do his utmost to teach him his craft, but because he really loved the boy. in those days apprentices were not treated as "hands," they were actual members of the family. roger was too self-absorbed to have won his master's affection, and wat, though he had excellent qualities, was for ever vexing prothasy, and committing some clumsy awkwardness. elyas was sure that hugh had that in him which by-and-by would make his work excellent, and had set his heart upon bringing it out. was all this hope to end? hugh himself was not without thoughts on the subject. the sight of the king, the half smile with which he had been recognised, had stirred up his old desires into ardent longing. once again nothing in the world seemed so grand as to have the power of fighting, and, if needs were, dying for him. the grave earnest face, saddened by troubles which would have overwhelmed a weaker soul, fired the boy's enthusiasm, where others complained of want of geniality. then sir thomas de trafford's notice had crimsoned him with pleasure and brought back dame edith's sweet face, with which it must be owned prothasy's could not compare. he was sick of mouldings and ratings, and though the cathedral always raised a longing in him to be one of the great brotherhood of workers who were making it glorious, he felt at times a dreary conviction that the day would never come, and then the old longing to fling down hammer and chisel grew strong, and he thought that had his father but been there he would surely have yielded to his longing. wat was even more excited than he on the matter of this visit, begging hard to be allowed to go with him as far as the palace, and quite content with the prospect of a chance of seeing a squire, or a man-at-arms, or perhaps one of the pages who swaggered about with much contempt for sober citizens. with this hope he stayed outside the palace gate, where a crowd was collected to see the king. hugh's heart beat fast, but he went boldly in and asked for john wakefield. a sturdy, fatherly-looking squire came out, who smiled when he saw so young a visitor, and reported that the knight was in the garden where he had gone to look at the towers of the cathedral. in parts of the garden the snow lay deep, and the pages had been amusing themselves this morning with building a snow man in one corner, but now were gone off to attend the king, and only sir thomas and a chaplain paced the walks. hugh waited until they turned towards him. "who's this?" said the knight stopping. "beshrew me, but it is the monkey boy, as my little nell persists in calling him! knowest thou aught of him, holy father?" "naught, gentle sir, more than that by his dress he should be apprenticed to the masons' guild--yes, and i have seen him in the cathedral with master gervase." beckoned to come nearer, hugh made his reverence and stood bare-headed, while sir thomas questioned him upon what had befallen them: the shipwreck, his father's death, and his present position. "and thou wouldst sooner chip stones than be in my household? by my faith it seems a strange choice!" poor hugh! it was all he could do to keep the tears back from his eyes. "i would rather be in your household, sir, than anywhere in the world," he said in a choked voice. "sayest thou so?" returned sir thomas loudly. "then, wherefore not? thy master would do me a favour, i make no doubt, and cancel thy bond, and it would pleasure my little nell if i took thee and the monkey back with me, though i know not how wolf would behave. speak up, without fear, and tell me if thou art willing." willing! every longing in his heart leapt up and cried out to be satisfied. willing! what would he not give for such a life! it danced up and down before him decked in brightest colours, while on the other side he seemed to hear franklyn's ceaseless rebukes, and to feel all the weariness of unsuccessful toil. willing! but then at that moment his eye fell upon the towers of the cathedral, and from the building, faint but sweet, there came the sound of young voices chanting the praises of the lord. and with the sound rushed upon him the remembrance of his father's words, of the promise he had made, of all the wood-carver's hopes, and fears, and longings! could he disappoint him? he covered his face with his hands and sobbed out, "noble sir, i would, i would, but i can not!" "wherefore?" "my father--he would have me a carver." sir thomas was silent, but perhaps thinking to pleasure him, the chaplain pushed the matter. "but thou mayest choose for thyself now that thy father is dead." "nay, holy sir," said hugh, keeping his head down, "but i promised." "nevertheless--" began the chaplain, when the knight interrupted. "prithee no more, father; a promise is a sacred thing, and the urchin is in the right. keep covenant is ever the king's word. what was thy promise, boy?" "that i would learn the craft, and he hoped that in time i might work there," pointing to the cathedral. "but william franklyn says i never shall." "pay no heed to his croaking," said sir thomas heartily. "work there, ay, that shalt thou, and when i ride here again with the king, thou shalt show me what thou hast done." he kept the boy longer, speaking kindly, and sending him away at length with the gift of a mark, as he said, to buy a remembrance of mistress nell. and when he had gone he turned to the chaplain. "that was a struggle gallantly got through," he said. "i would i could be sure mine own edgar would keep as loyally to my words when i am gone. but the boy prince's example and influence are of the worst." and hugh? he had done what was right, but right doing does not always bring immediate satisfaction--very often it is the other way, and we think with regret upon what we have given up, and something within us suggests that we have been too hasty, and that there were ways by which we might have done what was almost right and yet had what we wanted. if master gervase could have been brought to consent, knowing all stephen bassett's wishes, why, then, surely hugh might have gone his way, feeling that he had tried to follow his father's road, and only given up when he found he could not get on. and yet twist it as he would, this reasoning would not come fair and smooth, and there was always something which he had to pass over in a hurry. sir thomas, too, had said he was right. wat pounced upon him before he had gone far, evidently expecting that he would have a great deal to tell--perhaps have seen the king in his crown. at any other time hugh might have held his peace, but just now there was a hungry longing in his heart, so that he poured all out to wat--sir thomas's offer and his own refusal. it must be owned that he was disappointed that wat took it as a matter of course, while agreeing that it would have been very fine to have ridden away from exeter in the king's train. "then with agrippa in thy arms thou might'st have passed for the jester." "gramercy for thy fancy," said hugh offended. "that would become thee better." "ay, it would be rare," answered wat with a sigh. "i am such an oaf at this stone-cutting that sometimes i could wish myself at the bottom of the sea." "what made thee take to the craft?" "to pleasure my old mother. she is a cousin of franklyn's, and thought i was a made man when she had stinted herself sufficiently to pay the premium. but i shall never be more than a mason," added wat dolefully. "now thou hast it in thee." "i know not. franklyn has never a good word for aught i do." "never heed old franklyn. he is as sour as a crab, because he wanted the master to take his little jackanapes of a nephew as prentice. he would like to keep thee back, but do thou hold on and all will come right. why, even i can see what thy work is like, and so does he, and so does the master, only the master will do nothing to touch franklyn's authority, and so he holds his peace." "but you think he knows?" asked hugh eagerly. "think? how should he not know? he can measure us all better than franklyn, and he knows, too, that i am more fitted for a life in the greenwood than to be chopping away with mallet and chisel." it was very unusual for wat to talk with so much shrewdness and common sense. usually he was addle-pated enough, caring little for ratings, and plunging into trouble with the most good-natured tactlessness, so that friends and foes alike showered abuse upon him. hugh had taken it for granted that he would be the same wherever he was, never realising that his present life was especially distasteful to him, and yet that he accepted it without gainsaying. it gave his words now a weight which was quite unusual, for he seemed never to suppose it possible that hugh could go against his promise to his father, while he quite acknowledged that the other life would have been delightful. all seemed to arrange itself simply into two sides, right and wrong, so that hugh began to wonder how he could ever have doubted when it was so clear to wat. in the house he found joan shrieking because her father could not take her forth, and he was glad enough to make her over to hugh, telling him that the king was to ride down the high street to see the new bridge before returning to the banquet at the guildhall, and warning him to take care not to allow joan to be over-much entangled in the crowd. then he put his hands on the boy's shoulders and looked into his face. "what said the knight to thee?" "he offered, if thou wouldst consent, sir, to take me back with him, and to bring me up in his household." "as i expected," said elyas, gravely. "and that would content thee?" "it is what i ever longed for," said poor hugh. there was a pause. gervase seemed to find it difficult to put the next question. "does the knight come here then to see me?" "nay," said the boy wearily, "it were no use, goodman. i told him that i was bound by my promise to my father." "ay, didst thou so? and what said he?" "there was a holy father there who would have urged me, but the knight stopped him, and said a promise was binding, and that the king's word was ever `keep covenant.'" gervase's eyes glistened. "it was well, it was well. hadst thou been set upon it, hugh, i had not withstood thee, but i should have grieved. no blessing comes from self-seeking. and hast thou," he added more cheerily, "hast thou forgotten the corbels thou hast to do for the bishop?" his words put fresh heart into the boy, and he felt that even had he followed his own longings it would have cost him much to leave master gervase. then joan ran in, warmly and daintily dressed, gathering up her little skirts to show hugh her new long pointed shoes, all her tears forgotten, and her mind running upon the king and his knights. her mother, though sharp with hugh, would trust her little maid anywhere with him, and the two set forth down the narrow streets where was a throng of villeins, of country people who had poured in for miles round, of guild-brothers in their distinctive dresses, of monks from the monasteries of saint nicholas and saint james, grey and black friars, kalendar sisters, while mingling with these graver dresses were the more brilliantly clad retainers of the nobles who had accompanied or come to meet the king, most gorgeous among whom were those of the household of dame alicia de mohun, who had journeyed in great state from tor mohun, near torbay, and the trappings of whose palfrey caused the citizens much amazement. as many minstrels, dancing girls, and jongleurs had collected as if it had been fair time, and the bakers who sold bread by the carfax were so pressed upon that they were forced to gather up their goods and remove them hastily. joan did not find it as delightful as she expected. not all hugh's efforts could keep the crowd from pressing upon her, and he looked anxiously about for some safer means of letting her see the show. he spied at last a projection from one of the houses where he thought she might stand, and from whence she could look over the shoulders of the crowd, and there with much difficulty and pushing he managed to place her, standing himself so that he could both shield and hold her. there was no chance of seeing anything himself, for he was hedged in by a moving crowd, and more than one looked rather angrily upon him for having secured this standing-point before they had discovered its advantages. but joan was mightily pleased. she was out of the press, and could see all that was to be seen, upon which she chattered volubly to her faithful guard below. they had long to wait, but there was enough amusement for her not to weary, and when at last she became a little silent and hugh wondered whether she would be content much longer, a cry of "the king!" was raised, and heads were eagerly stretched to see him turn out from broad gate. down came the gay train, larger than that of the day before, owing to the many nobles and knights, champernownes, chudleighs, fulfords, pomeroys, courtenays, and others, who had come into the city, and very noble they looked turning down the steep hill between the old houses. but hugh could neither see nor think of them, he was in so much dread that joan would be swept or dragged off her standing place. the people were wild to have sight of the king, and those who were behind looked covetously at the projection. one or two pressed violently by hugh, muttering that children were best left at home, and at last, as the cavalcade drew nearer and the excitement heightened, a wizened little man pushed the girl off and would have clambered into the place if a stronger fellow had not collared him and climbed there himself. joan meanwhile was in danger of being trampled under foot, though hugh fought and kicked with all the vigour in the world, shielding her at the cost of many hard blows on himself from those who were bent only upon pushing forward without heeding what was in their way. joan, however, was not one to be maltreated without protest, and the instant she realised what had happened, she uttered a series of piercing shrieks, which caused the king and his train to look in her direction. edward pulled up, and two or three of the men-at-arms, hastily parting the crowd, disclosed joan clinging to hugh, uttering woeful cries and prayers to be taken home. one of them would have raised her in his arms, but this was fresh terror, and whispering to hugh, "bring her thyself," he pushed them gently along towards the royal party. "is the child hurt?" asked edward hastily, and then recognising hugh, who was red with shame at his own plight, and to have joan hanging round his neck, the king smiled, and beckoned to him. hugh bent on his knee as well as he could for joan, and answered the king's brief questions clearly. someone had pulled the little maid down, and she was afraid of being trampled upon, and joan, convinced now that she was in safety, relaxed her hold and gazed from one to the other with eyes full of innocent awe. "she is a fair little maiden," said edward, kindly, "and thou art a brave prentice. ever keep on the side of the weak. now, my lords," he added, "as the matter is not serious, we will ride to the bridge." the people cheered lustily as he passed on, and hugh and joan were the hero and heroine of the hour. "what said he? what said he?" "blessings on him, he hath a kindly heart! there's many a proud baron would have paid no heed to a babe's cries, but i warrant me he thinks of his lady." "where's the churl that pushed her off? a good ducking should he have." but, fearing this turn of the tide, the man had slunk away, and joan, pleased as she was with the admiring epithets bestowed upon her, desired to be taken home, and made a discovery which moved her to tears, in the fact that the long toes of her new shoes, subjects of much pride, were hopelessly-ruined. she reached the house weeping, and her mother, flying out, rated hugh soundly before hearing anything of what had happened, whereupon joan flung her arms round his neck, said that hugh was good, the king had said so, and the people were naughty. prothasy listening in amazement could scarce believe her ears, making hugh tell his story over and over again, and pouring it out to elyas when he came back from the banquet. "the king called her a fair maiden, what thinkest thou of that, goodman?" she asked proudly. "and hugh a brave prentice, what thinkest thou of that, goodwife?" returned her husband, with a smile. chapter eleven. agrippa brings promotion. the king's visit was short, for the next day he departed, and hugh with a swelling heart saw sir thomas ride away, and with him all chance of changing his condition. still, he had got over the first pangs, was more content, and resolved that, whatever franklyn might do, he would not be discouraged. he made another resolve. as has been said, the apprentices had plenty of holidays, and hugh cared nothing for the cock-fighting, which was a favourite amusement. he liked football better, but he made up his mind that some of his holiday time should be spent in a stone carving of agrippa. if it pleased master gervase,-- why, then, his hopes flew high. he worked hard at his design, keeping it jealously hid from all but wat, whom he would have found it difficult to shut out, and who was profoundly impressed by his ambition. agrippa was not the easiest of models, since to keep still was an impossibility, but hugh managed to get him into clay very fairly, and in a good position. he was dreadfully disheartened when he tried to reproduce it in stone; it fell far short of his conception, and appeared to him to be lifeless. indeed, had it not been for wat, he might have given up his attempt in despair; but wat's interest was intense, and he was never weary of foretelling what master gervase would say of it, and how even franklyn might be compelled to admire in spite of grudging. how this might have been, it is impossible to say; hugh was spared from making the trial, for, as it happened, just when lent began franklyn was seized with severe rheumatic pains, which made it impossible for him to work, or even come to the yard. generally one of the other journeymen on such an emergency stepped into his place, but this time, for some reason or other, master gervase overlooked things himself. he made a very careful examination, and, for almost the first time in his life, wat received actual praise. "thou hast got a notion into thy head at last." wat could not resist making a face expressive of his amazement. "'twas thou hammered it there," he whispered to hugh. "if i tell the gammer she will think all her prophecies are coming true. now where's thy work? hast stuck it where he must needs see?" "ay, see a failure," said hugh, dolefully. but wat was too intent upon watching elyas to have an ear for these misgivings of the artist. he fidgeted about instead of working, and got a sharp rebuke from the master for wasting his time; indeed, gervase was so much taken up with seeing that the right vein of the purbeck quarry was being used for carrying on the delicate arcades of the triforium, that it was long before he left the men engaged upon it and came to hugh. his eye fell immediately upon the little figure. "when didst thou this?" he demanded, taking it up. "in holiday time, goodman." long and silently the master examined it, and every moment hugh's fluttering hopes sank lower. he was sure it had never looked so ill before. at last elyas raised his head. "it doth credit to thine age," he said, warmly. "faults there are, no doubt: the head a little larger than it should be except in fashioning the grotesque; the space across the forehead too broad. but what pleases me is that thou heist caught the character of the creature, thine eye having reported it to thee faithfully. if franklyn saw it he would own," he added, raising his voice so that all might hear, "that thou hadst earned advancement. finish this moulding, and i will set thee on some small bosses which dame alicia de mohun hath commanded for her private chapel, and if thou wilt thou mayest work agrippa into one of them." if hugh were pleased, elyas was hardly less so. he had been greatly desirous to find some excuse by which, without seeming to set aside franklyn's rule, he might give the boy a chance which he considered he well deserved. he had understood something of hugh's feelings when the hopes he had given up were once more dangled before his longing eyes, and the kindly master longed for an opportunity of encouraging him in his present work. the carving of the monkey was clever enough to have really surprised him. franklyn's illness came at an excellent time, and no one could complain of favouritism. so he thought oddly enough, the only one who did was roger, the elder prentice, who had hitherto seemed quite indifferent. he was manifestly out of temper, muttering that it was enough to have the beast jabbering at you in life, without having him stuck up in stone, and for the first time doing his best in the small room the three apprentices shared to make things bad for hugh. but hugh was much too proud and happy to care for this, and he had wat on his side, so that roger's enmity could not do much. wat's great desire was to be himself perpetuated as a grinning mask in the centre of a boss. he was for ever making horrible faces in order that hugh might judge whether they were not grotesque enough, and poor little joan, coming upon him one day with a mouth as it seemed to her stretching from ear to ear, and goggle saucer eyes, was so frightened that it was all the boys could do to quiet her. "if only i could round my eyes and yet frown fearfully!" cried wat, making ineffectual struggles to carry out his aspiration. "there, is that better? what do i look like now?" "like a grinning cat," said hugh, bursting into a laugh. "not a demon? perchance if i squinted?" "hearken, wat, i will not spoil my bosses by such an ill-favoured countenance, but the very first gargoyle the master sets me to make, thou shalt be my model. that is a pact." "i shall?" "ay, truly." "i will practise the most fearsome faces," cried wat, joyfully. "there shall be no such gargoyle for miles around! where do you think it will be placed? there is a talk of a new guildhall in the high street, and it would be fine to stare down and grin at the citizens. then, whenever he saw it, it would remind the master of prentice wat. art thou coming out on refreshment sunday?" "where?" "i never saw such a boy as thou, thou knowest naught! why, we make a figure of straw--hugh, you could make it finely!" "what to represent?" "nay, i know not--oh, ay, i remember me, it is winter, only the country people will have it 'tis death, 'tis so gruesome and grisly, and they hate to have us bring it to their houses, and give us cakes to keep it away. a party of us are going as far as topsham and clyst this time. wilt come?" "'tis naught but mumming!" nevertheless hugh consented to shape the figure, which represented winter in the last stage of decrepitude, and wat begged an old tattered cloak and hood, so that it really gave not a bad idea of a tottering old man, when about twenty apprentices, sinking their constant rivalries, set out in high glee to visit the neighbouring hamlets, and, when all was done, burn winter in the meadows outside the walls, agrippa, by common consent, of the party. they had great merriment, though not by any means universal welcome, for some of the country folk were so frightened that they closed the doors of their huts, and stuffed up the window lest the hateful thing should be thrust in that way. others, seeing them in the distance, ran out with cakes and spiced ale, and even pennies, begging them to come no nearer. the boys were very scornful of such fears. "what harm could it bring thee, goody?" "alack, alack, young sirs, i know not, but this i know, that come last march snell the smith would have it into his house, and before the year was out, the goodwife, who had been ailing for years, and never died before, was a corpse. here's as good a simnel cake as you will find for miles round, and welcome, but, prithee, bring the thing no nearer." others there were, however, who made the boys welcome, and feasted them so bountifully that hugh vowed he had never eaten so much in his life, and agrippa grew to treat his dainties with scorn. they took their way at length back to the meadows, bestowed the cloak and hood upon a blind beggar, who, guessing what was going on, besought the charity of a few rags, and built a grand bonfire, on the top of which winter was seated, in order, as they said, that he might be warm for once. there were other groups of the same sort scattered about the fields, and many elders had ridden out to see the fun, which reminded them of their own boyish days. joan was perched in front of her father on the broad-backed grey, insisting upon keeping as near to hugh's bonfire as the grey could be induced to go, and crying out with delight as the tongues of fire leapt up, and the brushwood crackled, and at last, old winter's straw being reached, a tall and glorious pyramid of fire rushed upwards; the lads shouted, and the reign of winter was held to be ended. before lent finished, franklyn hobbled back to the yard. hugh expected that he would have been very angry at finding him put to really advanced work, but it is possible that franklyn was himself not sorry that things had changed without his having had to give way. he muttered gruffly that the boy was no wonder, but had improved with teaching; and he showed no spite, for though always strict with hugh, he took pains to correct his faults carefully, so that his training was thoroughly good, and gervase was well satisfied with the two bosses which were hugh's share of dame alicia's work. agrippa peeped from one, half concealed by foliage, and the other was formed of ivy and holly. when summer came he was resolved to follow the master's advice and study different plants and leaves, so as to catch the beautiful free natural curves. he had grown to love his work dearly, and to have high hopes about it, but perhaps it was the recollection of his father's last words, at a time when visions of earthly fame seemed dim and worthless, which kept him from thinking only, as roger thought, of his own advancement and glory, and ever held before him, as the crown of his work, the hope some day to give of his best for the house of the lord. the bishop had not forgotten him, often asking master gervase for the little prentice who meant to carve one of the corbels. "_ay_, my lord, and it would not greatly surprise me if he carried out his thought," said elyas, with a smile. and he told the bishop of his work for dame alicia's chantry. "he hath a marvellous fancy for his age," he added. "brother ambrose at the kalendarhay complains that he is idle, but says he can do anything with his fingers," remarked the bishop. "he would fain he were a monk, that he might paint in the missals, but thou and i would have him do nobler work. not that i would say aught against the good brothers," he added, rapidly crossing himself. "everyone to his calling, and the boy's lies not between their walls. keep him to it, keep him to it, goodman; give him a thorough training, for which none is better fitted than thyself. it is my earnest desire that proper workers may be trained to give their best in this building, as of old the best was given for the temple. thou and i may never see the fruit of our labours--what of that? one soweth and another reapeth, and so it is for the glory of god, let that suffice. the walls of the choir go on well, methinks, and in another year or two we shall have reached the lady chapel." "ay, my lord." "and then there must be no more work done by thee for town or country. i claim it all. so thou hadst best finish off dame alicia's chantry." "no fear, my lord. the lady is impatient, and will not tarry till then. i shall have to go down in the summer to see after the fixing of these bosses, and of some other work which she hath confided to me, and that will end it." the good bishop, indeed, was inclined to be jealous over anything which took away gervase's time and attention, and the stone mason had some difficulty in keeping his own hands free, his skill being of great repute among all the gentlemen round, and some of them being of fiery dispositions, ill-disposed to brook waiting. there was plenty doing in the yard, and often visitors to see how the work got on or to give orders, and, as hugh was the only one in the house who could write or read, his master frequently called him to his aid when a scroll was brought from some neighbouring abbot or prior. at easter they had, as usual, the gammon of bacon, to show widespread hatred of the jews, and the tansy pudding in remembrance of the bitter herbs. also another old custom there was, the expectation of which kept gervase on the watch with a comical look on his face, and set joan quivering with excitement for, as she confided to hugh in a very loud whisper, mother had promised that she should be by "to see father heaved." she was terribly disappointed when he went out, and scarcely consoled by his taking her with him, and when at last he brought her home, clasping a great bunch of primroses in her little hot hands, she was not to be separated from him. "why dost thou not go and look for thy friend hugh?" "they might come and do it." "perhaps i shall slip away and not let them find me at all." but the bare idea of this produced so much dismay, that elyas was obliged to hasten to assure her that he would not resort to any such underhand proceeding. he turned to prothasy with a smile. "an i am to endure it, i would the silly play were over." "thou wilt not escape, goodman. master allen, the new warden of the tuckers' guild, has had such a lifting that he was fain to give twelve pennies to be set down again." "they'll not get twelve pennies from me. richard allen is an atomy of a man." "ay, thy broad shoulders will make it a different matter," said prothasy, looking proudly at him; "but be not over-confident, goodman, for king edward is a bigger man than thou, and they heaved him one easter till he cried for mercy and offered ransom." nothing more was heard till supper-time, when, as elyas sat at the head of his table, four stout girls rushed into the room, and, amid loud laughter from everyone and ecstatic shrieks and clappings from joan, lifted the rough stool on which he was seated into the air, and swung him backwards and forwards. "there, there, ye foolish wenches! i'm too heavy a load. put me down, and the goodwife shall give ye your cakes." "twelve pennies, goodman! thou, a new warden, wouldst not pay less than richard allen of the tuckers?" "ay, would i though." whereupon he was screamed at and rocked as unmercifully as any boat in a storm, until between laughter and vexation he promised all that they asked, and the four girls went away declaring their arms would ache for a week. "ye will not be able to make the dumb cake on saint mark's eve," gervase called after them, "and then, no chance for you to see your sweethearts at midnight." "no need for that, goodman," answered the eldest and prettiest, "we know who they are already." so many holidays fell at that fair time of the year that the master grumbled his work would ne'er be done. "may day come and gone, ye shall have no more." but may day itself could not be slighted, for long before sunrise the lads and lasses were out to gather may, or any greenery that might be got, and the prentices tramped through mud and mire, and charged the thickets of dense brushwood valiantly. wat was covered with scratches, and a sorry object as they trudged home by sunrise, in order to decorate the house door with branches, and all the other boys and girls were at the same work, so that in a short time the street looked a very bower of may. and now the days growing longer and the country drier, there was less danger from travelling, and a general desire in everyone's heart to be doing something or going somewhere, or otherwise proving themselves to have some part in this world, which never looks so fair or so hopeful as at the beautiful spring season. many of the neighbouring gentry rode into the city, and the ladies were glad to wear their whimsically scalloped garments, and their fine mantles, and to display their tight lacing in the streets instead of country lanes, as well as to visit the clothiers and drapers for a fresh supply; while their lords took the opportunity of looking at horses, playing at tennis, and some times, when much in want of ready money, disposing of a charter of liberties, to gain which the citizens were ready to pay a heavy fine. master gervase had many visits from these lords and knights, and more work pressed upon him than he would undertake. my lord of devon had pretty well insisted upon his carrying out some change in his house at exminster, where some forty years later was born william courtenay, the future archbishop of canterbury, and gervase was one day cutting the notches in a wooden tally, made of a slip of willow--which was the manner of giving a receipt--and handing it to the bailiff, when a tall man holding a little girl by the hand strode into the yard. "it is sir hereward hamlin," wat whispered to hugh. sir hereward hamlin, it appeared, had a commission which he would entrust to none but elyas, and very wroth he became when he found it could not be undertaken. it was evident that he was not used to be gainsaid, for he stormed and tried to browbeat the stonemason, who showed no signs of disturbance. the little girl also listened quite unmoved. "they say she is as proud as he is," wat the gossip commented under his breath, "for all her name is dulcia; and the poor lady her mother scarce can call her soul her own between them." "i hope the master will not yield," muttered hugh indignantly. there was small fear of that. sir hereward's fiery temper and passionate outbreaks had caused him to be much disliked in the city, and gervase would at no time have been disposed to work for him even had time been at his disposal. "it is impossible, your worship," he said coldly, nor could anything turn his resolution, so that sir hereward had to leave, muttering angry maledictions upon upstart knaves who know not how to order themselves to their betters. "i would he knew how to order himself to his own," said gervase to franklyn, "but he has never been friendly to the king since he was forced to restore the crown lands and divers of our rights which his fathers had illegally seized. if i had yielded and done his work he would have thought the honour sufficient payment." when the week of rogations was at an end, with its processions and singing of litanies all about the streets from gate to gate, gervase told hugh of a plan which mightily delighted him, for it was none other but to take him with him on his journey to tor brewer, or tor mohun, where he had to go on this business of the dame alicia's chantry. she had already sent serfs and horses to fetch the carved work, and with them an urgent message for master gervase to come; and as hugh had done his work well--marvellously well, elyas privately thought--he determined to give him the delight of seeing it fixed in its place, and the two set off together one morning in early june, with joan kissing her hand from the balcony. the only pang to hugh was the leaving agrippa, but wat was his devoted slave, and solemnly vowed not to neglect him, and, moreover, to protect him from roger, who had developed a keen dislike for the creature, while mistress prothasy had quite forgotten hers. it was a fair morning, and the country, then far more thickly wooded than now, was in its loveliest dress of dainty green. the brushwood was full of birds, thrushes and blackbirds drowning the smaller notes by the jubilance of their whistling, while, high up, the larks were pouring out a rapturous flood of song. it was the same road along which hugh had journeyed twice before, but how different it looked now, and how strange it seemed to him that he should ever have run away from the home where he was so happy! something of the same thought may have been in gervase's mind, for when they were not very far from exminster, riding between banks, and under oaks, of which the yellow leaf was not yet fully out, he pointed to a spot in the hedge, and said with a smile: "'twas there i found thee, hugh, and a woe begone object thou wast!" then, as he saw the boy redden, he went on kindly, "but that is all over and done with long ago, and now thou art content, if i mistake not." "more than content, good sir." "that is well, that is well. a little patience will often carry us through the darkest days. by-and-by show me about where thou wast wrecked. ay, the sea is a terrible place for mischances, and for myself i cannot think how men can be found willing to encounter such risks. there is talk of building larger vessels and adventuring longer voyages, but 'tis a rash idea. what know we of the awful regions that they might light upon, or whether the vessels might not be carried too close to the edge of the world? nay, nay, keep to land, say i. those who must explore may travel there as marco polo hath done, and indeed there are many tales going about the wonders of the court of the great khan of tartary." the road, as they journeyed on, became very beautiful, so wooded was it and broken, and with ever-widening views of water to the left, while on the right after a time they saw the ridges of dartmoor, a very bleak and barren country, as elyas told the boy, but now looking softly grey and delicate in colour. by this time they had reached the teign, and here at kingsteignton stopped to rest their horses, at a house belonging to the burdons of that place, elyas having done some work for them, and requiring to see it in its finished condition. plain country people they were, and awkward and uncouth in manners, two or three boys on bare-backed colts riding up as gervase and hugh arrived, and pointing at them with bursts of laughter. the girls, hugh thought, were little better, and the fashion of their garments curiously odd and slatternly. when supper--which was very plentifully provided--was over, they set forth again on their journey, getting into a most vile road, which lasted for some miles, but took them without adventure to tor mohun, although it led them through an extraordinary number of rocks and tors, and also between exceedingly thick woods. gervase had never been there before, and was no more prepared than hugh for the view which met their eyes when they came out of the circle of these woods. for there lay a very noble bay, well shut in, and with very beautiful and thickly wooded cliffs rising up on the eastern side. in a hollow of these cliffs and hills there clustered a few miserable hovels, otherwise it was a wild solitude, only so tempered by a kindly climate and the softness of the sea breezes that there was nothing rough or savage about it; and just now, towards sunset, with the sea like opal glass, and the colours all most bright and yet delicate, and the thorns yet in blossom, it was exceedingly pleasant to the eye, and dame alicia's house, though standing back, had it well in view. it was plain that she was a great lady by the size of the building and the number of retainers about, but they heard afterwards that these were not all hers, sir william de sandridge from stoke gabriel, and sir robert le denys of blagdon in the moor, having ridden over to spend two or three nights. an elderly squire took charge of gervase and his apprentice, showing them the little room that was to be theirs, and telling the warden that his lady had been eagerly expecting his coming, and would see him the next day. elyas asked whether he should find workmen in the chapel early in the morning. "no fear, goodman," said the squire with a laugh; "dame alicia is not one to let the grass grow under her feet, and i would not answer but what she may keep them there all night. go as early as thou wilt; follow this passage, turn down another to the right, and thou wilt come to a door with steps, which will take thee there." the next few days were days of both wonder and amusement to hugh. dame alicia was a fiery and impetuous little lady, using such strong language as would have brought her a heavy fine had she been an apprentice; ruling her household and serfs with much sharpness, disposed to domineer, yet with a kind heart which prevented any serious tyranny, and sometimes moved her to shame for too hasty acts. she was at times very impatient with elyas, expecting her wishes to be carried out in an unreasonably short time, and that all other work should give way to hers; but the stonemason had a dignity of his own, which never failed him, and kept him quietly resolute in spite of sudden storms. he would not consent to undertake the carving of the pulpit, or ambo, which she wanted set about, declaring that he had too much already on hand, nor would he yield to sir robert le denys and go to blagdon to advise on alterations there. all, however, that he had to do at tor mohun he did admirably. it was a proud day to hugh when he saw the bosses he had carved fixed in the vaulted roof. he worked all day in the chantry with delight, and would scarcely have left it had not gervase insisted on his going forth into the air. then sometimes he would go out in one of the rude fishing-boats, and was delighted to find a man who knew andrew of dartmouth, and promised to convey tidings of hugh to him. at the end of a week, in spite of dame alicia's reluctance, elyas and hugh went back to exeter again, and to the old life, which had become so familiar. chapter twelve. with the prentices in the meadows. time passed on, weeks, months, years: slowly, though happily, for the children; ever faster and faster for the elders. joan was still the only child, the darling of the house, but with a sweet, frank nature which was proof against spoiling. roger had long finished his seven years' apprenticeship, and now worked by the day as journeyman; even wat was close on the end of his term, but nobody seemed to think he could ever be anything except prentice wat, whom everybody laughed at and everybody liked, even better than they knew. nevertheless, by dint of hard belabouring of brains, and a most impatient patience, for he was ever rating him for his dulness, and yet never giving up the teaching, hugh had managed to hammer more out of wat than had been supposed possible in the beginning of things. it was very hard to get him to take in an idea, but once in his head, he sometimes showed an aptitude for working it out which surprised the others, and caused hugh delightful moments of triumph. as for hugh himself, his progress was astonishing. if he still lacked something of the technical skill of franklyn, there was no one, except gervase himself, who could come near his power of design. the boy had an intense love of nature, nothing was lost upon him. when he was in the fields or woods, he would note the exquisite curve of branches, the uncurling of ferns, the spring of grass or rushes, and was for ever trying to reproduce them. by this means his eye and hand were trained in the very best school, and his designs had an extraordinary beauty and freedom of line, devoid of all stiffness and conventionality. he could never be induced to delight in the grinning masks and monsters which were the joy of wat's soul, but when any delicate and dainty work was called for, it was always hugh who was set to do it. his pride and delight in the cathedral was scarcely less than the bishop's. bishop bitton was steadily carrying out his work in the choir, so as to complete the design of his predecessors. the choir was now entirely rebuilt, and united to the lady chapel, left standing at the end. the beautiful vaulting of the roof was in course of construction, and pushed on with all the speed that good work would allow. for one characteristic of the work of those days was that it was of the best. there was no competition, which we are accustomed to look upon as an actual necessity, but in place of this the guilds, which controlled labour and held it in their own hands, exercised a very strict oversight upon materials and execution, so that nothing which was bad or indifferent was allowed to pass; there was no possibility of underselling, nor of the workman being underpaid. the bishop had by no means forgotten his idea about the corbels. as the beautiful clustered shafts of the columns--of soft grey unpolished purbeck marble--were raised to support the arches, above each one was built in the long shapeless block, waiting to be some day carved into shape. gervase, also, was fired into enthusiasm when he spoke of them, and if gervase, then yet more hugh. much of his handiwork was already to be found in the cathedral, but this was of more importance, and there was even talk of the guild admitting into their number a skilled workman from france, famous for his skill in stone carving. one day, in the june of , master and apprentice were standing in the choir, hugh having just come down from work on the triforium. "i find my eye ever running over those blocks," said elyas with a smile, "and picturing them as they might look, finished. to-day, at any rate, i have brought one question to an end." "what, goodman?" "i shall be offered my choice of which to work upon myself." "ay?" said hugh eagerly. "i shall choose that," he said, pointing to one about half-way between the entrance of the choir and the spot where it was designed that the bishop's seat should be. "there is something friendly and inviting in that pillar, it fits in with my design. thou, hugh, must take whichever they offer thee." "if they will accept me at all!" "i think so," said elyas gravely. "'tis true thy lack of years is against thee, but there is no other hindrance, and i believe they will trust me in the matter. how old art thou now, hugh?" "just seventeen, sir." "already? but, yes, it must be so. it is all but six years since i stumbled upon thee in the street, a little fellow, no older than our joan is now. much has happened in the kingdom since then, but here the time has flown peacefully." much, indeed, had happened to weight the last years of the reign of the great king. the second war in scotland was over; edward had married again, the princess margaret of france being his chosen wife. parliaments had by his efforts become more frequent and more important, and the parliament of lincoln, in , marked an era in representative government, when one hundred and thirty seven cities and boroughs sent up representatives. archbishop winchelsey was still trying to enforce the papal supremacy, which edward ever resisted, and certain disaffected nobles joined the archbishop. the king dealt with the two principal conspirators, norfolk and hereford, both firmly and leniently. winchelsey he would not himself judge, but his ambassador placed the matter in the hands of the pontiff, who immediately cited the archbishop to rome, to answer for his conduct. william thorn, a monk of canterbury, thus describes the next scene: "when the archbishop knew that he was thus cited, he went to the king to ask for permission to cross the sea. and when the king heard of his coming, he ordered the doors of his presence chamber to be thrown open, that all who wished might enter, and hear the words which he should address to him. and having heard the archbishop, he thus replied to him:--`the permission to cross the sea which you ask of us we willingly grant you--but permission to return grant we none:--bearing in mind your treachery, and the treason which at our parliament at lincoln you plotted against us;-- whereof a letter under your seal is witness, and plainly testifies against you. we leave it to the pope to avenge our wrongs; and as you have deserved, so shall he recompense you. but from our favour and mercy, which you ask, we utterly exclude you; because merciless you have yourself been, and therefore deserve not to obtain mercy.' and so we part with winchelsey." [_the greatest of all the plantagenets_.] at exeter, however, as gervase said, the time had passed peaceably. two burgesses had indeed with much pain and trouble journeyed all the way to lincoln, and came back with marvellous stories of the magnificence of the barons, the crowds of retainers, the quantity of provisions supplied, and the deliciousness of sea-wolves, now tasted for the first time. and, greatly to hugh's delight, it appeared that sir thomas de trafford, being there with his lady and children, applied to one of the exeter burgesses for news of hugh, and sent word he was glad to hear that he was a good lad, and doing credit to his craft. and dame edith despatched him a token, a rosary from the holy land, and the two sisters a gift of a mark to agrippa, to buy him cakes. on poor agrippa the years had, perhaps, told the most hardly. he suffered much from the cold winters, and had lost a good deal of his activity. but on the whole he had a very happy life, with no fear of ill-usage from boy or man, for he was as well-known to all the citizens as any other dweller in the high street, and was held to be under the special protection of the guild of which elyas was warden. that june in which gervase and hugh talked in the cathedral found wat in low spirits. he had been out of his apprenticeship for nearly a year, but this was the first midsummer that had fallen since he had been promoted to what might be called man's estate, which promised to require more sacrifices to its dignity than he was at all willing to make. on one point he had besought master gervase so piteously that the master had yielded, and allowed him to remain in the house. another apprentice, one hal crocker, had been admitted, and of him wat was absurdly jealous, so that hugh sometimes had to interfere, though hal was a malapert boy, very well able to take care of himself. but midsummer eve had ever been a time of high revel for the prentices. "and this year the bonfires will be bigger than ever," cried wat in a tragic voice. "alack, why couldn't the master keep me on as a prentice?" "what an oaf thou art!" "i care not for being an oaf, but i hate to be a journeyman, and have no merriment." poor wat! he did not so much mind giving up what hugh liked best in all the day, the wreathing the doorways with fennel, green birch, and lilies, but to lose the joy of collecting the brushwood and piling it in great heaps, with much rivalry among the lads as to which was the highest and best built--this was indeed doleful. the meadows were thronged with crowds, among which he wandered disconsolate, giving sly help when he could do so without loss of dignity, until to his great joy he espied gervase himself dragging a great bush to one of the heaps, upon which, with a shout of delight, wat flung himself into a thorny thicket, and emerged with as much as his arms could clasp. meanwhile other things besides fuel were being brought into the field by goodwives and serving maids. round each bonfire were placed tables on which supper was bountifully spread, and when it grew dusk and the fires were lighted, all passers-by were invited to eat, besides the friends of the providers. the whole scene was extremely gay and brilliant, and between crackling of green things and chatter of many voices, the noise was prodigious. wat was by this time as happy as a king, running here and there as freely as ever in prentice days, helping the smaller boys, seeing that there was no lack of provisions, and inexhaustible in his good humour. several of master gervase's friends were seated at his tables, and among them one master tirell, a member of the goldsmiths' guild, with his wife and daughters. hugh had noticed one of these as a very fair and dainty little damsel in a pale blue kirtle, who seemed somewhat shy and frightened, and kept very close to her mother's side. the merriment, indeed, grew somewhat boisterous as the darkness crept on, and the bonfires were constantly fed with fresh fuel, and certain of the younger of the prentices amused themselves by dragging out burning brands, and pursuing each other with shrieks of excitement about the meadows. foremost among these was hal crocker, who managed more than once to slip by wat before the elder lad could seize him, and whose wild spirits led him to fling about the burning sticks which he pulled out, to the danger of the bystanders. suddenly, after one of these wild rushes there was a cry of terror. thomasin tirell, the fair-haired girl already mentioned, started up and ran wildly forwards, stretching out her hands, and screaming for help. almost before the others could realise what had happened, wat had sprung towards her, thrown her on the grass, and pressed out the fire with his hands. she was scarcely hurt at all, though sorely frightened, bursting into sobs and hiding her face on her mother's shoulder as soon as she was on her feet again, and trembling like a terrified bird. her mother soothed her, while master tirell heartily thanked wat, and gervase looked angrily round in search of the culprit. "beshrew me, but it was bravely done, and thou art a gallant lad," said master tirell, a portly, red-faced man; "st loys shall have a silver chain for this, for the poor silly maid might have been in a sorry plight had she run much farther, and the fire been fanned into flame. shake hands--what, are thy hands so burned? see here, goodwife, here is room for thy leechcraft." it was in vain that wat protested, he was forced to display his hands, at which thomasin gazed, horror-struck, with tears running over her blue eyes, and hands clasped on her breast. in fact, wat was suddenly elevated into quite a new position, that of a hero, for the citizens pressed to the spot from all sides and heaped praises upon him. "'twas nothing!" he kept saying awkwardly, turning redder and redder at each congratulation, and looking from side to side for a loophole of escape. then, as hugh came rushing up with an eager "what is it?"--"that mischievous loon hal! if i can but lay hands on him!" "hath he set anyone on fire?" "ay, young mistress tirell. nay, mistress, prithee think not of it--my hands will be well to-morrow--'tis nothing, mistress thomasin--hugh," (aside), "get me out of this, for i never felt such a fool!" but there was no escape for wat. hal, having been caught, and received summary punishment from his master, was sent home, and the party sat down again, some to go on with prothasy's good things, and thomasin to recover a little from her condition. nothing would serve but that wat must sit down, too, between thomasin and her elder sister, alice, and there he was more confused than ever by faltered thanks, and grateful glances of the blue eyes. "how was it?" asked alice, whispering across him. "alack, i know not!" said the other girl, shuddering. "i felt something hot under my elbow, and looked down, and there was a line of flame darting up, and then i screamed, and then--" to wat--"you came." "i was too rough," stammered wat, "but then i always am a bear." "a bear! nay, it was to save my life." "it was all past in a minute," said alice. "but thy hands. i hope mother has bound them up skilfully. is the pain great?" "prithee speak not of it again!" cried wat in desperation. it was curious, however, how content he was to remain in his present position, which hugh fancied must be terribly irksome to him, wat always finding it most difficult to sit still when anything active was going on. it made him fear that he might be more hurt than they knew. but the bonfires were in full blaze, and every great crackle and leap of flame caused thomasin to tremble, so that wat's presence and protection were very grateful to her. and to him it was a new experience to be appealed to and looked up to as if he were a man; he found it exceedingly pleasant, he had never believed it could be so pleasant before. mistress tirell would have him go home with them, having an ointment which she thought excellent for burns, and though thomasin could not endure to look upon the dressing, wat thought her interest and sympathy showed the kindest heart in the world. in fact, it seemed to him that no one ever had been so sweet, and when he got back late, he was very angry that hugh should be too sleepy to listen to his outpourings of admiration. as for hal, he had to keep out of his way all day, wat scarce being able to withhold his hands from him, while to hugh he talked perpetually of what had happened, and put numberless questions as to what he thought about it all. "she was a silly maiden," said hugh, bluntly, "to shriek and run like a frightened hare." "much thou knowest!" cried the indignant wat. "thou wouldst have had her sit and be burned, forsooth!" "well, 'tis no matter of mine. thou hast thy hands burned so thou canst not work, and had to sit up like the master himself--poor wat! i was sorry for thee!" "it was not so bad," said wat, meditatively. "when thou art a grown man, thou wilt not care so much for all that foolish boy's play. i shall have no more of it." hugh burst into a laugh, as he shaped the graceful curve of a vine tendril. "what has come to thee? who was mad yesterday at having to play master sobersides?" "i shall play the fool no more, i tell thee. what age, think you, might mistress thomasin be?" "nay, i scarce looked at her." "i am going soon to the house to have my hands dressed." "what need for that when the goodwife here could do it?" "i could scarce be such a churl as to refuse when i was bidden," said wat, hotly. hugh stared at him, not understanding the change from the wat who fled the company of his elders, caring for none but hare-brained prentices; and as the days went by he grew more and more puzzled. wat's hands seemed long in getting well, at any rate they required to be frequently inspected by mistress tirell, and it was remarkable that he could talk of naught but his new friends. he had always preferred the carving of curious and grotesque creatures, leaving all finer and more graceful work to hugh. but now he implored hugh to let him have the fashioning of a small kneeling angel. "thou!" cried the other, amazed. "what has put that into thy head? it is not the work that thou carest for." "i have a mind for it when my hands are well. prithee, hugh!" "nay, thou wilt stick some grinning face on the poor angel's shoulders." "not i. i am going to try to shape something like mistress thomasin-- well, why dost thou laugh?" "what has come to thee, wat? since that day in the meadows it has been naught but thomasin, thomasin! now i think of it, perhaps the fairies bewitched thee, since it was midsummer eve!" perhaps master gervase guessed more clearly than hugh what was the magic that had wrought this change, for though he laughed a good deal, he kept wat occupied after the first three or four days were past, and prothasy undertook to do all that was now necessary for the hurt hands. it was remarkable that under her care they seemed to improve more rapidly than at one time appeared probable, so that it was not very long before wat was able to handle his chisel again, though from the great sighs he emitted hugh was afraid the pain might be more than he allowed. but now were no more pranks or junketings for wat, no more liberties permitted from the prentices whose merry company he had hitherto preferred. he had suddenly awakened to a dignified sense of his position as journeyman, and roger himself did not maintain it more gravely. most remarkable, however, was the change in his appearance. it had always been an affront to prothasy that wat would never keep his clothes tidy or clean, she vowed he was a disgrace to their house, and that no others in the town made such a poor appearance. but now--now times indeed were changed! now was wat going off to the draper's to purchase fine cloth, and taking it himself to the tailors' guild, and most mighty particular was he about the cut of his sleeves. and as for his shoes, he ran to outrageous lengths in the toes--he who had always inveighed against the oafs who were not content with modest points! on the first sunday on which wat, thus attired, set forth, carrying a posy of lilies in his hand, and walking with such an air of conscious manliness as quite impressed those who met him, hugh and joan, with agrippa, watching from the balcony, saw him turn up to st martin's gate, and both burst out laughing. "what has come to wat?" cried hugh. "didst see his posy?" "that is for thomasin," joan answered, nodding her pretty little head, "for i heard him ask mother what flowers maidens loved, and mother laughed, and said 'twas so long since she was a girl, she had forgotten, but if it was meant for thomasin he had best ask mistress tirell. and i know thomasin loves lilies. i wonder why wat likes thomasin so much? i like alice better. but he is for ever talking about her yellow hair and her blue eyes, and wanting to hear if i have seen her pass. look, hugh, what a fierce-looking man!" "that is he they call henry of doune, and sir adam fortescue is stopping his horse to speak with him. and here comes peter the shereman, and nat the cordwainer. they say that. earl hugh has been quarrelling with the mayor again, and threatening to stop all the fishing in the exe. thy father is very wroth; he says the city bears it too tamely, and should complain to the king." "hugh, tell me about thy corbel. hast thou thought it out?" "i am always thinking. i see such beautiful lines and curves in my dreams that i am quite happy--till i wake." "father says in two or three months there will be a beginning, and i don't know what to wish," continued joan. "i want both of you to do the best." "there is no fear. i cannot match with the master." "there is no other that can match with thee then!" cried joan, fondling agrippa. "he first and thou second--that is what it must be." hugh shook his head. "franklyn and roger." "they can work but they cannot design like thee," returned joan, eagerly. "roger will be mad to be the best, but--unless he steals a design--there is no chance of that. oh, thou foolish hugh, to make me tell thee this over and over again when thou knowest it better than i do!" chapter thirteen. by proxy. all through the autumn and early winter hugh's thoughts were busy about the corbel work. he might have been impatient that it was not begun before, but that he knew the delay to have been gained for himself by elyas, who had met with some opposition from certain canons of the cathedral. they objected that it was unwise to put a work of such importance into the hands of a young apprentice. every month gained, therefore, was in his favour, and the bishop remained his friend. the rough blocks were already in their places, ready for ordinary workmen to "boss them out," and by the end of february, which had been a wet and cheerless month, this was done. gervase was very much in the cathedral superintending; prothasy complained that she never saw him, and even joan failed to coax him out. he was like a boy in his longing to begin, saying, and justly, that he was for ever over-seeing and correcting, and got little opportunity of letting his own powers have play. to hugh, more freely than to any, he talked of his design, discussing its details with him; but one day wat, looking uncomfortable, pulled hugh after him as he went down the street. "talk a little less loudly with the master of what his _surs_ is to be like," he said. "why?" "because there are those who would give their ears to have some notions in their thick brains, and would filch other folks' without scruple." "roger?" "ay, roger is ever conveniently near when there is aught to be heard, and he is mad because the men say thy work is sure to be the best--after the master's. so beware, for the master thinks all as honourable as himself. what's this?" for by this time they had got near the conduit and the market, and a crowd of people were coming along hooting and jeering some object, which, as they approached, turned out to be a man seated on a horse with his face to the tail, and a loaf hanging round his neck. "why, 'tis edmund the baker!" cried wat in great excitement. "look how white he is--as white as his own meal! this comes of adulterating his bread, and now he will be put in the pillory, and his oven destroyed. which wilt thou go to see, hugh?" "neither. and what will mistress thomasin say of thy caring to see a man pilloried?" "oh, mistress thomasin, she is too dainty and fine! her sister is more to my mind. come!" but hugh would not. he left wat, and walked down the high street, and across the bridge with its houses and its chapel, and out into the country. a high wind was driving grey clouds swiftly across the sky, and now and then a dash of rain came in his face. the year was forward, and already buds were swelling, and the country showing the first signs of spring. though so many years had passed hugh could never walk in this direction without remembering his first coming to exeter. how glad his father would be to know how it was with him! he was in the last year of his apprenticeship, and receiving wages of ten shillings a month, no small sum in those days. that he had got on in his craft and satisfied his master hugh was aware, and now before him opened such an honourable task as a lad of his age could not have hoped for; what stephen had longed for was about to come to pass, and hugh knew that it was possible for him to bring fame and honour to his father's name. with such thoughts, too, necessarily was joined very deep gratitude to master gervase. he had never faltered in his kindness; had hugh been his own son he could not have trained him more carefully, or taught him more freely, with no grudging thoughts of possible rivalship. he had given the boy of his best, and hugh's heart swelled as he recognised it, wondering whether it would ever be in his power to do something by way of return. poor hugh! he little thought how soon the occasion would come! then, as ever, he fell to studying the beautiful spring of branch and twig, and shaped and twisted them in his own mind, and saw them fair and perfect in the corbel, as artists see their works before they begin to carry them out, as yet unmarred by failure. some of these models he bore home to study at leisure, and in the doorway met elyas. "i was looking for thee. john hamlyn and i have had our commission to begin, and we are to hear about thee in two or three days. have no fear. the bishop and i are strong enough to carry the matter; beshrew me, am i not the one to judge who is the best workman?" "i may get the block ready for you, sir?" said hugh eagerly. "that may'st thou not, for i have already spoken to ned parsons, and he is there at this moment. why, thou silly lad, disappointed? thinkest thou that seeing thee set to do the rough labour will dispose them to choose thee for the better? nay, nay, leave it to me, and do thou perfect thy design, remembering that it is a great and holy work to which thou art admitted. and hark ye, hugh, spare no time in the design, and be not over-bold. take something simple, such as ivy with the berries. do that well, and it may be a second will fall to thy share." no need to bid him be industrious. hugh flung himself into it with such intensity of purpose that for the next day or two he could hardly eat or sleep. wat, whose fate was also in the balance, took it with the utmost philosophy, said he should do his best, hoped that would turn out better than he expected, and snored peacefully the moment he was in his bed. roger, who was certain to have the work, was as absorbed as hugh, but silent withal. his nature was moody and suspicious, he gave no confidence, and wat was not far wrong when he said that he was on the watch for what he could gather as to the designs of the others. hugh generally drew his fancies on a bit of board with a stick sharpened and burnt. usually he rubbed them out as soon as he had them to his fancy, but once or twice he had left them about, and was little aware how roger had made them his own, or what exact copies were stowed away in a box. it was a week after hugh's walk outside the walls that he saw elyas come into the yard with master william pontington, the canon of st peter's, who a few years before had bought poltimore of lord montacute. hugh's heart beat so fast that his hand was scarcely so firm as usual, and he chipped the feather of a bird's wing. for something in gervase's face told him that he brought news. wat was working in the cathedral. presently the master and the canon came and stood behind hugh. hugh's hand trembled no more; he cut with astonishing freedom and power, feeling himself to be in a manner on his trial. yet the silence seemed to him to last almost beyond endurance. he could not see the proud look on his master's face, nor watch the change of expression from cold indifference to eager interest on that of the canon. his own work never reached his hopes or his intentions, and he was far more quick to see its faults than its beauties. suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder. "enough, goodman," said a voice, "i give in. since i have seen this young springald of thine at work, i own thou hadst a right to praise him as thou hast done. give him a corbel and let him fall to at it as if it were this capital he is carving now, for the bird and her nest are as cunning a piece of workmanship as i have ever beheld." "thank his reverence, hugh," said gervase gleefully. but hugh turned red and then white, and could scarce stammer out the words. "ay, ay," said the canon good-humouredly, "no need for more; and i am glad thy heart is so set upon it, because now thy heart will go into thy hand, and, to tell thee the truth, that is what i feared might be wanting in such a young worker. is that truly all thine own design?" "the other men would be more like to come to hugh than hugh to go to them, holy sir," put in elyas. the canon, indeed, could scarcely believe his eyes. he made the young man show more of his carving, heard something of his father's skill, to all of which he had hitherto turned a deaf ear, and departed, ready to do battle for hugh against any who spoke a disparaging word. "there goes thy most persistent opponent," said elyas, coming back and rubbing his hands in glee; "'twas all i could do to bring him here, and he grumbled the whole way about putting work into inexperienced hands, and i know not what! now to-morrow, hugh, ned parsons will have finished his blocking out for me, and i will set him to thine. i shall give thee the first pillar in the choir on the opposite side to mine own. it is not so well in view as some of the others, but that should make no difference in its fairness. and here is joan to be told the news." joan shook her wise little head over it, and opined that now hugh would be worse than ever in neither eating nor sleeping. but it was not so. he was very quiet all that day, and when work was over he and joan set off for the cathedral that he might look upon his pillar--with what longing eyes!--and picture it again and again to himself as it should be. "and there is father's--shaped," said joan; "how long and slender it looks! i do hope that his will be the most beautiful of all, because he is older, and because you have all learnt from him, and because--he is father and there is no one like him!" "no fear!" said hugh. "i have seen his designs. not one of us can overpass him." "mother is not easy about him, either," said joan, who had sat down and clasped her hands round her knees. "he has pains in his head and dizziness, and he will not have the leech because he says he talks so foolishly about mars and venus, and father says he does not believe the planets have aught to do with us. dost thou think they have?" "i know not," said hugh unheeding. "joan, hast thou heard where roger's is to be?" "on the same side with father's, and wat opposite, and franklyn between thee and wat. tell me once again how thine ivy is to curl." from one cause or another there was a slight delay in the preparation of hugh's block. something hindered ned parsons, or he was slower in his work, or kept mid-lent too jovially; at any rate there was a check which seemed very terrible to hugh, and roger and wat were both at work before him. wat intended to carry out a bold design of leaf and fruit, but he vowed that something grotesque there must be, and if he might not put agrippa there, he should have a neighbour's dog which had shown a great liking for him. it must be owned that wat was of a somewhat fickle disposition, his fancy for angels and lily-bearing maidens was over, and mistress thomasin was betrothed to a rich burgess. it seemed likely that he would lose his heart and find it again many a time before the final losing took place. meanwhile it was evident to more than the wife that something was amiss with elyas. he was at work on his corbel, but heavy-headed and depressed, finding the carving for which he had longed a labour, and not really making good progress. of this he was fully conscious, so conscious indeed, that a fear evidently oppressed him that his hand might have lost its power, and he spoke of it anxiously to hugh. "i wot not why it is," he said, wearily passing his hand across his face, "but though i know what i have to do, i fail in the doing. come with me to-day, hugh, and see for thyself." and, indeed, hugh, when he had mounted the ladder and raised the cloth concealing the carving, was fain to acknowledge that it was as gervase said. instead of the firm and powerful strokes which marked his work in all stages, there was a manifest feebleness, hesitation, and blurring which filled hugh with dismay. it was only the beginning; nothing was there which might not be set right, but what if indeed his skill was failing? he could hardly bear to meet the questioning in gervase's eyes. "master--it--it--" "speak out--speak freely," said elyas hoarsely. "it is bad work?" "it is not as thy work. thou art ill, and thy hand feeble; wait a little, and let the sickness pass." the other shook his head. "nay, i dread to wait. something, some fear of the morrow drives me on. hugh, this on which i have set my heart--is it to be snatched from me? i see it before me, fair and beautiful, a joy for generations to come. i can do it. i have never failed before, how can i fail now? and yet, and yet--" he covered his face with his hands. hugh, inexpressibly moved, laid his hand on his arm. "sir, dear sir, it is only a passing malady. in a few days you will look back and smile at your fears. come home and let mistress prothasy make you a cooling drink." but elyas was obstinately determined to work while he could. haunted by a fear of disabling sickness, unable to believe that the next stroke he made would not show all his old vigour, he toiled, struggled, and went home more disheartened than ever. yet there were no absolute marks of illness about him, and prothasy was neither fanciful nor over-anxious, and the next day thought him better. work over, hugh went up to his room to perfect his designs, for presently he was to begin. with his board and burnt stick he traced in full the ivy clusters upon which he had decided, carrying out all the smallest details, so that he might have it well in his mind before he put his tool to the stone. satisfied he was not, but yet it seemed to him that the lines were fairly good, and it was broad and simple, such as gervase had suggested. he had finished and was holding it at arm's length to search for shortcomings when he was startled by a cry, and the next moment heard joan's voice calling wildly, "hugh, hugh!" hugh dashed the board on the ground, and rushed towards the cry. he found prothasy kneeling on the ground, holding her husband's head in her lap, while joan, with a terror-struck face, was unfastening his vest as well as her trembling little hands would allow. "the leech!" was all prothasy could say, and hugh was out of the door the same moment, flying down the street in pursuit of the first apothecary he could find, so that they were back before prothasy had dared to hope. it appeared that elyas had but just come in from the cathedral, when, without warning, he dropped on the ground, cutting his head against a sharp projection. he remained unconscious for many hours, and the leech looked grave, the more so when it was found that all one side was affected, so that his arm and leg were useless. a heavy sadness hung over the house, even hal hushing his malapert tongue. the warden was greatly beloved by all; they were, moreover, extremely proud of his genius, and now--was that strong right hand to lie helpless! as the news spread some of the families near sent their serfs to ask tidings; the good bishop came himself, full of grief. "truly, goodwife," he said to prothasy, "this blow falls heavy on us all. i know not what we can do without him, he has been the very spring of our work, ever cheerful, ever ready, seeing to everything; in good sooth we have had in him a support on which we have leaned more heavily than we knew." prothasy stood up, white and cold, and apparently unmoved. very few were aware of the tempest which raged in her heart; bitter remorse for many sharp words, passionate love, sickening anxiety. she had often been jealous of the work which seemed to absorb elyas, and many a time had flouted him for some kind action of which she was secretly proud, and against which she would not have said a word had she not known well that he would not be shaken from it. and the worst was, that so strong had grown the habit, that she was conscious now, in the midst of what was little short of torture, that were he to recover from his sickness it would be the same thing again. joan little knew with what a weary longing her mother looked at her--to be a child again, to have no chain of habit binding her round and round, to be free! for a few days the works in the cathedral were stopped. the bishop ordered this as a mark of respect to gervase, the most self-denying mark he could pay. there were many things to carry out in the yard, and franklyn, looking wretched, and perhaps, like prothasy, bearing a burden of self-reproach, kept strict rule, and would permit no idling. hugh, however, could be little there. after gervase recovered his consciousness it was plain enough that he liked hugh to be with him. they sometimes thought, from the wistful look in his eyes, that he wanted to say something, but as yet his speech was unintelligible. wat was of no use in the sick-room; it was always impossible for him not to make more noise than two or three others put together, even when he was walking on tip-toe, and painfully holding his breath. but in the house he was invaluable, thought nothing a trouble, would run here and there, fetch the apothecary or the leech, or walk miles on any errands they could devise. when three or four days had passed, and hope had strengthened, hugh found him one day belabouring hal crocker for having ventured to tease agrippa. hal took advantage of the newcomer to wriggle himself off and escape, making a face at wat as he did so. "that is the most incorrigible varlet in the town," said wat, looking after him wrathfully. "now, is aught wanted?" "no. he is sleeping." "he will soon be himself again," said the other, joyfully, "and thou wilt set to work." they were both young and both hopeful. "ay, so i think," returned hugh. "and thou, too?" "mine will not do the master much credit, though i have got a fancy for my dog. when we are all gone and forgotten, there will spot be, gazing down on a fresh generation of citizens. think of that, hugh! what will they be like, i wonder? new faces and new fashions. come up the street with me. the itinerant justices came this morning, and i want to know what they have done to the forestaller whom they caught half-way to brampford speke, meeting the people on their way to market roger said he was to have two years in gaol." "wat?" "ay." "i wanted to ask thee. thou rememberest the day the master was taken?" "ay." "i was in our room, and had just drawn out my design on the board." "ay, thy head was full of thy old _surs_. well?" "when i heard them cry i ran down and flung it on the ground, and it is gone." "gone! oh, that thief roger!" "thou thinkest so?" "thinkest? who else? it was not i--nor agrippa. hast thou asked?" "ay, and he was very wroth." wat doubled his fists and made several significant movements. "that is what he has been trying for--to get at thy designs, thine or the master's. how couldst thou be such an oaf?" "who could think of it then?" "he could, at any rate. he would think how to push himself to the front if he had to do it over all our dead bodies. say good-bye to thy design, friend hugh!" "nay, i'll not bear it," cried the young man, angrily; "if he use my design i'll proclaim it through the town. and he works fast, and will get the advantage of me, because the master will not spare me while he is so ill. out on him, what can i do?" "change thy design," advised wat, sagely. "to whom canst thou complain with the goodman ill? franklyn ever favours roger." there was truth enough in the words to make hugh very angry with the feeling of having been treacherously dealt with, and of having no means of righting himself. when, the next day, roger went off to the cathedral, rightly or wrongly wat and hugh fancied there was an air of triumph about him, which was infuriating. hugh could not be spared, but wat vowed he would make out by one means or another what he was intending to carve. he began by coming up to him as he stood at the foot of the ladder choosing his chisel, and asking what was his subject. it took wat rather aback when roger stared full in his face and answered, "ivy." "ivy! what, the same as hugh?" "i know naught of hugh." "that thou didst then. thou hast heard him speak of it a dozen times." "i have better things to do than to listen to idle prentice talk." "the master can witness that thou heardest." "let him--when he can!" said roger, with a hard laugh. "now, out on thee for a false loon!" cried wat. he might have said more but that two of the chapter were close at hand, and he flung himself away with a heart full of rage, and betook himself to his own corbel, on which he vented a good deal of force which he would gladly have employed in pommelling roger. and this having a calming effect, he came to the conclusion that it would be best for hugh to take no notice of the older man's perfidy. there was no proof that roger had stolen the design, there was nothing except honour to prevent his using the same foliage, and with gervase ill, an accusation might meet with little attention, and perhaps harm hugh more than roger. wat groaned, and dug in his tool with a violence which it cost him no little trouble to repair. perhaps hugh was helped to patience by the circumstances of gervase's illness. there was something so infinitely sad in this sudden check at the time when all the master's hopes seemed to be on the point of touching fulfilment, that such a disappointment as hugh's must be comparatively trifling. he was young, he could wait. besides, he would not count it as a disappointment, it was only a delay. elyas was already better, and probably in another week he would be free. and meanwhile, if his design had been filched, he would work out another-- that he could do while in gervase's room, and his hopes rose high. he had chosen the ivy because the master had counselled simple forms, but he felt as if now, with this taken from him, he was free to try a higher flight, and he fell hopefully to work with all the glad consciousness of power. elyas was better, but his speech remained much affected, and as his strength returned, there were an evident restlessness and anxiety which were alarming. it became, indeed, clear that something weighed on his mind, and the leech showed more common sense than was usual with him when he pronounced that, unless the trouble could be removed, it might go hardly with his patient. everybody, frightened out of their wits by this prediction, tried their best to find out what was amiss. prothasy tried--with a patience which no one had seen in her before. joan tried--laying her pretty head fondly upon the poor useless right hand. hugh tried--and sometimes they fancied that his efforts came nearest to the hidden trouble, though never quite reaching it. hugh spoke of the cathedral works, of how franklyn, roger, wat, and two other men had begun, of how glad all would be when elyas himself was able to be there again. and then, fancying that perhaps he feared lest another should touch his corbel, he told him that the bishop himself had said it should wait for him even were all the others finished. a feeble--so feeble as to be almost imperceptible--shake of the head made hugh impress this the more strongly, and then followed a painful effort to make them understand something, of which they could not gather the right meaning. it was terrible to prothasy--almost more, indeed, than she could bear. the bishop heard of this drawback, for the warden's anxiety and distress had the worst effect upon his strength, and they began very much to fear that if they were not removed they might lead to another attack more serious than the last. he came himself to see gervase with the hope of fathoming the trouble; and at any rate his visit gave pleasure, for the sick man's eyes brightened as the bishop stood in the doorway and uttered the words of peace. they could even make out a murmur of "this is kind." bishop bitton sat on the stool which prothasy put for him, and set himself to chat about all that was going on in the cathedral. then he said-- "we think there is something on thy mind, goodman, which thou canst not explain, and which retards thy recovery. it may be that i can arrive at it, but do not try to speak. here lies thy left hand. when thou wouldst say ay, lift thy forefinger so, and for nay, keep thy hand still. now, first, is there something thou wouldst say?" the finger was raised. the good bishop nodded, proud of his ingenuity. "hath it aught to do with thy spiritual condition?" no sign. "or thy worldly matters? nay. thy wife? thy child? any of thy relations? nay, to all. then we will come to municipal matters. doth anything there weigh on thee? still nay. thy guild?" the bishop persisted in a string of questions which brought no response, before arriving at the subject of the cathedral, which in his own mind he doubted not was where the trouble lay. indeed, his first question as to whether it were not so, brought the lifted finger, and a hopeful gleam in the eyes. only prothasy was in the room, hugh having gone down to the yard. but, try as he might, the bishop found his task very difficult. they narrowed the matter at last to the corbel, but elyas got restless and irritable with making efforts to speak and explain himself, and the bishop laid his hand finally upon his arm, saying kindly-- "have patience. we shall reach it in time. thou dost but fever thyself with vain struggles. hearken. i have assured thee that we will wait months, ay, years if thou wilt, till god gives back thy strength. is that what thou desirest?" no sign. "nay?" repeated the bishop, in some surprise. he paused, and then bent forward. "wouldst thou then have another take the work? ay? and carry out thy designs? ay, again. goodman, were that not a pity? a little patience and thy strength may come back, the leech says--" but his words died away before the look which the sick man turned on him. he looked away to collect himself. "if it must be so," he said at length, hesitatingly. "goodwife, you understand it as i do? it is no doing of ours." "nay, my lord, it is clearly his wish," said prothasy firmly. "and now," bishop bitton continued, "we must know to whom thou wouldst confide it. the other warden, john hamlyn, ranks next to thee." but it was evident that gervase would have none of john hamlyn. "walter bennet?" no. "well, it is natural thou wouldst keep it in thine own yard. william franklyn, thy head man?" still no. the bishop pondered; named two other skilled workmen, and received no assent. "thou thinkest well of thy roger? nay, again!--wat?--who remains, goodman? thy prentice hugh is too young." but to the good bishop's amazement elyas, looking eagerly at him, raised, not the finger only, but the whole hand. "hugh! thou wouldst choose hugh! bethink thee that he is but a prentice, and when we gave him the work it was thought that thou wouldst advise and help him." still there could be no doubt that this was the master's desire; hugh and none but hugh was to carry out his design, and carve his corbel. the bishop shook his head doubtfully, but he could not gainsay elyas; there was so much relief apparent in his face, and his lips moved as if in thankfulness. "it shall be as thou wilt," he said gravely. he told prothasy that she must use her judgment and send hugh to his work when elyas could spare him, and went away, doubtful, it must be owned, of his own wisdom in handing over one of the most prominent of the corbels to the youngest of the carvers. chapter fourteen. will roger succeed? hugh's first feeling was one of bitter and intense disappointment. he cared not one jot about the position of the corbel, what he did care for was the working out his own design, seeing that, as it were, spring into life under his hand. it was a very different thing to carry out another man's, for, however good the execution might be, that could not equal the joy of creation. he turned quite white when prothasy told him, thinking the news should give him proud delight, but, curiously enough, joan, who was in the room, child as she was, understood his feelings better, and the moment her mother left slipped her hand in his. "alack, alack, poor hugh!" "there go all my hopes," he groaned. "but it is for father," she urged. "bethink you how grievous it is for him to have no hand in what he longed for." "i think of my father, too. i wanted to credit his name." "nay," said joan softly, "if he could speak he would say there were nobler things than fame." was not that really what he had said, and was it not strange that she should repeat it? but then joan ever had strange thoughts for her age, and hugh's better nature came to his aid. "in good sooth, thou art right, joan," he said after a pause. "whatever it cost me, i will remember that i might not be working in the cathedral at all were it not for the master. i will put aside thought of my own fancies, and carry his out with my might." there was something solemn about this promise, and both felt it so, joan looking up admiringly into hugh's face, and more certain than ever that--her father always excepted--there was no one like him in the world. gervase gave better signs of mending after the bishop's visit, and his speech began slowly to clear itself, but they soon found that he was anxious for hugh to begin work, and that the latter might now leave him to the care of prothasy and joan. he made hugh bring his design to his side, and evidently wished him to go through it there and to show that he fully understood it. it was a conventional design, mixed with foliage, long, slender, and sharply cut, not unlike the lower leaves of the shepherd's purse greatly magnified, and depending for its beauty upon certain strongly marked curves. it had never seemed to hugh quite equal to the master's other designs. there was much wonder and some jealousy of hugh when gervase's choice became known; but also general satisfaction, there being much competition in the matter, and no one being willing to give up his own chance of distinguishing himself by producing and carrying out a design which should surpass all the others. no one, that is to say, but wat. he had the lowest opinion of his own powers, and thought it sheer folly to have been chosen for such a task, and he would very gladly have made over his pillar to hugh, and faithfully carried out the master's drawings. as, however, this was impossible, he set himself to perpetuate spot, and at the same time to keep a watchful eye upon roger. roger was the best pleased of all, for, since hugh could no longer use his own design, it was pretty sure that no one would interfere with him. he was a first-rate workman, only wanting in imagination and invention; he had no fear but that now he had provided himself with the design, his corbel would hold its own with, perhaps surpass, all others. he even managed to smooth certain ruffles in his conscience by assuring it that since hugh could not have undertaken any independent labour, no harm was done to him; ivy had always been in his mind, and he had but assisted his fancy by a means which had fallen in his way. nevertheless, it was remarkable that he took the utmost pains to prevent wat from getting a sight of his work. the carvings were always covered when left for the night, and there was a sort of tacit understanding that no one need openly display his work, although often one called another to give advice upon some doubtful point. but roger used unusual precautions to arrange his materials and himself as he worked, so as completely to hide the carving from view. wat pondered long upon this, and at last, coming home with hugh one evening, he asked-- "the design which roger filched, is it yet in thy head?" "ay," briefly answered hugh. "draw it out then again." "where is the use? i shall never have the chance of using it, and if i had, i could not now when that false loon has had all this time to push on with his." "still--do as i bid thee," returned wat obstinately. nor would he rest until he had the design safely in his keeping. then he carried it to prothasy. "prithee, goodwife, hast thou any place where thou canst bestow this safely?" "what for?" "it is hugh's design for the corbel which he was to have carved: one he did before, and has never seen since the day the master was taken ill." "there are places in the yard without lumbering the house." "ay, mistress, but i would have thee keep it where none of us, not even hugh himself, should ever see it. he hath marked the day of the month upon it--see." she looked questioningly at him, then took the board without a word, and carried it away with her, while wat rubbed his hands and pushed back the lathes of the window to whistle to spot, who, as usual, was basking lazily in the sun on the opposite side of the street. hugh worked with all his might. his chief difficulty consisted in the extreme anxiety of bishop and chapter, who were really terror-struck at the idea of so young a workman having so great a responsibility thrust upon him, particularly without the master being there to oversee. constantly one or another was coming, desiring to speak with him, and urging him if he were in any doubt to seek counsel from the older men. when he answered modestly enough that he would do so if he felt he needed help, but that at present he found no difficulty, they looked the more anxious and uncomfortable, shook their heads, and said it was impossible that he could have the necessary experience. all this was sufficiently depressing, but hugh found comfort in gervase's evident faith in him. he was so far recovered that his speech had come back, and a certain amount of power in the disabled arm; he could get about the house and even listen to franklyn's account of the work done; but his supreme pleasure lay in hearing hugh's report of his work at what elyas ever called _his_ corbel, and his chief longing was for the time when he should get down and see it with his own eyes, though that day they feared was far away. he laughed over hugh's description of the fears of the canons, and managed to see the bishop and to assure him so confidently of his prentice's power to carry through the task entrusted to him, that bishop bitton, who had hitherto doubted whether it had not been the fancy of a sick man, was completely reassured, and tried hugh no more with advice to seek counsel. the chaunter or precentor, however, was not to be persuaded. he was a sour little man, who liked to be in opposition, and one day came bustling up to the foot of the ladder on which hugh was at work, intimating that he wished to speak to him. hugh accordingly came down, though not with the best grace in the world, for he knew very well what he was likely to hear. "young lad," said the precentor, pursing his mouth and throwing out his chest, "it appears to me that this task is beyond thy years." hugh was silent, standing gazing down at the precentor. his face was much the same as it had been when he was a child, fair and ruddy, with light hair and honest grey eyes, which looked full in the face of those who talked with him. he was tall and very powerfully made; with promise indeed, in a few years' time, of unusual strength and size. "as it has been rashly, over-rashly to my thinking, committed to thee, i say nothing," the precentor continued; "we must bear the risk. but that should not prevent precaution. i desire, therefore, that thou wilt call upon the older men to counsel thee, and correct thy mistakes. from what i learn, thou hast done naught of this; thou art too self-satisfied, too presumptuous, and we, forsooth, must suffer for thine overweening confidence. see that thou act as i desire." hugh did not immediately answer, perhaps finding some difficulty in keeping back hasty words. when he did speak it was to ask a question. "reverend sir," he said, "who of all our guild would know best what i can or cannot do?" the precentor hesitated. "thy master--in health," he added, with emphasis on the last word. "before aught ailed him, he was set upon my carving a corbel." "ay, but not a forward one, such as this, and not without his being here to overlook thee. this is another matter." "it may be so, reverend sir. in good sooth, i found it hard to give up my own work and take his, but since it pleasured him, and since he can trust it in my hands, i must work, if i work at all, without such let or hindrance as you would put on me. you say truly that it is a great task. i cannot carry it out fettered and cramped. if the lord bishop and his chapter hold that i have forfeited the trust they committed to me, i would humbly pray to be allowed to resign it. if it is left in my hands, then i must be as the other men, free to work undisturbed." hugh spoke with great modesty, yet so firmly as to amaze the little precentor, who had thought he might meet with a boy's petulance, which he was determined to put down. he would have liked to take hugh at his word and dismiss him, but this he could not venture to do, since the bishop, though he had had his fears, thought highly of the lad's genius, and would have strongly resented any such high-handed act. he found himself in a position for which he was quite unprepared, obliged to withdraw his commands, but he was not the man to do this frankly or fully. "thou art a malapert springald to bandy words with me," he said angrily. "thou, a mere prentice, to put thyself on a level with other men! this comes of being cockered and made much of, out of thy fit place. but i shall speak with the bishop, and i wot we shall see whether thine insolence is to go unchastised." he spoke loud enough for some of the other men to hear, and marched off, leaving hugh very angry, though he had been able to control all outward signs of wrath. he went up his ladder again, hearing a chuckle of laughter among the others, and feeling sore and bitter with all the world. "as if it were not enough to have given up what i had thought of so long," he muttered, looking round at the corbel on the other side, which, somewhat to his surprise, no one had yet been set upon, "but i must be flouted at for failing when i have scarce begun, and set to ask counsel from--whom? roger, maybe, roger, who could not do his own task without stealing from my wits! well, i have finely angered the precentor, and it will be no wonder if it is all stopped, and i am sent off, though i said naught that was unbecoming, or that i should not be forced to say again. i will tell the master, and he shall judge." the precentor was indeed very angry, and the first person he met, and to whom he poured out his indignation, was master william pontington, the canon, who had been one of the last to admit the possibility of the prentice being allowed to undertake the carving of a corbel. "this," said the precentor solemnly, "this comes of the bishop's weak-- hem--over-easiness. if he permitted such a thing, it should have been under control and direction, instead whereof we have a young jackanapes perched up there, and left to amuse himself as he likes, and telling me--telling me to my very face--that he is as good as any other!" it was well-known among the chapter that the precentor never omitted a chance of saying a word against the bishop, and the canon smiled. "the dean thinks as well of the lad as doth the bishop," he said. "my counsel is to leave him alone. if he be trusted with a man's work, we must trust him as to the manner in which he carries it out, and not fret him with constant restrictions. beshrew me, but were i in his place i should feel the same!" so supported, hugh was left very fairly at peace to toil at his carving, although even his friends among the chapter felt deep anxiety for the result, and tried hard to get peeps at what he had already done. but hugh, having once suffered, was almost as careful as roger to keep his work concealed, and as for wat, he made a complete watch-dog of himself, staying the last of the workmen, and being one of the earliest to arrive. he cared far more for hugh's success than for his own, and he was the only one who had seen the corbel. somehow or other, however, perhaps from words he let drop, perhaps from glimpses caught of its progress, the report went about that it was very beautiful. every day gervase eagerly questioned hugh as to what progress he had made. once or twice hugh told him of changes he had made in the design--told him with some doubt lest it should displease him that his apprentice should dream of bettering his work. but gervase was of a rarely generous nature, frankly acknowledging the improvement. "i would i could get to see it; thou art right, thou art right, hugh, that change takes off a certain stiffness. do what thou wilt, i trust thee ungrudgingly, in spite of precentor or any of them. and they will have to own that we are in the right when they see it finished. now, art ready for our game at chess?" slowly, but surely, the doubts and anxieties as to the lad's work died away, and instead of them grew up an impression that when the day came for its uncovering, something of great merit would be displayed. the one most affected by all these rumours was roger. his own was progressing well, and he was the more eager not to be outdone; moreover, he had injured hugh, and this very fact made his jealousy and dislike more bitter. if, after all, hugh should surpass him! roger gnawed his lip, and meditated day and night upon some possible means of preventing such a catastrophe. he would have given a great deal to see the carving and judge for himself, and he made several attempts in this direction, always baffled by wat's vigilance. one day he got hold of franklyn, and asked him what he heard of hugh and his work. franklyn was a narrow-minded man, but honest, and he answered openly, that from a glimpse he had caught, and from what the master had repeated, he doubted whether the lad had ever done anything so good before. "he hath great power," added franklyn musingly. "ay, to work at another man's design!" said roger, with a sneer. "i call that another matter from working one's own." "marry amen! and so do i," said a voice, emphatically. roger started as if he had been stung. he had not known that wat was just behind, and he knew too well the meaning of the words. but it made him the more bitter against hugh. through those summer days work went on briskly in the cathedral. all were fired with enthusiasm, partly from the bishop's example, partly from personal longing to distinguish themselves. the choir with its noble vaulting was completed, a splendid monument of bitton's episcopate; but the corbels would be a prominent and beautiful feature in the work, and perhaps, with some prevision that his life would not be long, the bishop desired very greatly to see them finished. hugh worked incessantly; he hoped before the summer was over to have brought his carving to an end. gervase had been out several times, indeed his recovery was amazing, but now that matters had gone so far, he said that he should keep away from the cathedral until hugh's corbel was a finished work. hugh had been so much absorbed that he had thought little of roger, although he did not relax any of his precautions as to keeping his work hidden, and wat and joan were far more watchful guardians than he dreamt of. he had a great surprise one sunday when they came in from st mary arches, and he saw a big man standing in the doorway, which was still wreathed with the midsummer greenery, and looked at him at first as if he were a stranger. the man, in his turn, stared from one to the other as if in search of someone; something struck hugh as familiar, and the next moment he sprang to his side and seized his hand. "master andrew!" he cried in delight, "where have you come from? how long have you been here? are you well? how is moll?" the sailor put his hands on his shoulders, held him at arm's length, and looked him up and down in amazement, which soon broadened into a laugh. "i never thought to have found thee grown to this size!" he said; "thou art a man, and a proper one! where have i come from? from exmouth, and i would have sailed up in the _queen maud_ if your burgesses of exeter had not been fools enough to let a woman ruin their river for them with her weir. i have had a wish many a time to know how thou fared, and friar luke--we are good friends, what thinkest thou of that? i never thought to be friends with a grey friar--gives me no peace because i bring him no tidings. thy father? ay, anyone could see it was that way with him, honest man! and agrippa?" there was much to hear and tell. the warden took a great fancy to andrew and would not listen to his going to a hostelry for the night, and prothasy was pleased to see her husband interested. but the one who took most to andrew, and who in his turn was greatly liked by the sailor, was wat. andrew vowed that wat should have been a sailor, and wat was almost ready to renounce everything in favour of the sea. wat told him all about hugh, and his work and his genius, and what great things were entrusted to him at the cathedral, and promised to take him there the next morning as early as the doors were opened, and joan, hugh, and wat must all go forth after the five o'clock supper, and show him the castle and st nicolas' priory, which he looked at with disfavour in spite of his friendship with friar luke, and the alms-houses of saint alexius, which pleased him better. all these, but more especially the bridge, made him own that exeter was a very noble city. hugh could not go to the cathedral as early as the others the next morning, because the master wanted some measurements taken, but he was to follow almost immediately, and there could not have been a prouder showman than wat. he scarcely let andrew glance round at the fair beauty of the building before he was off to fetch hugh's ladder and to set it up against the pillar. they were, as he intended to be, the first there, and the covering might be safely taken off, but he was so prudent that he darted off to watch, calling to andrew to go up and unwrap the covering for himself. as he stood in the nave, it struck him that he heard a cry, but he set it down to someone outside, and when some minutes had passed, and he thought time enough had been given, he hurried back, expecting to find the sailor full of admiration. instead of this he met him coming towards him, looking, as even wat could not fail to see, rather strangely disturbed. he said at once and roughly-- "fine traps you set for strangers!" "how, master?" "how? in placing a ladder which has been cut through. nay, i like not such jests." "cut through!" cried wat, with such genuine amazement that andrew looked keenly at him. "beshrew me, yes! didst thou not know it? the ladder gave way, and i might have made a fool of myself on the stones below, but that i have been long enough on shipboard to hold on by the very hair of my head. i gave thee a halloo." "i never thought it was thou, sir. cut through! then that is roger's work again; he would have done hugh a mischief, the false traitor! if only i could wring his neck! let me see the place." he strode off, boiling over with excitement, and andrew, with a whistle of some amusement, sauntered slowly after him. it was quite true. one of the rungs of the ladder about half-way up had been so cut where it ran into the upright that it must necessarily have given way under an ordinary weight, and hugh, who would have gone up encumbered with his tools, could scarcely have avoided a bad fall. he arrived very soon, and the other men dropped in, wat questioning them all closely, not, it must be owned, with any thought that they could have done such a dastardly deed, but with a hope of getting evidence that roger had been seen near the ladder. in this he failed. no one had noticed anything, all the ladders lay near each other, and whoever had done it had undoubtedly exercised much caution and ingenuity. the men were angry. many of them were jealous of hugh, but not to the extent of committing a crime in order to incapacitate him; such an act, if proved, would be visited by the most severe punishment the guild could inflict. roger himself came late, he cast a swift glance at the groups of men standing about in unusual idleness, and another, which wat noted, towards hugh's pillar. when he saw hugh there, engaged on his work as on every other day, the colour left his face, and he glanced uneasily from one to the other, finally pausing before wat, who had planted himself aggressively in his way. "is aught the matter?" he demanded. "murder or maiming might have been the matter," returned wat grimly. "now, maybe, there will be naught but the hanging." "hanging?" "of the villain who tried this wickedness. canst thou give a guess who that might be?" "thou talkest riddles," said roger impatiently. "let me pass to my work." "ay," returned wat, "pass. we others mean to find out who it is among us who filches designs, and cuts through ladders, and brings shame on all our body." flinging a glance of rage at him, roger pushed by, and wat went off to meet the other warden, john hamlyn, and to lay the complaint before him. andrew's presence and what he had himself experienced in the matter helped to make it serious, and the crime was sufficiently grave for the warden to promise that there should be a guild meeting to consider it. "what evidence hast thou against roger?" "he hath done hugh other harm, sir," answered wat after a pause. "he hath stolen his designs." "take care, take care," said the warden warningly, "these be grave charges. how knowest thou? hast thou seen his work?" "nay, sir. nevertheless i can prove it, if you will." "how then?" "when the master was taken ill, hugh's designs were stolen, but i made hugh draw them out again, and mistress prothasy hath them in her keeping." "but thou knowest not that there thou hast what roger is working upon. tush, man, these are but idle tales. thou must bring better proofs." wat was far more grave and sober than usual. "i wot not if we shall get proofs of this last villainy," he said. "someone hath done it, and no other bears hugh a grudge. but the other, thou, sir, may'st prove for thyself if thou wilt." "prithee, how?" "come with me, sir, and get the board with the design from the goodwife. thou wilt see by the date--saint george's day--that the carving was not far enough advanced for hugh to have drawn his from that. keep it by thee, master hamlyn, and when roger's work is uncovered, judge for thyself." "thou hast not seen the corbel, thou sayest, and this is no more than thy fancy." "no more. yet i will stake my fair fame upon it," said wat, boldly. the warden hesitated, finally said the test was a fair one, and promised to come that evening and receive the board from prothasy. this little arrangement partly compensated wat for the failure to bring home any evidence connecting roger with the ladder. at the same time a feeling had risen up against him among the other workmen, who felt that they were in a measure compromised until the offender was discovered, and roger found himself treated to cold and doubtful looks, while even franklyn appeared to have his confidence shaken. hugh was the one who made least of the affair; he was so persuaded of roger's ill-will that this fresh proof scarcely affected him, and it was he who induced andrew--though more, it must be owned, for the credit of the guild than from any charitable feelings--to give up his plan of taking summary vengeance by administering a sound thrashing. they were all sorry when andrew departed, carrying not only messages for moll and friar luke, but a scroll for this latter, written in hugh's fairest penmanship, and a marvel to the whole household. chapter fifteen. "here's a coil!" "hugh, when will it be finished--truly? i am so weary of to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, and it never gets any nearer! father is longing, too, for all he pretends to be patient." "it is finished now," answered hugh, gloomily, "only i cannot keep my hands from it." "in good sooth! and art not glad?" "nay. it is not what i would have it. i had such brave ideas, and they have all come to naught, as ever. joan, will one ever be satisfied?" "i have heard father say something about `a noble discontent.' i did not understand it, but maybe this was in his mind. and i don't think he is ever satisfied with his own work. but thine is sure to be beautiful," cried joan, brightening. "is it really then to be to-morrow?" "nay; the bishop has decided that as four or five are nearly ready, they shall wait to be uncovered together on lammas day. the best is to have the choice of the other corbels." "and which shalt thou choose?" demanded joan securely. "there will be no choosing for me. master hamlyn has a beautiful design of pears and apples, they say, and franklyn of vine leaves, and there is that traitor roger, he can work. i shall grudge it to him, but not to old wat. joan, i verily believe that wat's will be one of the best." "hath he really stuck spot up there?" "hath he not?" said hugh, with a laugh. "there he is, to the life, at the base, but 'tis so cleverly done, and he thinks so little of it!" "lammas day!" sighed joan, "a whole three weeks! i shall get one of your tally sticks, and cut a notch for every day. i shall stitch a new coat for agrippa, and take him with me under my arm. where art thou going? to the cathedral?" "nay, i had best keep away from the cathedral. i am going to speak with the bridge warden, for a mischievous loon has knocked away a bit of the monument to master gervase, in his chapel on the bridge, and they have sent up here for some one to repair it." elyas had recovered so marvellously that scarcely any trace of his severe attack was noticeable except to those who knew him best. he did not mount on ladders, but in other respects had resumed work, and had been frequently at the cathedral in consultation with the bishop, who was delighted to have his right-hand adviser again. of course he might, had he so pleased, have seen the corbels, finished or unfinished, which were being executed by his own men, but he had determined to wait for the general view, and to give his voice as to the best with the other judges. meanwhile, his interest was intense, and he could talk of little, so that prothasy, between husband, child, journeymen, and prentice, had some reason for vowing that she could not get a sensible word on any subject from a creature in the house. and this excitement increased as lammas day drew nearer. roger said little, but his pale face grew paler, his lips more tightly set, and there was a feverish light in his eyes which spoke of a fire within. franklyn, who was one of the last, worked stolidly on, very much as he had been used to work in the yard, taking it as a matter of business to be got through fairly and conscientiously, and knowing the value of his work so well that he was not troubled with fear of failure. wat was wild with conjectures, thinking most of all about hugh, but also devoured by a wish that he had given more care to the beginning of his work, and ready, if other justice failed, to break roger's head sooner than allow him to enjoy the fruit of his wickedness. the last of joan's notches was made at last, and lammas day dawned, fair, and hot, and tranquil. joan was up with the lark, looking very sweet and maidenly in her new blue kirtle, and seeing that the green branches were ready which she had brought in the day before in order to deck the house as soon as either of their own workers was declared to be first. "saving roger," she announced. "there shall be no decking for roger." her father rebuked her for her lack of charity, but he himself looked uneasy, for he could not forget that roger had been one of his family, and treated as a son, and it pained him to the heart to suppose that he could be guilty of such baseness as that of which he was suspected. he hoped with all his heart that his work would prove him innocent. on all sundays and holy days the officers of the city, the mayor, the sheriff, the aldermen, the wardens of exe bridge, and at times the members of the guilds, were bound to attend the bishop to st peter's church. but this day had in it the promise of an especial ceremony, one in which the bishop took deep interest. the office of nones being ended in the lady chapel, the procession was to enter the choir, where six corbels, for the first time uncovered, were to meet the eyes of the spectators. and this being so, the usual number was greatly increased, and presented a splendour of colour which at this time can hardly be realised. the ecclesiastical dress was extremely gorgeous, and here were bishop, dean, and chapter in full robes, the mayor and aldermen not far behind in magnificence, with a great preponderance of blue in the civil dresses, and robes lined with fur (or vair). the guilds added their brilliancy of colour, the craftsmen wearing their distinctive dress, and as the procession swept round into the choir, the sunlight falling brilliantly through the stained glass windows, in themselves one of the wonders of the time, and as all the beauty of the choir revealed itself, the grey purbeck stone contrasting delicately with the somewhat yellowish tinge of the walls, the scene was one of amazing splendour, and the burst of song which broke forth as the singers raised the psalms of degrees, told that it had touched an answering chord in the hearts of the people. most of the great families of the county had sent some representative. there were grenvils and fitz-ralffes, greenways of brixham, bartholomew and joan giffard of halsberry, sir roger hale, and numbers of ladies wearing long trains, and gold-embroidered mantles, and on their heads veils; while the black or grey frocks of the friars from the neighbouring priories gave the necessary relief to colour which might otherwise have been too dazzling. lammas day, moreover, was the day of exeter fair, which added to the concourse. but joan had no eyes for any of this great assemblage. she could just catch sight of hugh moving on in his place among the guild apprentices, and she could see that his head was bent, and knew that his hands would be knotted together, as was ever the way with him when he was feeling strong emotion. but even joan, clasping her mother's hand, and sending her heart out to him in sympathy, little knew what a storm of feeling was surging up in the young man's heart. his father had never seemed so near. he understood, as he had never understood before, the wood-carver's longing to see his name famous; he understood, too, that higher longing which had moved him before his death. in this work of his hugh had resigned the ambition for his own honour and glory, for he honestly believed that all he had done had been to carry out his master's design, and was unaware of what his own power had added. nor was he going in with hope that even this execution would surpass that of the others. he knew his own shortcomings, they often seemed to him to be absolutely destructive, and he imagined all the excellences he had dreamed of distributed among the others. but at this moment it scarcely troubled him; what he felt was the solemnity and beauty of the scene, the glory of the building, the greatness of having been permitted to help in making it beautiful; he raised his head and a light shone in his eyes, for he knew that his father's deepest yearnings would have been satisfied. there were the six corbels, fair and fresh from the carvers' hands, the rich stone with its almost golden tints adding the charm of colour to the nobility of the work; there were the clustered columns, massive, yet light, and high up the glorious lines of vaulting. right on one of the corbels--it was wat's--struck a shaft of sunlight, and as the long procession crossed this gleam, all the brilliant colours were intensified, and the upturned faces of the little acolytes looked like those of child-angels. the procession did not pause. it swept through the choir and out of the side gate, still chanting the psalms of degrees, till the voices died away, and the choir was filled by those who had come to see bishop bitton's work thus nobly carried out. hugh did not return--he could not, though franklyn had almost dragged him by force, and told him that gervase had asked for him. he shook off wat, who begged him at least to come outside and see the horses and trappings of the lord of pomeroy who had come in from his castle of biry, a castle much renowned in the county, and who was famous for his success in the jousts. here was his coal-black horse paladin, whose sire he had brought back from the crusades, and the noblest mastiff wat had ever beheld, and such a jester as-- but hugh was gone. his heart was too full for speech with anyone. he had always been a self-restrained boy who, when deeply moved, liked to be alone, and sometimes vexed faithful joan by escaping even her sympathy. and now he felt as if only the woods could shelter him. he loved them deeply, he went to them for inspiration for his work; he went now when he wanted he knew not what, for it was neither comfort nor rejoicing, only an over-fulness of heart. he could not have told whether he had failed or succeeded, for the perception of something higher than success had touched him, and it was this which drove him forth into the solitudes of the woods. when an hour had passed the throng had left the choir, and the bishop and chapter, together with all the officers of the guild of stonemasons, came in once more to pronounce upon the work. bishop bitton was strangely moved. he saw before him a work, not yet, it is true, complete, yet, for the length of his episcopate, marvellous; a work in which he had loyally carried out the lines laid down by his predecessor. his health was failing, and the conviction was strong upon him that not many years of life remained to him. he, too, like hugh, would have thankfully passed these hours alone, but for him it was not possible; he must listen to the kindly congratulations of the dean, the half-veiled spite of the precentor, the unintelligent praise of others. but all the while his heart was sending up its thankful _nunc dimittis_. and gervase? his thoughts were perhaps the most mingled of any, and the most unselfish. to him the desire of his soul had not been granted. he had been forced to relinquish it to others, yet he could rejoice ungrudgingly, giving full meed of praise and admiration. and, indeed, the corbels were of noble beauty. from one to another the groups passed, pausing to note each characteristic, and so fair was each that it was hard to gather judgment. with one exception. unanimously hugh's corbel, or, as it was rather called, gervase's, was declared the best both in design and execution. it varied from the others, in which the whole mass was formed of leafage, while this was broken by curved lines round which the foliage grouped itself, and nothing could have been more admirable than the freedom of the lines, and the grace and spontaneousness of the design. the bishop, after standing long to gaze at it, turned and stretched out his hand to elyas. "this is a proud day for thee, friend," he said heartily, "for by common consent thy design is held so far to surpass all the others that there is not one can come near it. and thy prentice hath ably carried out thy views." "he hath done more, my lord," said elyas, quickly; "the parts of the design which delight you all are his, not mine. never saw i aught more enriched than my thoughts in his hands. there is none other to equal it, that i allow, but the credit belongs to hugh bassett, not to elyas gervase." the bishop looked incredulously at him, and others who had gathered round shook their heads. "'tis impossible," said the bishop. "bethink thee, goodman, the lad, though clever in his craft, is youngest of all the workmen. thou hast ever favoured him, and maybe art scarcely aware how much thy skill hath aided him." "my lord, no one knows better than myself how much and how little." but gervase, to his great distress, found that his protestations were disregarded. some, like the bishop, believed that in his zeal for his apprentice, in whom it was known that he took more than usual interest, he did not remember all the advice he had given; others were perhaps willing to yield the first place to one who as a leading burgess was greatly respected in the city, and whose illness had raised the ready sympathy of all, while 'twould have been another matter to put a lad-- younger than any--there. hardly one was there who would give the credit of more than an excellent execution to hugh, though elyas grew hot and fevered with his efforts to persuade them of the truth, and could scarcely keep his usually even temper under the congratulations which poured upon him, and which made him feel like a traitor, though a most unwilling traitor, to hugh. the master of the guild, who was an old man and deaf, especially pooh-poohed his remonstrances. "i mind me, goodman, that when thou wast a prentice, and an idle one, i ever maintained that the day would come when thou wouldst do us credit, and thy father, honest man, he cast up his hands, and `alack, master garland,' quoth he, `the day is long in coming!' `the day is long in coming,' those were his very words. what dost thou say? my hearing is not so sharp as it was--thy prentice? ay, ay, the lad hath done well, very well, but anyone can see whose was the band that directed his." "beshrew me if they will not soon persuade me that i am an old dotard, knowing neither what i say nor what i do!" cried elyas angrily to his fellow-warden. "i shall hear next that i have carved the _surs_ myself! hugh shall show them what he can do when he has his next corbel to carry out alone. i will not even look at it." "it is said that that he will not have," replied john hamlyn drily. "not? and wherefore?" "the judges maintain it should be given to one whose corbel has been solely his own work. i have withdrawn from the competition, having much to execute for my lord of pomeroy, and some say it should fall to thy man wat, whose scratching dog is marvellously well managed, but, unless i am mistaken, the greater part hold to another man of thine--roger. his design is most delicately intricate." gervase was greatly disturbed. "i would have had naught to do with the matter had i believed in such unfairness," he said, with heat. "i would i had never asked the poor lad to give up his own work to do mine, nor hampered him with my design!" "take it not so much to heart, goodman." "nay, but i must, i must. 'tis the injustice that weighs on me, and shame that hugh should be served so scurvily. roger! i shall speak presently with the bishop." he redoubled his earnestness, speaking, indeed, with so much decision, that the bishop was impressed. but, as he said, the feeling among the judges was very strong, and he did not himself believe that anything could be advanced that would turn them. there was, moreover, a conviction that hugh was young enough to wait, and therefore, though a doubt might exist, they were opposed to giving him the benefit of the doubt. nor could anything which elyas advanced shake their determination. something, it was true, was whispered as to an ugly story of a ladder, but the thing had never been proved against roger, and except among the workmen had been forgotten. and the workmen were not the judges. ladders were now procured, and the corbels were minutely examined. nothing, it was freely owned, approached the beauty of hugh's, and no other exceeded it in admirable workmanship. if both design and execution had been his, there could have been no question; as it was-- "the obstinate fools!" growled gervase, under his breath. finally the workers were themselves admitted, wat coming in eager and triumphant, with the certainty that hugh's success was assured, and roger pale, nervous, glancing furtively from side to side, as if trying to read his fate in the faces round. wat strode joyously to gervase. "where is hugh?" asked his master. "gone off, sir, in one of his solitary moods. but mistress prothasy is preparing a rare feast in his honour." then, as he noticed gervase's grave face, he stopped and stared at him. "ay, wat, it is even so," said elyas, bitterly. "these wise men will have it that the _surs_ is my designing, and that hugh hath but carved it. heardest thou ever such injustice? i may talk, and they pay no more heed than if i were--thy dog whom thou hast set up there. and, by the mass," he added kindly, "thou hast done him marvellous well, and there has been a talk of thy having the other corbel." "i would not have taken it," said wat hotly. "i had rather it had been in thy hands than in roger's." "roger, goodman!" cried wat, starting forward. "not that traitor?" "peace, peace! i am as grieved as thou, but we know not that he is a traitor." "ay, by my troth, but i do!" wat persisted, "and so shall they all. where is warden hamlyn?" "nay, i know not. it is not long since he was here," answered elyas, surprised. "what hast thou in thy mad head? bethink thee, wat, we do hugh but harm to bring charges which we cannot prove, and though it was a foul act to cut that ladder--" "it is not the ladder, goodman," cried wat, earnestly. "thou wast ill, and we did not tell thee of the other villainy. hast thou looked at roger's corbel?" "ay," with surprise. "is it new to thee?" "nay, i seemed to know every twist of the ivy. but i thought--my memory plays me scurvy tricks since my illness--i thought, though i could not call it to mind, that roger must have brought it to me to ask my counsel. surely it was so?" "nay, goodman, when did roger ask thy counsel? it was hugh who brought it to thee, and, knowing roger's evil disposition, we were ever on the watch against eavesdropping and prying. but the day thou wast taken with thy sickness hugh forgot it, and roger stole the design. and now! but he shall not gain his end," cried wat, fiercely. "goodman, where shall i be most likely to find master hamlyn?" "go and ask his head man there. but what good can he do thee?" wat, however, was already off, blaming himself bitterly that in the excitement of the morning, and his undoubted certainty that hugh was secure of being first, he had omitted to remind the warden of what he held in trust. to add to his dismay, he could get no tidings of john hamlyn. each person he asked said he had been there but now, and must be somewhere close at hand, but he never arrived nearer, though he scoured the cathedral from end to end, and brought upon himself a severe rating from the precentor. then in despair he rushed off to hamlyn's house, where he met the warden's wife and daughter setting forth to find out what was going on at the cathedral. even in the midst of his anxiety, wat was suddenly seized with the conviction that margaret hamlyn, with her dark eyes and her primrose kirtle, was the sweetest maiden he had ever beheld, and she showed so much desire to help him, and was so very hopeful as to their finding her father, that before ten minutes were over he had not the smallest doubt on the matter. nevertheless, nothing could be heard of hamlyn. wat met joan, who had been waiting and watching for hugh until she could keep away no longer, and was come to seek elyas with a little bundle tucked under her arm, from which she allowed a quaint wizened face to peep at wat. her confidence that all was well for hugh, and her pretty pleasure in bringing agrippa to join in his triumph, were so great that wat had not the heart to damp them by telling her of the untoward turn events had taken; he only said impatiently that things were not yet settled, and that hugh was an ass to go and bury himself in the green woods instead of coming forward with the others. "do they want him?" asked joan stopping. "nay, i know not that they want him," returned wat, "but he should be there." "then i shall go back and watch for him," she said resolutely. "mother is busy with the supper and might not see him. i know where he is gone, and he must come in by the north gate, and i will get the keeper to let me sit there and wait. i will bring him, wat, never fear." but as the minutes flew and nothing was seen of john hamlyn, wat began to wish that he had done nothing to draw hugh to a place where he would only find his own just meeds passed over, and evil-doing triumphant. gervase stood apart from his friends; he was sick at heart, feeling as if he had been the cause of all that had happened to hugh, from his desire to see his own designs carried out. perhaps he had not yet regained his usual healthy buoyancy, for all looked black; he felt strangely unable to influence those with whom his word had always carried weight, but most of all he grieved for roger's treachery. presently there was a little stir among the knot of judges, and franklyn, who was near them, came over to elyas, and whispered-- "it is all decided, goodman." "for roger?" "ay. it should have been hugh's to my thinking, for the lad hath surpassed us all. but they vow it is thy design." "ay, they know better than i do," said elyas bitterly. "see they are calling him up." roger, indeed, was moving towards the group with an air which had gained assurance since he first came into the choir. the old master of the guild spoke in his quavering voice. "of these carvings which have been placed here to the honour of god and his holy apostle, it is held that thine, roger brewer, is the most complete. thou art therefore permitted to undertake the carving of another corbel, and to make choice of which thou wilt for thyself." somebody started forward. "sir, it is no design of his; he is a false braggart, and stole it from hugh bassett." a great confusion arose, angry looks were turned on wat, and the bishop moved forward and raised his hands. "methinks, masters, you forget in whose house we be. that is a grave accusation. hast thou answer to make, roger brewer?" "ay, my lord," said roger, standing boldly forward. "i say it is a foul lie, and that he is ever seeking to do me a mischief, and i demand his proofs." "that hast thou a right to require. where are the proofs?" "my lord, i have them not, but--" roger broke in with a scornful smile. "said i not so? you see, my lord." in his turn he was interrupted by a grave voice, "my lord, the proofs are here. i but waited to see whether he would have the grace to withdraw his claim;" and john hamlyn, stepping forward, raised a broad board so that it might be seen of all. "will the judges say whether this design is the same as that carved by roger brewer?" there was a close examination and comparison, at the end of which the master, after consultation with the others, raised his head. "it is undoubtedly the same." "now," continued hamlyn, turning the board, "there is writing here, which you and i, my masters, cannot fathom. maybe my lord bishop will have the grace to construe it for us." the bishop advanced, and in a clear voice read, "hugh bassett, saint george's day, a.d. ." "wat, repeat thy story," said hamlyn quietly. "i have kept thy proof safely, though truly until this day i knew not what it was worth." thus adjured wat, though finding it hard to keep down his excitement, told what he had to tell straightforwardly and well. he related how, having his suspicions raised, he had warned hugh to beware of roger, and how on the day of gervase's illness the design had disappeared. that then it had come into his mind to advise hugh to draw it again, to place a date upon it and give it into mistress prothasy's keeping. that she had held it safely until master john hamlyn took it from her, and that from the day of the date hugh had never had it in his hands nor so much as seen it. this was all, but with the board before them, it was evidence which could hardly be strengthened, and if more were needed, roger's white, fear-stricken face supplied it. there was a significant silence, broken at last by the bishop's voice. "where is hugh bassett?" he asked. "now, in good sooth, was ever anything so foolish as that he should have hidden himself as he hath done?" whispered the provoked wat to his neighbour. but at that moment the circle of interested citizens opened, and hugh, looking flushed and disturbed, came forward, while behind him were elyas and joan. "hugh bassett," said the bishop, pointing to the board, "is that thy work?" "ay, my lord," he answered in a low voice. again a pause. "thou hast heard the relation of its keeping?" "nay, my lord, i have but this moment come into the church." "let us hear what thou hast to say." hugh told his story, which agreed in every respect with that already related. while it was telling the miserable roger tried to slip away, but at a sign from hamlyn two members of the guild silently placed themselves on either side. then elyas stepped forward. "i speak with pain, my lord," he said, "for roger brewer is my journeyman and hath been my apprentice, but to keep silence were to sin against this holy place. my sickness hath made me oblivious, but the ivy is strangely familiar to me, and i mind me that hugh ever brought his designs to show me, while roger had no such habit. moreover, although you have refused to listen to what i said as to the corbel carved by hugh bassett, i would urge upon you to consider it viewed in the light of what has now passed." he was listened to in absolute silence, and presently bishop, chapter, and judges retired to consult, while the others waited, and elyas, whose kind heart was deeply grieved for roger, drew off and knelt in prayer. the consultation was not long, the judges came back, and once again the old master delivered their judgment. "it having been proved that hugh bassett rather than roger brewer designed the ivy corbel, it is declared that his work standeth first in merit, and he is granted the carving of another corbel, and the choice of pillar." had it not been church wat would have leapt high in the air. no more was said, for it was not the fitting place in which to deal with roger's misdoing, which would be the work of the guild, but he was removed by the two men who had him in charge, and those who were left pressed round hugh to seize his hand. he had known nothing of the first acts of the drama, but his day in the quiet woods was no ill preparation for this moment of success. elyas came up and laid a broad hand on his shoulder, and joan slipped hers into hugh's. "come home and tell mother," she whispered. but when they at length got outside the cathedral door a strange and unexpected sight met them, for wat, who was a great favourite with the apprentices, had rushed out, and in an incredibly short time had gathered a large number together, and marshalled them at the door to greet hugh when he came. there was no need to bid them cheer; the tidings that one of their number had gained so great an honour raised them to wild enthusiasm, and made them forget their usual rivalries; they pressed round the cathedral door, and when he came out, literally flung themselves upon him, shouting at the top of their voices, and waving sticks or anything which came to hand; finally, in spite of all he could do, seizing and bearing him off in their arms, carrying him in triumph through broad gate out into the high street, and joined by fresh boys at every turn of the road. citizens ran out on hearing the tumult, the watchmen caught up their staves and hurried forth, the pomeroy and ralegh retainers cheered them on, all the windows and balconies were quickly filled with women who laughed and waved their hands, and the mayor himself, so far from showing any anger, stood in a balcony and flung down largesse upon the shouting lads. nothing would suffice, but to carry hugh all down the steep street to exe bridge, where, near seven years before, he had come in under such different circumstances, and, hot and shamefaced as he was, he could not but think of this, and scarce knew where he was for the thinking. hot he might be, but there was no persuading them, to put him down, and up the street they went again, cheering still, and between the old houses, until they stopped at gervase's door, where elyas himself stood with prothasy, and joan clapping her hands with all her might. and there was more shouting and rejoicing when elyas bid all the prentices to a feast in the meadows on st bartholomew's day, his own house not having space for such a number. they separated at last, and reluctantly, after such a shrill burst of cheering as rang through the old city, and hugh, who felt as if it were all some strange exciting dream, was thankful to find himself alone with those good friends to whom he owed his present fortune. elyas put his hands on his shoulders, and looked into the clear eyes, now on a level with his own. "thy father could not have been more glad than i," he said simply. "i would i could thank thee, goodman," said hugh, in an unsteady voice, "for all comes from thee." "nay, neither me nor thee, but from one who gave the gift. and thou-- thou hast kept covenant." "i looked not for anything like this." "doubtless it hath been a little upsetting," said elyas, with a smile, "but it hath made wat as happy as a king. never was a more faithful friend, or that had less thought for himself. i verily believe he never cared for his own work; he did his best simply, and there left it. 'tis a rare nature. alack, alack, i would poor roger had been as free from self-seeking!" "goodman," said hugh, hesitatingly, "hast thou heard aught of roger?" "i went to the guildhall from the cathedral and saw him. i might have been a stranger and an enemy," elyas added, sighing, "for all i could get from him." "might i speak for him? would they hearken? i love him not, in good sooth," said hugh frankly, "and i know not what i might have felt if he had succeeded; but 'tis easy to forgive when he hath done no one harm but himself. maybe, sir, he might do better if he had another chance?" "that may not be here," said the warden, gravely. "some were for flinging him into gaol, but they hearkened to me so far that he will be but heavily fined, and sent from the city, never to return. speak not of him. i would rather not grieve on this day. but first, before i hand thee over to joan, who doth not yet feel she hath had her share, first tell me which corbel thou wilt choose? i counsel the one opposite to that thou hast finished. there is no fairer position for showing the beauty of thy work." but hugh shook his head. "nay, i have set my heart upon another." "and which is that?" "it is the first which was allotted to me, that on the left as you enter the choir, where the rood-screen is to stand." "that!" said gervase, disappointed. "bethink thee, hugh, it is not so well seen as any of the others." "thou hast ever taught us, goodman, that we should give as good work to the parts which are not seen as to the rest," said hugh, mischievously. "but, in truth, i have thought so much of that corbel, and let my fancies play about it so long, that it seems more mine own than any. let me have it." "nay, thou must choose for thyself, for none of us can gainsay thee." "and the other should be kept for thee. i know the guild would have thy work before any man's." gervase's eyes brightened. "with our lady and the blessed babe--i know not, i know not, i would liefer have it in thy hands." "i hold to my own." "father, father," cried joan, running in, "mother bids me ask whether thou hast told nicholas harding to come and help her with the tables? and she saith hal will drive her demented unless thou find some errand for him to do." such a feast as prothasy had prepared! and to it came john hamlyn, his wife, and daughter, and wat, contriving to sit next to mistress margaret, was able to tell her the whole tale, which seemed to her most marvellously interesting. also she questioned him much about his own corbel, and was amazed to think that it should have been a neighbour's dog which he had set up, and would fain see for herself the unconscious spot who had been thus immortalised. and afterwards she spoke very prettily to wat's mother, who had come in from her farm, a proud woman to think what her son had done, and gazing at him as if no mother had ever another such. but the happiest perhaps was joan. with agrippa in her arms, she sat next to hugh, and could whisper to him from time to time, and listen to what was said, and rejoice with all her faithful little heart. never apprentice had won such honour, and never, said elyas strongly to john hamlyn, could one deserve it better. and in the midst of the feast came a messenger bringing hugh a gift from the bishop, a reliquary of goodly workmanship. such a day, as joan said that evening with a sigh of happiness, had never been before! chapter sixteen. the second corbel. there is little more to tell. my story is like a web of knitting, and now the point is reached where the stitches have to be cast off, and the work left. it has been no more than a tale of apprenticeship, and hugh's man's life was but just beginning. yet those years are enough to tell us what the rest was likely to be. for months he toiled at the second corbel, and in these months passed out of his apprenticeship and became journeyman. master gervase was wont to say that the lad was in a fair way to be spoilt, for the story of that lammas day got abroad, as stories did in those days, carried back by the pomeroy retainers to biry, and by the raleghs to street ralegh, and caught at by the wandering minstrels and story-tellers, who were the great bearers of news about the country, and ever on the watch for some gossip which they might retail at fair or castle, where it travelled from the buttery hatch to my lady's closet, and lost naught in the telling. the town had been crowded by these strangers at the time of the corbel incident, the annual fair being held on lammas day, so that there was fine opportunity for spreading of news; and when the families from the great houses in the county came into the city, they must needs go to the cathedral to see the carving which had caused so much stir, and those who had work of their own going on would have had hugh bassett to carry it out. but nothing would draw him from the corbel. "i marvel at the lad," said john hamlyn one day to his fellow-warden; "he seems to care little for the over-praise he gets. 'twould turn my ralph's head." "his father's training has borne fruit," answered elyas. "hugh gave up his own fancies, and held by what he had learnt to be duty; now he yet thinks of the duty, and not of the glory to himself. he is as good to me as any son could be." "and may be thy son in good earnest?" "with all my heart," said gervase cheerfully. "but that must bide awhile." hamlyn looked him up and down. "thou art as hale, goodman, as ever thou wert before thy sickness." "ay, thank god! when the spring comes and the cold of winter is over i shall fall to work upon the _surs_." "best make speed, for the old master can hardly last much longer, and it will not become thy dignity to be seen on a ladder when thou art in his place." "tut, tut, man! were i king of england it would become me to work for the king of kings. but this is idle telling. wilt come into the yard? that malapert hal is like to drive william franklyn out of his wits with his idle pranks, and i am ever needed to keep the peace." "and yet in sooth, goodman, thy prentices do thee credit--i would mine were of the same value," said hamlyn, with a sigh and a thought of his son ralph. "i really believe their thick pates can hold naught but the desire to break those of others. now there is that man of thine, wat-- he," hamlyn paused, "he is a likely fellow?" "as good a lad as ever breathed," returned gervase heartily. then he looked at the other warden and smiled. "thou didst fling out something just now of my having a son in hugh. maybe thou hast a thought of finding a son thyself and more quickly?" "i'd as lief know what like the lad is," said hamlyn gruffly. "he greatly favours our house, and on holy cross day brought nuts enough to madge to feed a wood full of squirrels." "he is a boy in his play yet," answered elyas, "but i have marked him closely, and he hath in him the making of a true man. i tell thee, neighbour, thou wouldst do well for thy daughter's happiness to give her wat for a husband." hamlyn protested that it had not come to this yet, but it was easy to see that he was well inclined to the young stonemason, and that if wat's fancy lasted, which at this time appeared probable, he might win pretty margaret for his wife. there was a squire in my lord of devon's meine who was desirous to marry her, but hamlyn had no liking for what he called a roystering cut-throat trade, much preferring one of his own craft, even though his daughter might have aspired to a richer suitor. wat's simple loyalty to his friend and total absence of self-seeking had struck them all, and his corbel was greatly admired, so that the prideaux family in seeking someone to carve a rich monument had expressed a hope that he would be chosen for the work. of roger nothing had been heard. he had gone forth, forbidden to return, and though gervase's kind heart had yearned for a word which might show repentance, and give him an excuse for helping him, the word never came. the winter was a sharp one, so sharp that hugh's carving was somewhat hindered by the extreme cold. and just at the new year agrippa died. he had grown old and feeble, no longer able to swing about from rafter to beam as in old days, most content to lie near the fire, wrapped in a piece of warm scarlet flemish wool which they provided for him, and in his old age showing yet more markedly his likes and dislikes. never had he done more than tolerate prothasy, and now, when she came near him, he chattered and scolded with all his weak might. franklyn, one or two of the men, and prentice hal he detested equally, but there was a new prentice, gilbert, whom he permitted to stroke him. joan he loved, saving always when hugh was near. for him he had a passionate devotion which was pathetic. when he was in the room he was never content unless hugh took him up, and he was jealous even of joan if she withdrew hugh's attention. yet in spite of his spoilt and irritable ways all the household cared for the quaint little creature, and it was gervase himself who came down to the cathedral, when they were singing nones in the lady chapel, to fetch hugh, who, his fingers having grown stiff over his corbel with the bitter cold, had given it up for the day, and was working under franklyn's directions at some of the larger work which yet remained to be finished in the choir. "joan would have thee home to see agrippa," said the warden, laying his hand as he loved to do on hugh's shoulder; "the poor beast is sorely sick--unto death, if i mistake not." it did not take hugh many minutes to dash through st martin's gate into the high street and his master's house. joan called to him the moment she heard his voice, and he found her in much distress, kneeling close to the fire on which she had piled as many logs as she could. there under his scarlet covering lay poor agrippa at the last gasp, but still able to recognise his master with the old look of love, and the stretching forth his poor little shrunk paw. hugh flung himself down by his side, heaping endearments upon him, while joan held back lest her presence by hugh should stir the little creature's anger. it was over the next moment. one loving piteous look, one movement as though to raise himself towards his master, and the eyes glazed and the limbs stiffened, and hugh's faithful little companion for more than seven years was gone. joan sobbed bitterly, and hugh was more moved than he would have cared to let anyone but her see. they both knelt on by his side, till hugh rose and drew her to her feet. "poor agrippa! he has had a happy home, thanks to thee. thou wert his first protector, joan." she looked up and smiled through her tears. "when thou wast so frighted at mother that thou must needs break thy indentures and run away! father hath often told me of it. 'twas well it was father, and that he was able to keep it from coming to the guild. but to think thou didst not know mother better." she was a wise little maiden, capable as was prothasy, and with as warm affections, but a gentler manner of showing them. and from her father she had inherited his gift of imagination and love of beauty, so that in the greenwood not hugh himself had a quicker eye for the loveliness of interlacing trees, or the fancies of the foliage, and as he sometimes told her, she should have been a boy and a stone-carver. the art of painting, save in missals, can scarcely be said to have existed in those days, when all beautiful materials, glow of colour, and picturesqueness of line, were at its disposal, and art was forced to take refuge in architecture, which it carried to its noblest height, or, with women, in exquisite embroideries. joan had smiled, but she was very sad for agrippa, and nothing would comfort her but hearing of hugh's progress with his _surs_, when 'twould be finished and she might see it. "it should have been done by now," said hugh, "but this biting cold stiffens my fingers so that i cannot venture on the delicate parts. come, now, joan, what sayest thou to thy birthday--candlemas day?" she clapped her hands. "in good sooth. and if father is still better--which our lady grant!-- he will begin his work that month." elyas, indeed, showed no signs of his past sickness, and as the leech, when prothasy spoke to him, assured her that malignant influences no longer threatened, she was greatly comforted. he said himself that his memory failed, but no one else saw any unusual signs of this not uncommon complaint, and there was little doubt that he would be elected its master by the guild, which some two hundred years later was to stretch itself so far as to incorporate together "carpenters, masons, joiners, and glaziers and painters." there was no such excitement on candlemas day as there had been five months before, for nothing hung on the uncovering of hugh's carving beyond learning whether his second work would equal the promise of his first, and this to the outer world meant little. to his own little world, and to the bishop, it meant much. the fame of his first work had come through difficulties and by a roundabout fashion; in this that he had now completed no one could either rightly or wrongly claim a part. when therefore, after the hours, the bishop and a few of his clergy entered the choir, they found a knot of guild officers there, and all gervase's household, together with hamlyn's wife and daughters, and a few workmen who had not cared to keep holiday. "no greenwood for thee, hugh, to-day," elyas had said, and the young man was there himself, looking gravely content, and not, as mistress hamlyn expressed it, in the least puffed with pride. at a sign from the bishop, he mounted the ladder and drew off the wrapping cloths. much had been seen during the carving, but now for the first time the work was beheld in its full beauty, and from the group there went up an irrepressible murmur of admiration. it was a group of figures. at the top our lord and his mother in glory; below, a single figure of saint cecilia drawing music from an instrument shaped something like a lute, but played with a bow; over her head, inclined gently to the left, a little angel hovered. the grace and sweetness of her attitude, the fall of the draperies, the delicacy of the workmanship, raised the beholders into enthusiasm, and though the corbel was not so prominent as the others, something in the angle in which it was seen, and the manner in which it stood out against the outer nave, added to the effect of beauty. hugh had modestly stood aside while the examination went on, but joan had stolen to him and slipped her hand in his, and now elyas turned and embraced him. "hugh," he said, "i am proud to count thee as my son." wat was there, too, absolutely beaming with delight, and seizing hugh's hand as if he would wring it off. "said i not, said i not,"--he began, and then, "no one can say aught against thy work now; but, hugh--" "ay?" "couldst not carve a saint margaret as well as a saint cecilia? prithee--" but here his request was broken off by a message that the lord bishop would speak with hugh bassett. bishop bitton, who had aged fast of late, was leaning on the arm of one of his priests, but his face was lit with that fire of enthusiasm which could always be stirred in him by aught that was good or great. as hugh came up, he raised his hand, and the young man dropped on his knee to receive the blessing. and as, deeply moved, he rose and stood on one side, it seemed to him that his father's dying voice stole softly upon his ears-- "not for thyself, but for the glory of god." dumps - a plain girl by l.t. meade illustrations by r. lillie published by e.p. dutton and company, new york. this edition dated . dumps - a plain girl, by l.t. meade. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ dumps - a plain girl, by l.t. meade. part one, chapter one. a lesson in patience. the boys were most troublesome. they never would mind in the very least when father had one of his worst headaches. it was not that they did not try to be good--i will say that alex had the kindest heart, and that charley was good-natured too--but it seemed to me as though they could not walk quietly; they would stump upstairs, and they would go heavily across the big attic where they slept, and father was so fearfully sensitive; the least sound made him start up, and then he would get into a sort of frenzy and hardly know what he was doing. he would call out to the boys and thunder to them to be quiet; and then his head was worse than ever. oh, it was all dreadful--dreadful! i sometimes did not know what to do. i am going to tell the story of my life as far as i can; but before i begin i must say that i do wonder why girls, as a rule, have a harder time of it than boys, and why they learn quite early in life to be patient and to give up their own will. now, of course, if father comes in after his very hard day's work, schoolmastering, as he calls it, and when he has one of his fearful headaches, i sit like a lamb and hardly speak; but it never enters into alex's head, or into charley's, that they ought to be equally considerate. i do not for a minute want to praise myself, but i know that girls have an opportunity very early in life of learning patience. well now, to begin my story. i was exactly fifteen years and a half. i should not have a birthday, therefore, for six months. i was sorry for that, for birthdays are very nice; on one day at least in the year you are queen, and you are thought more of than any one else in the house. you are put first instead of last, and you get delicious presents. some girls get presents every day--at least every week--but my sort of girl only gets a present worth considering on her birthday. of all my presents i loved flowers best; for we lived in london, where flowers are scarce, and we hardly ever went into the country. my name is rachel grant, and i expect i was a very ordinary sort of girl. alex said so. alex said that if i had beautiful, dancing dark eyes, and very red lips, and a good figure, i might queen it over all the boys, even on the days when it wasn't my birthday; but he said the true name for me ought not to be rachel, but dumps, and how could any girl expect to rule over either boys or girls with such a name as dumps? i suppose i was a little stodgy in my build, but father said i might grow out of that, for my mother was tall. ah dear! there was the sting of things; for if i had had a mother on earth i might have been a very different girl, and the boys might have been told to keep their place and not to bully poor dumps, as they called me, so dreadfully. but i must go on with my story. i was rachel or dumps, and there were two boys, alex and charley. alex was a year younger than i, and ought really to have been very much under my control; and charley was two years younger. then there was father, who was quite elderly, although his children were comparatively young. he was tall and had a slight stoop, and his hair was turning grey. he had a very beautiful, lofty sort of expression, and he did wonders in the great school or college where he spent most of his time. our house belonged to the college; the rooms were large, and the windows looked out on the grounds of the college and i could see the boys playing, alex and charley amongst them, only i never dared to look if i thought alex or charley could see me; for if they had caught sight of me it would have been all over with me, for they did not particularly want the other boys to know they had a sister. "if she was a beauty we'd be awfully proud," said alex, "but being only dumps, you know,"--and then he would wink at me, and when he did this i felt very much inclined to cry. well, these things went on, and i went to school myself and learnt as hard as i could, and tried to keep the house in order for father, whom i loved very dearly, and who sometimes--not very often, but perhaps once or twice, on a birthday or some special occasion of that sort--told me that i was the comfort of his life, and i knew that i was patient, whatever other virtue i might lack. there came a special evening in the beginning of november. it had been a drizzling sort of day, and rather foggy, and of course the old house looked its worst, and it was six months--six whole months--before i could have a birthday, and the boys were so loud, and father's head was so bad, and altogether it was a most discouraging sort of day. i had invited rita and agnes swan to come and have tea with me. they were my greatest friends. i hardly ever dared to ask them to come, because something would be sure to happen on the nights when they arrived. but at school that morning it had seemed to me that i might certainly enjoy a quiet hour with them, so i said, "if you will come in exactly at four o'clock--father won't be in, i am sure, for two hours, for it is his late day at the school, and it is half-holiday for the upper remove and alex will be out of the way, and if charley does come in we can manage him--we'll have the entire house to ourselves from four to five, and can have a glorious game of hide-and-seek." rita said she would be charmed to come, and agnes said the same, and i hurried home to do the best i could for my friends. rita and agnes were not exactly beautiful; but they were not like me--no one could have called either of them dumps. they had soft, pretty hair which waved about their little heads, and their features were quite marked and distinct, and i think their eyes were beautiful, although i am not absolutely sure. they were rather clever, and often got praised at school. i am afraid they were inclined to patronise me, but i thought if i could have them to tea, and could show them over our large house, and let them see what a splendid place it was for hide-and-seek, it being a very old house with lots of queer passages and corners, they might respect me more and get the other girls in the school to do so also. accordingly, when i got home about one o'clock on that november day i was in high spirits. but there was my usual lesson in patience waiting for me; for father came in at three o'clock instead of at six, as he had done every single thursday since i could remember. "where are you, rachel?" he called out when he entered the house. i ran to him. "oh father, is anything wrong?" "only this abominable headache," he replied. "it is worse than usual. i am going to my room to lie down. see that the house is kept quiet, rachel." "oh yes," i replied. "shall i get you a cup of tea?" "no; i couldn't touch anything. just keep the house as quiet as possible. if those young rascals come in, tell them about me. i trust you, rachel, not to allow a sound." "very well, father," i said. he never noticed that i was in my best frock, pale-blue with a sash of the same, and that i had combed and brushed my hair until it fairly shone. i knew that my hair was thick and longer than most girls' hair, and i was proud to let it fall over my shoulders, and i wondered if rita and agnes would remark it. but here at once was a stop to our jolly game of hide-and-seek; we could not play a game of that sort without making a noise. we must sit in the parlour. the parlour was farthest away from father's bedroom. we must sit there and be as still as possible. we might play games, of course; but then one could play games at the swans' house, which was a very ordinary, everyday sort of place, not a bit like ours, which at least was quaint and out of the common. i had ordered queen-cakes for tea, and a fresh pot of jam to be opened, and i was all expectation, and primed, as alex would say, to exert myself to the very utmost to entertain my friends, when who should come thundering up the steps, making a most horrible noise, but the boys, with two other boys bearing them company. i rushed out to the hall. "you mustn't really, alex," i said. "mustn't what?" he cried, looking at my excited face. "what's up now, dumps?" the other boys were strangers. one had red hair, and the other was dark. he looked like a foreigner; his hair fell straight in two lines down his forehead and almost met his eyebrows. he was sparely built, and very tall, and had great big hands. alex glanced back at him. "i wanted to take these fellows over the house," he said. "this is von marlo"--here he introduced the taller boy--"and this is squibs. you must have heard me talk of squibs. now, don't stand in the way; let us come in. von marlo is dutch, and very proud of his country--aren't you, von marlo?" von marlo smiled, and bowed to me. "now get out of the way, dumps," said alex. "and what have you put on your best frock for, and why are you all prunes and prisms? what is the matter?" "only that father is at home. he is lying down; he has a shocking headache. you really mustn't make a noise.--you must go away, please, mr von marlo and mr squibs." "oh, how jokingly funny!" exclaimed alex, and he burst into a loud laugh and sank down on the bench in the hall. but the dutch boy, von marlo, came up to me and made another little bow, and took my hand as though he would kiss it; he raised it to within a few inches of his lips and then dropped it again. i was told afterwards that this was the dutch way of showing reverence to a lady, and i was immensely touched by it. he said, "certainly, miss grant, we will go away. i did not know when grant asked me to come in that your father was ill." "but i say, the professor was in his class holding forth not half-an-hour back," said squibs, whose real name was squire. "well, he's lying down now, and there can be no noise," i said. i had scarcely uttered the words before up the steps came my own two special visitors, rita and agnes swan. "oh jiminy!" cried alex; and he stepped back as the two young ladies sailed in. "how do you do, rachel?" said rita. "how do you do, rachel?" said agnes. they were also dressed in their best, and were evidently highly pleased and intended to have a good time. they did not at all object to the fact that four rather tall, ungainly schoolboys were standing about in the hall. "you know my brothers, don't you, rita?" i said, presenting alex and charley. "and this is mr von marlo, and this is mr squire." alex and charley reddened up to the roots of their hair; squibs looked as though he could not possibly get any redder--he was nearly always scarlet; but the dutch boy, von marlo, bowed in the most graceful style, and then stood quite at his ease, glancing at the girls. "i say," said alex, coming up to me and speaking in a very loud semi-whisper, "have they come to tea?" "yes--yes. do go away--please go away--and take the boys with you." "but are there cookies and good things for tea?" "yes; but there really isn't enough for four extra people. do go away, alex. i'll have something nice for your supper by-and-by. do! there's a good boy." but neither alex nor charley would see the fun of that, and i am sure those girls who take the trouble to read my history will guess at my mortification when i tell them that four extra guests sat down to a tea-table only prepared for three. now hannah, our servant, was by no means noted for her good temper. she brought in fresh bread-and-butter, fresh tea, fresh jam; but the fearful difficulty of keeping the room quiet and of making those boys abstain from laughter, of making even rita and agnes behave themselves, was enough to wear any poor girl out. i do not know what i should have done but for the dutch boy, von marlo. he saw that i was annoyed, and he came up to me and offered me all the help he possibly could. "it is quite a shame," he said; "and you looked so nice when you opened the door. i thought you were the very prettiest girl i had ever laid eyes on. you see, i have not been in england more than two months. i have come here to go to this famous school." "you speak english very well," i said. "oh yes, i learnt that in holland; we all learn it there. we learn english, german, and french as soon as ever we can speak at all, i think; for, you see, our language--dutch--is not much use to us outside our own country. there is nothing in that," he continued modestly. "now, what can i do to help you?" i looked at him, and my ruffled spirits became soothed. after all, why should i not make the best of things? "i'll try to keep the fellows quiet," said von marlo; "and you needn't call me mr--i am only a schoolboy. you can just say von marlo, as i am sure you say squibs to squire. we can all be jolly together. what do you say?" "done!" i cried; and after that the meal went swimmingly. it was amazing what those fellows managed to eat; and it was still more amazing to see how rita and agnes enjoyed themselves. it was the thought of their disappointment which had so terribly annoyed me when the four boys insisted on bursting into our parlour and forcing themselves into our presence; but i soon saw that rita and agnes were only delighted. they laughed and joked, and as they laughed alex and charley became like lambs of sweetness and gentleness. dear, dear! how nice a brother can be to other people's sisters! it is quite extraordinary. i bent over to rita and whispered to her, "i hope you are not vexed." "vexed?" she whispered back. "no; i'm sure i'm delighted. i did not think it was to be a big party of this sort; and really the boys of the upper school are almost like men. it is very nice indeed; i am enjoying myself extremely." and so she was, and so was agnes. when tea was over, however, an anxious moment arrived. we could not play any noisy games, and the boys immediately declared that they were not going away. "we are going to see the fun out now," said alex. "never mind to-morrow's work. i'll do that in the small hours--burn the candle, you know." here he winked at agnes, and she winked back at him, thinking herself exceedingly witty. games were proposed, and games were begun; but, alas! how could seven young people keep absolutely quiet? i was trembling all over. if father were but to come down and see the absolute riot in the parlour, i didn't know what would happen. i was certain of one thing: neither rita nor agnes would ever be allowed to have tea with me again. after a time i did a very injudicious thing. i left the room. i ran upstairs. i listened outside father's room and heard him moving about. i knocked, and immediately the door was flung open, and there was father in his dressing-gown, with his beautiful grey hair pushed back off his forehead. "what's all that murmuring and muttering and shuffling that is going on downstairs?" he said. "and how flushed your cheeks are! and there is a smear of jam on one of them. what have you been doing?" "having tea, father." "you never offered me a cup." "oh father! when you first came in i offered to get you some." "well, i'd like some now. bring me up something to eat." "then, father darling, is your head better?" "yes, my dear, yes. go downstairs and bring me up a tray full of food-- toast and an egg and some tea. bring them up with your own hands. see there isn't a sound. if i have two or three hours of quiet i shall be quite fit to resume my work to-night. i have to lecture in hall at nine o'clock this evening. i shall not be able to utter a word if this headache continues. now, rachel, be off; set to work and get me some food at once, as fast as ever you can." i was half-way downstairs when my father's voice called after me: "do stop all that whispering and whistling and noise. i can't imagine what is happening." "i will do what i can, father," i said. part one, chapter two. the poached egg. i returned to the boys and to my school friends. "father is awake," i said, "and he complains of the noise we are making." "noise?" cried alex. "why, we are as mum as mice!" "people must breathe, you know," said agnes in what i considered a very impertinent way. i stared at her. she had no right to speak like that of my father, the great professor grant; for my father was a member of the royal society, no less, and you can imagine that to hear such talk from a silly little girl like agnes swan was, to say the least of it, disagreeable. so i drew myself up; but then i caught von marlo's eyes, and i felt soothed, for he seemed to understand. "if the professor wishes it," he said, "we will, of course, hardly speak at all.--it might be best," he added, turning to alex, "if we all went away. what do you think?" "please yourself, von," said alex, speaking in a very patronising way, and flinging himself back in a deep chair. "squibs and charley and i stay; and as you are the quietest of the party, and inclined to patronise dumps, i don't see why you should go." von marlo came straight up to me and said: "can i do anything for you? they say i patronise you, but that is not true. i don't exactly know what they mean by patronise, but i will do all i can to help you, for you are quite the nicest little girl i have met since i came to england." agnes and rita seemed neither of them to thoroughly appreciate these remarks of von marlo's, for he was really the biggest and most imposing-looking of the four boys. even alex, who was a handsome fellow, looked very young beside him. as to me, i felt soothed. of course, you must understand that if you have been called dumps all your life, and told to your face that you haven't one vestige of good looks, it must be a sort of pleasure to have a person suddenly inform you that you are--oh! better than good-looking--the very prettiest girl he has seen in the whole of the country. i felt, therefore, a flush of triumph stealing to my cheeks, and then i said, "please keep things as quiet as you can. i must go to the kitchen to get some tea for father. please don't let them be noisy." "i'll sit on them if they are," said von marlo. but alex called out, "go along, von, and help her; that'll be the best way. good gracious! she's in such a state of mind, because you are noticing her and bolstering her up, that she will fall, as likely as not, going down those slippery backstairs. go along with her, old chap, and help her." "yes, come," i said, for i could not resist it. so von marlo and i found ourselves in the big hall; then he took my hand and we went along the passage, and then down another passage, and then we opened a door and i called to hannah. "hannah, are you downstairs?" we were looking into pitch-black darkness, but we heard a muffled voice say, "yes, miss rachel? sakes alive! what's wanted now?" then hannah appeared at the foot of the stairs, holding a lighted candle. "i'm coming down," i said, "and i'm bringing a gentleman with me." hannah very nearly fell in her amazement, but i went steadily down, von marlo following me. "it is a very old house," i whispered, "and some people say it is haunted. but you are not afraid of ghosts, are you?" "i think they are the jolliest things in the world!" was his reply. he said the word jolly in a very funny way, as though he was not accustomed to the word, and it sounded quite sweet. at last we got to the lower regions, and then, guided by hannah's candle--which was really only like a very little spark of light--we found our way into the kitchen. "once this was a grand house and grand people lived here," i said. "father lives here now because it belongs to the college. the house is a great deal too big for us, but it is a glorious place for hide-and-seek. this is the kitchen--monstrous dinners used to be cooked here." "now then, miss rachel, what do you want?" said hannah. "and i think young gents as ought to be at school ought to keep out of the professor's kitchen. that's what i think." "oh, please, hannah," i said, "this gentleman is from over the seas--he comes from holland, where the beautiful tulips are grown, and his name is mr von marlo." "catch me trying to say a mouthful of a name like that!" was hannah's rejoinder. "he is exceedingly kind," i continued, "and he is going to help us." "yes, i will help you if you will let me," said von marlo, speaking in his slow and rather distinct way, and not gabbling his words as we english do. "i want tea and toast and an egg for father; he is waiting for them, and we must hurry," i said. "hannah, be as quick as you can." "my word," said hannah, "what a fuss!" she was really a kind creature. she must have been good to live with us in that queer old house, for she was actually the only servant we kept. she must have been brave, too, to spend so much of her time in that desolate kitchen and in those black passages, for gas had never been laid on in the bottom portion of the old house, and it smelt very damp, and i am sure the rats had a good time there at night. but hannah, forty-five years of age, with a freckled face and reddish hair, and high cheek-bones and square shoulders, had never known the meaning of the word fear. "ghosts?" she would cry. "don't talk nonsense to me! rats? well, i guess they're more afraid of me than i am of them. loneliness? i'm a sight too busy to be lonely. i does my work, and i eats my vittals, and when bedtime comes i sleeps like a top. i'm fond of the professor, and proud of him, he's so cliver; and i'm fond of miss rachel, whom i've known since she was born, and of the boys, although they be handfuls." this was hannah's creed; she had no fear, and she was fond of us. but she had a rough tongue, and could be very rude at times, and could make things unpleasant for us children unless we humoured her. it was von marlo, the dutch boy, who humoured her now. he offered to cut the bread for toast, and he not only offered, but he went boldly to the cupboard, found a loaf, and cut most delicate slices, and set to work toasting them before a clear little fire in a small new range at one end of the kitchen before hannah had time to expostulate. then he suggested that father's egg should be poached, not boiled, and he found a saucepan and put it on the fire and prepared to poach the egg. and when hannah said, "my, what a fuss!" he found the egg, broke it into the boiling water, poached it beautifully, and put it on the toast. really, he was a wonderful boy; even hannah declared that never had she seen his like. the tea was made fragrant and strong, and we put it on a little tray with a white cloth, and von marlo carried it for me up the dark stairs. we reached the hall, and then we stood and faced each other. "you are going up all those other stairs with that tray?" said von marlo. "then i insist upon carrying it for you." "but suppose father should come out? he sometimes does, you know," i whispered. "and if he does, what matter?" said von marlo. "he won't eat us! come along, miss rachel." i was very glad he did not call me dumps. he must have heard hannah call me miss rachel, for, as far as the boys were concerned, i might have been christened dumps, for they never addressed me as anything else. we went up the stairs, i going first to lead the way, and von marlo following, bearing the little tray with its fragrant tea, hot toast, and poached egg. all went well, and nothing would have happened except the pleasant memory of our little adventure if suddenly at the top of the stairs we had not encountered the stern face of father himself. there was gas in that part of the house, and it had been turned on; father looked absolutely black with rage. "what is the meaning of this?" he said. "who are you? von marlo, i declare! and what, may i ask, are you doing in my house, and venturing up to my rooms, sir?--what is the meaning of this, rachel? i shall punish you severely.--go downstairs, sir; go down at once, and leave the house." if it had been squibs, even had it been alex or charley, i think he would have turned at once at the sight of that angry, very fierce face; but von marlo was like hannah--he knew no fear. he said quietly, "you are mistaken, sir; i have done nothing that i should be ashamed of. your son, mr alex, invited me to come into the house, and he also invited me to have tea downstairs. your daughter went to the kitchen to prepare your tea, and i offered to assist her. it is a way we have in my country, sir, to assist the ladies when they have more to do than they can well accomplish. it is the way we gentlemen act, professor." there was something so quaint in von marlo's utterance that even father was appeased. he murmured, "i forgot you were a foreigner. well then, thanks; but go away now, for goodness' sake.--rachel, take the tea into my bedroom.--von marlo, you must go; i cannot have any one in my house this evening; my head is very bad." "good-bye, mr von marlo," i said; "and thank you, thank you." von marlo boldly took my hand in the presence of father, and then bolted downstairs, i regret to say, with extreme noise; for, notwithstanding his gentlemanly manners, his boots were thick and rough, and the stairs were destitute of carpets. "lay the tea on the table, rachel," said my father. he pushed his hands through his hair, which now seemed to stand up on his head and gave him a wild appearance. "what does this mean? tell me at once. speak, rachel." "i think mr von marlo explained, father. i am awfully sorry. i did ask agnes and rita swan to tea this evening. you said--or at least you never said that i wasn't to ask them." "i never gave you leave to ask any one. how dare you invite people to my house without my permission?" "i am lonely sometimes, father." i said the words in a sad voice; i could not help it; there was a lump in my throat. father gazed at me, and all of a sudden his manner altered. he seated himself in a chair, and motioned to me to take another. he pulled the little tray with the nice tea towards him, poured out a cup, and drank it. then he looked at the poached egg, put on his glasses, and gazed at it more fixedly. "that's a queer sort of thing," he said; and then he ate it with considerable relish. "it's very good," he said when he had finished it. "who did it?" "mr von marlo." "rachel, you must be mad!" "no, father; he isn't an english boy, you know. he helped me; he is a very nice boy." my father sank back in his chair, and suddenly, to my amazement and relief, he burst into a roar of laughter. "well, well!" he said, "i admit that i was in a temper; and i was rude to the lad, too. if you ever have headaches like mine you will get into passions too, rachel. pray that you may never have them; my misery is something too awful; and when i saw that lad, with his great dark head, and that hair of his coming straight down to his eyebrows, marching up the stairs with you, i really thought a burglar had got into the house. but, after all, it was only the dutch lad, and he is clever enough, and doesn't know our english customs. and to think that he poached an egg!" "and he made the toast, father." my father laughed again. "whatever he did, he has cured my headache," was his next remark; "i feel as right as a trivet. i'll come downstairs, and i'll turn those lads out, and those girls." "but, father--father darling--they have come by invitation. it isn't their fault." my father took my hand. "so you are lonely, dumps?" he said. "and why in the world should you be lonely?" "i want friends," i said. "i want some one to love me." "all women make that sort of cry," was his next remark. he pulled me close to him and raised my head and looked into my face. "you have a nice little face of your own," he said, "and some day you will find--but, pshaw! why talk nonsense to the child? how old are you, dumps?" "i'll be sixteen in six months," i said. "it is a long way off to have a birthday, but it will come in six months." "and then you'll be seventeen, and then eighteen, and, hey presto! you'll be a woman. my goodness, child! put off the evil day as long as you can. keep a child as long as possible." "but, father, most children are happy." "and you are not? good gracious me! what more do you want?" "i don't know, father; but it seems to me that i want something." "well, look here, you want girls about you, do you?" "yes, some girls." "and you think rita and agnes swan, the daughters of our local doctor, quite delightful companions?" i made no answer. "just wait for me a minute, dumps, and i'll get dressed and come down and inspect them." "oh, but you won't frighten them?" "frighten them? well, if they're that sort they won't be much good to you. but wait outside the door, and i'll come down. to think that von marlo made the toast! and how do you say he prepared the egg?" "poached it, father." "poached an egg for me, and cured my headache, and i scolded him as though he were a rascal! i'll make amends when i see him next. wait outside the door, rachel; i'll join you in a minute." i did wait outside the door, and when my father came out he looked quite spruce. he had absolutely put on a less greasy and shabby coat than usual, and he had brushed his grey hair across his lofty brow; his pale face looked its most dignified and most serene. he took my hand, and we went downstairs. by this time, as i knew there would be, there were high-jinks going on in the parlour. von marlo was not present, but alex, charley, squibs, and the girls were playing at blind-man's buff. they were endeavouring not to be too noisy; i will say that. it was rita who was blindfold when my father appeared. the tea-table was pushed into a distant corner of the room; a guard had been put on the fire; and rita was running as silently as she could, but also as swiftly, round and round, with one of father's own silk handkerchiefs tied across her eyes. agnes was in convulsions of laughter, and the boys were also. "caught! caught!" she cried, not noticing the entrance of my father, and she clasped him firmly round the waist. her horror when the handkerchief was removed, and she found herself holding on to the professor, may be better imagined than described. poor rita! she very nearly turned silly on the spot. i had to convey her to a chair. father said, "i am your prisoner, miss rita swan. am i now to be blindfolded?" "oh no, father, you couldn't think of such a thing," i said. he smiled and looked at me. "well, young people," he said, "you seem to be having a very merry time. but where's my knight of the poached egg? why is he not present?" however inclined to be impertinent and saucy and rude to me alex and charley were when father was not present, they never dared to show this spirit when he was by. father related the story of von marlo and the poached egg to the other children. "he is a chivalrous fellow, and i shall talk to him about it when i see him, and thank him. i was very rude to him just now; but as to you, alex and charley, if you ever let it leak out at college that he did this thing, or turn him into ridicule on account of it, you won't hear the last of it from me. it's a right good flogging either of you'll get, so just keep your own counsel. and now, boys, if i don't mistake, it's time for you to get to your books.--rachel, my dear, you and your friends can entertain one another; but would it not be nicest and more cheerful if you first of all requested the presence of hannah to remove the tea-things?" as father spoke he bowed to the girls, marched the boys in front of him out of the room, and closed the door behind him. "well, i never!" exclaimed agnes. "to be sure, dumps, you do have exciting times in this house!" "i am very glad you have enjoyed it," i said, and i sat down and pushed my hair away from my face. "how flushed your cheeks are! and where is the knight of the poached egg? what a very funny boy he must be!" "but you two mustn't tell the story about him either," i said. "i mean, if you have any friends at the college, you mustn't relate it, for they might laugh, and he was really very chivalrous. father thinks a lot of him; i can see that. and as to me, i think he is the most chivalrous boy i have ever come across in the whole course of my life." "oh, that's because he said you were pretty. that's a foreigner's way of talking. alex spoke about it when you had gone out of the room. he said of course his sister was good-looking; he would always stand up for his sister; but it was a foreigner's way." as agnes spoke she raised her somewhat piquant little face and glanced at me, as much as to say, "poor dumps! you are very plain, but of course your own people must stand up for you." "well, we can have some games now," i said, forcing myself to turn the conversation. but the girls were disinclined for games; they preferred to sit by the fire and talk, and ask me innumerable questions about the school, my brothers, and mr von marlo, and if mr von marlo would be allowed to come to see them on sunday evenings, and if i would bring him, and all sorts of talk of that sort. i answered that i shouldn't be allowed to do anything of the sort, and that the only boy i knew in the school except my brothers was squibs, and of course, now, mr von marlo. "well, well! we'll come and see you again if you like; and you must have tea with us, you know, rachel. come to see us the night after to-morrow, and we'll have some friends who will surprise you a bit. you do look very nice in that pale-blue dress. but good-bye now, for it is getting late." part one, chapter three. a welcome caller. father looked mysterious during the next few days. i mean that he had begun a strange new habit. during meals he used to put down his knife and fork and stare hard at me. now, until the affair of the poached egg he had hardly noticed me. he had an abstracted way about him, as though he did not see anybody. sometimes he would address me as though i were one of the schoolboys, and would say, "hurry up, stumps, with your lessons;" or, "my dear moore, you will never win that scholarship if you don't put your back into the thing." and then he would start violently and say, "oh, it's only little dumps, after all!" but this new sort of staring was quite different. he was looking at me as though he saw me, and as though he were disturbed about something. i used to turn very red and fidget and look down, and look up again, and get the boys to talk, and employ all sorts of devices to get his eyes off me. but it was all of no use; those large, calm, thoughtful eyes of his seemed screwed to my face, and at times i got quite nervous about it. after a second or even a third day had passed, and this habit of father's had become in a measure confirmed, i went down to the kitchen to consult hannah. "hannah," i said, "i don't think father is at all well." "and whatever do you come and say that to me for?" said hannah. she was crosser than usual. it was the sort of day to make any woman cross, for there was a dreadful fog outside, and a lot of it had got into the kitchen, and the little stove in the farther corner did not half warm it, and hannah had a cold. that was certain, for she wore her plaid shawl. her plaid shawl had been left to her by her grandmother, and she never put it on except when she was afflicted with a cold. she then wore it crossed on her chest and tied behind. she did not like to be remarked on when she wore that shawl, and the boys and i respected her on these occasions, and helped her as much as we could, and had very plain things for dinner. so now, when i saw the shawl, and observed how red hannah's nose was and how watery her eyes were, i said, "oh dear, dear! i suppose i oughtn't to come complaining." "i wish to goodness you'd keep up in your own part of the house--that i do," said hannah. "this fog makes one choke, and it's so dismal and dark, and one can't get any light from these bits of candles. i misdoubt me if you'll get much dinner to-day, miss rachel. but i don't suppose you children will mind." "i tell you what," i said; "i do wish you'd let me cook the dinner. i can, and i'd love to." "you cook the dinner!" said hannah in disdain. "and a pretty sort of mess you'd have for the professor if you gave him his food." "well, at any rate, hannah, you can't say that you are the only one who can cook. think of mr von marlo." "don't bother me by mentioning that gawky creature." "i don't think he's gawky at all," i said. "but i say he is! now then, we won't discuss it. what i want to know is, why have you come bothering down, and why have you took it into your head that the professor is ill? bless him! he ain't ill; his appetite's too hearty." "he does eat well," i admitted. "but what i wanted to tell you is this--he has taken to staring at me." hannah stopped in her occupation, threw her hands to her sides, and then taking up a lighted candle which stood on a table near, she brought it close to me and looked hard into my face. she made a rapid inspection. "you ain't got any spots on you, or anything of that sort," she said. "oh, i hope not, hannah!" i said. "that would be a terribly uninteresting way of explaining why father stares at me. i am sure i haven't," i continued, rubbing my hands over my face, which felt quite smooth. "then i don't see why he do it," said hannah, "for you ain't anything to look at." "i know that," i replied humbly; "but that makes it all the more wonderful, for he does stare." "then i can't tell you why; but it's no proof that he's ill, for his appetite's that hearty. i've ordered half a pound more rump-steak than usual for his supper to-night. i'm sure i'm pleased he can eat it. as to you children, you must do with a mutton bone and potatoes, for more you won't get." "very well, hannah," i said, and i sadly left the kitchen. i traversed the dark passages outside, and found the long flight of stairs which led up to the ground-floor; and then i went into the big, big parlour, and sat close to the fire, and thought and thought. it was dull at home--yes, it was dull. it would be nearly two hours before the boys came home and before father returned. i had finished all my lessons, and had no new story-book to read. the cracked piano was not particularly pleasant to play on, and i was not particularly musical. i could scarcely see through the fog, and it was too early to light the gas, but i made up my mind that if the fog did not lighten a bit in the next half-hour i would put the gas on and get the story-book which i had read least often and begin it over again. oh dear! i did wish there was some sort of mystery or some sort of adventure about to happen. even if mr von marlo came in it would be better than nothing, but i dared not ask him, although i wanted to. i had been to tea with agnes and rita swan, but it had been quite a dull affair, and i had not found on closer acquaintance that those girls were specially attractive to me. they were silly sort of girls; quite amiable, i am sure, but it seemed such utter nonsense that they at their age should talk about boys, and be so interested in a boys' school, and so anxious to get me to bring alex and charley, and even poor, ugly squibs and mr von marlo, to tea. i said that i could not possibly do it, and then they took offence and became suddenly cool, and my visit to them ended in a decided huff. the last two or three days at school they had scarcely noticed me, and i had become friends instead with augusta moore, who was more to my taste, although she was a very plain girl and lived in a very plain way. yes, there was nothing at all specially interesting to think about. school was school, and there was no stimulation in the life; and although our house was such a big one, such a barrack of a place, it was bitterly cold in winter; and we were poor, for father did not get a very large income, although he worked so hard. he was also somewhat of a saving turn of mind, and he told me once that he was putting by money in order to help the boys to go to one of the 'varsities by-and-by. he was determined that they should be scholars and gentlemen; and of course i thought this a very praiseworthy ambition of his, and offered to do without a new summer dress. he did not even thank me; he said that he thought i could do quite well with my present clothes for some time to come, and after that i felt my sacrifice had fallen somewhat flat. but now to-day, just in the midst of my dismal meditations, there came a smart ring at the hall door bell. there were all sorts of ways of pulling that bell; it was not an electric bell, but it had a good ringing sound which none of those detestable new bells ever make. it pealed through the half-empty house as though the person outside were impatient. i started and stood irresolute. would hannah trouble herself to attend to it? hannah was dreadfully rude about the hall door. she often left people standing there three or four minutes, and on a bitterly cold day like this it was not pleasant to be in such an exposed spot. so i waited on tiptoe, and at the first sound of the second ring i went into the hall, deliberately crossed it, and opened the hall door. a lady was standing without. she looked me all over, began to say something, then changed her mind and stepped into the house, and held out her hand. "why, of course," she said, "you are rachel grant." "yes, i am," i replied. "i have come to see you. will you take me somewhere where i can have a chat with you?" "but what is your name, please?" i could not help saying. "my name is miss grace donnithorne. the professor knows all about me, and will explain about me presently; but i have just come to have a little chat with you. may i come in?" "you may, of course, miss donnithorne," i said. i was secretly delighted to see her; i liked her appearance. she was a fat sort of person, not at all scraggy or thin as poor hannah was. she was not young; indeed, to me she looked old, although i dare say father would have thought her comparatively juvenile. but that sort of thing--the question of age, i mean--depends altogether on your point of view. i thought hannah a woman almost dropping into the grave, but father spoke of her as an active body in the prime of life. so, as i did not feel capable of forming any correct judgment with regard to miss grace donnithorne's age, i asked her to seat herself, and i poked the fire, and then mounted a chair to turn on the gas. she watched me as i performed these little offices; then she said, "you will forgive me, child, but don't you keep any servants in this great house?" "oh yes," i replied, "we keep hannah; but hannah has a bad cold and is rather cross. you would like some tea, wouldn't you, miss donnithorne?" "i should prefer a cup of tea at this moment to almost anything in the world," said miss donnithorne. "it's this awful fog, you know; it gets into one's throat." here she coughed; then she loosened her furs; then she thought better of it and clasped them more tightly round her person; then she drew her chair close to the fire, right on the rug, which father rather objected to, and put her feet, which were in goloshes, on the fender. she held out her hands to the blaze, and said, "it strikes me you haven't much of a servant or much of a fire either. oh, goodness me! i have my goloshes on and they'll melt. take them off for me, child, and be quick about it." i obeyed. i had begun by being rather afraid of miss donnithorne, but by the time i had got off her goloshes--and they seemed to stick very firmly to her boots--i was laughing; and when i laughed she laughed in unison, and then we were quite on equal terms and got on quite delightfully. "what about tea?" she said. "my throat is as raspy as though it were a file." "i'll see about it," i said, speaking somewhat dubiously. "why, where's the difficulty?" "it's hannah." "does she grudge you your tea?" "no, i don't think so; but, you see, we don't have tea quite so early, and when your house is so big, and there are a great many stairs, and you have only one servant, and she is rather old--although father doesn't think her so--and has got a bad cold in her head, and is wearing her grandmother's plaid shawl, you have to think twice before you ask her to do anything extra." "it is a long catalogue of woes," responded miss grace. "but i tell you what it is--oh, they call you dumps, don't they?" "have you heard?" i said, puckering my brows in distress. "yes; and i think it is quite a nice name." "but i'd much, much rather be called rachel." "well, child, i don't mind--rachel or dumps--i must have tea. go down to the kitchen, fetch a kettle with hot water, bring it up, and also the tea-caddy and sugar and milk if you can get them, and we'll make the tea ourselves. but oh, good gracious, the coal-hod is empty! what an awful spot!" now really, i thought, miss donnithorne was becoming too free. it was all very well for her to force herself into the house; i had never even heard of her before; but to put her feet on the fender, and then to complain of the cold and to say she must have tea, and also to grumble because there was no more coal in the hod, rather took my breath away. "i see," said miss grace, "that i must help you." "oh no," i answered, "please don't." for this would be the final straw. it was all very well to take von marlo down to the kitchen. a boy was one thing, but an elderly, stout lady about hannah's own age was quite another thing. so i said, "i'll do my best, but you must stay here." good gracious! i had imagined the two hours before father and the boys came home would be dull and would pass slowly, but i never was so worked in my life. first of all i had to go to the coal-cellar and fill the empty hod with coals and tug it upstairs. when i got into the parlour i let miss grace do the rest, and she did set to work with a will. while she was building up the fire i purloined a kettle from the kitchen while hannah's back was turned, and two cups and saucers, for i thought i might as well have tea with miss grace. there was some tea upstairs, and some sugar and a little bread-and-butter, and as father always had special milk for himself in a special can, and as this was kept in the parlour cupboard, i knew that we could manage the tea after a fashion. when i got back there was a roaring fire in the grate. "there," said miss donnithorne; "that's something like a fire!" she had unfastened her furs at last; she had even removed her jacket; and when i arrived with the kettle she stamped it down on the bed of hot coals, and looked round at me with a smile of triumph. "there, now!" she said. "we'll have our tea, and afterwards i want to have a chat with you." i must say i did enjoy it, and i liked the glowing heat of the fire; it seemed to blot away some of the fog and to make the room more cheerful. and miss grace, when she got her way, became very cheerful also. she laughed a great deal, and asked me a lot of questions, in especial about father, and what he was doing, and how he passed his time, and if he was a good-humoured sort of man. exactly at five o'clock she got up and took her departure. "well, child," she said, "i am warm through, and my throat is much better, and i am sure you look all the better for a bit of heat and a bit of good food. i'll come again to see you presently, and i'll bring some new-laid eggs with me, and better butter than that stuff we have just eaten; it wasn't fit for a christian's palate. good-bye, child. you'll see more of me in the future." part one, chapter four. miss grace donnithorne. when father came in that evening i was quite lively, but he did not specially notice it. i hoped he would. i felt wonderfully excited about miss grace donnithorne. the boys, of course, were also in the room, but they were generally in a subdued state and disinclined to make a noise when father was present. hannah came up with the dinner. she dumped down the tray on the sideboard, and put the appetising rump-steak in front of father. it was rump-steak with onions, and there were fried potatoes, and there was a good deal of juice coming out of the steak, and oh, such a savoury smell! alex began to sniff, and charley looked with keen interest and watering eyes at the good food. "there," said hannah, placing a mutton bone in front of alex; "you get on with that. there's plenty of good meat if you turn it round and cut from the back part. it's good and wholesome, and fit for young people. the steak is for the professor. i've got some roast potatoes; thought you'd like them." the roast potatoes were a sop in the pan; but oh, how we did long for a piece of the steak! that was the worst about father; he really was a most kindly man, but he was generally, when not absorbed in lecturing-- on which occasions, i was told, he was most animated and lively and all there--in a sort of dream. he ate his steak now without in the least perceiving that his children were dining off cold mutton. had he once noticed it, he would have taken the mutton bone for himself and given us the steak. i heard alex mutter, "it's rather too bad, and he certainly won't finish it!" but i sat down close to alex, and whispered, "alex, for shame! you know how he wants it; he isn't at all strong." then alex's grumbles subsided, and he ate his own dinner with boyish appetite. after the brief and very simple meal had come to an end the boys left the room, and the professor, as we often called him, stood with his back to the fire. now was my opportunity. "father," i said, "i had a visitor this afternoon." "eh? what's that. dumps?" "father, i wish you wouldn't call me dumps." "don't fret me, rachel; what does it matter what i call you? the thing is that i address the person who is known to me as my daughter. what does it matter whether i speak of her as dumps, or stumps, or rachel, or annie, or any other title? what's in a name?" "oh father! i think there's a good deal in a name. but never mind," i continued, for i didn't want him to go off into one of those long dissertations which he was so fond of, quite forgetting the person he was talking to. so i added hastily, "miss grace donnithorne called. she said she was a friend of yours. do you know her?" "miss--grace--donnithorne?" said father, speaking very slowly and pausing between each word. "miss--grace--donnithorne?" "why, yes, father," i said, and i went close to him now. "she was, oh, so funny--such a fat, jolly sort of person! only she didn't like this house one bit." "eh? eh?" said my father. he sank into a chair near the fire. "that is the very chair she sat in." my father looked round at it. "the shabbiest chair in the whole house," he said. "but the most comfy, father." "well, all right; tell me about her." "she sat here, and she made me have a good fire." "quite right. why should you be cold, dumps?" "but i thought, father, that you did not want us to be extravagant?" "it is far more extravagant, let me tell you, dumps, to get a severe cold and to have doctors' bills to pay." i was startled by this sentiment of father's, and treasured it up to retail to hannah in the future. "but tell me more about her," he said. then i related exactly what had happened. he was much amused, and after a time he said, with a laugh, "and so you got tea for her?" "yes; she insisted on it. she wouldn't let me off getting that tea for all the world. i didn't mind it, of course--indeed, i quite enjoyed it--but what i did find hard was bringing up the hod of coal from the coal-cellar." "good practice, dumps. arms are made to be useful." "so they are," i answered. "and feet are made to run with." "of course, father." "and a girl's little brain is meant to keep a house comfortable." "but, father, i haven't such a little brain; and i think i could do something else." "could what?" said father, opening his eyes with horror. "what in the world is more necessary for a girl who is one day to be a woman than to know how to keep a house comfortable?" "yes, yes," i said; "i suppose so." i was very easily stopped when father spoke in that high key. "and you have complained to me that you find life dull. did you find miss grace donnithorne dull?" "oh no; she is very lively, father." father slowly crossed one large white hand over the other; then he rose. "good-night, dumps," he said. "have you nothing more to say?" i asked. "good gracious, child! this is my night for school. i have to give two lectures to the boys of the first form. good-night--good-night." he did not kiss me--he very seldom did that--but his voice had a very affectionate tone. after he had gone i sat for a long time by the fire. the neglected dinner-things remained on the table; the room was as shabby and as empty as possible, but not quite as cold as usual. presently hannah came in. she began to clear away the dinner-things. "hannah," i said, "i told father about miss grace donnithorne's visit." "and who in the name of wonder may she be?" asked hannah. "oh, a lady. i let her in myself this afternoon." "what call have you to be opening the hall door?" "didn't you hear a very sharp ring at the hall door about three o'clock?" i said. hannah stood stock-still. "i did, and i didn't," she replied. "what do you mean by you did and you didn't?" "well, you see, child, i wasn't in the humour to mount them stairs, so i turned my deaf ear to the bell and shut up my hearing one with cotton-wool; after that the bell might ring itself to death." "then, of course, hannah, i had to go to the door." "had to? young ladies don't open hall doors." "anyhow, i did go to the door, and i let the lady in, and she sat by the fire. she's a very nice lady indeed; she's about your age, but not scraggy." "i'll thank you, miss dumps, not to call me names." "but you are scraggy, for that means thin." "i may be thin and genteel, and not fat and vulgar, but i won't have it said of me that i'm scraggy," said hannah; "and by you too, miss dumps, of all people!" "very well, hannah. _she_ was fat and vulgar, if you like, and _you_ are thin and genteel. anyhow, i liked her; she was very jolly. she was about your age." "how d'you know what age i be?" "didn't i see father put it down at the time of the last census?" "my word! i never knew children were listening. i didn't want my age known." "hannah, you are forty-five." "and what if i be?" "that's very old," i said. "'tain't," said hannah. "it is," i repeated. "i asked alex one day, and he said it was the age when women began to drop off." "lawks! what does that mean?" said hannah. "it's the way he expressed it. i don't want to frighten you, but he said lots of people died then." hannah now looked really scared. "and that's why, hannah," i continued, "i don't like to see you in your grandmother's shawl, for i am so awfully afraid your bad cold will mean your dropping off." "master alex talks nonsense," said hannah. "you give me a start for a minute with the sort of gibberish you talk. forty-five, be i? well, if i be, my grandmother lived to eighty, and my grandfather to ninety; and if i take after him--and they say i have a look of him--i have another good forty-five years to hang on, so there's no fear of my dropping off for a bit longer." as these remarks of hannah's were absolutely impossible for me to understand, i did not pursue the subject further, but i said, "father made such a nice remark to-night!" "and whatever was that? the professor is always chary of his talk." "he said that it was very wrong to be cold, and that the fires ought to be large and good." "he said that?" "yes, he did. and then i said, `i thought you wanted us to be saving;' and he said, `it's not saving to catch cold and have doctors' bills.' so now, hannah, you have your orders, and we must have a big, big fire in the parlour during the cold weather." "don't bother me any longer," said hannah. "your talk is beyond anything for childishness! what with trying to frighten a body in the prime of life about her deathbed, and then giving utterance to rubbish which you put into the lips of the professor, it is beyond any sensible person to listen to. it's cotton-wool i'll put in my right ear the next time i come up to see you, miss dumps." by this time hannah had filled her tray. she raised it and walked towards the door. she then, with some skill and strength, placed the whole weight of the tray on her right arm, and with the left she opened the door. i have seen waiters in restaurants do that sort of trick, but i never could understand it. even if hannah was dropping off, she must have some strong muscles, was my reflection. the next day i went to school as usual. the fog had cleared and it was fairly bright--not very bright, for it never is in the city part of london in the winter months. at school i, as usual, took my place in the same form with agnes and rita swan. i was glad to see that i got to the head of the form and they remained in a subordinate position that day. in consequence during play-hours they were rather less patronising and more affectionate to me than usual. but i held up my head high and would have little to do with them. i was much more inclined to be friends with augusta moore than with the swans just then. now, augusta lived in a very small house a long way from the school. she was very poor, and lived alone with her mother, whose only child she was. augusta was an uncommunicative sort of girl. she worked hard at her books, and was slow to respond to her schoolfellows' advances of friendship; but when i said, "may i walk up and down in the playground with you, augusta?" she on this occasion made no objection. she glanced round at me once or twice, and then said, "i don't mind, of course, your walking with me, rachel, but i have to read over my poetry once or twice in order to be sure of saying it correctly." i asked her if she would like me to hear her, and she was much obliged when i made this offer; and after a few minutes' pause she handed me the book, and repeated a very fine piece of poetry with considerable spirit. when she had come to the end she said, "how many mistakes did i make?" "i don't know," i answered. "you don't know? but you said you would hear me." "i didn't look at the book," i said; "i was so absorbed watching you." "oh! then you are no good at all," said augusta, and she looked really annoyed. "you must give me back the book and i must read it over slowly." "but you know it perfectly--splendidly." "that won't do. i have to make all the proper pauses, you know, just as our recitation mistress required, and there mustn't be a syllable too many or a syllable too few in any of the words, and there mustn't be a single word transposed. that is the proper way to say poetry, and i know perfectly well that i cannot repeat gray's _elegy_ like that." i said i was sorry, and she took the book from my hands. presently she went away to a distant part of the playground, and i saw her lips moving as she paced up and down. i walked quickly myself, for i wanted to keep warm, and just before i went into the house rita swan came up to me. "well, dumps," she said, "i wonder how you'll like it?" "like what?" i asked. rita began to laugh rather immoderately. she looked at agnes, who also came up at that moment. "i don't believe dumps knows," she said. "know what?" i asked angrily. "why, what is about to happen. oh, what a joke!" "what is it?" i asked again. i was so curious that i didn't mind even their rude remarks at that moment. "she doesn't know--she doesn't know!" laughed rita, and she jumped softly up and down. "what fun! what fun! just to think of a thing of that sort going to take place in her very own house--in her very own, own house--and she not even to have a suspicion of it!" "oh, if it's anything to do with home, i know everything about my home," i said in a very haughty tone, "and i don't want you to tell me." i marched past the two girls and entered the schoolroom. but during the rest of the morning i am afraid i was not very attentive to my lessons. i could not help wondering what they meant, and what there was to know. but of course there was nothing. they were such silly girls, and i could not understand for one moment how i had ever come to be friends with them. at one o'clock i went home, and there, lying on the parlour table, was a letter addressed to me. now it is true, although some girls may smile when they read these words, i had never before received a letter. i have never made violent friendships. i met my school friends, for what they were worth, every day; i had no near relations of any sort, and father was always at home except for the holidays, when he took us children to some very cheap and very dreary seaside place. there was really no one to write to me, and therefore no one ever did write. so a letter addressed to miss rachel grant made my heart beat. i took it up and turned it round and round, and looked at it back and front, and did all those strange things that a person will do to whom a letter is a great rarity and something precious. i heard the boys tramping into the house at that moment, and i thrust the letter into my pocket. presently father came in, and we sat down to our midday meal. luckily for me, neither father nor the boys knew anything about the letter; but it was burning a hole in my pocket, and i was dying for the boys to return to school, and for father to go back to his classes, so that i might have an opportunity of opening the precious epistle. just as father was leaving the room he turned back to me and said, "you may accept it if you like." "what, father?" i said in some astonishment. "when it is offered to you, you may accept it." he stooped and, to my great astonishment, kissed me on the forehead. then he left the room, and a minute or two later left the house. what could he mean? would the letter explain? was there anything at all in the strange words of agnes and rita swan? of course, any ordinary girl would have relieved her curiosity by tearing open the letter; but i was somewhat slow and methodical in my movements, and wished to prolong my luxury as much as possible. i had the whole long afternoon in which to learn a few stupid lessons, and then to do nothing. just then hannah came up to remove the lunch-things. she seemed so sure that i would tackle her about her age that she had stuck cotton-wool into her right ear. i therefore did not speak at all; i was most anxious for her to depart. at last she did so, banging the door fiercely behind her. i heard her tramping off with her tray, and then i knew that my moment of bliss had arrived. i got a knife and very deliberately cut the flap of the envelope open at the top. i then slipped my hand into the precious enclosure and took out its contents. i opened the sheet of paper; i could read writing quite well, and this writing was plain and quite intelligible to any ordinary eyes. on the top of the sheet of paper were written the words, "hedgerow house, near chelmsford, essex," and the letter ran as follows: "my dear rachel or dumps,--i want to know if you will come on saturday next to pay me a little visit until tuesday evening. i have heard that it is half-term holiday at your school, and should like you to see my pretty house and this pretty place. i believe i can give you a good time, so trust you will come.--yours sincerely, grace donnithorne. "p.s.--in case you say yes, i will expect you by the train which leaves liverpool street at ten o'clock in the morning. i shall be waiting with the pony and cart at chelmsford at eleven o'clock, and will drive you straight to hedgerow house. "p.s. .--i have a great many pets. i trust you will be nice about them. don't fear my little dog; his bark is worse than his bite. "p.s. .--your clothes will do; don't bother about getting a fresh wardrobe." this extraordinary letter caused a perfect tumult in my heart. i had never gone on a visit in my life. i really was a very stranded sort of girl. hitherto i had had no outlets of any sort; i was just dumps, a squat, rather plain girl, who knew little or nothing of the world--a neglected sort of girl, i have no doubt; but then i had no mother. a warm glow came all over me as i read the letter. the half-term holiday had not been looked forward to with any feelings of rapture by me. i could well guess what, under ordinary circumstances, would happen. i should be indoors all the morning as well as all the afternoon, for the half-term holiday was so planned that it should not in any way clash with the boys' half-term holiday. if alex and charley had had a holiday at the same time, i might have coaxed one of them at least to come for a walk with me in regent's park, or to take me to the british museum, or to the zoo, or to some other sort of london treat; but i shouldn't be allowed to go out alone, and at present i was not in the humour to ask either agnes or rita swan to entertain me. now i need ask nobody, for i was going away on a visit. of course, i understood at last the meaning of father's words, "you may accept it;" though it seemed strange at the time, now i knew all about it, and my excitement was so great that i could scarcely contain myself. the first business was to answer the precious letter. i sat down and replied that i should be delighted to come to miss grace donnithorne on the following saturday, that i would be sure to be at liverpool street in good time to catch the train, that i adored pets, and was not at all afraid even of barking dogs. i did not mind going in a shabby dress, and above all things i hoped she would call me rachel, and not dumps. having written my letter, which took me a long time, for i was unaccustomed to writing of that sort, i got an envelope and addressed it to miss grace donnithorne, hedgerow house, near chelmsford, essex, and then went out and dropped it into the nearest pillar-box. when i returned the afternoon had fled and it was time for tea. father came in to tea. this was unexpected; he had not often time to leave his classes and rush across to the house to have tea; but he came in on this occasion, and when he saw me in the parlour bending over the warm fire making toast, he said at once, "have you accepted it?" "then you know all about it, father?" i exclaimed. "oh yes," he said, with a grave and yet queer smile trembling for an instant on his lips and then vanishing. "i thought that must be what you meant, and i have accepted it," i said. "i mean about going to miss grace donnithorne's." "yes, child; it is very kind of her to ask you." "yes, isn't it, father? and she is so nice and considerate; she says i may go in my shabby clothes." "your shabby clothes, rachel!" he replied, putting on his spectacles and looking at me all over. "your shabby clothes! why should they be shabby?" "well, father," i answered, "they are not very smart. you know you haven't given me a new dress for over a year, and my best pale-blue, which i got the summer before last, is very short in the skirt, and also in the sleeves. but never mind," i continued, as he looked quite troubled; "i'll do; i know i'll do." he looked at his watch. "i declare," he said, "this will never answer. i don't wish my daughter, professor grant's daughter, to go away on a visit, and of all people to miss grace donnithorne, shabby. look here, dumps, can these things be bought to hand?" "what do you mean, father?" he took up a portion of my skirt. "things of that sort--can they be bought ready to put on?" "oh, i expect so, father." "they're to be found in the big shops, aren't they?" "yes, yes," i said warmly, for it seemed to me that a new vista of wonderful bliss was opening out before me. "of course they are. we could go to--to wallis's shop at holborn viaduct. i have been there sometimes with the boys, and i've seen all sorts of things in the windows." "then go upstairs, put on your hat and jacket immediately, and i'll take you there. you shall not go shabby to miss grace donnithorne's." wonder of wonders! i rushed up to my room; i put on my short, very much worn little jacket, and slipped my hat on my head, thrust my hands into my woollen gloves, and, lo! i was ready. i flew down again to father. he looked hard at me. "but, after all, you _are_ quite well covered," he said. it had certainly never before dawned upon his mind that a woman wanted to be more than, as he expressed it, covered. "but, father," i said, "you can be shabbily covered and prettily covered. that makes all the difference; doesn't it, father?" "i don't know, child; i don't know. when i read in the great works of sophocles--" he wandered off into a learned dissertation. i was accustomed to these wanderings of his, and often had to pull him back. "i'm ready," i said, "if you are." "then come along," was his remark. when the professor got out of doors he walked very fast indeed. he walked at such a fearful pace that i had nearly to run to keep up with him. but at last we found ourselves at wallis's. there my father became extremely masterful. he said to the shopman who came to meet him, "i want new garments for this young lady. show me some, please-- some that will fit--those that are ready-made." we were taken into a special department where all sorts of dresses were to be found. now, i had my own ideas about clothes, which by-and-by would turn out quite right and satisfactory; but father's ideas were too primitive for anything. he disliked my interfering; he would not consult me. in the end i was furbished up with a long brown skirt which reached to my feet, and a dark-red blouse. my father bought these garments because he said they felt weighty and would keep out the cold. he desired them to be packed in brown-paper, paid for them, and gave me the parcel to carry. i felt a sense of absolute misery as i walked home with my hideous brown skirt and that dreadful red blouse. it was of a dark brick-red colour, and would not suit me; i knew that quite well. still, father was highly pleased. "there, now," he said, "you won't go to miss grace donnithorne's looking shabby. but, good gracious me! i'm five minutes late for class. good-night, dumps." "won't you be in to dinner, father?" i asked. "i don't know--don't expect to. now, not another word, or i shall have one of my furious headaches. good-night, my dear." he banged the hall door, and i sat down with the brown-paper parcel in front of me. part one, chapter five. the professor chooses a dress. father was really quite interested about my wardrobe. he asked me two or three questions during the few days which ensued between wednesday and saturday, and in particular said what good weight the brown skirt was, and what an age it would last me. "but it's just a wee bit too long for me," i could not help remarking. he raised his brows very high when i said this, and pushed his glasses up on his forehead. then he said after a pause, "there's no pleasing some people. didn't you tell me that you had outgrown your clothes, and wasn't i once and for all going to put a stop to that sort of thing? do you suppose that a man who is saving his money to send his sons to oxford or cambridge can afford to buy dresses often? that skirt leaves room for growth, and as it thins off with age it will be less heavy. it's exactly the sort you ought to have, dumps, and i won't hear a word against it." "of course not, father. it was very kind of you to buy it for me." "perhaps you'd best travel in it," he said. but to this i objected, on the score that it might get injured in the train. "very true," he remarked. "but, all the same, i should like miss donnithorne to see you looking nice. well, you can put it on when you get there. be sure you do that. go straight up to your room and put on your brown skirt and your red blouse, and go down to her looking as my daughter ought to look." "yes, father," i said meekly. the joyful day arrived. father could not take me to the station himself; but hannah and i went there in a cab. hannah was terribly cross. she said she knew i'd come home "that spoilt as would be past bearing." "you're going to that fat, vulgar body," she said. "oh, don't you talk to me about it's being genteel to put on flesh, for i know better. but, anyhow, you'll be a good riddance while you are away, dumps. i'll have time to give the parlour a rare good turning out." "oh hannah," i said, nestling up a little closer to her in the cab, "aren't you ever a little bit sorry that i'm going away?" "well, to be sure, child," she said, her eyes twinkling, "i've no fault to find with you. you can't help your looks, and you can't help your aggrawating manners, and you can't help your perverse ways of going on. but there, there! you're as you're made, and i've no fault to find with you." this was a great deal from hannah, and i was obliged to be satisfied with it. "i don't think i shall ever grow up vain," i thought, "and i suppose i ought to be satisfied." by-and-by i was cosily travelling first-class, for father was peremptory on this point, down to chelmsford. i had left smoky london behind me, and was in the country. it was very cold in the country; snow was over everything, and the whole place looked so white and so sweet, and i just pined for a breath of the fresh country air. so i flung open the window of the carriage nearest to me and poked out my head. a poke of another sort was presently administered somewhere in my back, and turning, i saw a most irate old gentleman who had been sitting at the other end of the carriage. "i'll thank you, young person," he said, "to shut that window without a moment's delay. you must be mad to put your head out like that in such bitter weather. i'm certain to be attacked by bronchitis with your wilful and violent way of letting such extreme cold into the carriage." i shut the window in a great hurry and sat down, very red in the face. the old gentleman did not take any further notice of me; he buried himself behind his paper. after a minute or two i heard him sneeze, and when he sneezed he gave me a very angry glance. then he coughed, and then he sneezed again; finally he buried himself once more in his paper. by-and-by we got to chelmsford. it was nice to see miss grace donnithorne standing on the platform. she was so round and so jolly and good-natured-looking, and her eyes, which were like little black beads in the middle of her face, quite shone with happiness. "there you are, you poor dumps!" she said. "hop out, dear--hop out." i sprang from the carriage to the platform. "where is your luggage, my dear?" "i have it," i said; "it is in a brown-paper parcel on the luggage-rack." i thought i heard miss donnithorne murmur some thing; but all she said was, "give it to me, dear. be quick, or the train will move on." so i lugged it out as best i could, and there i stood in my shabby grey tweed dress, with my little worn-out jacket and my small hat, clutching at the brown-paper parcel. it was fairly heavy, for i had had to put other things into it besides the now dress and the new jacket; but it was tied very securely with cord, and addressed in my father's handwriting with my name to the care of miss grace donnithorne, hedgerow house. "now then, child," said miss grace, "we'll get into my pony-trap and drive home. why, you poor thing, you're as cold as charity; and no wonder--no wonder." she insisted on carrying the brown-paper parcel herself. waiting outside the station was a very neat little cart drawn by a shaggy pony. there was a boy standing by the pony's head. he was dressed in quite a smart sort of dress, which i afterwards discovered was called livery. he sprang forward when he saw miss donnithorne and took the parcel, which she told him to put carefully in the back of the carriage, and on no account to trample on it with his feet. then we both got in, and a great fur rug was wrapped round us, and a cloak of miss donnithorne's fastened round my neck. "now you can't possibly catch cold," she said.--"jump up behind, jim." jim obeyed. miss donnithorne took the reins, and off we flew. oh, how wonderful, how delightful was the sensation! we got to the cottage in about a quarter of an hour. miss grace told me that although it was called hedgerow house, it was really only a cottage; but i could not tell what the difference was. it was a long, low, rambling sort of house, all built in one floor. the walls were so completely covered with creepers that, even though it was winter, you could not see much of the original stone-work; and where there were no creepers in full leaf there was trellis-work, which was covered with the bare branches of what in summer, miss donnithorne told me, would be roses. "do roses really grow like that?" i asked. "oh yes," she replied; "and jasmine and wistaria and clematis, and all sorts of other things." the dog that miss donnithorne had warned me about came out to meet us. he was a fox-terrier, with a very sharp nose black as coal, and all the rest of his body was snow-white, except his sparkling, melting, wonderful brown eyes. i must say his eyes flashed very angrily when he first saw me, but miss donnithorne said, "down, snap--down!" and then she laid her hand on snap's collar and said, "you're to be good to this young lady, snap." snap, after glancing at me in a crooked sort of way, as though he were not at all sure that he would not prove the significance of his name, condescended to wag his tail very slightly. miss donnithorne took me into a very pretty little sitting-room at one side of the pretty little square hall. this room was filled with all sorts of unaccountable things. there were glass cases filled with stuffed birds of gay plumage. miss donnithorne glanced at them. "i'll tell you their names presently," she said. "my brother who died brought them to me from south america." there were three of these cases. there were also stuffed animals, a hare, a fox, and a dog, perched above doors and at the top of the bookcase. where there were not these cases of stuffed creatures there were books, so that you really could not see one scrap of the original paper of the room. "is this the drawing-room?" i asked. "oh, i don't call it by that name," said miss donnithorne. "i sit here because i have all my books and papers handy about the room. but come to the fire and warm yourself." certainly the fire in that dear little grate looked very different from the dismal fire which miss donnithorne had seen in our big, fog-begrimed parlour. i came close to it, and i even so far forgot proprieties as to drop on my knees and to hold out my hands to the blaze. "chilblains, i declare!" said miss donnithorne, taking one of my hands between both her own. "the best cure for those is to bathe your hands once or twice a day in a very strong solution of salt and hot water. the water must be as hot as you can bear it. but the best cure of all is a good circulation." "what's that?" i asked. "bless you, child! don't you know, and you go to school every day?" i stood up; my hands were warm, and my feet were tingling with renewed life. i had a curious sensation that my nose, which was by no means my best feature, was very red, for it certainly felt hot. i turned round and said, "i am quite warm now." "then you would like to go up to your room. nancy will go with you. she'll unpack your parcel for you." "oh no, thank you," i replied. then i added, "is nancy one of your servants?" "i have only one servant in this tiny house, my dear, and nancy is the one. she is a very good-natured sort of girl, and quite pleased at the idea of your coming to stay with me. i treat her as a sort of friend, you see, as she and i are all alone in the house together." i began to like miss donnithorne better and better each moment. she was so jolly. whenever she spoke her eyes sparkled as though they were laughing, while the rest of her face was grave. all the same, i did not want nancy, and i said so. "i can help myself," i argued. "we have only got hannah in our big house." "well, well, dear! if you can manage for yourself, i am the last one to wish you to do otherwise," said miss donnithorne. "here is your parcel; you can take it upstairs." "but how am i to find my way to my room?" "you cannot lose it, my dear. go up that little staircase, and when you reach the landing you will see an open door. go through that doorway and you will be in your own bedroom. there's no other bedroom on that landing, so you cannot miss it, can you?" "no," i replied, laughing. i seized my brown-paper parcel and ran upstairs. it certainly was nice in the country, and how delicious a small house was! one could be warm in a small house; it was impossible to be warm in that great, rambling, old-fashioned house which belonged to the college and where father and the boys and i lived. i found my bedroom. now, girls who are accustomed to nice bedrooms all their lives take, i suppose, no particular interest in another nice bedroom when they are suddenly introduced into it. but my room at home could never, under any pretext, be considered nice. for some extraordinary reason, big as the house was, i had always slept next to hannah in one of the attics. there was no earthly reason for this, except perhaps that when i was a child i was nearer to hannah in case i should turn ill. it had never occurred to me to change my room, and it had certainly never occurred to anybody else to make it comfortable. there was a bedstead and a bed of a sort, and there was a looking-glass, with a crack right down the middle, which stood on a little deal table. the deal table was, as a rule, covered with a cloth, which seldom looked white on account of the london fogs. there was a huge wooden press--it could certainly not be called by the modern name of wardrobe--in which i kept my clothes; and there was a wooden chair on which i placed my candle at night, and that was about all. one side of the room had a sloping roof, and the window was at the best of times of minute proportions. but the room itself had a vast amount of unoccupied space; it was a huge room, and terribly ugly. never had i realised that fact until i went into the sweet little apartment which miss grace donnithorne had ordered to be got ready for me. in the first place, its window looked out on a pure expanse of snow-covered country, and i jumped softly up and down as i gazed at that view, for the sun was shining on it, and the sky overhead was blue--blue as sapphires. then in the grate there was a fire--a fire just as bright as the one in the little sitting-room with the stuffed birds downstairs; and all the hangings of the room were of white dimity, which had evidently been put up fresh from the wash. it was by no means a grand room; it was simple of the simple, but it did look sweet. there was a little nosegay of chrysanthemums on the dressing-table; there were dainty hangings round my snow-white couch; and on the floor was an old-fashioned carpet made of different shades of crimson, and very thick and soft it felt to the feet. the china in the room was very pretty, being white with scarlet berries on it; it all looked christmasy and wintry and yet cheery, like the sort of christmases one reads of in the fairy-tales of long ago. i unfastened my parcel. i had just taken my long brown skirt out of its wrappings, and was shaking it out preparatory to putting it on, when i heard miss grace say from the bottom of the stairs, "dumps, how long will it be before you are downstairs? i am just having the cutlets dished up." "oh dear!" i said to myself.--"i'll be down in a very few minutes," i answered. now, i had promised father that i would certainly go down in the brown skirt and red blouse, and i would not break that promise to him for the world; so i quickly divested myself of my shabby little travelling costume and got into the brown skirt. it was a little tight in the waist, for i must say mine was very broad, but in every other single particular it was too big for me; it was so long in front that i could scarcely walk without stumbling. still, i had no doubt that i made a very imposing figure in it. it was thick, it felt warm, and i remembered my father's remark that there would be room for growth, and that the thinning process would eventually make it not quite so heavy. but the brown skirt, although a partial success, was nothing at all to the red blouse. i have said that it was a brick-red, and it did not suit my face. it was of common material, made with thick folds, and the sleeves were much too long. i got into it somehow, and cast a glance at myself in the glass. how funny i looked!--my head not too tidy; my face flushed, in by no means a becoming way; with a brick-red blouse and a brown skirt. nevertheless, i was dressed, and there was a sort of satisfaction in feeling grown-up just for once. i wished that i had had time to plait my hair and pin it round my head; then i might have impressed miss grace donnithorne with the fact that not a child but a grown-up young lady had come to visit her. but as there was no time for that, and as there was a most appetising smell coming up the narrow stairs, i flew down just as i was, in my new costume. i very nearly stumbled as i ran downstairs, but i saved myself by picking up my skirt, and then i entered the little drawing-room. "come, come, child!" said miss donnithorne. "not that way; come into this room now." i turned and crossed the little hall and entered the dining-room. the dining-room was twice the size of the little room where the stuffed birds dwelt. it was furnished in quite a modern fashion, and looked very nice indeed to me. the cloth on the table was so white that it did not even look dirty by contrast with the snow outside, and the silver shone--oh, like a number of looking-glasses; and the knives were so clean and new-looking. miss grace just opened her eyes for the tenth of a second when i entered the room, and i wondered what reflection passed through her mind, but she gave utterance to none. she invited me to seat myself, and i had the most delicious meal i had ever partaken of in the whole course of my life. nancy flew in and out, serving us with more and more dainties: puddings, jellies--oh dear, what delicious things jellies are when you have never tasted them before! then there was fruit--apples which, miss donnithorne told me, had grown and ripened in her own garden; and finally we cracked nuts and became excellent friends, sitting close to the fire. nancy's final entrance had been with coffee on a little tray. miss donnithorne poured out a cup for me and a cup for herself. "we'll go out presently," she said. "it's a lovely day for a walk. i shall take you a good way and show you some of the beauties of the place. but what about your boots? are they strong?" "oh, pretty well," i replied. "i can lend you some rubbers; but what size are your feet?" i pushed out one of my feet for inspection. "dear, dear!" said miss donnithorne, "they're bigger than mine. mine are rather small, and yours--you will forgive me, but yours are enormous; they really are. have you been attended to by a shoemaker?" "oh, hannah gets my boots for me," i said. "she always has them made to order, as she says they last twice as long; and she always insists on having them made two sizes too large. she says she can't be troubled by hearing me complain that they are too small." "dear me, child!" said miss donnithorne. "do you know that you aggravate me more each moment?" "aggravate you?" i answered. "yes. you make something plainer and plainer. there! not a word more at present. but before i go upstairs, do tell me, was it hannah or yourself who chose _that_?" as she spoke she pointed to the red blouse and the brown skirt. she evidently thought of them as a costume, for she did not speak of them in the plural; she spoke of them as "that," and if ever there was condemnation in a kind voice, it was when she uttered that word. "it was father who got them at wallis's," i said. "i told him when i was coming to you that my clothes were rather shabby, and he bought them--he chose them himself." "bless him!" said miss donnithorne. she looked at me critically for a minute, and then she burst into a perfect shriek of laughter. i felt inclined to be offended. it had never occurred to me that anybody in all the world could laugh at the professor; but miss donnithorne laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks. "mercy! mercy me!" she repeated at intervals. when she had recovered herself she said, "my dear, you mustn't be angry. i respect your father immensely, but his gift does not lie in the clothing of girls. why, child, that is a woman's skirt. let me feel the texture." she felt it between her finger and thumb. "not at all the material for a lady," was her comment. "that skirt is meant for a hard-working artisan's wife. it is so harsh it makes me shudder as i touch it. a lady's dress should always be soft, and not heavy." "father thought a great deal of the weight," i could not help saying. "he thought it would keep me so warm." "bless him!" said miss donnithorne again. "but after all," she continued, "the skirt is nothing to the blouse. my dear, i will be frank with you; there are some men who know nothing whatever about dress, and that blouse is--atrocious. we'll get them both off, rachel, or dumps, or whatever you call yourself." "but," i said, "i have nothing else much to wear. i only brought this and my little, shabby everyday dress." "now, i wonder," said miss donnithorne; but she did not utter her thought aloud. she became very reflective. "i should not be surprised," she said under her breath. "well, anyhow, we'll go out in the shabby little things, for i couldn't have you look a figure of fun walking through chelmsford with me. that would be quite impossible." "all right, miss donnithorne," i said, inclined to be offended, although in my heart of hearts i had no love for the brown skirt and the red blouse. "that costume will do admirably for that hannah of yours," said miss donnithorne after another pause. "from what you tell me of that body, i should think it would suit her; but it's not the thing for you." "only father--" i expostulated. "i'll manage your father. now go to your room, child, and get into your other things as fast as possible." i went away, and miss donnithorne still continued to sit by the fire. could i believe my own ears? i thought i heard her sigh when i got into the hall, and then i heard her laugh. i felt half-inclined to be offended; i was certainly very much puzzled. truly my cheeks were red now. i looked at myself in the glass. no, i was not pretty. i saw at once now why people called me dumps. it is a great trial for a girl when her nose is half an inch too short, and her eyes are too small, and her mouth a trifle too broad, and she has no special complexion and no special look of intelligence, and no wonderfully thick hair, and has no beautiful shades of colouring--when she is all made up of drabs and greys, and her nose is decidedly podgy, and her cheeks inclined to be too fat--and yet when all the time the poor girl has a feverish desire in her soul to be beautiful, when she thinks more of beauty of feature and beauty of form, and beauty, in fact, of every sort, than of anything else in the world. it was a girl with that sort of exterior who now looked into the round glass. it was an old-fashioned glass, but a very good one, and i, dumps, could see myself quite distinctly, and knew at last that it was fit and right that i should have the name. it was absurd to call a creature like me rachel. was not the first rachel always spoken of as one of the most beautiful women in all the world? why should i dare to take that sacred name? oh yes, i was dumps. i would not be offended any longer when i was called by it. my figure very much matched my face, for it was squat and decidedly short for my age. in the hideous red blouse, and with that brown skirt, i looked my very worst. i was glad to take them off. talk of heat and weight! i knew at last what it was to be too hot and to have too much to carry. i was delighted to be in my little, worn-out, but well-accustomed-to garments, and i ran down to miss donnithorne, feeling as though i, like christian, had got rid of a heavy burden. part one, chapter six. at hedgerow house. we took a long walk. we went right through chelmsford, and i was enchanted with the appearance of that gay little country town. then we got out into the country, where the snow lay in all its virgin purity. we walked fast, and i felt the cold, delicious air stinging my cheeks. i felt a sense of exhilaration, which miss donnithorne told me the snow generally gives to people. "it makes the air lighter," she said; "and besides, there is so much ammonia in it." i did not understand what she meant, but then i did not want to understand. i was happy; i was having a good time. i liked her better each moment. we got back to the little cottage in time for tea, which we had cosily in the sitting-room with the stuffed birds and animals. after tea miss donnithorne showed me some of her treasures--vast collections of shells, which she had been gathering in different parts of the world ever since she was a small child. i was fascinated by them; she told me that i might help to arrange them for her, and i spent a very blissful time in this fashion until it was time for supper. supper was a simple meal, which consisted of milk and bread-and-butter and different sorts of stewed fruit. "i don't approve of late dinners," said miss donnithorne. "that is," she added, "not for myself. now, dumps, do tell me what sort of meal the professor eats before he goes to bed at night." "oh, anything that is handy," i answered. "but doesn't he have a good nourishing meal, the sort to sustain a brain like his?" "i don't know," i replied. "hannah sees to it." "but don't you?" said miss donnithorne, looking rather severe, and the laugh going out of her eyes. "don't you attend to your father's wants?" "as much as i can, miss donnithorne. you see, i am still supposed to be nothing but a child, and hannah has the management of things." "you are supposed to be nothing but a child?" said miss donnithorne, and she looked me all up and down. how i did hate the length of leg that i showed in my very short skirt! she fixed her eyes in a very obstinate manner on those said legs, clothed as they were in coarse stockings, which, alack and alas! were darned in more places than one. then her eyes travelled lower and rested on my feet. i had taken off my huge boots now; but what was the good of that when my feet were enveloped in shoes quite as large, and of the very ugliest possible make? miss donnithorne heaved a profound sigh. "i wish--" i said impulsively. "you wish what, rachel?" "that you would let me wear the brown skirt." "and why, child? it is absolutely hideous." "but it is long," i cried. "you would not see my legs nor my ugly feet." "rachel, you want a great deal of attention; you are being sadly neglected." "am i?" i said. then i added, "why do you say so?" "it is but to look at you. you are not such a child that you could not do hundreds of things which at present never enter into your head." "how do you know, miss donnithorne?" "i know," she answered. "a little bird has told me." now, all my life i had hated women who spoke about having confidences with little birds; and i now said impulsively, "please don't say that. i am so inclined to like you just awfully! but if you wouldn't speak about that bird--" "you have heard of it before?" she asked, and the sparkle came back into her eyes. "well, never mind how i know. i suppose i know because i have got observation. but, to begin with, tell me how old you are." "i'll be sixteen in a little less than six months." "bless us!" said miss donnithorne, "why can't the child say she is fifteen and a half?" "oh, that's because of the birthdays," i replied. "the birthdays?" she asked, raising her brows. "miss donnithorne," i said impulsively, "a birthday is _the_ day in the whole year. a birthday makes up for many very dismal days. on a birthday, when it comes, the sun shines and the world is beautiful. oh, miss donnithorne, what would life be without birthdays?" i spoke with such emotion and earnestness that the little lady's face was quite impressed; there even came a sort of dimness over her eyes. "then most of your days are dull, little rachel?" she said. "they are lonely," i replied. "and yet you go to school; you have heaps of companions." "but no friends," i replied. "i wonder if hermione aldyce will suit you?" was her next remark. "hermione aldyce! what a queer name! and who is she?" "you will see her to-morrow. she is different from you, but there is no reason why you should not be friends. she is much the same age." "is she coming here to-morrow?" "no; you are going to her. her father and mother have invited us both to dine with them." "oh!" i said. i looked down at my length of leg and at my ugly feet, and felt a little shiver going through my frame. miss donnithorne laid her hand on my arm. "i wonder, dumps," she said, "if you are a very proud girl?" "yes," i said, "i think i have plenty of pride." "but there are all sorts," said miss donnithorne. "i hate a girl who has none. i want a girl to be reasonable. i don't want her to eat the dust and to do absurd things, or to lower herself in her own eyes. i want a girl to be dignified, to hold her head high, to look straight out at the world with all the confidence and sweetness and fearlessness that a good girl ought to feel; but at the same time i want her to have the courage to take a kindness from one who means well without being angry or absurd." "what does all this mean?" i asked. "it means, my dear dumps, that i have in my possession at the present moment a very pretty costume which you might exchange for the red blouse and brown skirt. i know a person in chelmsford who would be charmed to possess that red blouse and brown skirt, and if you wore the costume i have now in my mind, why, you would look quite nice in it--in fact, very nice indeed. will you wear it?" "what!" i answered; "give away the clothes father bought for me, and take yours?" "i could make it right with your father. don't be a goose, dumps. your father only bought them because he didn't know what was suitable. now, will you let me give you the costume that i have upstairs?" "but when did you get it?" "the fact is, i didn't get it. i have some clothes by me which belonged to a girl i was once very fond of. i will tell you about her another time." "a girl you were fond of--and you have her clothes, and would like me to wear them?" "some of them would not fit you, but this costume would. will you put it on to-morrow? will you at least wear it to-morrow for my sake?" of course there are all sorts of prides, and it did seem wrong to hurt miss donnithorne, and the temptation to look nice was great. so i said softly, "i will wear it to-morrow--yes, i will wear it to-morrow-- because you wish me to." "then you are a darling child," said miss donnithorne. she gave a great sigh of relief, jumped up from her seat, and kissed me. soon after that, being very tired with the adventures of the day, i went to bed. how delicious that bed was--so warm, so white, so inviting! how gaily the fire blazed in the grate, sending up little jets of flame, and filling the room with a sense of comfort! miss donnithorne came in, and saw that i had hot water and everything i required, and left me. i undressed slowly, in the midst of my unwonted luxury. perhaps if i lived always with miss donnithorne i should be a different sort of girl; i might even grow up less of a dumps. but of course not. nothing could lengthen my nose, or shorten my upper lip, or make me big. i must make up my mind to be quite the plainest girl it had ever been my own misfortune to meet. for i had met myself at last in the looking-glass in miss donnithorne's bedroom; myself _and_ myself had come face to face. in the midst of my pleasure a scalding tear rolled down one of my cheeks at the memory of that poor reflection. i had been proud to be called rachel, but now i was almost glad that most of my world knew me as dumps. notwithstanding these small worries, however, i slept like a top, and woke in the morning to see nancy busy lighting the fire. "oh dear!" i said, "i don't want a fire to dress by." "yes, you do, miss, to-day, for it's bitter cold," said nancy. she soon had a nice fire blazing; she then brought me in a comfortable hot bath, and finally a little tray with a cup of tea and a thin slice of bread-and-butter. "now, miss," she said, "you can get up and dress slowly. missis said she won't have breakfast until a quarter to nine this morning, and it is only a quarter to eight now. and, miss, them are the clothes. they're all beautifully aired, and ready to put on, and missis says that you'll understand." really it was exciting. it seemed to me that i had been wafted into fairyland. i sipped my tea and ate my bread-and-butter, and thought what a delightful place fairyland was, and that, after all, none of the children's books had half described its glories. i then got up and dressed luxuriously, and at last turned to the chair on which lay the costume i was to wear that day. there was a very pretty skirt of a rich dark-blue; it was trimmed all round the edge with grey fur, and i did not think that in all my life i had ever seen anything quite so lovely. it had even further advantages, for when i walked it made a swishing sound, and raising the skirt, i saw that it was lined with silk. now, hannah had once described to me the wonderful glories of a dress which had belonged to her mother, and which was lined with silk. she said she had bought it at a pawnbroker's, and she knew quite well the last owner had been a duchess, for only duchesses could afford to wear such an expensive thing as silk hidden away under the skirt. the bodice of this costume was as pretty as the skirt; it was also silk-lined, and full of little quaint puffings, and there was fur round the neck and on the cuffs. it fitted me to perfection, and i do think that even dumps looked better in that dark-blue dress, with its grey fur, than i had believed it possible for her to appear in anything. but there were even further delights; for the dark-blue dress had a beautiful dark-blue coat to match, and there was a little grey fur cap to be worn with it, and a grey fur muff. oh dear, dear, i was made! and yet there were further treasures to be revealed. i had not seen them before, but i had to put them on before i went down to breakfast-- neat stockings of the very finest cashmere, and little shoes with rosettes and buckles. there were also walking shoes of the most refined and delicate make. and, wonder of wonders! they fitted me. i felt indeed that i had come to fairyland! miss donnithorne was far too much of a lady to make any remark when i came into the room in my dark-blue costume for breakfast. she hardly glanced at me, but went deliberately to the sideboard and began to carve some delicate slices of rosy ham. i sat down facing the fire. i felt almost self-conscious in the glories of that wonderful costume, and miss donnithorne must have guessed that i would have such feelings. she therefore began to talk in her most matter-of-fact style. "we shall have a very busy day, rachel," she said. "there is not much time even for us to finish breakfast, for i have a class in the sunday-school, and you, if you like, can come with me. of course, if you prefer it, you can come to church later with nancy." "oh, i should much prefer to go with you," i replied. "that's right--that's right," said miss donnithorne. "after church we go straight to the aldyces'; they'll take us in their carriage. we shall dine with them, and i think you might like hermione to come back to have tea with us." "you are good," i said. "it does sound wonderful." then i added, as i broke a piece of crisp toast in two, "i have never ridden in a carriage in all my life." "oh, you are not at all remarkable in that," replied miss donnithorne in her frank way. "london girls, unless their fathers happen to be very rich, don't have carriages to drive in. but there is one thing i would bid you remember, dumps." "what is that?" i asked, raising my eyes to her face. "you will meet, my dear, in your way through life, all sorts and conditions of men and women, rich and poor, lowly and haughty, and you will have to remember distinctions. one man may be better than his neighbour; one man may be lower than his neighbour; but the thing that makes the difference between man and man is not what he possesses, but what he is in himself. now, your father, my dear rachel, happens to be a much greater and much more distinguished man than squire aldyce." i wondered why she spoke so. her laughing eyes were not laughing now; they were wonderfully serious; and her lips wore a remarkable expression of great firmness and yet of great sweetness. "i am proud to know professor grant," she said, "and you ought to be an exceedingly proud girl to be his daughter." "oh, i love him very much," i said; but then i added a little tremblingly, "my brother alex has sometimes told me that father is a great scholar, but i didn't know--i didn't understand that all the world--i mean that other people knew about him." "bless the child!" said miss donnithorne. "she has been brought up, so to speak, in the dark. you are a little mole, dumps. you have kept your eyes shut. some day you will realise what the professor really is. he has a bigger brain than any other man i happen to know about. he is the foremost man in a most advanced realm of thought; his powers of imagination are great. did he live in another age, he might have been a second milton. you ought to be very, very proud indeed to be his daughter." it was thus she spoke to me, and so i quite forgot about the dark-blue costume, and accompanied her to sunday-school, feeling composed and at the same time proud. the sunday-school was a very nice one, and the children were the ordinary sort of children one meets in the country. the superintendent of the school came up and shook hands with me. he said he was very proud to meet professor grant's daughter. it was quite amazing-- fairyland was growing more dazzling each moment. it was not only that i was lifted right out of my ugly surroundings, but that i, plain as i was, was turned into a sort of princess. surely no princess had ever worn a more lovely dress; and surely no princess could hold her head higher, if what miss donnithorne said about my father was true. in church i regret to say that i more than once stroked the grey fur muff and softly felt the texture of my dress. but after church was over fresh excitement was in store for me. hermione aldyce was waiting in the church porch for us. she was alone. i don't in the least remember what she wore. she was very tall and very slim, and i am sure she was very young, for she wore her hair in two great plaits down her back. her hair was dark-brown, and her eyes were exactly the same colour. she had a face with a pale, creamy complexion, and when she smiled she showed two rows of little even teeth, white as pearls. "dear miss donnithorne," she said. "and is this dumps?" i could not feel indignant, even though i resented being called dumps by a total stranger, for hermione's eyes had a sort of pleading expression in them, and she seemed sorry the moment she had said the word. "of course i ought to call you miss grant," she said. "no, no," i answered; "i am rachel grant. nobody in all the world ever yet called me miss grant." "is the carriage waiting, hermione?" said miss donnithorne. "it is cold here in the porch." "yes," replied hermione. "and father and mother have not come. father would have had to walk back, for we could not all go in the carriage, and so mother decided to stay with him. father has a cough--not much-- nothing to speak of." "come then, dear, we will go at once," said miss donnithorne. she got into the carriage first; then i was desired to step in, and notwithstanding my smart dress, i am afraid i was very awkward as i got into that carriage. miss donnithorne and i had the seat facing the horses, and hermione sat opposite to us. it seemed to me as though we flew over the country; the whole feeling was too delicious--the softly padded cushions, the rhythmic beat of the horses' feet. the girl who was not fortunate enough to possess a father like professor grant had some compensations! such a carriage! such a nice face! the girl herself impressed me in the most marvellous way. as to the dreadful swans, i am afraid i gave them anything but kind thoughts at that moment. by-and-by we got to the house. then hermione took possession of me. "you are my guest," she said. "come up and i'll show you my room." we ran upstairs together. i was feeling so very good that i did not think for a moment that anything but good could befall me during that delightful visit. hermione took me first to her bedroom, and then into a little sitting-room which opened out of it. "i do my lessons here," she said, "and read here, and entertain my friends. i haven't many friends. i cannot tell you how interested i was at the thought of your coming to-day." "were you indeed?" i answered. i wondered what she would have thought if i had come to visit her in the brown skirt and red blouse. "you must take off your pretty jacket," she said. "what a sweet frock that is! in what shop did you buy it?" "i didn't buy it at all," i said. i felt my cheeks crimsoning. there was a kind of naughty pride in me that would not tell her the truth that miss donnithorne had given it to me. "i suppose your governess, or whoever takes care of you, arranges your clothes," said hermione in a careless tone. "well, it is sweetly pretty, and so becoming! and what nice hair you have!" "nice hair?" i responded. "why, of course it is nice; it is so thick and such a good colour. it will look very handsome when you have it arranged in the grown-up style." "i don't want to be grown-up," i said. "i'd like to be a child always-- that is, if i could have birthdays all the same." "do you think so much of your birthdays?" said hermione, leaning up against the window-sill as she spoke, and twiddling with a paper-knife. "i think they're rather tiresome. i think birthdays are overdone." "you wouldn't if you knew what my birthday was like," i said. "oh, then," she exclaimed, "you must tell me all about it." i was just about to explain, wondering if i could get her to see the vivid picture of the bright day, the presents, the anxious little girl, whose heart had been aching for so many long months just because of this glorious time, when a great gong sounded through the house, and hermione said, "oh! we can't talk at present; it is dinner-time. come along, rachel; come downstairs." squire aldyce was a very aristocratic-looking old gentleman, and his wife was the sort that one would describe as a very fine lady indeed. i did not like her half as much as i liked him. he was quite sweet. he congratulated me on being my father's daughter, and asked when the professor was going to bring out another pamphlet on some appallingly learned subject, the name of which i could not possibly pronounce. i said i did not know, and a minute or two later we found ourselves sitting round the dinner-table. there were a few other guests, and i was introduced to them as miss rachel grant. "the daughter of the well-known professor," said the squire after each of these formalities. the ladies did not take much notice of me, but the gentlemen stared at me for a minute or two, and one man said, "i congratulate you, little girl. to be so closely related to so great a man is an honour, and i hope you appreciate it." dear old father! i did not know that the glories and laurels he had won were to follow me, such a very plain little girl, to such a grand house. when dinner came to an end we again went upstairs, and hermione showed me her treasures, and forgot to ask me about my birthdays. we were having a long and very serious talk, in which she spoke of books and music and the delights of the higher sort of education, when i broke in by saying suddenly, "you don't understand me a bit." "what in the world do you mean? what is the matter?" she exclaimed. "because i don't love study, or books, or anything of that sort. i think," i added, my eyes filling with tears, "that i have come here as a sham, for i am not the least morsel like father--not the least." "perhaps you resemble your mother," said hermione in her very calm way. i had quite loved her up to now, for she had such beautiful manners and such a nice face; but now when she made this reply i looked at her steadily, and saw that, just because of her wealth and high birth and fine clothes, her knowledge of life was limited. she could not see things from my point of view. "i don't think i am the least like my darling mother," i said, "for she was beautiful." "and don't you remember her?" "i don't remember her. if she were alive i should be quite a different sort of girl. but oh, hermione! sometimes at night i think of her just when i am dropping off to sleep. she comes to me when i am asleep. to think of any girl having a mother! oh, it must be the height of bliss and of joy!" hermione stared at me for a minute; then she said, "i don't understand. i love my father best." "do you?" i said, a little shocked. "of course you cannot possibly love your mother's memory as you do your father, for he is such a great man--a man whom all the world is proud of." "but he is only a teacher in a school," i could not help saying. "he could be anything; but he will not leave the school. he loves to instruct the boys. but it isn't for his scholastic work he is known; it is because he is himself, and--and because of those wonderful lectures, so many of which are published. he lectures also at the royal society, and he writes pamphlets which set the greatest thinkers all agog. oh, i should be proud of him if i were you!" "i am glad," i said. i knew that i loved the professor dearly. had i not all my life sacrificed myself for his sake, as every one else had also done? hermione said after a pause, "miss donnithorne told me that you were--" "what?" i asked. "a little bit--don't be offended--a little bit neglected." "she had no right to say so; i am not." as i spoke i laid my hand on the dark-blue dress, and all of a sudden i grew to hate it. i disliked hermione also. "what is the matter?" she said. "have i hurt you in any way? i wouldn't for all the world. i am so truly glad to make your acquaintance." "you didn't mean to," i said, recovering my temper; "but the fact is, hermione, i live one life and you live another. you are rich, and we are poor; i am not ashamed to say it." "it must be rather exciting to be poor," said hermione. "i mean it must be interesting to know the value of money. but you don't look poor, dumps--or--i mean rachel. that dress--" "oh! don't talk of my dress, please." "i know it's bad form," she replied, and she seemed to shrink into her shell. after a minute she spoke on a different subject, and just then a stately but somewhat withered-looking lady entered the room. "hermione, miss donnithorne says that you and miss grant must put on your things now in order to return to hedgerow house, otherwise you won't be in time to receive the professor." "the professor?" i cried, jumping to my feet. hermione laughed. "you don't mean to say that miss donnithorne hasn't told you that your father is coming to have tea with you both?" "i didn't know anything about it. my father? but he never leaves london." "he has managed to leave it to-day. how queer that you shouldn't know!" "i had better get dressed; i shouldn't like to be late," i said. i felt all of a flutter; i was nervous. would he remark my dark-blue costume, and be angry with me for not wearing my brown skirt and red blouse? "i'll get dressed in a twinkling," said hermione. "come along, dumps; this is interesting." i wondered why she was so pleased, and why a sort of inward mirth began to consume her. her eyes were twinkling all the time. i began to like her a little less and a little less; and yet, of course, she was a most charming and well-bred and nice-looking girl. we went downstairs a few minutes later. we said good-bye to the squire and his wife. the squire said he hoped he would have the honour of entertaining professor's grant's daughter again, and the squire's lady made some remark which i presumed signified the same. then we went away, driving as fast as ever we could in the direction of hedgerow house. part one, chapter seven. a surprise tea. we were a little late after all, for the professor was standing on the steps. it does seem so ridiculous to call your own father the professor, but after all i had heard of him that day i really felt that i could not even think of him under any other title. he was dressed just as carelessly and with as little regard to outward appearances as though he had been giving a lecture to the sixth form boys in the college. his hair was rumpled and pushed back from his lofty forehead. his eyes had that somewhat vacant stare which, notwithstanding his genius, i could not help constantly noticing in them. his adorers--and it struck me that the professor had many adorers--called that his "far-away" or his "abstracted" or his "marvellous thinking" look, but to me it seemed that it was his vacant look. but there! it was very wrong of me to think such a thing about father. "he has come," said miss donnithorne. "rachel, your father is here. i am more vexed than i can say not to have been ready to welcome him. i hope nancy saw to his comfort. jump out, child, and run up the path. be the first to greet him. i will follow you immediately." i was almost pushed by miss donnithorne out of the carriage, and i ran up the little path which led to hedgerow house. i felt that miss donnithorne and hermione were following me a few steps behind. i wondered if father would notice the dark-blue dress and the grey fur. if he did he would be sure to say something which would let the cat out of the bag--something which would lower me for ever in the eyes of hermione. as i had not chosen to tell hermione at the time that miss donnithorne had requested me to wear the dress that day, i should dislike beyond anything to have father blazoning the whole secret abroad. but he did nothing of the kind; he merely said, "well, dumps, you look flourishing." he held out his hand and gave me the tips of his fingers. then he shook hands with miss donnithorne, and miss donnithorne presented hermione to him. i observed that miss donnithorne's cheeks were brighter than their wont. she began to speak in a very apologetic way, but father cut her short. "it doesn't matter," he said; "pray don't apologise." they both went into the house, and it seemed to me that they forgot all about hermione and me as completely as though we did not exist. "how queer!" i could not help saying. "queer?" said hermione. "it isn't a bit queer; it's what we ought to expect." "i don't know what you mean," i said. she looked at me. i observed then that her soft brown eyes could be quizzical at times. the lids became slightly narrow, and a smile, not the sweetest, trembled on her lips; then it vanished. "have you seen miss donnithorne's garden?" she asked. "yes," i replied; "and i am cold; i want to go into the house. let us go in, hermione. i want, now father is with us, to be as much with him as i can." "oh, you little goose!" said hermione. "for goodness' sake leave them alone. come upstairs and show me your room." "why should i leave them alone?" i said. "you are a baby!" said hermione. she spoke almost crossly. i certainly absolutely failed to understand her. i said after a minute, "i suppose that i understand father better than you do, and better than miss donnithorne does." "better than miss donnithorne understands him?" cried hermione. "oh dumps! i must call you dumps, for you are quite delicious. never, never since i was born did i meet a little girl quite so much the colour of--the colour of--" "the colour of what?" i said. she had her umbrella in her hand. it was very neatly folded. i really don't know why she brought it, as we had driven in a covered carriage; but now she poked and poked in the snow with it until she came to the grass beneath. "the colour of that," she said. i am sure i turned scarlet; and i can assure you, readers, that i was not at all pretty when i turned that colour, for my complexion was somewhat muddy, and i had none of those delicate pinks and whites in my skin which make people think you so absolutely charming. "i don't understand you," i said. "i think you are very rude." she laughed and patted me on the arm. "you are a very nice girl," she said. "i know that; but you will forgive me. i perceive that miss grace donnithorne is right and you know nothing of the world." "i don't know anything whatever of the world you live in," i answered. "i know nothing whatever of the world which suddenly declares that a person whom i scarcely know at all knows more of the heart of the one person whom i have been brought up with all my life than i do myself. i positively declare that miss grace donnithorne does not know as much about father as i do." "and i defy you to prove it. if i were a boy i'd make a bet on it," said hermione. "but there i never mind; don't let us talk on the subject any longer. come and show me your room, and afterwards you can tell me about yourself." i had to crush down my gathering wrath, and we went upstairs. hermione was restless; i tried to talk in a matter-of-fact and yet haughty sort of way, but she hardly replied. "it is so amusing," she said. "what is the matter with you?" "oh, to be in the house with _them_, you know." "the house with whom?" "why, the professor and miss grace donnithorne." "i don't see that it is the least remarkable," i answered. "but it is--very. and dear old grace, too--dear old grace--whom i have known ever since i was a baby. i suppose i am glad, but perhaps i am sorry too; i am really not sure. you see, i have hardly looked at your professor, but i'll study him tremendously when tea is ready. now do come downstairs, dumps, and don't look so bewildered. you would be quite nice-looking if your hair was properly arranged. here, let me arrange it for you. why should it sag in that hideous way over your forehead? give me your comb." hermione could be very masterful. she folded back my hair in some marvellous fashion, which made my forehead look much broader, and then she plaited it in two thick plaits which hung down my back. those plaits kept the front quite tidy and in complete order; and then she brought a little hand-glass and made me look at my reflection behind. "you look quite a nice girl," she said. "i grant that you have not the most perfect features in the world, but a great many girls who have better features would give up everything for your hair." yes, my hair was very thick, and it was very bright, and somewhat tawny in shade, and the two plaits were massive and very long, for they hung far below my waist. "i have such a little screw of hair," said hermione, "that i shall be delighted when i am allowed to put it up; but mother won't hear of it until i am seventeen. she says that, as my hair is so rat's-taily, i may as well put it up when i am seventeen, but that won't be for a whole year and three months." "then you are not sixteen yet?" "no." "i am three months younger than you," i replied, "and i am not a bit anxious to be grown-up; i want to remain a child." "perhaps so; with your sort of figure and your thick hair--it won't look nearly so well when it is coiled round your head--i am not surprised. oh, delightful sound! there's the tinkle of dear grace's tea-bell. now come along down; i do want to store at the professor." we did go down. there was a very cosy tea; it was laid in the pretty parlour. father sat at one end of the table and miss donnithorne at the other, while hermione occupied the central position at the side near the fire, and i the opposite one. the professor kept talking all the time. it did not matter in the very least whether he was answered or not. he was explaining the peculiarities of a fossil which he had discovered by the merest chance a month ago. he was telling the exact age which had produced this fossil, and using most unintelligible names. miss donnithorne was listening, and now and then putting in a remark, but neither hermione nor i uttered a word. i began to day-dream. the professor was just as he always was. he always talked like that-- always. he was a little less interesting than usual when he got on fossils; they were his very driest subject. the boys and i knew quite well what subjects he was best on: he was best when he alluded to the great greek tragedians; occasionally then an ordinary person _could_ get a glimmering of his meaning. i thought i would show those good ladies, miss donnithorne and that precious hermione, that i understood father a little better than they did. so i said after a pause, "which of the plays of sophocles do you like best, father?" it was a very daring remark, and miss donnithorne opened her brown, laughing eyes and stared at me as though i had committed sacrilege. hermione very nearly jumped from her seat. my words had the effect of pulling the professor up short. he stared at me and said, "eh, dumps-- eh? what are you talking about, dumps?" "which play of sophocles do you regard as his greatest?" i said, and i felt very proud of myself as i uttered this remark. i had now led father into the stream of conversation in which he could show himself off to the best advantage. he took to the bait, forgot the fossils, and began to talk of that other fossil the old greek tragedian. i leant back in my chair; i had accomplished my object. father looked as though he were about to fight the whole world in the cause of sophocles--as though any human being wanted to take any of his laurels from the poor old dead and gone tragedian. but i was watching my chance. i saw that the ladies were impressed, and by-and-by i swept father once more off his feet into another direction by asking him to explain one of the greatest passages in the works of milton. father turned on me almost with fury. miss donnithorne muttered something. hermione said, "oh, i am so hot with my back to the fire!" but again father rose to the bait and burst forth in a panegyric on milton which i suppose a scholar, if he knew shorthand, would have taken down on the spot, for i know it was marvellously clever. but miss donnithorne was a little pale when father had finished. then he and she got up and went into the garden, and walked up and down; and hermione took my hand and dragged me into the room with the stuffed birds, and flung herself on the sofa and burst into a peal of laughter. "how rude you are!" i said. "what is the matter?" "oh, you are a genius, you greenest of green dumps!" was her remark. "to think of your daring to oppose that stream of eloquence!" "well, you see, i know father, and i know that there are two subjects on which he can be wonderful; one is sophocles and the other milton." "i never heard of sophocles," said hermione in her calmest tone. "you never heard of sophocles?" i said, for the temptation to crow over her was too great to be resisted. "why, he was the greatest writer of the tragic muse that ever existed." "for goodness' sake, dumps--" hermione pressed her hands to her ears. "if you talk like that i shall fly." "i don't know him," i said; "and what is more," i added, "i never mean to. if you had a father like the professor you'd hate the classics. but after sophocles," i continued, "the person he loves best is milton. i haven't read milton, and i don't mean to." "oh, i suppose i shall have to read him," said hermione. "but poor, poor dear grace! does he always talk like that, dumps?" "he was particularly lucid to-day," i said. "as a rule he is much more difficult to understand." "and do you always have your meals with that sort of stream of learning pouring down you?" "oh no; most times he is silent." "that must be much better," said hermione, with a profound sigh. "i don't know; it's rather dull. we aren't allowed to talk when the professor is silent." "bless him! and grace is such a chatterbox, you know." "she is very, very nice," i said. just then the professor came in. "where is dumps?" he said. i jumped to my feet. "good-bye, child," he said, holding out his hand limply. then he drew me to him and pressed a very light kiss on my forehead. "glad you are with grace--miss donnithorne, i mean. hope you are enjoying yourself. i'll expect you back on the evening of tuesday. school begins on wednesday. you mustn't neglect your books. as glorious milton says--" he rhapsodised for two minutes, then stopped, glanced at hermione, and said abruptly, "don't know this young lady." "oh yes, you do, professor," said miss donnithorne. "this is my great friend, miss hermione aldyce." "my father is a great admirer of yours, sir," said hermione, colouring slightly and looking very pretty. "eh--eh?" said the professor. "don't like people to admire me. good-bye, good-bye.--good-bye, miss donnithorne--grace, i mean--no, miss donnithorne, i mean. good-bye, good-bye!" he was out of the house and down the path before we had hardly time to breathe. hermione went away a few minutes afterwards, and miss donnithorne and i had the evening to ourselves. we had supper almost in silence. there was a sort of constraint over us. i looked at miss donnithorne, and saw that she was very pale. i said to myself, "no wonder, poor thing! she has had some of father's eloquence dinned into her ears; it is enough to scare any one." after a long period of silence, during which i was scraping more and more apple off the core of the baked one i had been eating, and trying to fiddle with my bread and get it to last as long as possible, she said abruptly, "one's duty is sometimes difficult, is it not, little rachel?" "is it?" i answered. "yes, i suppose so." she looked at me again. "you are the index-finger which points to the path of duty," was her next remarkable speech. this was too much! "i hate being called an index-finger!" was my answer. "i don't know what it means." she got up, put her arm round me, and kissed me. "i would be good to you," she said in her softest voice. it really was difficult to resist her. she was a very sweet woman. i knew it then by the way she kissed me, and i don't think in all my life i ever felt anything softer than the soft, soft cheek which was pressed against mine. had she been a girl of my own age, she could not have had a more delicate complexion. "you are good to me--you are very good to me," i said with gratitude. "i like you and even love you, and i hope you will like me and not misunderstand me." "but why should i?" i asked. "come into the other room, child," was her remark. we went into the room where the stuffed birds were, and miss donnithorne sat down and poked up the fire. then she said gently, "does he always talk as much as he did at tea?" "who, miss donnithorne?" "your father, my dear." "not always," i answered. she gave a sigh of profound thankfulness. "but does he at most times?" "most times he is silent," i said, "and we are all silent too. it's the rule at home for none of us to speak when the professor is eating. if he likes he speaks, but none of us does." "what do you mean by `none of us'?" "the boys and i. we sit very still. it isn't difficult for me, because i am accustomed to it; but alex--he sometimes moves his legs, for they are so long. father is annoyed then. father suffers from headache." "no wonder, with such a brain. his learning is colossal!" "it is," i said wearily. "you admire him very much, don't you, dumps?" "naturally, because he is my father." but then i added, "i only wish he wasn't so learned. i hate learning, you know. i never mean to be learned." miss donnithorne laughed, and her favourite expression, "bless the child!" burst from her lips. part one, chapter eight. home again. i went home on tuesday evening. i had no more very specially interesting conversations with miss donnithorne; but she gave me during the whole of monday and all tuesday, until it was time to put me into the train for my return journey, a right royal time. i can speak of it in no other way. i lived for the first time in my whole existence. she managed to open up the world for me. she did not tell me about the dead and gone great people, who to me were very musty and mouldy and impossible; but she talked of living things--of birds and beasts and flowers. she was great on flowers. she said the country was the right place to live in, and the town was a very melancholy abode, and not specially good for any one. but then she added, "it is the lot of some girls and some men and women to live in the town, and when it is they must make the best of it." i began to consider her not only a most agreeable woman, but also a very noble woman. "now, if you lived in our house, would you make things different?" i said. "i shall--" she began, and then she stopped. "oh yes, dumps--yes. your house isn't at all what it ought to be; it isn't well ordered." "how would you manage things? i wish you would tell me, miss donnithorne--i really do--for now i have been with you, and eaten such delicious meals, and been in such a pretty, very clean house, i see the difference." "it would be difficult for you to make much change," she said; "but of course there are always things to be done. your house wants--" she paused to consider. there came a frown between her brows. "dumps dear," she said after a pause, "i cannot explain just now. your house wants--well, i will say it--to be turned topsy-turvy, inside out, round about; to be--to be made as different from what it is now as the sun is different from the moon." "if that is the case i needn't trouble," i said in a sort of desponding tone, "for hannah won't work any harder, and i don't think i can; and father likes his meals anyhow, and the boys and i--well, i suppose we are poor; i'm sure i don't know, but there doesn't seem to be much money. it will feel so strange when i go home." "trust to better times coming," said miss donnithorne. "the house can be altered. i will write to you about it." we were sitting by the fire on the last evening when she said this. i turned to her. "why don't you tell me now?" but she said, "no; it will be best to write. the fact is, i could not tell you now; it will be best to write." "what a darling little house this is!" was my next remark. "if only we could have a sweet little house like this to live in in town, how happy i should be!" "it is a nice house," she said. "i don't think i'll give it up. in fact," she added, "i have made up my mind not to." "were you thinking of moving?" i asked. "i have made up my mind that the house shall remain--i mean that i shall keep the house," was her unintelligible remark; and then she got very red--quite scarlet--all over, and she walked to one of the bookcases, opened it, and took out two volumes of _the daisy chain_ and two more of _the heir of redclyffe_, and flung them into my lap. "you haven't read those, have you?" she asked. "oh no," i replied, opening the first volume that came handy, and dipping into its contents. "i think you will like them," she said. "take them back with you; put them into your brown-paper parcel. i mean--" she stopped. she was a funny woman, after all. why did she draw herself up each moment? it became almost irritating. well, the precious, darling, joyful time came to an end, and i was once more in the train. i was in the train, but on the rack above me there was no longer a brown-paper parcel--a hideous, humiliating brown-paper parcel. on the contrary, there was a neat little trunk in the luggage-van, and the only thing i had with me was my umbrella, which i held in my hand. i was wearing the dark-blue dress with the grey fur, so my hands were warm with my little grey muff, and altogether i was a totally different creature from the girl who had travelled down to chelmsford on the saturday before. hannah was waiting for me on one of the big platforms at liverpool street station. i was amused at the way she stared at me. "sakes!" she cried, "who's that?" i went up to her and clapped her on the shoulder. "it's i. i am smart, am i not, hannah?" "sakes!" said hannah again, "i wouldn't ha' known you. here, come along--do. where in the name of fortune did you get them things from?" "i'll tell you presently." "and where's your brown-paper parcel? my word, if it's lost there'll be a fuss! i don't think i dare take you home if the parcel is lost; all your best linen in it, and your night-dress with the frills, and the handkerchiefs, and the stockings, and the dress you went down in, and the new skirt and blouse as the professor gave you. wherever be the parcel?" i felt very dignified and grand. i called a porter. "my luggage is in the van behind that carriage," i said--"the van at the end of the train." "you ain't never put a brown-paper parcel in the van, child?" said hannah, in high dudgeon. "oh, come along, hannah," i said. i swept her with me. she was quite neatly dressed, but i saw the cotton-wool sticking in her right ear, and somehow the depression of all that was before me in the ugly house swept over my mind with renewed force. the trunk was small and wonderfully neat. it had my initials, r.g., on it. hannah gave a snort. "i suppose the person as togged you up in all that finery give you the trunk as well," she said. "you may suppose anything you like, hannah; the trunk holds my clothes. ladies cannot go about with brown-paper parcels. now then!" the trunk was put on the top of a four-wheeler--nothing would induce hannah to go in a hansom--and we drove back to the old house belonging to the college. it was dark and dismal, for the dim light of one gas-jet in the hall only made the shadows look the deeper. the parlour, too, was quite hideous to behold. it was more than usually untidy, for there had been no one to put the books in order or keep confusion at bay since dumps had gone. not that dumps was in herself in the very least of the tidy sort, but she was a few shades tidier than the boys, alex and charley. alex was sitting by the fire with his shoulders hitched up to his ears; he was conning a latin treatise, muttering the words aloud. i came in, stole softly up to him, and gave him a slap on the back. "goodness gracious! who's that?" alex sprang to his feet. he saw a smartly dressed girl. alex secretly adored girls. he became immediately his most polite self. "i beg your pardon," he said, "i--" he approached in the direction of the nearest gas-jet in order to turn it up higher. then he recognised me. he recoiled at once; he was angry with me for misleading him. "oh, it's you, dumps! what in the name of fortune did you steal in like that for, like a thief in the night, and slap me on the back to make me--" "oh, you didn't know me!" i said, catching his hands and jumping softly up and down. "don't i look nice in my new dress? tell me i look nice-- tell me--tell me, alex!" but alex was really angry. "i don't know anything about it," he said. i had counted much on the impression that i should make on alex with my dress. i thought he would be respectful and treat me as a lady. i thought he would begin to see that even dumps, with her hair neatly arranged and in a pretty costume, could look nearly as nice as other girls. but if alex failed me, charley did not. charley came in at that moment, and he was in raptures. on his heels came von marlo. and as to von marlo, he said quite openly that miss rachel was a most charmingly pretty young lady. "you shut up!" said alex. "it isn't the custom here to praise girls to their faces. sit down, von, or go away, but don't stand there looking like a foolish owl." nothing could put von marlo out of countenance. he sank down on the nearest chair, hitched up his great, square shoulders, and gazed at me from under his penthouse of inky-black hair. "very, very nice indeed," he said. "and where did you get the dress, miss--miss dumps?" i was inclined to be friendly with von marlo and with charley, but i would be quite cold to alex. just at that moment hannah bustled in with the supper. i did think she might have made a little struggle to have something appetising for me to-night; but no, there was the invariable cold mutton bone and potatoes, boiled this time, and not too well boiled at that. there was a dear little dish of something fried, which smelt very good, for father. then the professor came in without his glasses. he could never see much without them. he called out to me, as though i had never left the house, "go and hunt for my spectacles, dumps." away i went, and of course i found them and brought them to him. he put them on his nose, and his eyes fell on von marlo. "is that you, von marlo?" he said. "sit down, my dear fellow, and have some supper.--alex, help von marlo to whatever there is." he pulled the contents of the hot dish towards himself and began to eat ravenously. there was not even a welcome for me. he had evidently quite forgotten that i had been away. after a time i said, "father, i have come back." "eh?" said the professor. "by-the-bye, von marlo, did you notice the grand passage you and the other fellows were construing this afternoon? there was a fellow in the form inclined to mock at the magnificent words, but that could not have been you." "oh no, sir," replied von marlo. "father, i have come back," i repeated. "i have come back from miss grace donnithorne's." "ah!" he said. the fact that i had come back did not move him, but the words "miss grace donnithorne" seemed to rouse him, for he got up, came straight towards me, and put a hand on my right shoulder and a hand on my left, and drew me towards him. "how is grace donnithorne?" he said. "she seems quite well, father." "then that is all right." "aren't you glad i am back?" i said. the professor returned to his seat. "alex, i shall be obliged to stay up until the small hours. that paper for the royal society must be finished to-night. i shall send it to be typed the first thing in the morning. you must get up half-an-hour earlier than usual, and come to my room for copy, and take it to the typewriting office in chancery lane." not a word about me. i felt a sense of pain at the back of my eyes. what was the good of having a learned professor for a father when he hardly noticed you? i had been so hoping that my pretty dress would be seen and admired in the home circle. i went to bed that night in my comfortless and hideous room. it was so cold that i could not sleep for some time, and as i pressed and pressed the bedclothes round me i could not help thinking of the jolly life some girls had, and even a few tears rolled down my cheeks. to be very ugly, to be in no way endowed with any special talent, and to have a great father who simply forgot your existence, was not the most enviable lot in all the world for a girl. "if only mother had lived!" i could not help saying to myself. then in my dreams mother seemed to come to me; she took me in her arms and kissed me and called me her little darling; and when she did this it seemed to me that looks mattered nothing and love mattered everything. i was her child; i was with her; she was all my own. when i went down to breakfast i was surprised to find that the only person in the parlour was father. he was not eating; he was standing on the hearth-rug. his hair was ruffled up, but his face looked calmer than usual. he was evidently in one of those moods in which he could be approached. i had on, of course, my everyday school dress, and i must start almost immediately for school. i went up to him and took one of his long hands. "father," i said, "may i ask you something?" he looked down at me with quite a gentle expression. "what is it my little rachel wants?" "father, have you got anywhere a picture of my mother?" he dropped my hands as though they hurt him. "you want it?" he said. "i should love to have it." "you have missed your mother's care?" "yes." "if i--" he stopped. "why do you stop?" i said. "you are just like miss donnithorne. she is always beginning sentences and stopping. but oh! please,"--for he seemed to be going off into one of his demosthenes or sophocles monologues--"please, if you have a picture of my mother, give it to me." for answer he went out of the room. he was gone two or three minutes. when he returned he put a little case into my hand. "you can keep it; it is yours now by every right. i treasured it. understand that i have not forgotten her; but you can keep it. it is yours by every right." before i could reply he had left the room. i heard him bang the door, and i heard hannah's step on the stairs. i could not stand the thought of hannah seeing the little case in my hands. she was the sort of woman who could be devoured by curiosity. this was more than i could bear. i flew to my room and put the dear little case into one of my drawers. i forbore to open it just then. my heart was warm and full of bliss. i possessed it; i would look at it to-night. it should lie in my arms when i slept; i could kiss it in the morning. it was next best to having mother to have a picture of mother. i was happy. a few minutes later i was on my way to school. there i met the swan girls. they came up to me. "well, well," they said, "how are you? how do you like her?" "what do you mean?" i said. "why, all the world knows that you have been staying with miss donnithorne. do tell us about her. we are dying with curiosity. it is no secret, you know." "what is no secret?" "why, that you have been staying there," said rita swan, giving her sister a nudge at the moment. "i don't want it to be a secret," i said. "i have had a very happy time. i'll tell you about her and her nice house later on." "oh dear! we are likely to know plenty of her in the near future," said agnes. "but there's the bell; we must go in. come along, dumps. why, to be sure, you do look smartened up! but you will be twice as smart as this in the future." part one, chapter nine. the professor leaves home. as i took my place in class i observed that all the girls stared at me; and after staring, one whispered to another, and then they stared again. it was really very confusing. after a time i did not like it. i thought they were impertinent. i could have borne with the stares and all the nudges and the whispers if i had been wearing my dark-blue dress with the grey fur, for i should have put down the curious behaviour of my schoolfellows to the fact of the dress: they were admiring the dress; they were jealous of the dress. but i had gone to school that morning just the ordinary dumps--dumps in clothes she had grown out of, dumps with a somewhat untidy head, dumps with her plain face. why should the girls look at me? it was not possible that the good food i had eaten and the happy life i had led at miss donnithorne's could have made such a marvellous difference in so short a time--just about three days and a half. but my lessons were more absorbing than usual, and i forgot the girls. in the playground i resolved to avoid the swans, and in order to do this i went up to augusta moore and slipped my hand through her arm. "do let us walk about," i said, "and let us be chums, if you don't mind." "chums?" said augusta, turning her dreamy, wonderful eyes upon my face. "yes," i said. "but chums have tastes in common," was her next remark. "well, you are very fond of books, are you not?" i said. "fond of books!" cried augusta. "fond of books! i love them. but that is not the right word: i reverence them; i have a passion for them." she looked hurriedly round her. "i shall never marry," she continued in a low whisper, "but i shall surround myself with books--the books of the great departed; their words, their thoughts, shall fill my brain and my heart. i shall be satisfied; nothing else will satisfy me but books, books, books!" "do come to this corner of the playground," i said. "you speak as though you were reciting, and if you raise your voice the least bit in the world some one will hear you, and we shall have a crowd round us." she obeyed me. she was in a world of her own. as i looked at her i thought she was marvellously like the professor in her mind. "it is a dreadful pity," i said. "what is a pity?" she asked. "that you are not me, and i am not you." "oh dear," she said, "how you do mix things up! how could i be you?" "well, if you lived with the professor--if you were his child--you'd have books; you'd live in the world you love." her eyes lit up then. they really were fine eyes, although she was--i could not help feeling it--a most provoking girl. "that would be paradise," she said. "but that can never happen. it never does happen. men like your marvellous, your wonderful father have commonplace children like you. now i, who have all the instincts and all that soul within me that just burns for books, and books alone, have a painfully commonplace mother. it is a mixed world. it is painfully mixed." "well, at any rate let us be chums," i said, for the swans were getting nearer and nearer. "oh, as you please, dumps. but you mustn't interrupt my work; i always avoid having a girl chum, because she is sure to interrupt. if you like to walk with me in recess you may." "oh, i should, augusta--i should! i find the other girls so chattery and so queer. i don't understand them." "well, naturally, to-day they're excited," said augusta. she looked full at me. "what about?" i said. "why, about you." "but why in the world about me? what has happened to me? have i grown--grown beautiful?" i coloured as i said the words. another girl would have laughed, but augusta did not; it was not her way. "you are very plain indeed," she said calmly; "you have not one feature which could possibly, at any time, grow into a beautiful feature. but that doesn't matter. you have privileges. every evening you can look at the professor and think how marvellous is his brain and how beautiful is his face. oh, do you think there is any chance of my being able to get a ticket for the next meeting of the royal society? he is going to speak. i could listen to him; i could hang on his words." i made no answer; but i made a special resolution. it was quite impossible for me to be friends with augusta moore. she was looking at me at that moment, however, with great attention. "i tell you what it is," she said; "if you are inclined to be friends with me, you might now and then get me tickets for your father's lectures. i mean, of course," she added, colouring very much, "that is, when you do not want them yourself." "i never go to them," i said fervently. "i would not go to them for all the world." "how queer of you!" "i think i can promise to get you two tickets for the next meeting of the royal society," i said, "if it will make you really happy. father was busy over his lecture last night. it has gone to be typed this morning." "oh, don't!" said augusta, with a shudder. "don't what?" "make the thing so realistic. leave it, i beseech of you, leave it in the clouds. don't show me the ropes, but get me the tickets. do! i shall worship you. i will even think you beautiful if you can get me tickets for your father's lectures." "i'll see; i'll speak to him to-day." augusta glanced nervously round. "do you think it would be possible for you to bring them to our house? we live just outside inverness terrace, bayswater. you could come by the tube. i would meet you, and i'd bring you home. we have only three rooms, mother and i--a sort of flat at the top of the house. i come every day to this school because it is thought quite the best in london. it doesn't take long by the twopenny tube. you have a station not far from your house. you could come, could you not?" "i could come, of course." "well then, let me see. shall i meet you at four o'clock to-day just outside the bayswater station? i'll be there when you come." the bell rang for us to return to school. "i'll come," i said. "i'll have quite a nice tea for you--that is, if you care for food." "i do--i love it," i said in a stout voice. augusta did not smile. she went very gravely back to the school. she had forgotten me; she was a sort of female professor. i certainly did not like her, and yet i would get her the tickets and go to her house. she was better than the swans. agnes swan came up to me when school was over. "you have been nasty in your ways to-day, dumps," she said. "can't you stay a minute now?" "no," i said, "i cannot i must run all the way home; i am late." "nonsense! well, will you come to tea with us to-night?" "no, thank you," i replied; "i have an engagement." "oh, she'll have heaps of engagements from this out!" said rita. "don't worry her. she'll be much too grand to speak to us by-and-by." "i have an engagement," i replied. "i am going to tea with augusta moore." "oh, with that old frump!" "she is an exceedingly clever girl." "but you and she have nothing in common, dumps." "yes, we have," i replied. "have we not a professor in common?" i murmured to myself; and then i left the swans standing discomfited, their faces all agog with longing to tell me something which i would on no account hear from their lips. i hurried back to the house. to my joy, father was in. he was very neatly dressed. i had not seen him so smart for a long time. "why, father!" i said. "i am leaving home to-night," was his remark. "i shall be away for a little. i shall be back presently. you will get a letter from me." "but, father, the lecture at the royal society?" i said. "that is not until next wednesday, this day week. i shall be back again by then. i shall return probably on sunday, or monday morning. my dear child, don't gape. another man is taking my place at the school. here, dumps, here; you'd like five shillings, wouldn't you?" "oh yes, father." it did not really greatly matter to me whether my dear father was in the house or not. i was bewildered at his going; it was quite amazing that he should get any one else to take his boys in the middle of term, but it did not seriously affect my interests or my peace. "you have a very smart coat on," i said. "have i?" he replied, shrugging his shoulders. "well, if it pleases you it will please other women. can't understand why people look so much at the exterior. exterior matters nothing. it is how the brain is worked, how the mind tells on the body, how the soul is moved. those are the things that matter." "father, have you had any food?" "yes; hannah gave me a chop." there was a bone from a mutton-chop on a plate near by, but there seemed to be no appearance of a meal for me, and i was very hungry. "the boys are dining at the school to-day," said my father. "now, my child, it is time for me to be off." "but one minute first. there is a girl at school--" "there are two hundred girls at your school. which special one do you now allude to?" "her name is augusta moore. she has a love for books, somewhat as you have a love for books." the professor raised one hand. "i beseech of you, dumps," he said, "don't speak of any girl's immature admiration for the great works of the mighty dead. don't! your words will get on my nerves." "well, i won't; but she wants to learn, and i suppose she has a right to," i said in a somewhat dogged tone. "she has begged of me to ask you to give her two tickets for next wednesday when you are lecturing at the royal society. she wants two, for she would not be allowed to go alone." for answer my father stalked across the room. he crossed the wide hall and entered his own study, a room he seldom used, for he did most of his home work in his bedroom. he came back presently with a couple of tickets and threw them on the table. "there," he said; "don't say anything more about her. don't worry me on the subject. good-bye, my little girl." he stooped and kissed me; his kiss was more affectionate than usual. "be a good girl, dumps. what i do i do for my children's sake." "of course, father;" i said, touched by the feeling which seemed to be in the kiss he had just bestowed upon me. "by the way, dumps, i gave you that picture of your mother?" "oh yes, father; but i have not looked at it yet." "it is a good likeness," he said. "she was a pretty woman, and a good wife to me; i never forget that. i don't forget it now. good-bye, dumps." "you will write, father?" "yes, yes; anyhow you will hear. good-bye, child; good-bye." i followed him into the hall. there was a neat little gladstone bag on a chair. it really was brand-new, and it had his initials on it. "why," i said, taking it up in my hand, "this is exactly the same sort of bag as my trunk--i mean it is such very new-looking leather. how pretty! when did you get it?" "don't be inquisitive, child. is it new? upon my word! well, that's all right. good-bye, good-bye, dumps." he snatched up the bag and went out, banging the hall door. i went straight back to the parlour and pulled the bell. i pulled it twice in desperation. there was no response of any sort. "hannah gets worse and worse," i thought. i was ravenously hungry. there was not a scrap of preparation for a meal on the table, only the glass out of which father had drunk his accustomed quantity of beer, and the bone of the mutton-chop, and a small piece of bread. hannah was certainly in her deafest and worst humour, and the cotton-wool was sticking firmly into her right ear. i ran downstairs. i entered the kitchen. "sakes!" said hannah. i went close to her and dexterously put out my hand and removed the cotton-wool from her ear. "miss dumps, how dare you?" "i want my dinner," i said. "sakes! what with frying chops for the professor, and him going off in a hurry, why, my head is in a moil." "hannah," i said, "i must have some food. i am awfully hungry." "well, set down right there by the kitchen table and i'll give you another chop," said hannah. "i hear the professor's not coming back to-night. it's the very queerest thing i remember happening since your poor mother died. but you set there and i'll grill a chop for you, and you shall have it piping hot, and potatoes as well. there, now, what do you say to that?" i thought i would oblige hannah to any extent with the prospect of such a meal in front of me, and accordingly i sat down while she prepared the chop and potatoes. presently she brought them to me, and i ate them with the satisfaction which only a hungry schoolgirl can feel when she is seldom given a satisfying meal. "master said to me just before he left, `tidy up the house a bit, hannah.' never heard him make such a remark before in all my life since your poor mother were took." "you remember mother very well, don't you, hannah?" "bless her! yes, i have memories." hannah looked very thoughtful. "do sit down," i said. "you and i are alone in the house." "you are her mortal image," said hannah as she sank into her chair. "i like mother?" "not in face, but in ways. you have a sort of coaxing way with you, and your temper is good--i will say that. but god only knows who you hark back with regard to face, for you are plain, dumps, there's no doubt of that." "so every one says--that is, every one except mr von marlo." "that queer dutch boy--that foreigner? nobody minds what foreigners say." "still, it is nice sometimes, by somebody, to be called even fairly good-looking," i responded. "maybe you're in dutch style," said hannah. "i always was told they had flattened-out faces, same as the dutch dolls, you know." this remark was scarcely flattering; but then hannah, on principle, never did flatter. "tell me about mother," i said. "what was she really like?" "mr alex takes after her. eyes blue as the sky, a tender, gentle face, rather tall, rather slim, the sweetest of voices." "why did she die?" i asked. my own voice trembled. "killed, child--killed." "killed?" i exclaimed. "i never heard that." "oh, there are ways of doing the job! she weren't killed by any accident--not by fire, nor by water, nor by a street accident--but just she wanted what she couldn't get." "and what was that?" "why, the understanding of the sort of man she had married. he is real good is the professor, downright good at heart, but he wanted a different sort of wife from your mother, some one as could rouse him and take him by the shoulders and shake him. that's the sort he wanted, and she weren't the kind. so, you see, she hadn't enough sunshine, and by-and-by the want of sunshine killed her. yes, she were killed if ever a woman were killed; yes, that's it--killed." i started to my feet. "you really are very melancholy, hannah." "and why in the name of fortune should i be merry? what's to make me merry?" "well, we all have to make the best of things. miss donnithorne says so." "don't you mention the name of that hussy to me!" "hannah, you have no right to call her that. she is a most sweet, dear, charming woman." "get you out of my kitchen, dumps!" "hannah, what do you mean?" "mean? i don't want that woman coming fussing round the place, making up to you, dressing you up--i know what it means. don't you talk to me. get along, dumps, or i'll say something angry. now then, out you go!" hannah pushed the cotton-wool well into her ear with her thumb, and after that i knew that i might as well talk to a deaf and dumb image. part one, chapter ten. a very queer chum. i went to tea with augusta moore. she was full of raptures with regard to the tickets which i had brought her. she turned in the street and kissed me quite demonstratively; but the next moment she lapsed into one of her brown studies. "do look out," i said; "you will be run over." "as if that mattered," said augusta. "as if what mattered?" i asked. "why, what you said just now. don't interrupt me. i am puzzling out a thought which will lead to--oh! it has gone--don't speak; it will come back if you keep quiet. there, i've nearly caught it!" "oh augusta!" i said, "you mustn't talk in that way while we are walking in this street." i clutched her by the arm. "guide me, dumps; guide me, commonplace dumps; then i shall be able to think in peace." i guided her then very steadily. we walked up queen's road. queen's road is a long street. "i thought," i said, "that you lived somewhere near inverness terrace, close to the twopenny tube." augusta pulled up short. "what have you been doing?" she said. "what have i been doing?" i answered. "why, you've led me more than half a mile away from home, and mother will be very much annoyed." "well, you must wake up and get me there in some sort of fashion," i said, "for i cannot possibly guide myself when i don't know where you live." thus adjured, and by dint of constant pokes, and even pinches, i did manage to take augusta to her own home. there was a lift which would take us to her mother's flat at the top of the great house; but she was a quarter way up the stairs before i was able to remind her of the fact. she then said it didn't matter, and began to quote from _the ancient mariner_, saying the words aloud. people looked at her as they came downstairs. one lady said, "how do you do, miss moore?" but augusta did not make any reply. at last we arrived at the very top of the house, and as there were no more stairs of any sort to go up, we had to pause here. "now, which door are we to knock at?" i said. augusta pointed to one. "we're awfully late," she said. "mother will be terrible i shall go into my own room until she subsides. you won't mind listening to her; you will probably agree with her. you are fearfully commonplace yourself. two commonplaces together make--oh! i ought to be able to say something very smart and witty on that subject, but i can't. i am going to cultivate smart sayings. i believe it is possible to cultivate them. the spirit of repartee can be produced with care. i have read about it; it is possible. a person who can make good repartees is much appreciated, don't you know?" "oh yes, yes; but do knock at the door, or let me." she approached the door, but before she could raise her hand to ring the bell she turned to me again. "what is the subject of your father's next lecture?" "i'm sure i don't know from adam," i replied. "what a vulgar way of expressing it! how terrible to think you are his child!" "augusta," i said, "there is one thing that puzzles me. i am the professor's child, and doubtless i am commonplace; but i am glad of it, for i wouldn't be like you for all the world." "i don't want you to envy me," she said. "i never ask any one to envy me. those who are geniuses are above anything of that sort." "but i should like to ask you a question." "what is it? has it something to do with the great departed, or--" "it has not," i said. "it is, how do you ever manage to get to school in the morning? are you awake? can you get along the streets? are you always in a dream as you are now?" "mary roberts, who also comes to the school, but who is in a very inferior class, calls for me. she has done that ever since i lost my way in a distant part of regent's park and was very much scolded by my teacher. i forgot the school; i forgot everything that day. i was puzzling out a problem. your father could reply to it." i made no answer to this, except to pull the bell vigorously myself. this brought mrs moore on to the scene. it was a great relief to see a placid-looking, blue-eyed little lady, neatly and nicely dressed, who said, "augusta, late as usual! and this is your dear little friend.-- how do you do, miss grant? come in, dear--come in." "mother," said augusta, "while you are on the scold, you may as well scold miss grant, or dumps, as we call her. i am going to my room. i have received two tickets for the next great meeting of the royal society. i shall live in bliss with the thought of those tickets until that night. you are to come with me." "what night is your father's lecture?" asked mrs moore, glancing at me. "next wednesday," i answered. "we cannot possibly go on wednesday; you know that, augusta. it is your uncle charles's birthday, and we have both been invited to dine with him; he would never forgive us if we did not go." "just as you please, mother, as far as you are concerned. i shall go," said augusta; and she went into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. mrs moore gave one patient sigh. "would you like to take your jacket off?" she said. i hastily removed it. she began to pour boiling water into the teapot. the little room was very neat and clean, and there was quite a cosy, appetising tea spread on the board. "i have heard a great deal about your father, my dear," said mrs moore after a pause. "and now i also hear about you. i am glad to welcome you here. you are augusta's special friend, are you not?" "oh, i know her very well," i said. "she told me to-day at dinner that you wished to be a chum of hers. she said she was willing. i felt quite relieved, for i think it would be very good for augusta to have a sort of human influence; she needs human influence so badly." "but can't she get it, mrs moore?" i asked. "surely it is all round her?" "well, dear, the fact is, she always stays amongst the dry bones; that's what i call that terrible sort of learning which she so clings to. not a word when she comes out, my love. i assure you it is quite a comfort to confide in you." she motioned to me to draw my chair to the table. i sat down. "you look quite an interesting person," said mrs moore. "oh no, i am not at all interesting," i replied. "here is a cup of tea, love." she handed me one. "ought i not," i said, "to wait for augusta?" "dear me, no! on no account. she will probably not come in at all. doubtless by now she has forgotten that you are in the house." i could not help laughing. "but doesn't she ever eat?" "i bring her her food. she takes it then without knowing what she is taking. she is a very strange child." "well," i said as i helped myself to a very nice piece of hot cake, "i don't think i should have got her here to-day without pinching and poking her. she took me quite a long way round. i believe," i added, "that i shall not be able to get back, for i don't know this part of london well." "i will take you to the twopenny tube myself, dear. don't imagine for a single instant that you will see anything more of augusta." when i discovered that this was really the case i gave myself up to the enjoyment of mrs moore's pleasant society. she was a very nice woman, not at all commonplace--at least, if that meant commonplace, it was a very good thing to be. she was practical, and had a great deal of sense. she talked to me about my life, and about my father, and said she wished we lived a little nearer. "you must sadly want a lady friend, my dear," she said. then she stared at me very hard, and i saw a curious change come over her face. "perhaps you will have one in the future," was her next remark. "oh yes," i answered briskly, "i have one now--a most dear, sweet lady. she came to see me quite a short time ago, and i went to stay with her last saturday, and came home only last night. i love her dearly; her name is miss grace donnithorne." "then that is excellent--excellent," said mrs moore. she looked at me wistfully, as though she meant to say something, but her next remark was, "it is a very nice, suitable arrangement." when tea was over i said i thought i ought to be going home. i had a hunger which was filling my heart. my body had been well fed-- surprisingly well fed for me--that day. had not hannah supplied me with mutton-chops and potatoes, and mrs moore with hot cakes and fragrant tea? but i was hungry in another sort of way. i wanted to look at my mother's picture. i wanted to gaze at the face of my very own mother. i meant to do so when i was quite alone in my bedroom that night. so i said hastily, "i must go back now;" and mrs moore went to put on her bonnet. while she was away i knocked at augusta's door. "who's there?" she called out. "it's i. i want to say good-bye." "don't come in, i beg of you. good-bye." "good-bye," i answered, feeling somewhat offended. i heard her muttering words inside the room. they became louder: "and like a dying lady, lone and pale, who totters forth wrapped in a gauzy veil." mrs moore opened her door. "what is the matter with augusta?" i said. "nothing; she is only reciting. she is mad on shelley at present.-- good-bye, gussie; i am going to see your friend, miss grant, to the twopenny tube." augusta replied in a still louder rendering of the words: "art thou pale from weariness of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth--" we went into the street. mrs moore took me to the station, and saying she had something to do in another part of the street, she bade me on affectionate good-bye. i returned to our own house, and when i got there i found alex and charley and von marlo, as we always called him, waiting for me. "then it's quite true," said alex, "that we are to have the whole evening to ourselves? i have brought some grub in, and we are going to cook it ourselves in the parlour. you must help us, dumps. it doesn't matter how shabby your frock is; you have got to be the cook." "oh, how scrumptious!" i cried. i felt just in the humour. "and we can be as noisy as ever we like," said charley. "only we won't do anything to hurt your feelings, miss rachel," said von marlo. "the main thing of all is," said charley, "that hannah isn't to know." "oh, we can easily manage that," i said. "she won't come upstairs unless we ring for her. she never does." "i've taken precious good care that she doesn't come upstairs," said alex, "for i've locked the door at the top of the kitchen stairs;" and he produced the key in triumph from his pocket. "oh alex, suppose by any sort of manner or means she wanted to come! why, she would never forgive us." "serve her right. she won't answer our rings of late, so now we'll keep her downstairs in that sweet spot in which she so loves to dwell." "but," i said, "our dinner?" "oh, here it is--a mutton bone, barer than usual, and a few potatoes. i thought we'd have a real feast. did father give you any of the needful when he was going away to-day, dumps?" "why, yes," i said, "he gave me five shillings." "and he gave me the same." "and me the same," said charley. "you'll have to pay us back your share of the grub to-morrow," said alex; "but we bought it beforehand." "well, we can't cook without cooking things," i said. "sakes!" replied alex; "do you suppose that while you were wandering about london by yourself--highly improper for any young lady, i call it--that we were idle? charley and von marlo and i went down into the kitchen and purloined a frying-pan, a saucepan, a kettle, cups and saucers, glasses, knives and forks galore, and plates. table-cloths don't matter. now then, to see the array of eatables." alex produced out of his bag first of all, in a dirty piece of paper, a skinned rabbit, next a pound of sausages, next a parcel of onions. "these will make a jolly good fry," said alex, smacking his lips as he spoke. from charley's pockets came a great piece of butter, while von marlo rid himself of a huge incubus in the shape of a loaf of very fresh bread. "there are lots of things beside," said charley: "potatoes--we're going to fry them after the rabbit and sausages--and fruit and cakes. we thought if we had a good, big, monstrous fry, and then satisfied the rest of our appetites with cake and fruit, as much as ever we can eat, that we'd do." "what about tea or coffee?" i said. "bother tea or coffee!" said alex. "we'll have ginger-beer. we brought in a whole dozen bottles. it was that that nearly killed us. if it hadn't been for von marlo we'd never have done it. now then, dumps, who'll cut up the rabbit, and who'll put it into the pan with the sausages? they ought to be done in a jiffy. we'll cut up the onions and strew them over the rabbit and sausages. i want our fry to be real tasty." i became quite interested. what girl would not? to have the whole of the great house to ourselves, to have three lively, hungry boys gloating greedily over the food, and to think that i alone knew how to cook it! but, alas and alack! my pride was soon doomed to be humiliated; for von marlo, who had poached the egg so beautifully, now came forward and told me that i was not cutting up the rabbit with any sense of its anatomical proportions. he took a sharp clasp-knife out of his pocket, and in a minute or two the deed was done. he then objected to my mode of preparing the sausages, declaring that they ought to be pricked and the skins slightly opened. in the end he said it would be much better for him to prepare the fry, and i left it to him. "yes, yes," i said; "and i'll put on the table-cloth. oh, but there isn't a table-cloth!" "who wants a table-cloth?" said alex. "let's have newspapers. here's a pile." we then proceeded to spread them on the centre table, and placed the knives and forks and glasses upon them. the sausages popped and frizzled, the rabbit shrank into tiny proportions, the onions filled the air with their odorous scent, and by-and-by the fry was considered done. when we had each been helped to a goodly portion, von marlo began to fry the potatoes, and these turned out to be more delicious than the rabbit and sausages. what a meal it was! how we laughed and joked and made merry! "three cheers for father's absence!" shouted alex, holding his glass high, as he prepared to pour the foaming contents down his throat. there came a knocking--a violent and furious knocking--in a part of the house which was not the front door. "it's hannah! hannah!" i cried. "she wants to come out. oh alex, we must let her out!" "nothing of the sort," exclaimed charley. "let her knock until she's tired of knocking." the door was shaken violently. we heard a woman's voice calling and calling. "charley, i must go," i said. "i cannot eat anything. poor old hannah! oh, do let me open the door!" "when the feast is over we'll cook a little supper for her, and bring her in and set her down in front of the fire, and make her eat it," said von marlo. "now, that will do, won't it? sit down and eat your nice, hot supper," he continued, looking attentively at me with his honest brown eyes. i coloured and looked at him. it was so pleasant to have eyes glancing at you that did not disapprove of you all the time. von marlo drew a chair close to the table for me, and placed another near it for himself, and we ate heartily--yes, heartily--to the accompaniment of hannah's knocks and shrieks and screams to us to let her out of her prison. by-and-by the meal came to an end, and then it was von marlo himself who went to the door. we three, we grants, were sufficiently cowardly to remain in the parlour. by-and-by von marlo reappeared, leading hannah. hannah had been reduced to tears. he had her hand on his arm, and was conducting her into the parlour with all the grace with which he would conduct a duchess or any other person of title. "here's your supper," he said. "sit here; you must be very cold. sit near the fire and eat, eat." she sat down, but she did not eat. "come, come," he said, and he placed an appetising plate of food close to her. she went on sobbing, but her sobs were not quite so frequent. "it smells good, doesn't it?" said von marlo; and now he put a tender piece of rabbit on the end of a fork and held it within an inch of her mouth. "you will be much better after you have eaten," he said in a coaxing tone. he had managed to place himself in such a position that when she did stop crying she could only see him; and after a time the smell of the delicious stew, and something about the comfort of her present position close to the fire, caused her to open her eyes, and then she opened her mouth, and in was popped the piece of tender rabbit. she ate it, and then von marlo fed her by popping piece after piece into her mouth; and he gave her ginger-beer to drink; and when the supper was quite ended and the platter clean, he stepped back and said, "you must forgive the grants; it was rather mischievous of them. but it was not miss rachel; it was alex and charley, and in especial it was von marlo's fault. now you will forgive von marlo?" he dropped on one knee, and put on the most comical face i had ever seen; then he looked up at her, wiping one of his eyes, and winking and blinking with the other. hannah absolutely laughed. "oh, you children, you children!" she exclaimed. it was a most wonderful victory. we knew now she would not scold, and it had a marvellous effect upon us. i rushed to her and flung my arms round her neck and kissed and hugged her. alex said, "good old hannah!" and charley crouched down by her side and said, "rub my hair the wrong way; you know how i like it, hannah." then von marlo said, "i'm not going to be out of it," and he planted himself with his broad back firmly against her knees; and thus we all sat, with hannah in the centre, making a sort of queen in the midst. she had ceased to weep, and was smiling. "dear, dear!" she said; "but i never was too hard on real mischievousness; it's naughtiness as angers me. oh, my sakes! charley, my lamb, i remember you when you were nothing more than a baby." "but i was your pet, hannah," i said. "tell me that i was your pet." "but you were nothing of the sort," said hannah. "i will own that i was always took with looks. now, alex has looks." "and i. i have looks too," said charley. "i was gazing at my face in the glass this morning, and i saw that i had beautiful, dark, greyey-blue eyes." "it's very wrong to encourage vanity," said hannah. "well, dumps will always be spared that temptation. but sakes! i must take away the things. what a mess you have made of the place! and whoever in the name of fortune fried up that rabbit? it was the most appetising morsel i ever ate in the whole course of my life." "i shall have much pleasure in writing out the recipe and giving it to you," said von marlo, dropping again on one knee, and now placing his hand across his heart. "fairest of women, beloved hannah, queen of my heart, i shall write out that recipe and give it to you." "oh my!" said hannah, "you are worse than the dutch dolls; but you do make me laugh like anything." part one, chapter eleven. mother's miniature. the supper was at an end. i was in my room. now was the time to look at mother's picture. the hunger in my heart was now to be satisfied. for many long years i had wanted to be the possessor of that portrait, which i knew existed, but which i had never seen. how easily i had got possession of it in the end! it was queer, for we had all been afraid to speak of mother to father. he had said once that he could not stand it, and after that we never mentioned her name. but she was my mother. i had envied girls who had mothers, and yet some girls did not appreciate them. there was augusta, for instance; how rude and insufferable she was to her mother! she called her commonplace. now, i could have been very happy with mrs moore. i could have been quite glad to be kissed by her and fondled by her, and to sit with her and encourage her to tell me stories about herself. and i could have helped her with her needlework, and to keep the place tidy; and i should have enjoyed going with her to dine with uncle charles-- whoever uncle charles might be. but there was augusta, who did not care a bit about her mother, but wanted to be the daughter of my father. oh yes, she was right; it was a strange, mixed world. well, i had the picture of mother, and i was going to look at it to-night. i lit three or four pieces of candle in honour of the great occasion, and then i drew my chair near the ugly little dressing-table, and i took the case and opened it. the picture within had been carefully painted; it was a miniature, and a good one, i am sure, for it looked quite alive. the eyes seemed to speak to me; the gentle mouth looked as though it would open with words of love for me. it was the sort of mouth i should like to kiss. the face was very young. i had imagined that all mothers must be older than that. it was a girlish face. "it was because no one understood her that she died," i said to myself. "hannah said she was killed. hannah spoke nonsense, of course." tears filled my eyes. "darling, i would have loved you," i murmured. "i'd have made so much of you! you wouldn't have been a bit angry with dumps for not resembling you. you'd have let me kiss you and kiss you, and your hungry heart would not have pined and pined. why didn't you live just a little longer, darling--just until i grew up, and alex grew up, and charley grew up? why didn't you, dearest, darling?" my tears flowed. i gazed at the picture many, many times. finally i put it under my pillow. in the middle of the night i woke, and my first thought was of the picture and of the mother whom it represented. i clasped it tightly to my breast and hugged it. oh yes, the picture of my mother was better than nothing. the next morning i got up with a sense of relief at knowing that father would be away for at least a couple of days. it was a sadly wrong feeling; but then i held mother's picture, and father had not understood mother, and mother had died. killed!--that was what hannah had said-- killed because she had not had enough sunshine. "it was such a pity you didn't wait for me! i'd have made things sunshiny for you," i thought. i ran downstairs. the boys had had their breakfast and had already gone to school; but there was a little pot of coffee inside the fender, some bread-and-butter on the table, and a jug of cold milk and some sugar. it was one of hannah's unpleasant ways that she never would make the milk hot for the children's coffee. she said cold milk was good enough for them. but there was something else also on the table. there was a letter--a letter addressed to me. now, when you hardly ever get letters, you are interested. i had been terribly excited about miss donnithorne's letter; and now here was another, but it was not written by miss donnithorne; it was in father's handwriting. what could father have to say to me? he had never written to me before in the whole course of my life. i took the letter in my hand. "i wonder if he is coming back to-day," i thought. i felt rather sad at this thought, for there was quite a lot of money left and we could have another good supper to-night. then i opened the letter and read its contents. they were quite brief. these were the words i read: "my dear rachel,--i have just done what i trust will contribute much to your happiness. i have been united in marriage with grace donnithorne. i will bring your new mother back on sunday evening. try and have the house as nice as possible. my dear child, i know well what a great happiness lies before you in the tender care and affection of this admirable woman.--your affectionate father." i read the letter twice, but i could not comprehend it. i read it in a misty sort of way, and then i put it on the table and went to the window and gazed out into the street. there was no fog this morning; there was even a little attempt at watery sunshine. i remembered that if i was not quick i should be late for school; and then it did not seem to matter whether i went to school or not. i took up the letter again. what was the matter with my eyes? i rubbed them. was i going blind? no, no--of course not. i could see perfectly. i read the words, "i have been united in marriage with grace donnithorne." united in marriage! that meant that father had married grace donnithorne, the lady i had stayed with on saturday and sunday and monday and part of tuesday. she was--oh no, what nonsense!--she was nothing of the sort; i would not even allow my lips to frame the words. i tore the letter up into little fragments and thrust the fragments into the fire. i kept saying to myself, "nonsense! it isn't true! father was in one of his dreams!" i deliberately poured out my coffee and drank it; i cut a hunk of bread, buttered it, and ate it. all the time i was saying fiercely to myself, "it isn't true; it is a practical joke that father is playing on me." i was so fiercely, terribly indignant with myself for even allowing the thought of that word, which from ordinary lips would be applied to miss donnithorne, to come so near my own lips, that i had no time to remember that father was the very lost man to play a practical joke on any one. hannah came into the room. i looked at hannah. her face was quite unsmiling, quite everyday. if it was true hannah would know--certainly hannah would know; she would be the last person to be kept in ignorance. "why, miss dumps--sakes alive, child! you'll be late for school. hurry up. whatever are you pondering about? what's the matter?" "nothing. what should be the matter? hannah, i have got a little money; father left it with me." "that's something queer," said hannah. "how much did he give you?" "five shillings." "my word! sakes alive! the man must have lost his senses!" when hannah said this i rushed up to her, and clasped both her hands, and said, "oh hannah, hannah darling, say that again--say it again!" "whatever am i to say over again? i've no time to repeat my words." "oh hannah, do say it once more! father has lost--" "what little sense he ever had," said hannah. "don't keep me, dumps." she had laid a hideous iron tray on the table, and with a noisy clatter she put the cups and saucers on it. "when people have lost their senses they say and do all sorts of queer things, don't they?" i asked. "my word, child, they do!" "and other people, when they know that they have lost their senses, don't believe them?" "believe 'em? who'd ever believe what people who have gone crazy say and do?" i rushed up to hannah and hugged and kissed her. "i'll be in time for school," i said, "for i'll run all the way. get me a little chop for dinner--please do, hannah; and--and to-night we'll have supper, and we'll ask von marlo, and you shall come and have supper with us, dear, darling hannah!" hannah grinned. "you're wonderful coaxing in your ways just now, dumps. i can't make out what sort of maggot you've got in your head. but there! you shall have your chop; it's as cheap as anything else." i always brought my hat and jacket down with me when i came to breakfast; now i put them on and went off to school. i really was very ridiculous; but i always was wanting in common-sense. i forced myself to believe that father's letter was a sort of practical joke, and i was comfortably conning over the fact that we would have another jolly evening to-night, and that he doubtless would have forgotten all about having ever put pen to paper when he returned home, when i saw a number of my schoolfellows waiting for me just round the corner which led into the great school. amongst them was augusta moore. but augusta moore, who might have been a sort of refuge from the ordinary girls, was now flanked on the right hand by rita swan and on the left by agnes swan; and there were several other girls behind this trio. when they saw me they all shouted, "here she is! here she is!" and they made for me in a body. i stood still when i saw them advancing. it wasn't that they came slowly; they came in a great rush as from a catapult. they drew up when they got within a few inches of me. then rita said, "we were making a bet about you." "a bet?" i said. "what do you mean?" "augusta said you would come; agnes and i said you wouldn't." "why should i come?" i said. "well," exclaimed rita, "i know most girls would take a holiday on the day after their father's wedding. most girls would--but you!" "what do you mean?" i said. my face was as white as a sheet then, i knew, for i felt very cold, and my eyes were smarting, and that dimness was coming over them again. "oh, there, there!" said augusta moore. she wrenched herself away from the swans, and came up to me and took my hand. i don't exactly know what followed next; i only knew that there was a great buzzing, and a number of people were talking, and i knew that augusta went on saying, "there, there, dear!" finally i found myself walking away from school, led by augusta--away from school, and towards home. i was making no protest of any sort whatever. at last we reached our own house, and augusta looked wistfully at the tall steps which led to the front door; but she said, "i am not coming in with you, for i know you would rather be alone. it must be a fearful trial for you to have that noble, exalted father of yours united in marriage to such a very commonplace woman as miss donnithorne. i feel for you, from the bottom of my heart. kiss me; i am truly sorry for you." of course, i could not go to school that day. i allowed augusta to print a little kiss--a tiny, tiny kiss--on my forehead, and then i waited until hannah opened the door. i felt so stupid that perhaps i should not have rung the bell at all; but augusta, roused out of herself for the time being, had performed this office for me, and when hannah opened the door i crept into the house and sank down on a chair. "hannah," i said--"hannah, it is true, and he hasn't taken leave of his senses. he was united in marriage yesterday with grace donnithorne. oh hannah! oh hannah!" perhaps i expected hannah to show great surprise; but all she really did was to kneel down beside me, and open her arms wide, and say, "come, then, honey! come, then, honey!" and she clasped me in her bony arms and drew my head down to rest on her breast. then i had relief in a burst of tears. i cried long. i cried as i had not cried since i could remember, for no one in the old house had time for tears; tears were not encouraged in that austere, neglected abode. after a time hannah lifted me up, just as though i were a baby, and conveyed me into the parlour. there she laid me on two chairs, and put cushions under my head, and said, "i have got a drop of strong broth downstairs, and you shall have it." i enjoyed being coddled and petted by hannah, and we both, by a sort of tacit consent, agreed not to allude for the present to the terribly painful topic which had at last intruded itself upon us. after i had taken the soup i felt better and was able to sit up. then hannah squatted down in front of the fire and looked into it. i observed that her own eyes were red; but all she did was to sway herself backwards and forwards and say, "dearie me! oh, my word! dearie me!" at last the mournful sort of chant got upon my nerves. i jumped up with alacrity. "hannah, the boys will be in soon. we must tell them, and we must get the place in order, and--" "miss dumps!" cried hannah. she spoke in a loud, shrill voice. "if you think, miss dumps, even for a single minute, that i'm going to put up with it, you've mistook me, that's all." "but what are you going to do, hannah? you won't leave us, will you?" "leave you? go out of the house into which i came when master alex was a baby, bless him! and when you were but a tiny, tiny tot! leave the house? no, it ain't me as 'ull do that." "then, hannah, what will you do?" i went up to her and took one of her hands. she gave it unwillingly. "dumps," she said. she was still huddled by the fire. i had never seen her so subdued or broken-down before, and it was only when i heard her voice rise in shrill passion that i recognised the old hannah. "dumps, is it you who is going to submit tame--you, who had a mother?" "oh, i must submit," i said. i sank down again into a chair. "where's the good?" i queried. "i always know you had no spirit worth speaking of," said hannah. "i'm sorry now as i gave you that drop of soup. it was the stock in which i meant to boil the bits of mutton for the boys' dinner, but i said you should have it, for you were so took aback, poor child! but there! 'tain't in you, i expect, to feel things very deep; and yet you had a mother." "you said yesterday that she had been killed," i said, and my voice trembled. "and so she were. if ever a woman were pushed out of life--pushed on to the edge of the world and then right over it--it was the professor's wife, alice grant. ah! she was too gentle, too sweet; he wanted a different sort." when hannah said these words, in a flash i seemed to see grace donnithorne in a new position--grace donnithorne with her laughing eyes, her firm mouth, her composed and dignified manner. it would be very difficult, i felt certain, to push grace donnithorne over the edge of the world. i rose. "hannah, if you don't mind, i'll tell the boys. but please understand that i am very unhappy. i don't love my mother one bit the less; i am about as unhappy as girl can be. i have been cruelly deceived. i went to see miss donnithorne, and she was kind to me, and i thought her kindness meant something." "i didn't," said hannah. "i felt all along that she was a snake in the grass." "she was kind, even though she meant to marry father; and perhaps another girl would have guessed." "sakes! why should you guess? you ain't that sort; you're an innocent child, and don't know the wicked ways of wicked, knowing, designing females. why ever should you guess?" "well, i didn't; but, now i look back, i see--" "oh, we all see when the light comes," said hannah; "there's nought in that." "but, hannah, she is not bad. she is good, and if she chose to marry father--" "my word, we'll have no more of that!" said hannah. "i'm sorry i gave you that drop of soup. the boys will have to eat the mutton boiled up with water from the pump." "oh hannah, will you never understand?" "i don't understand you, miss dumps; but then i never did." "well, i am going to tell the boys, and i'm as unhappy as i can be; but i don't see the use of fighting. i'll try to do what's right. i'll try to. i don't love her. i might have loved her if she had just remained my friend." "friend, indeed! what should make her take up with you--a plain girl like you, with no sort of attraction that any living being ever yet discovered? what should make her pet you, and fondle you, and dress you up if she hadn't had in her mind the getting of a husband? there i now you know. that's the long and short of it. she used you for her own purposes, and i say she is a low-down sort of hussy, and she won't get me a-humouring of her!" "very well, hannah. i don't love her. i would have loved her had she not been father's wife." "there's no use talking about what you would do had certain things not happened; it's what you will do now that certain things have happened. that's what you've got to face, dumps." "am i to sit up in my room all day and never speak to father and--and his wife?" "oh, i know you!" said hannah. "you'll come down after a day or two and make yourself quite agreeable, and it'll be `mother' you'll be calling her before the week's out i know you--she'll come round the likes of you pretty fine!" but this last straw was too much. i left hannah. i went unsteadily-- yes, unsteadily--towards the door. i rushed upstairs, entered my own room, bolted myself in. i took my mother's miniature in my hands. i opened the case and pressed the miniature to my heart, flung myself on the bed face downwards, and sobbed and sobbed. no broken-hearted child in all the world could have sobbed more for her own mother than i did then. part one, chapter twelve. discussing the new mother. it was not i, after all, who told the boys hannah was the person who gave them that piece of information. i did not come downstairs for the watery stew which she had prepared for them. doubtless she would tell the boys that i had swallowed the spirit of that stew and left them the poor material body. she would make the most of my conduct, for she was very angry with me. but by-and-by there came a knock at my door, and i heard alex's voice, and he said, "oh, do open the door and let me in! please let me in, rachel." he so seldom called me by that name that i got up, went to the door, and flung it open. alex's face was very pale, and his hair was rumpled up over his forehead, but he had not been crying at all. i don't suppose boys do cry much; but the moment i glanced at him i knew that hannah had told him. he took my hand. "my word," he said, "how cold you are! and i can scarcely see your eyes. you'll have a bad inflammation if you give way like this. where's the use? come along downstairs." he took my hand, and we raced down together. when we got down i clung to him and said, "kiss me, alex." "why, of course i will, dumps." he kissed me twice on my forehead, and i knew by the trembling of his lips that he was feeling things a good bit. "hannah has told you?" i said. "she has. but she isn't coming upstairs again to-day." "what do you mean by that?" "charley, you can explain to dumps." charley was standing by the fire. he was a very solidly made boy, not nearly so handsome as alex, who was tall and slight, with regular features and beautiful eyes. charley was in some respects like me, only very much better-looking. "oh," said charley, "she began talking in a way we couldn't stand about the professor, so we just took her by the shoulders and brought her to the top of the stairs. she said she was going out, and wouldn't be back until to-night--or perhaps never." "oh, you haven't turned her away?" i said; for although hannah was very troublesome and most disagreeable, and was certainly the last person to conciliate the disturbed state of the household and bring peace out of disorder, i could not bear the idea of her not being there. "she'll come back, right enough. i tell you what it is, dumps," said alex; "we're--we're a bit stunned. of course, it's rather awkward, isn't it?" "i don't know that it is," said charley. "he could always do as he liked, couldn't he? i mean he never thought much about us, did he?" "oh, don't blame him now," i said. "i don't want to--i only want you to understand. father always did what he liked. hannah was dreadful; she spoke as she ought not to speak. it is just as well she should go out and let the open air smooth away some of her grievances. i do not see that it matters to her; he is not her father." "no, it doesn't really matter to her; and yet it does matter in another sense," i said. charley turned round. "when are they coming back?" was his next remark. "i think on sunday evening." "well, this is thursday. we have got to-day and to-morrow and saturday and sunday. we have got four whole days. let us have some fun. how much of your five shillings have you left. dumps?" "i don't care," i said. "that's nonsense.--alex, push her into that chair.--now, how much money have you got?" "i've got it all," i said. "all of it?" "yes, every farthing. i had a few pence over which paid for the twopenny tube yesterday; i have not broken into the five shillings at all." "we spent one and sixpence each last night, so you owe each of us a bit, because you enjoyed the supper just as much as we did." "oh yes." "let us have something good for tea. you can go out and buy it. you can spend your share on that. and i'll bring von marlo in, and we'll have a chat, and perhaps we'll go somewhere to-night. why shouldn't we?" "oh charley, where?" "well, i was thinking of the pit of one of the theatres." this was such a daring, such an unheard-of suggestion that it really took my breath away. "do you think we might?" "why not? von marlo would love it. we four could go. we three big boys could take care of one dumpy girl, i'm sure. there's a jolly thing on at the adelphi. i love the adelphi, for it's all blood and thunder. don't you like it best of all, alex?" "well, you see, i've never been to a theatre in the whole course of my life," said alex. "except once to the pantomime," i said. "you remember that?" "who cares for the pantomime?" said charley. "very well, we'll go to the adelphi," i said. "but i hope it won't be very frightening." "it will scare you out of your seven senses; i know it will. but i tell you what it will do also," continued charley--"it will make you forget; and if you remember at all, you have but to squeeze the thought up in your heart that you have got three more whole days, or nearly three whole days, before _she_ comes in." "all right," i said; "i'll get something for tea." "and we must be off to school," said alex. "the professor's away, and when the cat's away the mice will play." "oh alex, you oughtn't to compare father to a cat!" "never mind; hannah isn't here. if she were here we'd round on her fast enough. now then, good girl, eat some bread-and-butter, for you weren't down to that dinner of horrid stew. hannah said that you'd supped up all the gravy. jolly mean, i call it. but there! we'll be back about half-past four. then we'll have tea, and hurry off to the theatre afterwards." the boys left the house, and i was quite alone. yes, there was nothing like occupation. i put on my hat and jacket and went out. i bought golden syrup--the darkest sort--we all loved that; and i bought a loaf of crispy new bread, and half a pound of butter. then i got a currant-cake and a small--very small--tin of sardines. the meal would be delicious. i returned home. i entered the parlour and put the kettle on to boil. then i went down to the neglected kitchen. the fire was out in the little range, the doors of which stood open wide. there was no sign of hannah anywhere. i went to the kitchen door, and saw that it was locked. there was no key in the lock; she had doubtless taken it with her. this fact relieved me, for i knew that she was coming bock, otherwise she would most certainly have left the key behind. i selected the best of the cups and saucers, choosing with difficulty, for there were few that were not either deprived of handles or with pieces cracked out of the rims. it was a nondescript set when presently it appeared on the table, and the cloth which i spread on it to lay out our meal was none of the cleanest. but there was the golden syrup, and the crispy loaf, and the butter, which i knew was good; and there was the tin of sardines. punctual to the minute, at half-past four, the three boys made their appearance. von marlo had been told. he came straight up to me and took my hand. he did not speak; but the next minute he put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and took from it a knife. this knife was a curious one; it seemed to contain every possible tool that any human being could require in his journey from the cradle to the grave. with one of the instruments in it he speedily opened the tin of sardines; then he himself made the tea, and when it was made he drew chairs up to the table and said, "come and eat." we all fell upon the provisions in a ravenous fashion. oh dear! even when you are in great trouble it is good to be hungry--good to be hungry when you have the means of satisfying your appetite. i felt downright starving with hunger that evening. i drank the hot tea, and ate bread-and-butter and golden syrup, and left the sardines for the boys, who made short work of them. at last we were all satisfied, and we talked over the matter of the theatre. we must be standing outside not a minute later than seven o'clock. von marlo would keep at my right, and alex at my left, and charley would be my bodyguard behind. when the rush came we would surely be in the front rank, and we would get good seats. the scenes of the play would be most harrowing; there was a secret murder in it, and a duel, and one or two other extreme horrors. the boys said it was of the sensational order, and alex wound up with the remark that we could not possibly stand anything else to-night. then there fell a silence upon us. we need not go to the adelphi yet; it was not very far from where we lived. we could get there in a few minutes. there was more than an hour between us and the desirable moment when we were to steal like thieves in the night from our father's respectable house to go to that place of iniquity, the pit at the adelphi. for, of course, it was very naughty of us to go. our father himself would not have thought it right to allow children to partake of these worldly pleasures. in the silence that ensued the pain at my heart began again. it was then von marlo made his remark. "i think," he said, "it would be exceedingly interesting if miss rachel would tell us exactly what the new mamma is like." nothing could be more intensely aggravating than those words, "the new mamma," had they fallen from any lips but von marlo's. but the peculiar foreign intonation he gave the words caused us three to burst out laughing. "you must never say those words again--never as long as you live, von marlo," cried alex, while charley sprang upon him and did his very best to knock him off his chair. "come, come! no violence," i said. "please understand, mr von marlo, that the lady who has married our father is not our new mamma." "i am sorry, i am sure," said von marlo. "i won't call her that any more--never; i am certain of that. but, all the same, if she is coming to live here, what is she like? you have seen her, miss rachel; you can describe her." "yes, you may as well tell us about her," said charley. "i suppose she is precious ugly. catch father choosing a woman with good looks! why, he doesn't know blue eyes from brown, or a straight nose from a crooked one, or a large mouth from a small one. he never looks at any woman; i can't imagine how he got hold of her." "hannah said," remarked alex, "that she got hold of him." "well, surely that doesn't matter," said von marlo. "describe her, miss rachel." "i will if you wish it," i answered. "yes, do," said charley. "you have seen quite a lot of her." "i must be honest at all costs," i said, "and if she had not married father--yes, it is quite true--i'd have liked her. she is what you would--i mean she _was_--i don't suppose she is now, for when people are dreadfully wicked they change, don't they? but _before_ she was wicked--before she married father--she was a very--very--well, a very jolly sort of woman." "jolly?" said charley. "i like that! how do you mean jolly?" "round and fattish--not too fat--with laughing eyes." "we haven't much of laughing eyes in this house," said alex. "well, her eyes seem to be always laughing, even when her face is grave; and she makes delicious things to eat--at least she did make them." "let's hope she has not lost the art," said alex. "if we must have her in the family, let us trust that she has at least some merits. good things to eat? what sort?" i described the food at hedgerow house, and described it well. i then went on to speak of the stuffed birds. the boys were wildly excited. i spoke of other things, and gave them a very full and true account of miss grace donnithorne. "it seems to me she must be a splendid sort of woman," said alex. "hurrah for miss grace donnithorne!" said charley. "she must be a most charming lady," said von marlo in his precise way. then i sprang to my feet. "now listen," i said. "i have told you about her as she was. when i saw her she had not done this wicked thing." "but she was going to do it; she had made up her mind pretty straight," said alex. "well, she hadn't done it, and that makes all the difference," i said stoutly. "she will be changed; i know she will be changed." "i hope she won't have got thin (i'm sick of hannah's sort of figure) and cross and churlish and miserly," said charley. "i don't think so," i answered. "i don't suppose she'll be as changed as all that; but, anyhow, i know--" "i tell you what," interrupted von marlo; "she is coming here, and nothing living will stop her." "that's true enough," i said gloomily. "then can't you three be sensible?" "what do you mean now, von?" said the boys. "why can't you make the best of it? don't hunt the poor lady into her grave by being snappish and making the worst of everything. just give her a fair trial--start her honest, don't you understand?" alex stared; charley blinked his eyes. i said slowly, "i don't mean to be unkind; i mean to be kind. i am not going to say a word to father--i mean not a word of reproach--" "much use if you did!" muttered alex. "but, all the same," i said very distinctly, "not for a single instant will i love _her_. she can come and take her place, and i will try to do what she wishes, but i will never love her--never!" "hurrah!" said charley. "quite right, dumps; you show spirit," cried alex. but von marlo looked dissatisfied. "it doesn't seem right," he said. "it doesn't seem quite fair; and the poor lady hasn't done you any harm." part one, chapter thirteen. putting the house in order. the play was as lively as any four children could desire. it was called _the grand duke alexis_; it had a great deal to do with nihilism and with the russians generally. there was a very handsome woman in it who had a mission to kill somebody, and a very evil-looking man whose mission it was to get her arrested; and the handsome woman and the wicked man seemed to chase each other on and off the stage, and to mingle up in the plot, and to fasten themselves in some unpleasant manner into my brain. i am sure the boys enjoyed themselves vastly, and there is no doubt that i was interested. "your eyes are like the eyes of an owl," whispered charley to me; "if they get any rounder they'll drop out like marbles." i was accustomed to this kind of remark, and was too much fascinated with the lovely lady and the man who was trying to arrest her to take any notice of his words. the grand duke was certainly the most appallingly wicked person i had ever imagined. even father's new wife seemed pale and commonplace and everyday beside him. even the fact that my own precious mother was superseded by another was of no consequence at all when i recalled to memory that lovely lady's face, and the face of the man who was trying to have her arrested. the play came to an end, but when we arrived home hannah had not yet returned. we let ourselves in, in lordly fashion, with the latchkey. von marlo bade us good-bye, and promised to come in again on the following day. he said he would stand by us. he gave my hand an affectionate squeeze. "make the best of things," he said; "there's a good girl." i began to think von marlo a very comfortable sort of friend. i wished that he was a girl instead of a boy. i could have been quite fond of him had he been a girl. we three sat in the parlour; we would not go to bed until hannah came in. we began to nod presently, and alex dropped off to sleep. it was past midnight when we heard hannah's steps creeping upstairs towards her bedroom. charley immediately rushed on tiptoe to the parlour door, opened it a tenth of an inch, and peeped out. "she is off to bed. she is walking as straight as a die. she has got on her best bonnet. i hope she'll be in a better temper in the morning. now then, i'm going to follow her example; i'm dead-beat i shall be asleep in a twinkling." he went off; his good-humoured, boyish face flashed back at us full of fun. father's marriage, the knowledge that there would soon be a lady in the house, whom some people would call his new mamma, did not affect him very deeply. i went up to alex and spoke to him. "you and i will stand shoulder to shoulder, won't we?" i said. "why, yes, dumps--of course," he replied. "i mean," i said, "that you will do what i do." "what do you exactly mean by that?" "i'm prepared to be quite kind and lady-like, and not to storm or scold or say ugly things, and i want you to do just the same. you will, won't you? we'll understand each other. we'll be most careful, truly, not to put her in dear mother's place." my voice trembled. "it's a long time since mother died," said alex. "but, alex, you remember her." "no, i don't," said alex. "nor do i," i said. "sometimes i try to. but i have got her miniature; father gave it to me. wouldn't you like to see it?" "a miniature? that's a picture of her, isn't it? have you got one?" "yes." "i knew father had one, but i didn't know he would part with it." "he never would until now." "once," said alex, "years ago, he was very ill in bed for a few days, and i went into his room. he was sitting up in bed, and he had a picture in a frame; he was looking at it, and there were tears in his eyes. when he saw me he fired up--you know his hasty sort of way--and stuffed the picture under his pillow. i believe it was mother's picture he was looking at. he must have loved her then." "but he doesn't love her now," i said. "he has given the picture to me because he has put another woman in her place." "well, most of them do," said alex. "what do you mean?" "most men marry again. there are two masters at our school, and they've married again jolly quick--one of them within a year and a half, and the other even in a shorter time. all the fellows were talking about it. it was mighty unfortunate, i can tell you, for we had to subscribe to give them both wedding presents, otherwise we wouldn't have noticed. they were widowers, and they had no right to do it. it was beastly hard on the boys; that's what i think." "what do you mean?" "the wedding presents, i mean." "oh alex! that is a very trivial part of the matter." "i expect they'll collect something jolly for father." "well, we needn't subscribe," i said. "of course not; that's the best of it." "i hope they won't," i said. "they're certain to. they just worship him in the school. you haven't the least idea how popular he is. they just adore him. he's such a splendid teacher, and so sympathetic over a difficulty. he is a great man, there's no doubt of that." but i was not in a humour to hear his praises. "let's think of our own dear little mother to-night," i said. "all right, rachel." "come up with me to my room and i'll show you her portrait." "all right, old girl." we went up together. i thought if alex would stand my friend--if he would lean on me as a very superior sort of sister, and allow me to take the place of sister and mother--then i could endure things. father's new wife might go her own way, and i would go mine. i just wanted alex at least to understand me. charley was a good boy, but he was hopeless. still, i had a vague sort of hope that alex would keep on my side. when we got to my room i lit all the bits of candle, and made quite a strong light; and then i opened the miniature frame, and told alex to kneel down by me and i would show it to him. he looked at it very earnestly. he himself was strangely like the miniature, but i don't think the likeness struck him particularly. nevertheless, he had his sensibilities, and his lips quivered, and his soft, gentle brown eyes looked their very softest and gentlest now as they fixed themselves on my face. "poor mother!" he said. he bent his head and kissed the glass which covered the pictured face. i shut up the case hastily. "you are in rare luck to have it," he said. "yes," i answered; "it is a great comfort to me. this is mother; this is the woman i love; no other can ever take her place." "of course not," said alex. "and some day when i'm rich you'll let me have it photographed, won't you?" "indeed i will. we'll stick to our bargain, won't we, alex?" alex rose to his feet. he yawned slightly. "i'm dead-tired, and i must go to school to-morrow. i haven't looked at one of my lessons, but it doesn't really matter. when the professor is away marrying, you know, he can't expect his children to work as hard as they do when he is at home." "oh alex, hannah said something dreadful!" "as though anybody minded what she said!" "she said that mother--our little, young, pretty mother--was killed. she said mother would have been in the world now if she hadn't been killed." "that's all stuff!" said alex. "why do you speak in that exaggerated sort of way? if she had been killed there would have been a coroner's inquest and a trial, and the murderer would have been discovered and-- and hanged. why do you talk such rot?" "oh, there are many ways of killing a person, and mother died for want of sunshine." "oh, i see. well, well! good-night." he kissed me again and left the room. during the next day or two i was very busy. father had said that the house was to be put in order. now, what that meant i could not tell, but the house on the whole was about in as much order as such a great, desolate, and unfurnished abode could be. but when the next day at breakfast i found a second letter from father on my plate, and when i opened it and read father's own directions that the spare room was to be got ready for the reception of himself and his wife on the following sunday, i knew that hannah and i must come either to open war or to a dismissal of the latter. i went down to the kitchen and told her at once. "the spare room, forsooth!" she said. "well, yes, i thought of that last night. master said it was to be put in order, but he needn't have written; i'd have seen to it." i was greatly relieved at this change of front. hannah was looking quite gentle. she was moving about in the kitchen in quite an orderly fashion. the little cooking-stove was black instead of grey; there were no ashes to be seen anywhere, and a bright little fire burned in it. there was a pot on, and there was something boiling in the pot, and the thing that boiled and bubbled gave forth a most appetising smell. when i spoke hannah turned and opened the oven door, and i saw inside a great cake. "why, hannah!" i said. "it's only right to have cake and that sort of thing handy," she said. "don't talk nonsense, dumps. there's a deal for you and me to do. be you going to school to-day?" "no," i said. "why will you keep away?" "because i won't go." "you will get a report; your mistress will be very angry." "i don't care," i said; "i won't go. i'll go afterwards. i won't go this week." "highty-tighty!" said hannah. "well, you'll catch it!" "seems to me i'm always catching it," i said. "seems to me you are," said hannah. "well, hannah, what about the spare room?" "i'll see to it myself. i'll have it ready." "can i help you, hannah?" "no; but you can come and look on if you like." "don't you want mrs herring? she is so strong. everything should be turned out; the place should be made very clean." "i don't want none of your herrings nor your sprats neither," replied hannah in her most aggressive tone. this was a very old joke of hannah's. i went upstairs now. the spare room was on the same landing as the drawing-room, and, as far as i could tell, had never been of any use at all to any single member of the family. perhaps in mother's time it had been of service to some long-forgotten guest. the door was always locked. i supposed hannah had the key. at nights sometimes, when the wind was blowing high, there was a moaning, through the keyhole of that locked door, and there were times when i flew past it up and up and up to my own attic bedroom. but now i stood outside the door. at the other side of the landing was the drawing-room. it was a very big room with three windows. we sat there sometimes when father had his professors, men very nearly as learned as himself--not quite, of course--to visit him. i went into the drawing-room. it was very ugly, and not nearly as cosy as the parlour. the spare room i had never seen the inside of that i could remember. hannah came up now, and took a great bunch of keys from her pocket and opened the door, and we went in. "oh, how musty it smells!" i said. "in course it do," said hannah. "when a room's shut up for going on fourteen years, why shouldn't it smell musty? but there, child! don't you go and catch your death of cold. the first thing is to air the room and then to light a fire. afterwards i'll rub up the furniture and put up clean hangings. it won't be exactly a cheerful sort of room, but i suppose the master must be content." there were grey-looking curtains hanging at the three tall windows. there were green venetian blinds, which looked almost white now, so covered were they with dust. there was a sort of rough drugget stuff on the floor, which was quite as grey as the curtains which surrounded the windows. there was a huge four-poster bed, drawn out a little from the wall, and taking one of the best positions in the room. this also was hung with grey moreen, and looked as desolate and as uninviting as a couch could look. there was a huge arm-chair, covered also with the same grey moreen; and there were a few other chairs, hard and dirty. there was a very tall brass fender to the grate, which in itself was large and of generous proportions. there was a chest of drawers, made of mahogany, with brass handles; and a huge wardrobe, almost as big as a small house. i really don't remember the rest of the furniture of the room, except that there were engravings hanging on the walls, and one in particular portraying herodias bearing the head of john the baptist on a charger, hanging exactly over the fireplace. the picture was as ghastly as the room. "i wouldn't sleep here for the world," i said. "well, you won't have the chance," said hannah. "now, you can just go out and make yourself useful somewhere else, while i'm beginning to clean up and get things in order." part one, chapter fourteen. the professor's return. when sunday morning dawned the place was, according to hannah's ideas, in perfect order. she had not got in any one to help her, and i am afraid she must have been nearly dropping with fatigue. she allowed me to dust a little, but would not permit me to do any harder work. "no, no," she said--"no, no; you're the young lady, and i'm a poor drudge. it's right that the drudge should work, and not the young lady." i proceeded to try to remind her that she had not considered my young ladyhood much in the past. "things is different now," said hannah. "i have got to look after you now." "but why so?" i asked. "i had a dream in the night," she said. "your poor mother come to me, and she said, `don't leave my children, hannah.' oh dear! oh dear! she as was killed--as was killed!" to my amazement, hannah burst out crying. when she cried i rushed to her and flung my arms round her neck and cried also. "oh, i am so glad you won't leave us!" i said. i felt like a most terrible little martyr, and hannah's sympathy soothed me inexpressibly. that evening--it was saturday--i told alex and charley and von marlo about hannah's dream. "rot, i call it!" said charley. "oh charley, you are very unkind!" "well, i'm sure," said charley, "why should she have been so cross and disobliging when we really wanted somebody--when we had no sort of mother? now that we're going to have that jolly, fat, round woman to look after us and to see to our comforts, hannah is beginning to find out what her duties are." "things will work themselves right," said von marlo in his solemn way. "take my word for it, rachel, things will shape themselves right." i didn't think von marlo half so comforting as hannah on this occasion, and i almost said so, for i felt very snappish. that night i scarcely slept at all. to-morrow would find us with that detestable person in the house--"the new mamma." of course, she wasn't my mamma, but the world would speak of her in that manner, just as von marlo had once done. he would never say those words to my face again. i went to church on sunday morning, accompanied by alex and charley. as we were coming back augusta moore rushed up to me. "i thought you were very ill," she said. "we all thought so--miss franklin, your form mistress, and all." "i'm not a bit ill," i said. i did not want augusta's sympathy, or, indeed, to say anything at all to her just then. "then why didn't you come to school?" i was silent. augusta took my hand. she pulled it through her arm. "i think i understand," she said. "you were ill in mind; that is the worst sort of illness, isn't it?" she glanced round at mrs moore, who was trotting along behind. "go home, mother; i'll follow you." "you'll lose yourself, gussie." "don't call me gussie. i'll follow you." mrs moore said something to me; she was quite nice and commonplace, and did not allude to the subject of the "new mamma." presently augusta and i found ourselves alone, for the boys the moment they saw her had taken precious good care to make themselves scarce. we walked on slowly. "i should like to see your house," said augusta. "you can if you wish to," i replied. i took her in, and the moment she got into the hall she began to sniff. "what is the matter?" i asked. "books!" she said. "old leather! how i envy that woman!" "what woman?" "that commonplace person who has dared to marry your father." "oh well, augusta, we had better not talk of that." "not talk of it? why, it's a weight on my mind always. i only trust she won't make him fall off. rachel--rachel grant--you have a very solemn responsibility before you." "what is that?" "the commonplace woman can do nothing, but you can do a great deal." "in what way?" "you, who are his child, must partake in some way of his nature." "i never had the slightest influence on father," i responded. "i think he often forgets that i exist. i shall certainly have less influence than ever now." "you have influence, but you won't use it. oh that i were his daughter!" augusta began to sniff again. charley came into the room at that moment. "i thought dinner was served," he said. he looked at augusta. "how do you do?" she said. "you are the son of the greatest of men." "bosh!" said charley. he backed towards the door. "i thought," he said, glancing from me to augusta, and then from augusta to me again, "that dinner was on the table, and that you were sniffing the good smell." "books! books!" said augusta. charley vanished. "take me to his library," said augusta. "just let me walk round it once, will you?" "oh yes, if you like," i replied. i took her round. she stepped softly in veneration. she took up a volume; she seated herself on a chair; she opened it; she was lost. "augusta," i said. there was not the most remote movement on her part. "augusta!" i said again. her lips quivered. she was repeating something softly under her breath. "come," i cried, "it is time for you to go home to your dinner, and it is time for us to eat ours. get up! awake!" no stir of any sort. violent measures were necessary. i snatched the hook from her hand, and in so doing upset the stool on which she was sitting. to have her book taken away and her seat removed from under her was sufficient to wake even augusta moore. she rubbed her eyes and said, "where was i?" "where you have no right to be," i said. "you really must go." "but you will keep him up to the mark; you will take my advice, won't you?" "i tell you what," i said cheerfully; "if i can possibly manage it, i will introduce you to him, and you shall talk to him. if you feel that he is so near you--so like you in all respects--you will have much more influence over him than i should, and you will be able to keep him up to the mark yourself." the next minute i had repented of my hastily formed decision, for augusta's long, thin arms were round my neck, and she was hugging me and kissing me on my cheeks, and then hugging me again with frantic energy. "oh, you dear! you love! you beautiful creature! oh! oh! oh! to think of it! to think of it!" "dinner is served," said charley, just poking his head round the door and then vanishing. at last i got rid of augusta. when i arrived in the dining-room charley asked me if i had had a mad girl in the house who had broken loose from an asylum. i replied with dignity that she was a very clever girl, and then we proceeded to our meal. the meal itself was quite plain--the usual sort--a piece of boiled beef, carrots floating in gravy round it, and a few boiled potatoes. these were to be followed by one of hannah's apple-dumplings. now, apple-dumplings are supposed to be very good things, but i cannot say that hannah's recipe was worth preserving. the pastry was always very hard, and the apples were never done enough; in short, we were all tired of them. "i can't imagine why the thing that smells so jolly good doesn't come upstairs," said charley. "it's too bad--it's worse than bad." "oh no," i answered; "don't say that, charley. hannah is keeping it for supper. she is going to have a surprise supper; i know it for i saw the cake." "the cake!" cried charley. "a cake made by hannah?" "yes; and i can tell you it did smell pretty good. oh, didn't it just!" i smacked my lips in anticipation. "i suppose we'll have to make this do," said alex gloomily, helping himself to another slice of tough beef. our conversation filtered away into mere nothings, then into monosyllables; then it tailed off into utter silence. we were all very depressed, and yet we were excited; we wanted we knew not what; we were afraid, we could not tell of what. each one of us had a sense that things could never be the same again, that we were eating our humble dinner and looking each into the humble face of the other for the last time. everything from that hour forward would be different. would the change be for the better? no, it could not be for the better. a change, however, we were certain was coming. we did not speak of it; we sat very still. at last the boys said they would go for a walk; they did not ask me to accompany them, nor did i offer to go. i ran up to my own room. i took the pretty dark-blue dress which miss grace donnithorne had given me. i took the jacket, the little shoes, the stockings, all the things which she had showered upon me when i was at hedgerow house, and i put them into the trunk which she had also presented me with--the pretty trunk which i had been so proud of, and which bore my initials, r.g. on the top of all the things i put a card with the words, "returned with thanks--rachel grant," written upon it. this little trunk i myself conveyed to the bedroom which had been got ready for the professor and his wife. there was no attempt at making this room pretty, but a huge fire burned in the grate, and that alone had a certain cheerfulness about it. i put the little trunk at the foot of the bed. i did not know what would happen. i felt afraid; nevertheless, i was quite determined to let miss grace donnithorne--mrs grant, as she was now-- know how things really stood. at last the time came for me to make myself look as well as i could to meet my father and his wife. i put on the blue evening-dress which i had outgrown, brushed out my long hair, and went down to the parlour. the parlour certainly looked very smart. its central table alone was worth the greatest admiration. there was a white cloth--very white indeed--in fact, dazzlingly so; and the crockery (i cannot call it by the name of china) seemed to me quite amazing. it did not matter that none of the glass matched, and that there were plates of various sorts, but what was all-important was the fact that the board groaned with goodly fare. there was a huge piece of cold roast beef, a salad made according to an old-fashioned recipe of hannah's, a cake (frosted) in the centre of the table, some jellies, some fruit, a pair of roast fowls, and a ham. oh, when before had the old house close to the college seen such a feast? standing at the head of the table, with his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon the goodly fare, was alex; and standing at the foot of the table, in precisely the same attitude, was charley. they did not move when i came in, and i did not speak, but went and stood at one of the sides. hannah bustled into the room. "they'll be here in a few minutes, children," she said; "and don't forget that i'm here to take your parts. bless you, poor orphans--bless you!" then she disappeared downstairs. "oh dear! oh dear!" i said. "for goodness' sake," said alex, moving away from the table, "don't begin to snivel, whatever you do, dumps. she's a mighty silly old woman." "oh, what a supper!" said charley. he gave a sigh of profound satisfaction. after a minute he said, "whatever sort of a step-mother she is, i am going to eat! i say, what a supper!" he had scarcely uttered the words before the sound of a cab stopping outside the front door was distinctly heard. "shall we all go into the hall?" asked alex. "i'm not going to stir," i answered. "nor i," said charley. "i can't keep my eyes off the supper. i'm awfully afraid it's a sort of fairy feast, and will vanish if i don't keep gazing and gazing at it." the bell was pulled violently. hannah came hurrying up the stairs. she bustled into the hall. charley went on tiptoe to the door of the parlour. he came back again on tiptoe, with his eyes rounder than ever. "what do you think?" he said. "hannah has got a white satin favour pinned upon her dress. would you believe it? what a turncoat she is!" "she's not," i answered. "she had to do it. we must be outwardly civil." "yes, yes; that's it," said alex. "and for the sake of the supper it's worth while," said charley. the hall door was opened. my father's step was heard coming in; this was followed by a lighter, much younger step. then a cheerful voice said, "well, here we are.--and you are hannah, i think? i have often heard of you." "the hypocrite!" i muttered; but alex said, "hush! remember our compact." "i have often heard of you," said the cheerful voice. "how do you do?" hannah's reply was so muttered that it could not be heard in the parlour. then father said, "where are the children? dumps! alex! charley! come along at once!" we all made a rush to the parlour door. we had to rush or we should not have moved at all. we went into the hall. i felt at that supreme moment that if i had not known miss grace donnithorne in the past, and had not really liked her very much, not to say almost loved her, i could have borne my present position better. but having already known her, the present position was almost unbearable. nevertheless, things that seem unbearable have now and then to be faced in life. my father called in his cheerful tones, "well, children, well! here we are back. here's your new mother. i trust you will all be as dutiful as she deserves. i am sure it is very good of her to come and look after such harum-scarums as you are. now then, dumps, you give her a right royal welcome." "how do you do?" i said. i held out my hand. the kindest--oh yes, i must say the words--the kindest eyes in the world looked anxiously into mine; the pleasant mouth relaxed as though it was preparing to smile; then it became grave, but its expression was as sweet as ever. "how are you, rachel?" said she who used to be miss grace donnithorne. she bent forward and gave me a light kiss--not the affectionate embrace she had bestowed upon me once or twice when i was at hedgerow house. "take your mother upstairs, dumps. take her and show her her bedroom," said father. "come along, you two boys; just come and tell me all that has been happening at the college. my goodness, what an age it seems since i went away!" father's tone and the mighty sigh of relief he gave did more to compose my nerves than anything else. miss grace donnithorne had not changed him. i went up the stairs saying to myself, "she is not my father's wife. she is only miss grace donnithorne, a stoutish lady, middle-aged, quite nice and fat and pleasant; she is not father's wife." all the time these thoughts kept coming and going in my brain; but the lady who followed me did not speak at all. that was quite unlike miss donnithorne's way. i opened the door of the big room. the fire had almost burnt itself out; the room in consequence was cold. there was no gas of any sort in this huge chamber; two poor, solitary candles had been placed on the high mantelshelf, but had not been lighted. "dear me!" said the lady--and there was no mistaking the matter-of-fact voice--"but this room is too cold for your father. come along. dumps, you and i must see to this at once. where can we get coals? oh, this hod is empty. get some matches quickly, child, and some hot water. your father must have hot water, and we must have this fire made up. dear, dear! dumps, our hands will be full. he is a very precious man, you know, but a handful--a good bit of a handful--more than one child could possibly manage, and more than one woman can manage, but between us, dumps--" she took up the poker, and the fire was soon blazing again. candles were lit in a trice. hannah appeared with a great jug of hot water. "where would you wish your hot water to be placed, mrs grant?" she said. her tone was very precise. there was a red spot on one of her cheeks; the other was deadly pale. but the white satin favour! what possessed her to wear it? it stood out with an aggravating stare on her dark dress. the new mrs grant turned at once. "put it here by the wash-hand stand," she said; "and bring some more coals, please. this fire is not nearly large enough. the room is chilly." she spoke very cheerfully. hannah left the room at once. just at that moment there came a knock at the door. "father says that supper is ready," said charley's voice. "oh, i haven't spoken to you, charley," said mrs grant. she went to the door, took his hand, and wrung it. "good boy," she said. "you will help me all you can." i saw him gazing at her very hard; then he went downstairs, almost like a flash. i wondered what he was going to say to alex. meanwhile i stood silent by the fire. miss grace donnithorne, that was, faced me. she had removed her hat and taken off her jacket. she had a little comb in her pocket; with this she smoothed out her hair. she went to the wash-stand and washed her hands. hannah appeared with the coals. "put a good many on, please, hannah. i want the room to be quite warm," said the new mistress. hannah obeyed. the late miss grace donnithorne looked round the room. "much too large," she said. "all the rooms are large in this house," i answered. "oh, we'll choose a cosier one than this--eh, dumps?" she said. "can't find one in this house," was my response. "well, this will do for to-night." she looked at me. the kindness in her eyes seemed kinder than ever. it would have been difficult, had she not been my step-mother, to resist her; but being my step-mother, i stood very cold and still, responding quite civilly when she spoke, but not offering any advances on my part. she had washed her hands now, and the fire was blazing brightly. she poured some hot water into a basin. "this is for the professor," she said. "he must warm himself. he is very cold, dear man! he is a very precious creature, and--" i wished she would not talk of him like that. i felt a sense of irritation. then i looked at her and the irritation vanished. "the boys are so hungry," i said. "and so am i," she replied, with a laugh; "and your dear father is too. my dear dumps, he has a ravenous appetite. that is a great relief to me. he hasn't the faintest idea how much he eats, but it's that that keeps him going. he eats without knowing that he is eating. but he mustn't go on doing that. i am certain he bolts his food, and that will mean indigestion by-and-by. and indigestion breaks up life. you and i have a great deal on our hands." then there was a dead pause. "dumps dear," she said, coming nearer. in another minute perhaps she might have said something, and all that followed need never have been written; just at that moment she laid her hand on my shoulder, but before she could utter the words, whatever they were, that were trembling on her lips, her eyes fell on the little trunk--on the little leather trunk with my initials, r.g., on the lid. she could not mistake it. she gave a start; into her comely cheeks there flamed a vivid red. she bent down without a word and opened the trunk. she looked at the contents, took up the card which i had laid on the top and read it. then she laid it back again very quietly, without uttering a syllable, and closed the lid of the little trunk. then she turned to me. "shall we go down to supper?" she said. her voice was quite cheerful. but there was a wall of ice between us. part two, chapter one. the new order of things. of course, my step-mother made a great change in the house. i cannot exactly describe how things were gradually altered, and how the desolate old mansion became a habitable and cheerful home. but it certainly was completely metamorphosed. the old regime with regard to fires was the first change. mrs grant said that such a big, empty, rambling place must be kept thoroughly warmed in winter. accordingly, in the dining-room a fire always blazed, and was kept well piled up with solid lumps of shining black coal of the very best silkstone, which hannah would never dream of affording in the old days. then into my bedroom and into the boys' bedroom were introduced wonderful new gas-stoves, which gave not the slightest smell, but which could be lit at a moment's notice, and would make the bedrooms thoroughly warm and comfortable. but i no longer slept in my attic. i had struggled hard against mrs grant's wish to move me into another part of the house, but in the end i yielded, and now i had a pretty room, brightly papered and nicely furnished, on the floor just above the drawing-room. "why," said my step-mother, "we do not need to use those desolate attics at all. this room will do for alex, this for charley, and this for dumps; and this, when we have visitors, for the spare room. hannah and the other servants can sleep upstairs. for you, children, this ought to be your floor, and it shall be," continued the little lady, speaking with that spirit which always characterised her. as to the boys, they were delighted with their new rooms. they were furnished exceedingly simply; indeed, they looked quite bare enough to make most people consider them somewhat hermit-like sort of sleeping apartments; but then those people had never visited the attics where alex and charley used to sleep. "these rooms are quite good enough for boys; you mustn't pamper boys, whatever happens," said mrs grant. "girls are different; girls need softer treatment." but her most delightful innovation was the introduction into the house of two excellent servants to help hannah. there had been, i have not the slightest doubt of it, a very terrible scene in the kitchen when mrs grant interviewed hannah. hannah was not visible at all for the rest of the day, and my step-mother and i went out for our meals. on the next day hannah came upstairs and said she wished to speak to mrs grant. they had a long conference, and when hannah came out of her presence, the eyes of that good woman were very red, but she succumbed without a word. a new range was now put into the kitchen, a boy came every morning to help hannah with the heaviest part of her work, an excellent housemaid attended to the bedrooms, and a first-rate parlour-maid opened the hall door and served up our meals. in short, we were a new family. the drawing-room, however, had not yet been touched. i wondered what mrs grant would make of the drawing-room. i did not like to question her. i was quite good--outwardly good, i mean--all this time to my step-mother, but we did not come a bit nearer to each other. the little trunk with the letters r.g. on the cover seemed to stand between my heart and her heart. nevertheless, we chatted together all day long, and planned how we would meet this contingency and the other, and what surprises we would give to father, and how we could manage things. one day about six weeks after father's second marriage mrs grant came to me. she had a pleased and delighted expression on her face. "rachel, my dear child," she said, "how old are you?" "i shall be sixteen on my birthday, and my birthday comes in may. it is a long way off yet." then i gave a sigh, and felt a sudden contraction of my heart. "well, anyhow, dear, this is quarter day, the st of december. i have been speaking to your father, and he means to give you a dress allowance." "a what?" i said. "a dress allowance, dear. you must, you know, have clothes suitable to your father's daughter. here is the first quarter's money." she put two crisp bank of england notes, worth five pounds each, into my hand. i started; i coloured crimson; i looked at the money. "but i--i don't know what to do with this," i said. "oh yes, you will know very well what to do with it. now the question is, would you like me to help you to choose some pretty dresses, or would you rather manage the whole affair yourself?" again there was that pathetic expression in her eyes which i had seen for a minute or two before. she was looking at me very earnestly. i was about to say, "oh, will you help me to choose, for i don't know anything about dress?" when i remembered the pretty dark-blue dress with the grey fur. that dress, which i always felt had been given me under false pretences, seemed to rise up now to slay the feeling of kindness which, in spite of everything, i could not help entertaining for my step-mother in my heart. "if you don't greatly mind," i said, "perhaps this first time i had better choose my own dresses." "as you like, dear, of course; but you mustn't go alone. you might ask one of your schoolfellows to go with you. and, dumps dear, ask as many of your friends in to tea as you like on wednesday afternoons and saturday afternoons; those are your half-holidays, and you can go to visit those whom i like you to know also on those days. i want you to have a very pleasant life, my dear child." "thank you," i answered. "you understand, rachel, that my wish is to make you happy." "i am sure of it," i said. "and you are happy?" "i am comfortable," i said. i folded the money up. "i will thank father when i see him. it is exceedingly kind of him," i said. "i wouldn't worry him," said mrs grant. she looked at me a little anxiously. "but why not?" "he has forgotten all about it by now. it is unfair to disturb a man of his nature with these trivial details." i slipped the notes into my pocket. "have you no purse, dear?" "upstairs," i said. "well, be careful of the money. don't lose it." "i'll be very careful; thank you so much." i went out into the hall. charley was there. "i say, dumps!" "what is it, charley?" "von marlo and i have been talking about the new mamma." "you are not to call her that." "but i say she is, you know; and von and i, we say--" "i don't want to hear." "but you shall--you must! we say she is _awfully_ jolly--just a , a -- and that--" but i rushed past. there was a choking lump in my throat; in another minute i should have burst into tears. i managed to reach my own pretty new bedroom without disgracing myself. i shut and locked the door and stood in the centre of the room. the crisp five-pound notes rustled in my pocket, but i, dumps--in other words, rachel grant--stamped my foot. i was in an absolute passion. i did not know why i felt so thoroughly angry. what unreasonable creatures girls are! three months ago i would have given anything for my present surroundings and my present prospects: i, who hardly ever had a penny of my own; i, who was only half-fed and only half-clothed, who was desolate, without a real friend in the world; for my father--my dear old father--lived for ever and ever in wonderland, and no one could bring him bock from that strange country, where he dwelt with other geniuses of his kind, and i and the boys had to suffer; and hannah, notwithstanding her protestations, neglected us so shamefully that the wonder was we were not ill. all of a sudden, however, "open sesame!" and behold a new order of things! the old order had given way to the new. we were clothed; we were fed; we were considered; we were treated with kindness; our wants were attended to, our little trials sympathised with. in short, love in the true sense of the word had come into the house; the genius of wonderment had taken to himself the genius of order and motherly kindness, and this latter genius had made the whole house home-like and happy. but i, at least, was not prepared to take into my heart this good fairy whom the good queen of all the fairies had sent to us. i stood in my pretty room which my step-mother had arranged for me, and felt as angry and as bitter as girl could feel. by-and-by there came a cheerful sound on the stairs. my step-mother knocked at the door. "augusta moore is downstairs and would like to see you, dumps," she said. "it is a beautiful, sunshiny morning, and you may as well go out with her." i suddenly remembered that i had neglected augusta a good deal of late; that she had often come to the house and i had hardly spoken to her. i further remembered that, this being the st of december, the holidays had begun. our big school had broken up on the th, but the boys' college would break up to-morrow. christmas would be with us in no time, and christmas was to be spent in hedgerow house. that was the treat of all treats which was turning the heads of both the boys. i was to go, alex was to go, charley was to go, and von marlo was to go. he was alone at the school, and mrs grant, with her kind and open-hearted hospitality, had invited him. "it is to be my christmas present to you all, to have you in my house," she said. "i am sure you will enjoy yourselves vastly." now surely, with such a prospect in view, any girl would be a perfect goose if she were not happy, and i do not think many girls will sympathise with rachel grant at this moment. i was making a martyr of myself because i thought it not right to my mother's memory to receive this new mamma in her place; and yet, if the truth must be told, although i had often pined for my mother, there were days and months, and perhaps even years, when i had forgotten her very existence. she was out of the world before i had time to remember her face. that was my position with regard to my real mother in the past, but from the hour when i had heard that father was about to bring a new wife to the old house, and after he had given me my mother's miniature, i worshipped her, i kept her always in my memory, and i felt that the more i withdrew my heart from the "new mamma," to quote von marlo's hideous phrase, the more i showed my love and tenderness for the real mother. perhaps there are other girls made like that; if so, i should like to show them once for all how exceedingly silly, how exceedingly unpractical and ungrateful, i was. for this story would be worthless if it were not told truthfully. i got over my passion after a time. i kept repeating to myself, "odious fellow, von marlo! the new mamma a indeed! a !" i wished he would not talk to charley and corrupt him with his wrong ideas. then i slipped the ten pounds which my step-mother had given me into my purse, and put the purse into my pocket. i dressed myself in the warm clothes which i now had to wear--and which my father, of course, had given me--and i went slowly downstairs. augusta was waiting in the drawing-room. she was sitting near the fire; she was talking to my step-mother. as i entered the room i heard my step-mother say, "i think it can be managed, augusta. it would be a great pleasure for you, and if it is really the case that your mother would like to spend christmas with your uncle charles, why--oh, here you are, dumps!" "yes; what is it?" i asked. augusta's sallow face was lit up with a gleam of red on each of her cheeks. this red tint improved her appearance vastly. "oh," said augusta, "i don't for a moment suppose you'll do it." "i don't see why," i replied. "i'm not in the habit of making myself unamiable." "well, it's this," said mrs grant; "augusta would greatly like to come with us to hedgerow house for christmas. it will be a little difficult to squeeze her in, but if you, dumps, would not mind having her in your room--" "i'd take a very tiny bit of the bed. i can make myself quite accommodating," said augusta. "she would like it very much indeed," said mrs grant. "of course you must come if my step-mother invites you," i said. mrs grant coloured; then she got up, walked to the table, and took up some plain sewing which she was doing, and began a long seam. she was making some clothes for the poor; she was never idle for a minute of her time. "you can come, augusta, as far as i am concerned," i said. "of course you can; you needn't share the same bed," said mrs grant. "i think i can manage better for you than that, but i cannot give you a room apiece. if you will share the same room, that is all that is required." "oh, it is too wonderful!" said augusta. "come out, augusta, or i shall be late," i said. we found ourselves in the street. "oh!" said augusta. she walked on, not noticing me in the least. after a time she said, "to wake in the morning and to feel that you will breakfast with him, that you will dine with him, and that you will sup with him! to think that occasionally he may even look at you, and perhaps once or twice speak to you; and to know that this will go on for seven days--seven whole days, for i have been asked for a week! dumps, do you think it is true? do you think it is only a vision? i often have visions; they're beautiful, some of them, but none of them equals this. to be in the house with him, and to hang on his words for a week!" "i don't think, to tell the truth," i said, "that any one else will hang on his words; you will have him all to yourself." "oh," said augusta, "if you only wouldn't!" "wouldn't what?" "wouldn't try to deprecate him. it seems wicked--it seems as though god would punish you." "why, what do you mean?" i said. "you ought to be so happy and so pleased," said augusta. "and you have got such a beautiful, commonplace step-mother. i admit that she is commonplace, but i never met so charming a woman. if only my mother were like her!" "your mother is excellent," i said--"quite as nice as my step-mother; and then she is your own. i think it is very wicked of you to run down your mother. if you hadn't a mother you'd know the difference." "but you have." "i haven't. how dare you!" "dumps, i can't help thinking that you--but oh, perhaps you'd rather not share your room with me?" "how can i help it?" i replied. "is the room mine? doesn't it belong to mrs grant--i mean to my step-mother? how can i question any of her wishes? you come to our house, and you snuggle into her good favour; you worm yourself in, and you have got yourself invited, and i suppose-- oh dear, i wish i wasn't so cross!" "if it were not such a very great thing i would take offence at your words, rachel," said augusta, "and not come with you; but being such a magnificent thing, and so all-important to me, i will not take offence, even though you do compare me to a snuggler (i don't quite know what the creature is), and even to a worm. i will come with you on the th to hedgerow house, and when you look at my face you will perhaps realise that you are looking at perfect happiness--yes, perfect happiness; spell the words with capitals, for i have attained to that great height." "this is the twopenny tube," i said. "perhaps you would like to go back to your mother and make arrangements?" "but where are you going?" "i'm going to meet the swan girls; they said they would be round the corner waiting for me." augusta looked at me rather longingly, but i would not reply to her look. "good-bye," i said. "i'll try not to do anything to interfere with your bliss." i left her. when i looked back she was already standing as one in a dream. i doubted if she would catch the next train in the twopenny tube, but i concluded that in the course of hours she would return to her commonplace mother. part two, chapter two. a quarterly allowance. rita swan and agnes had both been exceedingly interested with regard to my conduct at the time of my father's second marriage. my absence from school had caused their wonder. i was not blamed for that absence, and i often wondered why the form mistress and the head-mistress said nothing whatever to me on the subject. i went back to school on the monday after my father's marriage, and the girls had tittered and laughed and made remarks. i had been quite silent and gone stoically through my lessons. now this marriage was an old story, but still rita and agnes were never tired of expatiating on the great change for the better which had taken place in my circumstances. i told them that my step-mother had a great deal of common-sense (i had not the slightest idea of giving her away to strangers); i said that father had now been told what was necessary to the well bringing up of his children, and accordingly things were altered in our home. the girls were in great spirits on this occasion, and when i met them i suddenly resolved to enjoy myself. "what do you think has happened to me?" i said. "what can it be?" said rita. "oh, dear me! rachel, you look very nice." in the old days they did not pet me much, and they often told me i looked very ugly, and i was not elated by the compliment. "never mind my looks," i said. "i am quite a proud girl to-day. i am, in fact, almost grown-up; i have taken the first step upwards." now, to be grown-up was rita's greatest ambition in all the world. she was four months older than i. she would be sixteen early in january, and i should have to wait until the beginning of may for the event. but, of course, she would not be "out" for at least two years. "you are not really grown-up, and you needn't suppose you will be for ages and ages," said agnes. "why, look at rita; you have made her quite cross." "you do talk in such an absurd way," said rita. "but what is it? out with it!" "well, i've begun to get an allowance." "a what?" said agnes. "an allowance." "you don't mean a dress allowance?" said rita. "yes, that's just what i do mean; and i've got my first quarter's money in my pocket. what's more, i'm as rich as croesus; i have more money than i think any one girl could by any possibility spend. now, what do you think of me?" agnes had been walking on rita's other side. she showed her estimation of my upward step in the world's ladder by running round to my side and placing me in the middle. "tell us all about it," she said, and she slipped her hand through my arm. "there's not much to tell. father thought that--or at least my step-mother thought that i ought to have money to spend on dress, and i have got ten pounds." "for a year?" asked agnes. "no; for a quarter. i am to have ten pounds every quarter. think of it!" now, agnes swan knew quite well that when her allowance was given to her it would not approach anything like that royal sum. she therefore glanced at me and said in a low, pathetic voice, "what remarkably pretty ears you have got, dumps!" i made no answer. i continued as though i had not heard her: "and i have the money--two banknotes--in my pocket; and i am going to choose some dresses now, and i thought perhaps you two girls would like to come with me." "how splendid! where shall we go?" "not to wallis's," i said firmly. "why not to wallis's? what special hatred have you for that shop?" "i do not wish to go there," i answered. "i want to dress myself in west end style." "then," said agnes, "nothing can be easier. we'll wait just here and take the first 'bus to oxford street. we'll get down there and press our noses against the shop windows. it's christmas-time, and things are so bright. but if you want dresses now you'll have to get them ready-made, for no shop will make your dresses in time for christmas." "i don't really know that i want much dress," i said. "i have got the money to do what i like with." "of course you have." rita looked at me anxiously. "i must spend some of it on dress, of course, but i've got ten pounds. it seems almost as though it could never be spent. oh, here's a 'bus! shall we go on the top?" rita waved her umbrella wildly. the driver of the omnibus stopped. we mounted on to the roof, and sat huddled close together discussing my brilliant prospects. "we'd best keep one on each side of you, for a lot of money like that in a girl's pocket makes it dangerous for her to walk about at christmas-time," said agnes. "i don't mind," i said. "you can keep one on each side of me. i think," i continued after a pause, "that it would be only right to spend some of my money on christmas presents." "of course, dear; it would be only generous. and you ought to get something for your step-mother." "yes, of course i ought; and for the boys, and for father. it will be difficult to think of anything for father. and then there is hannah. yes, i will spend some of it on christmas-boxes." we got down from the roof of the omnibus at oxford circus, and then we walked slowly down regent street and revelled in our view of the shop windows. i was not specially devoted to dress, but the dainty and ravishing garments which i beheld exhibited in the windows were certainly enough to excite the wonder and admiration of us all. at last we decided to venture into a large shop to ask the price of a pretty costume which took my fancy. i liked it because it was as different from the dark-blue with the grey fur as dress could be. it was a soft, glowing shade of crimson, and was smartly trimmed with velvet of the same colour. we all marched into the shop, and i demanded the price of the little costume in the window. "it will just fit you, dumps," said rita. the man who served us said he would inquire, and presently he informed us that the dress was selling off and we could have it for ten guineas. both rita and agnes raised their blows in amazement. i coloured deeply, and said that ten guineas was more than i wanted to pay. he said that he had cheaper costumes in the shop, but i would not listen. we went out of the shop, and we three girls once again found ourselves on the pavement. "i call it a perfect swindle," said rita. "of course, i know that my cousin laura ives gives more than that for a dress, but then she is grown-up. after all, ten pounds doesn't seem much for a dress allowance. but let us go into another shop." but, try as we would, i could get nothing that i could really wear under about five guineas, and as i did not choose to give more than half my allowance for a single dress, i resolved to do without one. "i'll tell my step-mother that father must be informed that ten pounds a quarter is not nearly enough to spend on clothes," i said. "of course i had no real ideas on the subject before." "of course it isn't half enough," said rita. "you can just spend the money on odds and ends. that's what i'd do." i proceeded to follow her advice, and presently i purchased a quantity of ribbon of different shades and colours, two or three pairs of gloves--boots i decided i could do without, although mine were rather shabby--some neckties of different colours, and a new hat. the hat was quite unsuitable, but rita said it was remarkably stylish. by this time i had spent three or four pounds of my allowance. "oh, i must have some handkerchiefs and stockings," i said suddenly. i thought myself most prudent and all that was wise and common-sense when i spoke of stockings. i bought several pairs of most expensive make, and furnished myself with some fine lawn handkerchiefs, and lo and behold! my first five-pound note had vanished. still, i had the other. "you ought to think of the christmas-boxes; you ought to take something home for them all," said rita. the christmas-boxes proved themselves most fascinating. they were the sort of things that beckoned you into a shop, and then went away, and you could not find them. you followed them from shop to shop, and always exactly the very things you wanted were in another shop farther on and yet quite near. oh, how difficult it was to get them! that knife, for instance, that alex would like, or that pen which charley would condescend to write with, or that pair of soft doeskin gloves for hannah--hannah was always complaining of cold hands. in the end i gave up the knife and the pen and the gloves, and bought fancy articles which i thought would please my family--glass and china for my step-mother; a new sort of inkpot, which eventually proved of no use at all, but was very expensive, for my father; and things for the boys which i will reveal by-and-by. i had only thirty shillings out of my ten pounds when i returned home that afternoon, having provided presents for every one except myself; and in addition i presented an exceedingly expensive, huge box of chocolates each to rita and agnes swan. they called me their best darling, and said that each moment my appearance was improving, until at last their remarks made me so angry that i said, "if you say that again i will never speak to you or give you sixpence-worth of chocolates as long as i live!" upon this threat the two girls were silent, until at last rita remarked, "well, whatever happens, she will always pass in a crowd." "what does that mean?" i said. "it means that whatever you put on, you will never be anything but a most ordinary-looking person. now, does that content you?" "better than flattering words which are false," i said stoutly. they had conducted me home. i was dead-tired and very hungry. my hands were full of parcels. i rushed impetuously into the house. it was time for lunch; the morning had flown with marvellous swiftness. nay, more; i was late for lunch. father was standing alone in the dining-room. marriage had wrought very little perceptible alteration in him. it is true he always now wore a perfectly clean collar, and his coats were always well brushed, but each one seemed to hang upon him in just its old, loose, aggravating fashion, being worn very high up on the nape of the neck, which gave his back a sort of bowed appearance; and his collars, however neat when he put them on in the morning, managed to get finely rumpled before school-hours were over. this was from a habit he had of clutching his collar fiercely when in the heat of argument. there was no laundress in the whole of london who could have made collars stiff enough to withstand father's clutch. but even mrs grant could not persuade him to put on a clean one to go back to afternoon school, nor could she get him to visit the barber as often as she wished. therefore, on the whole, father looked much as he had always done. but perhaps he would not have been respected or loved as he was loved and respected if even his outward appearance had been changed. he was in a deep brown study now. he hardly saw me as i rushed into the room. i went up to him and took both his hands, and said, "thank you-- thank you so much!" "what in the world are you thanking me about, dumps?" he said. he seemed to wake with a start. "where have you been? what is the matter? don't litter the place, please; your step-mother doesn't like it." he observed the brown-paper parcels. "they're presents," i said. "don't speak about them." he raised his hand wearily to his brow. "i am not likely to," he said. "things wrapped up in brown-paper do not interest me." "oh father! they interest most people. but you must--you really must-- rouse yourself for a minute or two, for i have to thank you so greatly, darling father." "what for?" he muttered. "the money--the money." "i am unaware, child, that i have given you any money." what could he mean? i felt a curious damp sensation round my spirits, which were quite high at the moment. then i remembered that mrs grant had told me that i was not to worry father on the subject. "she said," i continued, with great eagerness, "that you were not to be worried, but that you had arranged it. i am to have an allowance in future, and she gave me the first quarter's allowance to-day--ten pounds." "goodness!" said father. "what wilful waste! ten pounds! why, it would have bought--it would have bought that new--" he mentioned a volume which had a long latin name. i understood now--or thought i understood--why my step-mother had desired me to be silent on the subject of my allowance. father shook himself. i was roused even to a show of anger. "well, at any rate," i said, "it might buy you a book, but it can buy other things as well. i was given the money to-day--_your_ money--and i must thank you; only please in future make it a little more, for i cannot buy dresses with it; it isn't enough." he stared at me wildly, and just at that moment my step-mother came in. "grace," said my father, turning to her, "this child seems to be in a sad muddle. she has been endeavouring to confuse me, which is exceedingly wrong of her. i trust that in future you will permit yourself, my dear, the extreme privilege of repressing dumps." "oh, oh!" i said. "yes," continued father, "of repressing her.--you are, dumps, too exuberant, too unmannerly, too impulsive.--keep her, my dear, from bringing unsightly objects of that sort into my presence." he pointed to my darling brown-paper parcels. "and above all things, dear grace, tell her not to thank me for what i have not done. she has been murmuring the most absurd rubbish into my ears, talking about a dress allowance. a dress allowance, indeed! does she need money to spend on her outward adornment? tell her to learn that hymn of watts's, `why should our garments, made to hide'--she had better learn that. let her learn once for all that,-- "be she dressed fine as she will, flies, worms, and moths exceed her still. "in short, grace, suppress the child, and tell her not to utter falsehoods in my presence." he went out; his wife followed him into the hall. she came back in a few minutes, and her cheeks were redder than was quite becoming. "now, dumps dear," she said, "i told you not to speak of your dress allowance to your father." "then he never gave it to me?" "well, dear, not exactly. i mean that he did not give it to you in so many words; nevertheless, it is my place to see to these things." "but was the ten pounds father's?" i asked stoutly. "what is his is mine, and what is mine is his," she replied. "please, step-mother," i said imploringly, "answer me just for once. did you give me that money, or did my father?" "my dear child, will you not understand once and for all that it is my aim and wish to do what i can to make you happy? if you go on trying me, rachel, as you have been doing lately, you will make me a very unhappy woman." she paused; then she said, "never up to the present moment have i known what real, true unhappiness is. i, grace donnithorne, given by nature so cheerful a heart, and, i think, so brave a spirit, and, i believe, the power of looking at things on the bright side--i unhappy!" she moved away; she stood by the fire. i saw tears starting to her bright, kindly, merry eyes; one rolled down her cheek. i went up to her and took her hand. "i have not been trying," i said--"i will confess it--i have not been trying to think kindly of you." "i know it, dumps," she said gravely, and she looked round at me. "and i have been advising the boys not to show you any affection." "i know it, dumps," she said again. "and--and i returned those clothes that you gave me when i was at hedgerow house." "you did. why did you do it?" "if, perhaps," i said slowly--"i don't know, but perhaps if you had told me the truth then, that you were not being so awfully kind just because i was a lonely little girl, but because you were going to marry my father, i might have stood it better, and i might have acted differently; but you deceived me. i thought you were a very kind, middle-aged, rather fat lady, and i liked you just awfully; but when you deceived me--" "don't say any more," she remarked hastily. "it was not my wish--i felt all along that--" but then, with a great effort, she resumed her usual manner. "i see i have not won you yet," she said. "but we must go on being friends outwardly, and _perhaps_--you have been confirmed, have you not?" "yes," i said, somewhat startled. "then perhaps when we kneel together at the great festival, the feast of all feasts, your heart may be softened, and you may see that in all the world no one means more kindly to you than the one whom you used to know as grace donnithorne." "oh, if you wouldn't be quite so amiable i think i could love you better," i said, and then i really hated myself. "it will come, dear," she said in a patient tone. "and now, just tell me what you bought. if your father isn't interested in brown-paper parcels, i am." "they're presents," i said shortly. "those delightful things on the sofa are presents? you have spent a little of your money on presents? rather extravagant of you, but i'm not going to scold." "that sounded such a lot of money," i said, "but it didn't turn out so much." "what do you mean, dear? it is a very substantial sum for a young schoolgirl of your age. i am sorry you did not take me with you to spend it; but you seemed so anxious to go alone, and i thought until christmas was over--" "what is going to happen when christmas is over?" i said. "i will tell you when the time comes." "but please tell me now, step-mother--" "i wish you wouldn't call me by that name." "well, i can't call you mrs grant; and you are my step-mother, you know." "it doesn't matter--call me anything you like, dear." i wished she was not quite so accommodating; but while i looked at her i saw there was a change in her face: there was a purpose in it, a firmness, a sort of upper-hand look as though she did not mean that i, dumps, should have my own way about everything. she asked me what i had bought for myself, and i said nothing particular, except a few ribbons and things like that. "they ought to be bought last of all," she said, "but of course you don't quite understand this time." "oh!" i said. "you want a quiet, plain dress; let me recommend you to get it the first thing to-morrow morning. peter robinson has some very nice dresses for young girls; and evans, just a little farther down oxford street, has perhaps even smarter costumes. you ought to get a very nice dress for about four guineas. it would be wrong to spend more. a warm coat and a nice short skirt would be the thing. shall we go to-morrow morning to evans's?" "no, thank you," i replied. "but, my dear child, you want a dress. well, perhaps you will get one of the girls to go with you." "i would rather," i replied. i gathered up all my parcels in my arms and prepared to leave the room. "just as you like, dear; but remember we go on the th to hedgerow house." "on the th; yes, step-mother, thank you." i went upstairs. part two, chapter three. christmas in the country. after all, christmas eve was jolly. you may cherish a feud against the most innocent and good-natured person in the world with all your might and main; but unless you are specially wicked you cannot bring it into prominence when every one else around you is in the best of good spirits. it was altogether a very merry party which started off by train from liverpool street _en route_ for hedgerow house. we seemed to have left cares of every sort behind us. the boys were absolutely unruly in their mirth. as to father, he elected to go in a smoking carriage. this was a very keen disappointment to augusta. i saw her start from her seat as though she would accompany him; but not being invited--indeed, the professor did not even see her--she sank back again and solaced herself by eating chocolates and reading a german book the whole way down. "don't you ever want to watch the scenery?" said von marlo in his slow dutch fashion. "yes, when it is worth looking at," she responded. she glanced at him. "you are a foreigner?" "yes, a dutchman." "i don't approve of dutchmen." she lapsed back into her german. von marlo thought it well to change his seat. he came nearer to me. oh, i forgot to say that hannah was also of the party. now, she had not wished to come; she had objected very strongly; but my step-mother, there was no doubt, was beginning to win hannah over. hannah came to my room that very morning when i was dressing to go, and said, "miss dumps, i do hope you won't take it amiss, but--" "why, what is it, hannah?" i asked. "well, i'm going too." "i'm very glad," i said. "'tain't that i like her a bit better than i did," said hannah--"not a bit. she's a step-mother, and what's a step-mother but a sort of person who is in league against the children of the first wife? i've sworn to be a friend to the first wife's children. didn't the poor lady come to visit me in a dream the very night i heard of your pa's marriage, and didn't i promise that i'd never leave you? and didn't she come again last night in another dream and tell me to go down to hedgerow house-- not for my own enjoyment, but to be close to you, miss dumps, and the two dear boys? so i'm going. those new servants can look after this place. 'tain't what it was." "indeed it isn't, hannah. i am very glad you are going with us. and to be honest, hannah, isn't it now, frankly, very much nicer than it was?" "not to my way of thinking," said hannah. "the house now is at that work what i 'ates." "the house?" i said. "what is the poor house doing?" "pushing out old memories; that's what this 'ere house is busy over. every room that gets decked up new is pushing out the old memories--the memories of the time when that poor, dear shadow walked from room to room trying to get a glimpse of sunshine. she'll soon be gone, poor dear! that's what i call the behaviour of the house, so don't ask me if i like it better, for i don't, and that's flat." had i been at all wise i should have talked sensibly to hannah; but in my heart of hearts, although knowing that she spoke the most absolute nonsense, i could not help partly agreeing with her. the very last thing i did before leaving was to take mother's miniature and stuff it into the bottom of the little old horse-hair trunk which had been unearthed from a distant garret for me. nothing would induce me to take my step-mother's new trunk on this special journey. i was not too well dressed, either, for i could not possibly buy the smart, warm costume which my step-mother had set her heart on, and up to the present i had given her no reason for this. but then i had endless ribbons--sky-blue, pink, mauve, even green; and i had quantities of chiffon bows and chiffon ties, and good gloves and good stockings, and lovely handkerchiefs. i felt that i would pass muster, and turned a deaf ear when mrs grant came somewhat anxiously to my room to know if i did not want a corner of her trunk for some of my prettiest dresses. i told her that the horse-hair trunk held all i required, and she went away. well, at last we got off, and we were in the train. good-bye, dull care! this was christmas-time--the time of presents, of fun and hilarity. i had taken good care to bring all my christmas-boxes with me. when we arrived at chelmsford station there was a great wagonette waiting for us, drawn by a pair of brown horses. my step-mother immediately took the reins. we all scrambled in; father was huddled in one corner occupied with his greek testament. when he had nothing else to do he always read his greek testament. augusta pushed herself into the seat exactly opposite to him; she bent forward and stared fixedly into his face; but he never once looked at her. i am certain he did not see her. occasionally she said "oh!" in quite an audible tone. i felt that augusta would be quite enough to keep any one from perfect bliss if she went on in such an idiotic fashion. "what is she doing?" whispered charley to me. "oh, let her alone," i said; "she is worshipping him." "worshipping him?" he cried. "yes; don't you know?" "i'll prick her with a pin," he said. "oh, you mustn't--you really mustn't! do let her alone, poor thing! you see, she sees a kind of glory round father which we don't." "my word, i should think not!" said charley. "poor, dear old professor! of course, he's a jolly old dad and all that sort of thing, but--" charley gave a low whistle. augusta's voice was now heard. "you were reading that passage aloud; i heard it," she said. "would you greatly mind raising your voice a little?" the professor lowered his book. "eh?" he said. then he dropped his glasses. they were _pince-nez_, and as he dropped them one of the glasses fell out. the wagonette had to be stopped, and we had all to search for the missing glass; and so augusta's question was never answered, for when the glass was found it was slipped into its case, and father readjusted his _pince-nez_ on his nose, and went on reading as though nothing had happened. augusta looked round at me. "it would have been such a valuable help," she said, "and so very little extra exertion to him." "oh, don't talk to him while he's reading," i said. "i'll get you a chance if you're good; but do just make an effort to keep your feelings to yourself." we had now reached the house, and we all tumbled out of the wagonette. i do think there is no other way of describing the manner in which we left that vehicle. mrs grant immediately assumed the manners of hostess. she gave directions to the groom who had brought the carriage, flung him the reins, and then spoke to a man who was waiting. this man disposed of what luggage had been brought in the carriage; the rest was to follow in a cart. then we entered the house. its smallness, its bewitching appearance, the little drawing-room with the stuffed birds and stuffed animals, the dear little dining-room, the pretty bedrooms upstairs, were invaded as though by a horde of ants. nancy was curtsying and bobbing at the hall door. she welcomed me as though i were a very dear friend, and personally took me up herself to the identical room where i had slept before. it was just as sweet and fresh and fragrant, and the brightest of fires burned in the grate; but there was an extra bed in one corner, which in itself was disconcerting. then augusta appeared and flung down an ugly leather valise, which she had brought her clothes in, on the snowy white counterpane, and said, with a sigh, "oh, wonderful--wonderful! marvellous beyond words to express! i am here! i am here!" "augusta," i said stoutly, "if you go on in that fashion you'll be a raving lunatic before christmas day is over. now pull yourself together and be sensible. you'll never get father to talk to you if you keep on staring at him and interrupting him. we are going to have a jolly time, and to forget heroics and `high strikes' and all the rest. oh, there's the luncheon-bell, and i'm ever so hungry!" that was a very happy evening notwithstanding the fact that the miss grace donnithorne of less than a couple of months ago was now mrs grant and our step-mother. in her own house, surrounded by her own things, she was more difficult than ever to resist. indeed, i think no one tried to do so, for she was the very soul of tact, and managed to make us all feel that we were her guests, and as guests ought to be particularly nice. alex said to me, "she is quite charming! she is good! she is a dear! i'm beginning to love her. i don't care what you say to the contrary." "i like her for herself," i said. "then for goodness' sake prove it, dumps, and don't wear that horridly starched, proper face. it's enough to drive any one cracked even to look at you. you were always plain, but now that you are both plain and affected, you will be too offensive to live with before long." "thank you," i answered. "i never did come to my family for compliments, and i certainly am not getting them." "you won't get them from me, or from charley, or from von marlo while you behave like that. why, i declare i'd rather be that poor, demented augusta moore than go on as you are doing." "but what am i doing?" i asked. "what do you mean? i'm doing nothing." "nothing, dumps? be truthful with yourself. try and get over that horrid feeling, and let us be really happy this christmas." "but there was our mother--" "she wasn't with us last christmas, was she?" "she was in spirit." "well, if she was with us in spirit last christmas--when we were so jolly miserable, and i had that bad influenza, and charley sprained his foot, and we had hardly any christmas dinner and no christmas-boxes at all except the things we managed to make with the old carpenter's tools, and when father forgot to come home till the evening, and you began to cry and said that he had been run over by an omnibus--if mother was with us in spirit when we were all really wretched, don't you think she will be twenty times more in spirit with us now when we are all jolly and good and good-humoured? if our mother is an angel in heaven--and i suppose you believe she is--she must be blessing that sweet woman grace donnithorne, as you used to call her, every moment of the time. oh, there! i needn't say any more. i'll let von marlo have a talk with you." "but he sha'n't--i won't be talked to," i said. i rushed away up to my own room. in spite of myself, my feelings were arrested by alex's words. for a moment i knelt down and said to god, "please let me feel kindly towards my step-mother; please let me have a really nice christmas day." after that it was wonderful how my spirits were soothed and how much happier i felt. christmas eve ended in fun and games and all sorts of preparations for the merriest christmas which was to follow, and we all went to bed in high good-humour. part two, chapter four. christmas day. my presents were much appreciated, although it is true that father looked somewhat dubiously at his inkpot. he asked me how it was opened. i described the exact method by which he was to press the spring, and he remarked then that it would take time. "but," i said, "you see there is a kind of sponge with a leather cover to it, which presses down into the bottle and prevents every scrap of air from getting in, so that the ink keeps much longer." "yes; but the period it takes from one's existence!" remarked father. then he glanced at me. "never mind," he said; "you meant well. i am always willing to admit it when any one means well." now, i had actually spent a pound of my money on this inkstand of father's--one-tenth of my quarter's allowance--and all the praise i got was that i meant well. von marlo came up to me and said, "it is a most wonderful and cleverly constructed inkstand. i tell you what--whenever i come over to your house i'll see that it's dusted and kept in order. i'll look after it myself. i think it's quite lovely." i had given von marlo a nice little tablet for notes, which he professed to be delighted with; and i had given my step-mother a new sort of diary with a lock and key. there was no one whom i had forgotten. even augusta was in raptures with the very driest book on mathematics that i could pick up. she said that for once she believed i was a thoroughly sensible girl. then there were the gifts from the others to me. my step-mother gave me a lovely little narrow gold chain with a locket attached to it; and father, for the first time since i could remember, gave me a present simply as a present. it consisted of a row of very curious, sweet-scented beads, which were mounted now in gold, and could be worn either as a necklace or as a bracelet. "but you have had these for ages," i said. "yes; but my wife thought that they could be set very prettily for you," he said. i was delighted, and thanked him heartily. i had often coveted those blue beads, for they were a wonderful greenish blue, and in some lights looked quite opalescent. the boys, too, gave me things very suitable and very useful. no one had forgotten me. even augusta gave me a pin-cushion stuck full of pins that i scratched myself with the first thing. that was very likely, for she had put them in so badly that several stuck out underneath, and i had inflicted a wound before i was aware of this fact. but the presents, after all, were nothing compared to the festive air which pervaded the place. we went to church, and we knelt before god's altar, and joined in the great and glorious festival of divine love. after church we were all to go to the aldyces' for dinner. this invitation had been vouchsafed to us on the occasion of my father's marriage, and mrs grant said that it was quite impossible not to accept it. "you will like hermione," i said to augusta. i thought she would. i thought hermione's precise ways would rather please augusta. the carriage, however, did not meet us at the church, for it was arranged that we were to go home first and have lunch at hedgerow house, and then were to walk in a body the two miles which separated us from the grange, squire aldyce's beautiful old residence. we went there in high spirits. everything was joyful that day. here more and more presents awaited us. really it was marvellous. alex managed to whisper to me, "have you no eye for contrasts?" "contrasts?" i asked, turning round and giving him a flashing glance. "between this christmas and last," he said. i felt annoyed. i had been trying so very hard to keep in the best of humours--to be good, if i, poor naughty dumps, could really and truly be good--and now the spirit of naughtiness was once more awakened. oh, of course, this was a glorious time, and i ought to be delighted; but the ache had returned to my heart, the longing to be in my own little room looking at my mother's miniature, the wish for the old desolation when she, as i said to myself, had been honoured and her memory respected. i stood in a brown study for a minute or two, and as i stood thus hermione came up to me and asked me if i would not like to go away with her to her room. i was very glad of the reprieve. she took my hand and we ran upstairs. when we found ourselves in her pretty room she made me sit down in the cosiest chair she could find, poked the fire, and squatted herself on the hearth-rug. she wore a lovely dress of very pale liberty green silk, and looked, with her aristocratic small face and beautiful hair, like a picture. "well, dumps," she said, "and so you have solved the mystery?" "you knew it at that time?" i said. "knew it? of course i did! it was the greatest amazement to me when miss donnithorne said, `you are not to tell her; her father doesn't wish it to be known.'" "then she did not want to have it kept a secret?" "she?" said hermione. "poor darling! it was her greatest desire to tell you--in fact, she had quite made up her mind to do so--but she received a most urgent letter from your father saying that he would infinitely prefer none of you to know until after the ceremony. you mustn't blame her." "i think it was exceedingly wrong to deceive me," i said. "it was not her fault; you must not blame her." i was silent. on the whole, my step-mother's conduct could not seem quite so black if she herself had been forced to act as she did. nevertheless, i felt uncomfortable. hermione glanced at me. "you look very much better," she said. "what do you mean by that?" "not that you are dressed so wonderfully well--of course, i shouldn't dream of making any comments with regard to your dress; but then you were quite exquisitely attired the last time you came here. mother said she had never seen anything so _chic_ in all her life as that little dark-blue costume with the grey fur; and it suited you so well." i was wearing one of my summer dresses which my step-mother had altered for me shortly after she came to us. it was made of pale-blue crepon, which had been rather ugly, but she had put on a beautiful lace tucker, and had arranged the skirt so that my growing length of limb was not so discernible. "it isn't your dress," continued hermione--"never mind about it--nobody cares what any one else wears on christmas day--but it is your face." "and what about that?" i said. "you are so much better-looking." i felt myself flushing. "i wish you wouldn't laugh at me, hermione. it isn't kind. i can't help being plain." "no," said hermione, putting her head a little on one side. "nothing will ever give you remarkably good eyes, or much of a nose, or anything special of a mouth; but you have got a complexion now, and your cheeks have filled out." "oh, i was always fat," i said. "well, but they look different," she said; "i can't tell why." i knew, but i would not enlighten her. i knew that it was the excellent food that i now had, and the warm rooms to live in, and the good influence of a comfortable home. i was not going to betray myself, however. "you must be having a jolly time," said hermione. "oh! if anything were to give me a step-mother, i should pine and long for a sort of grace donnithorne." "she is a dear," i said. hermione looked at me very gravely. "dumps," she said, "you don't like her in your heart." "hermione, how dare you say it?" "you know you don't. the moment i saw you i was certain of it." "i wish you wouldn't read people like that," i said. "i saw it, and i was sorry; for the fact is, you have only known grace for a little--a very little--time." "for two months," i said. "and i have known her ever since i have known anybody at all." "then, of course, it is natural that you should be fond of her." "not at all. there are other people i have known, so to speak, from my birth. there is old mr chatterton, and there is mrs frazer. now, i detest fussy mrs frazer, and i run away a mile from mr chatterton. it isn't the time i have known grace, but because she is what she is." "well, i suppose," i said, "you are going to give me a lecture about her?" "no, i am not; but i am simply going to say this--that you are in rare luck to have got the most amiable woman in the whole of essex to be your step-mother. and then, dumps dear, she is so jolly rich! she can give you all sorts of comforts. and what is more, she is awfully fond of you; she said so." "fond of me? she couldn't be!" "she is, poor darling! she said so in such a loving and sad way just now. i know why she is sad; it is because you won't return her love." "never mind," i said, jumping to my feet. i went over to the window and looked out. "hermione," i said, "let us talk of something else." "of course. for instance, how will you like your new school?" "what new school?" i sprang towards her; i took her by her shoulders; i turned her round. "oh! have i let the cat out of the bag?" said hermione. "didn't you know you were going?" "there!" i said; "and yet you tell me to like her. has she been planning this?" "it is awfully wrong of me to speak of it; but i thought, of course, you knew." "but i don't want to go." "oh, won't you, though? now look here, dumps. you mustn't make a fuss; you must be patient; you must--you really must--for i am going with you. it's to a jolly, jolly school in paris. we'll have a nice time--i know we shall." "paris?" i said. now, what london girl doesn't own to a secret hankering for paris--paris the gay, the fascinating, the beautiful? nevertheless, after my first shock of pleasure i was very wary. i said after a pause, "perhaps you had better not say any more." "no, i won't, as you didn't know. it's very odd; you'll be told probably to-morrow." "i suppose so," i said. there came a knock at the door. hermione said, "come in;" and augusta intruded her face. "it seems a great pity you should be here," she said. "i thought i'd tell you." "come in, miss moore; make yourself at home," said hermione. "thank you so much," said augusta, "but i couldn't come in." "and why not?" asked hermione. "because he is talking--he is lecturing downstairs. we are all listening.--i thought it would be such a frightful deprivation for you, dumps, not to hear him. i rushed upstairs; he was blowing his nose--i think he has a cold. i must go back at once. do come down, if you don't want to miss it. it's about the time of herodotus; it's most fascinating--fascinating!" she banged the door after her and rushed away. "is that poor girl mad?" said hermione slowly. "i think so," i answered. "she has conceived a violent worshipping attachment to father. she thinks he is the soul of genius." "well, he is, you know. you, as his daughter, can really hold a most distinguished position; and now that you have got such a step-mother as miss donnithorne, and you yourself are to be sent to--oh, i forgot, that subject is taboo. well, never mind; when you come out you will have quite a good time, dumps, i can tell you. your step-mother means to do the right thing both by you and the boys. you will have a splendid time, so just do cheer up and be thankful for the blessings which providence has showered upon your head." part two, chapter five. a quiet talk. christmas day came to an end, and the very next morning, when i was alone with my step-mother, i asked her what hermione meant by her words. "oh, she has told you?" said mrs grant. she was sitting by the fire in the little drawing-room; the stuffed birds and the stuffed animals surrounded us, but the room was never close, and it had the faint, delicious smell of cedar-wood which had fascinated me so much on the occasion of my first visit. "sit down, dumps," she said, holding out her hand to take one of mine. "but please tell me," i said. "well, yes, it has been arranged. your father would like it, and so would i. you go on the st of january. it is a very nice school, just beyond the champs elysees. you will be well taught, and i think the change will do you good." "you suggested it, didn't you?" i said. "yes, naturally." "why naturally? i am his child." "my dear, you know his character; he is so absorbed in those marvellous things which occupy his great brain that he hasn't time--" "oh, i know," i said bitterly; "he never had any time, this wonderful father of ours, to attend to us, his children." "dear, he has given you into my care, and, believe me, i love you." "i believe you do," i said in a gentle voice. "some day, rachel, i am sure you will love me." i was silent. "tell me about the school," i said. "i know all about it, for it belongs to a very special friend of mine, and i am certain you will be looked after and all your best interests promoted." "and hermione aldyce goes too?" "yes; she is a very nice girl, and a special friend of mine." "i know." "you will, i am sure, dumps, do your utmost to attend to your studies. you will soon be sixteen; my intention is that you should remain at the french school for two years, and then come back in time to enjoy some of the pleasures of life--some of the pleasures, dear, as well as the responsibilities, for we never can dissever one from the other." i was silent. why did i like her and yet dislike her? i had thought the day before when hermione spoke of school that i should wildly rebel, but as i sat there looking at her placid face it did not occur to me to rebel. i said after a minute, "step-mother, until i love you better, may i call you by that name?" "i have given you leave," she said in a low tone. "i have something to confess," i said. "what is that?" she asked. "i did not buy any thing useful out of the ten pounds you gave me." "your father's dress allowance?" "you know it was yours." "your father's," she repeated. "i will tell you how i spent it," i said; and then i described to her all about the ribbons and the chiffons and the gloves and the stockings and the handkerchiefs. "the stockings were needful," she said, "and so were the gloves and handkerchiefs. so much ribbon was scarcely essential, but it can be passed over. the hat you bought was vulgar, so i trust you will not wear it again." "what?" i said. "that lovely green hat with the bird-of-paradise in it?" "it is very unsuitable to a girl of your age." "i got it in one of the smartest shops in regent street." "anything that is unsuitable is vulgar, dumps. i hope you will soon understand that for yourself." "oh, i have a great deal to learn," i said, with sudden humility. "you have, my dear; and when you take that fact really to heart you will begin to learn in grave reality, and you will be all that your father and i long to make you." "but i'm not the least like father; he could never appreciate me, for i am so different from him. if, for instance, i were like augusta--" "i wonder, dumps, if it would greatly distress you if augusta also went to the french school?" "what?" i said. "augusta! but surely she cannot afford it?" "i think it could be arranged. i take an interest in her, poor child! there is no doubt she is wonderfully clever; but just at present she is very one-sided in all her views. her intellect is somewhat warped by her having all her aspirations and desires forced into one channel." "then, step-mother, you are going to support her?" "certainly not. it is true i may make it possible for those who could not otherwise afford it. i have spoken to her mother on the subject, and perhaps her mother can be helped by some of her relations; it would certainly be the making of augusta." "you are wonderfully kind," i said. "what am i put into the world for except to help others?" "is it true," i asked suddenly, and i laid my hand on her lap, "that you are very rich?" "who told you that?" she said, the colour coming into her face. she looked at me in a distressed way. "only i want to know." "all i can tell you in reply to your question is this: that whatever money god has given me is to be spent not on myself but for him--for him and for those whom i am privileged to help. i do not want to talk of riches, for it is impossible for a child like you, with your narrow experience, to understand that money is a great gift; it is a talent little understood by many; nevertheless, one of the most precious of all. few who have money quite know how to spend it worthily." alex, charley, and von marlo bounded into the room. "we can skate, if you don't mind," said charley, "on the round pond a mile from here. we didn't bring our skates with us, but there are jolly nice ones in chelmsford. do you mind?" he asked. "certainly not, dear," said mrs grant; "and what is more, if there is good skating i am going myself. what do you say, dumps? do you know how to skate?" "no," i answered. "how could i? i never learnt." "few girls can skate," said charley. "this girl shall learn," said mrs grant. "come, come, children; we'll go off as fast as ever we can, to get the best skates to be obtained." part two, chapter six. learning to skate. certainly my step-mother was a patient teacher, and certainly also there were few more awkward girls than i, rachel grant, on that afternoon. the stumbles i made, the way i sprawled my legs, the many falls i had, notwithstanding my step-mother's care! both alex and charley laughed immoderately. it was von marlo, however, who in the end came to the rescue. "mrs grant," he said, "you are dead-tired. i have been able to skate ever since i was able to walk. may i take miss dumps right round the pond? will you trust her to me?" "oh yes, do let him!" i said. my step-mother agreed, and a minute later she was flying away herself as though on wings, with charley on one side of her and alex on the other. notwithstanding that she was a stout person, she looked very graceful on the ice. she could cut figures, and she set herself to teach the boys how to manage these exquisite and bird-like movements. meanwhile von marlo and i skated away after a time with a certain amount of success. he was taller and stronger than my step-mother, and he taught me a dutch way of managing the business; and after a time i was able to go forward with the help of his strong hand, and so the afternoon did not turn out so very disastrous after all. as we were going home von marlo asked if he might walk with me. mrs grant was standing near; she said "certainly," and we started off together. "not that way," he said; "i don't want to go straight back. we have nearly two hours before dinner, and i want you to take me a very long way round." "but i don't know chelmsford specially well," i replied. "oh, i've been poking about a bit by myself," he answered. "we'll just walk up this road to the left, then plunge into the woods; they look so perfect with the snow on the ground." i took his hand, and we walked along bravely. i was warmed with the skating; my cheeks were cold; my heart was beating heartily; i felt a curious exhilaration which snowy air and even most badly executed skating gives to every one. when we entered the woods von marlo slackened his steps and looked full at me. "you are as happy as the day is long," he said. i made no reply. "if you are not you ought to be so," was his next remark. i turned then and stood quite still and faced him. "you make too much fuss," i said. "if you and alex and charley would leave the subject alone i might get on better with her. but you never will leave the subject alone. when i speak to her you all three look at me." "i didn't know that the others looked; i couldn't help it, you know," said von marlo. "but why should you do it? after all, you know much less than the others do." "that doesn't matter." von marlo held out his hand and took mine. "i want to say something to you, dumps. you are quite the nicest and pluckiest girl i have ever come across. i know lots of girls at the hague, and they are pretty in their way; but i never saw anybody quite so pretty as you are." "oh von!" i said, and i burst out laughing. "i do wish you wouldn't talk rubbish like that. why, you know that i am very--very--downright ugly." "i know nothing of the sort," he replied. "to me, a face like yours, so round, and eyes so grey, and--well, i think you are beautiful." i saw at last that he was speaking the truth. perhaps i was the dutch style. i knew i should never certainly be the english style. after a moment his words were soothing. it was well if even a dutchman could think me nice. "and you are so brave," he continued. "looks don't matter very much, of course. they do a little, but you are so plucky, and you have always been so good at home, although now you are just having a rare chance of turning yourself into--" "well?" i said, for he stopped. "into a vixen." "oh dear!" i cried. "yes; you know you are not what you used to be, and it is because of the best woman in the world. so i do want you to try--" "stop!" i said. "i won't do what you want, so now let us change the subject." the colour came into his face. "perhaps," he said, "the best thing i can do is to tell you about my own step-mother." "have you one?" i asked. i looked at him with very keen interest. "yes. i do not remember anybody else. i don't remember my own mother." "oh, well, that is different." "i do not think it is so different, for in some ways it is harder for me than for you." "isn't she nice. von?" i asked. "she means to be," he said; "but she is severe. she doesn't love me as english school because i am not wanted at home." "poor von!" i said. "and have you ever been rude to her?" "oh no," he answered; "i couldn't be that--my father wouldn't allow it." he was silent for a bit, and so was i silent. "what is she like, von?" i asked. "she is what you english would call plain. she is very stout, with a good figure, a high colour, and black eyes, only they're rather small. she is an excellent housewife, and makes good dinners, and sees to the house and the linen and the servants. my father thinks a great deal of her." "and you have brothers and sisters--half brothers and sisters?" i said. "oh yes; a great many. my step-mother loves them best, of course, but that cannot be wondered at." "no," i answered, "and, von marlo," i continued, "what do you call her?" "mamma," he replied. "how can you?" "i couldn't say anything else. i have known her since i was a tiny boy." "with you it is different--it is truly," i repeated. "i am never going to call my step-mother mamma or mother, nor anything which would give her the place of my own mother." "i do not believe a name matters," said von marlo; "but you ought to be good to her, for she is wonderfully good to you." we finished our walk. i liked him and yet i did not like him. i felt annoyed with the boys. i saw during dinner that they were watching me when i spoke to my step-mother. alex would raise his head and glance in her direction, and once when i forgot to reply to her charley gave me a kick under the table. as to von marlo, he seemed to have done his part when he had that walk with me, for he did not take much notice of me, although i was certain he was listening. now, this was the sort of thing to fret a girl. how could i be good when i was certain that i was surrounded by spies? i thought my father's abstracted manner quite refreshing beside the intent and watchful ways of the three boys. and as to augusta, i almost learned to love her. she saw nothing wrong in my step-mother for the very reason that she did not see her at all. whenever she raised her eyes, those deep-set dark eyes of hers would fly to the professor. when he spoke she bent eagerly forward. once he began one of his endless dissertations; the boys were talking about something else. augusta said "hush!" in a most peremptory manner, and my father stopped. "thank you," he said, and he gave her a gracious bow. i really thought for a moment i was at school, and that one of the prefects was calling the class to order. "thank you, miss--" "augusta moore is my name." she uttered it quickly, and with a sort of sob in her voice. "oh, go on, please--go on! it is of the utmost importance." "indeed!" he replied, colouring. "i should not have thought you understood." "oh, i do, sir--i do! i love the great herodotus--the father of all history, is he not?" "yes, child." really i believe, for the first time in his whole life, my father was aware of augusta's society; he now addressed his remarks to her, evidently thinking the rest of us of no importance. he put questions to her which she answered; he drew her out; she had an immense amount of miscellaneous knowledge with regard to the old classics. her hour had come; her cheeks blazed; her eyes were bright; she was lifted off her feet, metaphorically, by my father's appreciation of her talents. "a remarkable girl," he said afterwards when i was alone in the room. "a friend of yours, dumps?" "one of my schoolfellows," i said. then i took hold of his hands. "father!" "well, dumps?" "i want to speak to you." "yes, my dear." "it was very good of you to do what you did for me, and now you are going to send me to a school in paris." "indeed i am not," said my father. "you are," i replied; "it is all arranged. my step-mother said so." "grace, bless her! she has a great many schemes on hand. but i think you will have discovered for yourself, dumps, that i cannot possibly do such a thing. indeed, i don't particularly care for the french mode of education. if you must go abroad, go to germany. in germany we find the greatest thinkers of the last three centuries. put yourself under them, my dear, and it is possible you may come back an intelligent woman." i did not say much more. by-and-by i went up to my room. augusta had not come upstairs. i had a few moments to myself. i locked the door and flung myself on my bed. oh, what a silly, silly dumps i was! for i cried as though my heart would break. it was not father who was sending me to the school in paris; it was my new mother--my step-mother. was i beholden to her for everything? of course, she had bought me the clothes, and she had provided all the new and delightful things in the house. could i take her gifts and stand aloof from her? it seemed impossible. "i cannot love her," i said to myself. "she is nice, but she ever and ever stands between me and my own mother. i cannot--cannot love her." "then if you don't love her," said a voice--an inward voice--"you ought not to take her gifts. the two things are incompatible. either love her with all your heart, and take without grudging what she bestows upon you, or refuse her gifts." i was making up my mind. i sat up on my elbow and thought out the whole problem. yes, i must--i would refuse. i would find father some day when he was alone, and tell him that i, rachel, intended to live on the little money he could spare me; that i would still go to the old school, and wear shabby dresses. anything else would be a slight on my own mother, i thought. part two, chapter seven. a new regime. little did i know, however, of the changes that were ahead. hitherto my step-mother had been all that was sweetly kind and lovingly indulgent; no doubt she was still kind, and in her heart of hearts still indulgent; but when we returned home after our pleasant few days at hedgerow house her manner altered. she took the reins of government with a new sort of decision; she ordered changes in the household management without consulting me about them; she got in even more servants, and added to the luxuries of the house. she invited friends to call, and went herself to pay visits. she ordered a neat brougham, which came for her every day, and in which she asked me to accompany her to visit friends and relatives of her own. i refused in my own blunt fashion. "i am sorry, step-mother," i said; "i am particularly busy this afternoon, and i am going to tea with the swans." "is that an old engagement, rachel?" she inquired. "yes," i said; but i blushed a little as i spoke, for in truth that morning i had all but refused rita swan's urgent entreaty to go and have tea with them. now i seized upon the whole idea as an excuse. mrs grant stood silent for a minute. how handsome and bright and energetic she looked! she was becomingly dressed, and the carriage with its nice horse and well-appointed coachman was waiting at the door. she said after a minute's pause, "very well, dumps, you needn't come to-day; but please understand that i shall want you to go out with me to-morrow morning, and again in the afternoon. don't make any engagement for to-morrow." before i had time to reply she had swept down the hall, the door was flung open for her by the neat parlour-maid, she stepped into her carriage, and was borne away. was this indeed the same desolate house where i had lived ever since my mother died? i had a somewhat dull tea with the swans; i was thinking all the time of my step-mother. they twitted me one moment on my melancholy, and the next they began to praise me. i was not a particularly shrewd girl, but somehow after a time i began to suspect that the news of my step-mother's wealth had got to their ears. if that was so, it would account for their complete change of front. doubtless my step-mother was right when she decided to take me from a school where i might have companions of the swan sort. the next day i came downstairs determined, if possible, to have my own way and not to go out with mrs grant. she was at breakfast when i entered. "you are a little late, rachel," she said. "the hour for breakfast is half-past eight." "but--but--" i began. "you needn't excuse yourself, dear. sit down. to-morrow morning i shall expect you to be in time." she spoke very sweetly, poured out a cup of delicious coffee for me, and asked whether i would prefer ham or eggs to eat with it. i looked out at the street. the worst january weather was on us; there was a drizzling sleet falling from the sky. "we sha'n't have a very pleasant day for our shopping," said mrs grant. "are we going shopping?" i asked. "yes; i am going to take you shopping to-day. you will want your school outfit." i felt myself turning first red and then pale. "oh, but, please--" i began. she stopped helping herself to marmalade and looked at me. she and i were alone; the professor and the boys were all at the college. "but?" she said. "what is it, dear?" "i don't want to go." "i am sorry, but we have very little time to lose. i have ordered the carriage to be here at ten o'clock." "but--" i said, faltering somewhat in my speech, for her manner was beginning to tell on me. i was struggling and struggling against it, but struggling as the swimmer does who knows that time and tide are against him. "yes?" she said. "i want to go for a walk. i hate driving." "to walk on such a day, rachel? i should think you would be glad to have the comfort of our carriage." she was always careful never to call anything hers; she always said "ours." i flushed angrily. "i hate driving," i repeated. "i am sorry, dear. well, we will get the things you hate over as quickly as possible. you must get your school outfit, you see, as you are going to paris on the st. now run upstairs and get your hat and jacket on." was there ever a girl so bullied before? i went unwillingly upstairs. on the second floor, where i now slept, i saw hannah coming downstairs. i ran up to her and took one of her hands. "what have you been doing?" i asked. "doing?" said hannah. "doing? what's the matter with you, dumps?" "she's going to send me away, hannah." "don't talk to me," replied hannah. "hannah, i must i'm just stifling." "i can't talk to you now--not now. she's everywhere, and she has her spies about--all them new servants; they're hand in glove with her-- eating her food and taking her wages." "but, hannah, we eat her food and take her wages." "well, i must confess i thought there was a time when i could put up with it, but if you go i go too. there!" i clutched her hand. there came a rustling sound of a silk dress up the stairs. no, it was not a silk dress; it was a woollen one of good material, but mrs grant had all her dresses lined with silk. "i hate going," i had just time to whisper. "i'll come to your bedroom to-night, and we'll talk this thing out," said hannah. but how small i felt myself, condescending to talk even to poor old hannah about my step-mother! "come, dear," cried the pleasant voice, "are you ready? the carriage is at the door." i rushed into my bedroom, got into my hat and jacket, and was downstairs in a trice. mrs grant came up to me. "not tidily put on, rachel," she said. she dragged my tie into a straight position, and straightened my hat; then she said approvingly, "ah! gloves are nice, and so are the boots. always remember, rachel, that a lady is known by her good gloves and good boots. now then, come." she stepped into the carriage first, and i followed. she gave orders. we stopped at a large shop, where we bought a quantity of things--or rather she bought them--underclothing of every sort and description, more stockings than i thought i could ever use in the whole course of my life, a lot more handkerchiefs, embroidered petticoats, dark petticoats; then gloves--walking gloves and evening gloves and afternoon gloves; and by-and-by we went into the region where pretty things were to be found. such a sweetly becoming costume was got for me--dark-blue again, but now trimmed richly with velvet which was embroidered in a strange and mystical sort of pattern. in my heart of hearts i adored it, but all the time i stood gloomy and silent and without a smile on my face. "come," said mrs grant when the purchases were nearly finished, "you must, my dear child, put on a slightly more agreeable face, for we are going to the millinery department, and i cannot choose a hat which will suit you while you look like that." i tried to smile, but instead i burst into a sort of hysterical laughter. "i wish you wouldn't," i said. she took my hand and squeezed it. "you wish i wouldn't? but i wish i could do a thousand times more for you. come, darling, come." the word "darling," after all the calm insistence of having her own way all the morning, broke on my heart with a feverish desire to respond to it, but i would not. no, i would not be conquered. oh, how particular my step-mother was about that hat! as if it mattered after all. it was the quietest and most expensive hat i had ever seen. as to the feathers, she took them to the light, examined them and pulled them about, and saw that they were exactly the right shade, until i scarcely knew how to contain myself. i could not help murmuring under my breath, "i shall become a sort of augusta if this goes on. i shall loathe clothes if this continues." finally a dark-blue hat was chosen to suit the dark-blue costume, and then a grey hat with a long grey feather was also bought for best occasions; and afterwards i was supplied with a perfectly fascinating set of chinchilla furs, chinchilla for my neck and a darling little muff to match. "you shall wear this hat with these chinchillas," said my step-mother; "and i will get you a very good brown fur for everyday wear--fox. you must wear your chinchillas when you want to be extra smart." at last all the list of things that mrs grant considered necessary for a young lady's entrance into the fashionable parisian school were obtained. "we have done a good morning's work," she said, and she desired the coachman to take us home. "at least i shall have the afternoon to myself," i thought. now, if the truth must be known, hateful as the morning had been, there had also been a sort of feeling of enjoyment. the things that had been bought were good, and i was to be no longer a shabby girl. when i remembered the dark-brown skirt of uncertain make and by no means uncertain length, with the brick-red blouse which had been my proud possession such a very short time ago, i could not help smiling to myself at the vastness of the contrast. but, alas and alack! why was i so perverse that i thought i would welcome that skirt and hideous blouse if only i might be back again in the old days? but would i? could i have this afternoon to myself, i should have a certain satisfaction in going to see the swans, and inviting them back to tea, which i was always permitted to do, and giving them an account of my ravishing chinchilla, my beautiful fox, my dark-blue costume, and my new hats. what would they not feel? i fairly believed that they would begin to see beauty in my small and insignificant eyes, in my _retrousse_ nose, in my somewhat wide mouth. "oh, riches, riches!" i muttered under my breath. "as you did not get the dress i expected you to get before christmas, rachel," said my step-mother during lunch-time, "i have ordered the dark-blue costume and the grey hat and the grey furs to be sent home immediately, for i am going to visit some special friends of mine this afternoon, and i want you to accompany me." "oh, but twice in the carriage!" i said. "i am sorry. to-morrow we will do a lot of walking. i have heaps to do, and i love a tramp on my feet, as you know. i won't have the carriage at all to-morrow; we'll walk until we are fit to drop. but go and amuse yourself, dear, for the carriage will not be round again until four o'clock." i went away to my room. the little gas-stove was alight and the room was warm and comfortable. i went and stood by the window and looked round the apartment. it had been made so elegant, so sweet, so fresh for me. then i glanced at the bed; it was covered with parcels--great big boxes, small boxes, parcels made up in brown-paper. what girl can resist an unopened parcel? not even rachel grant. i began to take out my wonderful possessions, to look at them, to examine them. in themselves they were fascinating, but the sting lay in the fact that they had been given me by her. they all seemed to be witnesses against the miniature--the dear miniature which was fading and fading out of every one's memory. "the only person in this house," i said to myself, "who has a grain of sense is poor old hannah." just as the thought floated through my brain the door was opened and hannah came in. "i had a few minutes to spare, and i thought i'd just steal in and have a talk with you now. she's downstairs talking to a visitor--drat her! say i. now then, miss dumps, what is it? you tell me, and as quick as you can." hannah was the cook of the establishment, and i must say an excellent cook she made. "why, hannah," i said, "i can't imagine how you manage to leave the kitchen just now." "oh, i can manage," said hannah. "i get as much help as i want." "and you are such a good cook, hannah; you take to the new life as kindly as i do." "much chance i have of not taking to it. it's do your work or go; that's the rule of rules in this house. if you are kept to cook, cook you must; if you don't cook, out you go, and some one else comes in who can cook. that's the way. now, miss rachel, you've got to be made into a fashionable young lady, magnificently dressed, and educated in one of the 'orrid french schools." hannah threw a world of contempt into the adjective she bestowed upon the parisian school. "in one of them 'orrid french schools," she said; "and if you don't submit, why, out you goes too." "why, hannah, how could i go out? i often wish i could." "poor child!" said hannah. "well, now--oh, my word! what are all those?" she had not noticed the parcels before. she now sprang on them and began to examine them. in spite of herself she was impressed by the goodly array of garments. "my word!" she said, "no one can accuse her of being stingy." "and no one can accuse her," i said with feeling, "of being mean in any sense of the word. she does her best for us all." "well, she has her object," said hannah. "a-pushing of _her_ out-- a-pushing of her out. she's a'most gone, poor thing! killed she were, but still her spirit seems to linger; now she's a'most gone." "hannah, when you talk like that i sometimes hate you," i said. hannah looked at me in astonishment. "how queer you are, dumps!" she said. "i don't know that i didn't like you twice as well in the old times, though you have plumped out like anything. you were a very plain little creature, i will say that. but there! handsome is that handsome does." "and did i behave so handsomely, hannah? you were always finding fault with me then." "drat you!" said hannah, "you were a bit of a caution--you and them boys. oh dear me! don't i remember the darkness in the old times? and now it's just a blaze of light--gas every where, big fires, big j'ints, poultry, game, fish. my word! and the sweets are enough to make your mouth water. and i has to superintend, and it's `mrs joyce' here and `mrs joyce' there. my word! my word!" "do they call you mrs joyce?" "of course they do. i wouldn't allow anything else. but there, child, i must be off. it's a'most time for us to sit down to our dinner; nothing less, i can assure you, than veal and ham pie, and apple-dumplings afterwards." "but, hannah, you never were good at apple-dumplings, you know." "i am now. i have everything to make them with--that's what i have; and i had nothing afore. oh, my word!" "yes, hannah, you used to feed us very badly. do you remember that leg of mutton?" hannah laughed. "i do," she said. "'ot sunday, cold monday, cold again tuesday, turned upside down wednesday, hashed thursday, bone made into soup friday-- couldn't do more with it if i tried." "you certainly couldn't." "well, child, well, all i can say is this--if you go, and she puts more on me, out i go too. and if ever you want a home, i'll give it to you. i have a bit of money put by--more than you think on. you shall have my address before you go to that school in paris." i kissed the poor old thing. hannah was neatly dressed herself now, and looked a new sort of person altogether. she no longer wore cotton-wool in her ears; she did not need to, she said, for she was never expected to answer any bell of any sort. "i've enough in the kitchen to keep me agoin'," was her remark. hannah disappeared. it was soon time to dress. i put on my beautiful blue dress, which fitted me perfectly--that is, as well as it was necessary to fit a girl of my age. the short, smart little coat had not a wrinkle in it anywhere. over the dress i tried first the fox. it was russian fox, and, i thought, terribly expensive; but what was that to the lovely chinchilla? the chinchilla must go on. i forgot my step-mother in my excitement. the blue hat? yes, the blue hat was perfect; but the grey hat, which exactly toned with the chinchilla, was still better. i found that my cheeks were flushed, and the softness of the grey hat seemed exactly to suit the tone of my complexion. i made my hair look as thick and important as i could. i put on the hat; i fastened the chinchilla fur round my neck. how delicious it was! just as though a number of soft kittens were pressing against my cheeks. i had grey gloves on my hands, and the little muff was seized, and--oh yes, i kissed it. i was a new dumps altogether. i looked in the long glass in my bedroom, and saw an almost slender dumps in an elegant costume. never mind the plain face; the whole appearance was good, and very lady-like. and _she_ had done it all. where was the girl whose dress was outgrown, whose hats had often not the semblance of respectability about them? the girl who was always in despair about the possibility of mending her old stockings any longer, whose gloves had mostly holes in the fingers? where was this girl, with her hungry eyes, her shivering body? she had vanished; she belonged to the attic upstairs, the bare attic which contained--oh, just memories of the past. again i kissed the little muff; then i ran down into the hall. my step-mother was very anxious to see the effect of the costume; she took me into the parlour and made me turn round and round. "it is nice!" i said. my tone of approbation seemed to give her immense satisfaction. she kissed me, then said, "there's the carriage--we are just in time." we entered, and off we went. mrs grant looked her very best. i cannot remember what she wore; when a person is always well dressed you take it as a matter of course and do not notice. i kept on feeling the delicious softness of the pussy-cat fur round my neck, and if my step-mother had not been present i should have kissed the little muff again. we stopped at a house; the footman got down and came to the door. i had not noticed before that there were two men on the box. "why, step-mother," i said, "we are grand!" she gave a smile as though she had not heard me; then, bending forward, she told the man to inquire if lady anne churton was within. he ran up the steps, pulled the bell, and a powdered footman in livery opened the door. a minute later we found ourselves in the hall. we went upstairs; mrs grant, of course, going first, i following. it was a smart-looking house, but it seemed dull and heavy to me; the air was so hot, too. i was certain that i should have to part with my beloved pussy-cat fur when once i entered whatever room we were being conveyed to. a door was flung open by the man who had preceded us upstairs; our names were called out, and a lady, who must have been between fifty and sixty years of age, came to meet us. "now this is good, grace," she said. "how sweet of you to come! you are not a bit formal. oh, this is your--" "my daughter," said mrs grant.--"rachel, this is my very great friend, lady anne churton." a hand jewelled with many valuable rings was held out to me. i was asked to come near the fire. i followed my step-mother and lady anne across the room. it was a very large room, and absolutely crowded with furniture. wherever you turned you saw a little table; and where a table was not, there was a little chair; and every chair was different from its neighbour, and each table was also of a different shape from the one next it. the tables were laden with what my step-mother called _bric-a-brac_ and curios of all sorts and descriptions. the nearest table to me was covered with old-fashioned articles of silver. lady anne and my step-mother began to talk earnestly together in low tones. i got up and went nearer to the silver table to examine it. but, alack and alas! notwithstanding my beautiful dark-blue costume, my chinchilla furs, and all the rest, i was awkward. i was carried off my feet into this new region of soft things and little tables and _bric-a-brac_ and every kind of luxury. i stumbled and knocked over a still smaller table which contained but one priceless treasure, a piece of glass of most wondrous make. i had meant to examine that glass when i had done looking at the silver, for it had the power of taking on every imaginable ray of colour. but it existed no longer; it lay in fragments on the ground. my step-mother came at once to the rescue. lady anne said in the calmest voice, "fray don't trouble. miss grant; it was a mere accident. come a little nearer to me, won't you?" then she rang the bell. when the footman appeared he was told to remove the broken glass. everything was done quietly; there was not the faintest trace of displeasure on lady anne's face; but any girl who reads this can well imagine my feelings. talk of being hot! i thought i should never need furs again as long as i lived. the soft pussy-cats, dear pets, no longer comforted me. i removed the chinchilla, and sat with blazing cheeks gazing straight before me. but lady anne was nothing if she was not kind. "so you are going to school next week?" she said. "and to paris? you will enjoy that." "oh yes," i murmured. i really had not a vestige of character left; i could only mutter--i, who felt myself to be a person of great energy and determination and force of speech. "it was very kind of mrs grant to arrange it all for you." "very kind," i said, loathing mrs grant as i uttered the words. lady anne stared at me. her eyebrows went up the very least bit in the world. "ah! here comes tea," she said. a footman appeared with a tray. a little table opened of its own accord in some extraordinary way. it had looked like a harmless bundle of sticks leaning against one of the walls. the tray, one of rarest china, was placed upon it. lady anne poured thimblefuls of weak tea into cups of matchless china. i was trembling all over. i was actually so nervous that i was sure i should break one of those cups if i touched it. but i did take it, nevertheless; i took this terrible thimbleful in its beautiful little saucer in my gloved hand, and sat down and received a plate of the same type to rest on my lap with an infinitesimal morsel of wafery bread-and-butter. the tea was scalding hot, and it brought tears to my eyes. i felt so bewildered and upset that it was with difficulty i could keep myself from making an ignominious bolt from the room. but worse was to follow. lady anne and my step-mother continued to talk as placidly together as though nothing whatever had happened, as though i had not disgraced myself for ever and ever, when the door was flung open and a perfect swarm of gaily dressed ladies appeared. i think there were five of them. they made the silent room alive all at once, each talking a little higher and more rapidly than the other. one rushed up to lady anne and called her an old dear, and kissed her and patted her cheek; another tapped her with her lorgnette and said, "you naughty old thing, why weren't you at the bazaar yesterday? oh, we had such fun!" then they all sat down, spreading out their garments and seeming to preen themselves like lovely tropical birds. i pushed my chair a little farther from the fire, which had caught my cheeks and made them burn in a most terrible manner. when would my step-mother go? but no, she had no intention of stirring. she knew these people; they were quite interested on seeing her. "oh, how do you get on? how nice to see you again! but what an extraordinary thing you have done, grace! and you have step-children, too. horrors, no doubt!" the words reached my ears. i could scarcely bear myself. mrs grant said something, and there was an apologetic, almost frightened look on the lady's face. the next minute a girl, doubtless about my own age, but who had all the _savoir-faire_ which i did not possess, came swiftly forward and dropped into a low chair near me. "i must introduce myself, miss grant," she said. "i know you are miss grant. i am lilian st leger. i am so glad you are here; all the others are so terribly old, you know. where shall we go to have a nice little talk all to ourselves? into the back drawing-room? oh, but have you had enough tea?" "quite," i replied. now, if there was an absolutely radiant-looking creature on this earth, it was lilian st leger. i won't attempt to describe her, for i have no words. i don't suppose if i were to take her features separately i should be able for a single moment to pronounce them perfect; but it was her sweetness and tact, and the way she seemed to envelop me with her bright presence, which was as cold water to a thirsty person. "i have had quite enough tea," i said. "and i hate tea in drawing-rooms; it is always so weak, and you can only snatch a mouthful of food at a time," said lilian. "come along, then." she held out her tiny hand and clasped mine. i felt vulgar and rough and commonplace beside her; but she steered me right past the numerous tables until we got into a room which was comparatively cool, and we sank down together on a sofa. "this is better. oh, you do look hot! have you been sitting by the fire?" "yes, miss st leger, i have; but i've also done such an awful thing." "i am sure awful things have been done to you. you heard, of course, what mother said. she didn't mean it; she couldn't have meant it if she had seen you." "if she had seen me she would have meant it in very truth," i replied, "if she had witnessed me a few minutes ago." "oh! what happened? tell me everything. it would be lovely if you broke the proprieties of that drawing-room." lilian was wearing a black velvet hat, which had a great plume of feathers that drooped a little over her face. her hair was golden, and very thick and very shining. it was not, like mine, hanging down her back, but fastened in a thick knot very low on her neck. "what did you do?" she said, and she clasped my hand and gave it a squeeze. "i knocked over a small table; there was a solitary glass ornament in the middle." "what! not the salviati?" "it was glass, not salviati," i said. she laughed. "salviati is the maker of some of the most perfect opalescent glass in the world, and this was one of his oldest and most perfect creations. but you saved it?" "i didn't, miss st leger. it is in pieces. it was taken away in something that a footman brought in; it doesn't exist any longer. i have smashed it." "what happened?" "i don't know what happened; nothing, i think. there was a kind of icy breath all over the room, and i thought my heart would stop. but lady anne's voice was as cool as--oh! cool as snow, if snow could speak. afterwards i got burning hot; the ice went and the fire came, and--and i have done it!" lilian looked perplexed. she turned round and gazed at me; then she burst into a peal of merriest laughter. "oh, you funny girl!" she said. "just to think of you--the horror, as mother called you--calmly breaking dear lady anne's sacred salviati, and oh, you don't _half_ know the heinousness of your crime!" "you are rubbing it in pretty hard," i said. she laughed again immoderately; she could not stop laughing. "oh! i could kiss you," she said; "i could hug you. i hate that room and those tables and curios; it is wicked--it is wrong for any one to make her room exactly like a curiosity shop, and that is what lady anne does. but then it's her hobby. well, you have knocked over one of her idols, and she'll never forgive you." "if she never expects me to come to see her again i shall certainly survive," i said. "but please don't laugh at me any more." "oh, i admire you so much," said lilian; "you have such courage!" "but you don't think i did it on purpose, do you?" "of course not you just did it because you are accustomed to space, and there is no space allowed in lady anne's drawing-room. oh! i shall tell dick to-night, and guy." "who are they, please?" "my brothers. won't they roar? well, my dear, she'll never say a word to you or your step-mother; she'll never say a word to anybody; but i shouldn't be a bit surprised if the doctor was summoned to-night. she has had a sort of shock; but she won't show it, for it's considered underbred for any one to show anything." "oh, what an appalling life to lead!" "i lead it--at least i generally do; it is only now and then that i can give myself away. you dear, refreshing young soul, how you have cheered me up! i was so loathing the thought of this afternoon of visits. but now, do tell me something more! are you _always_ doing _outre_ things? if i could only convey you to our house and send you sprawling round, it would be such fun!" "i know you are laughing at me," i said. "well, yes, i am and i am not. but there! tell me about yourself." "i have nothing to tell; i am just a plain girl." "however plain, you are delicious--delicious! how old are you?" "i shall be sixteen in may." "well, i was seventeen a month ago, so i have put up my hair. how do you like it?" "it is lovely," i said. "my maid thinks it is. i don't much bother about it. i have one great desire in life. i long for the unattainable." "i should think anything could be attained by you." "not a bit of it. the thing that i want i can't attain to." "what do you want?" "to be very, very plain, to have a free time, to do exactly what i like--to knock over tables, to skim about the country at my own sweet will unchaperoned and unstared at; never to be expected to make a great match; never to have any one say, `if lilian doesn't do something wonderful we shall be disappointed.'" "oh, well, you never will get those things," i said. after a time i continued--for she kept on looking at me--"would you change with me if you could?" "i shouldn't like to give up mamma--dear mamma _is_ a darling; she really is, although she is always putting her foot into it. she put her foot into it now; but, you see, it was rather good after all, for i saw you and i noticed that you had heard what mamma said. now, mother never does _outre_ things with her body, but with her lips she is always giving herself away. i couldn't leave her even to change with you." "well, i'm plain enough." "thank providence for that. you are plain; i quite admit it. but i will tell you something else. your step-mother is the most delightful woman--" "oh, you have been very nice, miss st leger--" "they call me lady lilian," she interrupted. "oh, but that is rather too terrible." "why should the fact of being an earl's daughter make me a scrap better than you, who are the daughter of a very great professor? but, anyhow, you may call me lilian; you may drop the lady. now go on." "i wish you wouldn't begin to praise _her_." "oh, then, you don't like her? you are one of those naughty little girls who won't take to her dear step-mother. dear, dear!" "she is as good as gold," i said. "i see what it is," said lady lilian; "you and i must have a long talk. we must be friends. have we not talked together over the lost salviati? have we not both sighed over the _mal-a-propos_ remarks of my dear mamma? we ought to be friends. don't i wish to have your looks? and doubtless you wish to have mine? why shouldn't we be friends?" "let us," i said. i was bewitched, charmed. i had forgotten my shyness and felt quite at home with her. in fact, as lady lilian went on talking i felt rather superior to her. it was the first time in all my life i had regarded my plainness as a distinct and most valuable acquisition. "that's all right. i'll introduce you to mamma. come along now this very minute; she is rising to go." "but i sha'n't see much of you, for i am going to school on the st." "to school! heavens! why?" "my step-mother wishes it." "poor little thing! i see. and where?" i mentioned the school. her eyes brightened. "oh, you are going there?" she said. "then i don't think i do pity you. i was there for a year; it's an awfully nice place, and there are some of my own friends there. i'll write and tell them about you. oh! come along; there is mamma at the door." she took my hand. the countess of derwent was just saying adieu to another intimate acquaintance who had entered the room as soon as lilian and i had betaken ourselves into the back drawing-room. she turned when she saw her daughter. "come, lilian. i am going. say good-bye to lady anne." "first," said lilian in her calmest voice, "let me introduce you to the horror." she drew me forward. the poor countess's face became crimson. "the what?" she said. "oh, you called her that yourself when you were congratulating dear grace on having a husband and ready-made children. well, this is the girl, and she is a perfect darling, a deliverer for me out of my worst fit of the dumps." "oh, but they call me dumps," i could not help saying. "better and better," said lady lilian.--"now, mother, here she is; judge for yourself." "i must really apologise, miss grant," said the countess. "i must apologise most humbly. i had no idea you were in the room." "there's nothing to apologise for," i answered. "i am awfully obliged to you, for lady lilian wouldn't have spoken to me but for your saying that. and you had a right to say it, for i expect i am a horror." "i am sure you are nothing of the sort--lilian, my dear lilian." lady lilian tripped back. "ask this child to tea to-morrow.--come, won't you, miss--grant? now good-bye, my dear; you are a very nice, forgiving sort of girl. good-bye.--come, lilian--come!" part two, chapter eight. going to school. all the preparations for school had been made, and it was the day before i was to leave. my trunks--i had several now--were packed. augusta was coming too, and so was hermione. hermione had come to spend the last evening with us in the old house behind the great college. she was very much interested and highly pleased. the last fortnight of my time at home had gone on wings. lady lilian st leger had lifted me into a new world. she was a daring, bright, true-hearted girl. she did not mind treating me with a sort of playful lightness which was very refreshing after the stifling time i had spent in that awful drawing-room; but she also had said good-bye. "we shall meet in the holidays," she said. "i shall see you sometimes. i am to come out as soon as ever i am presented, and i'll be presented at the first drawing-room. after that it will be nothing but rush and tumult; i'll be wishing myself dead all the time, for there will be no hope of anything. i am going to make up my mind to accept the first man who proposes for me." "oh, but you won't do that!" i said, for i had very primitive and very sacred ideas on such topics. "oh, just to get rid of the thing! i only trust he'll be young and poor and ugly. if he is young and poor and ugly, and i fall madly in love with him, there'll be such a rumpus, and that would be a rare bit of fun. but dear, darling mamma will have to give way, because i can always make her do what i like." "but your father?" i said. "oh, i'll manage him too." thus she talked and chattered; but she was not out yet. she was very good-natured, and told me a great deal about the school. "i do envy your going there," she said. "i wish i was fifteen. and you are so jolly honest-looking and so downright plain. i do think you are unfairly equipped for this life, dumps." she would never call me anything else now; i was dumps to her--her darling, plain, practical, jolly dumps. that was how she spoke of me. she had written to the girls whom she knew at the school, and had told me to be sure to introduce myself as her very dearest friend, as her newest and dearest. "they will embrace you; they will take you into their bosoms for my sake," she said. i am afraid i was very much enamoured of lady lilian; she was the type of girl who would excite the admiration of any one. even hermione, who knew her quite well, and whom i had liked in many ways until i met lady lilian, seemed commonplace and spiritless beside her. but hermione, augusta, and i were to go to school together. of course we would be friends. a lady, a special chaperon, was to take us across the channel; we would start on the following morning, and should arrive in paris in the evening. i was excited now it came to the point hannah met me on the last evening as i was going upstairs. she was standing just beside a corner of my own landing. she sprang out on me. "hannah," i said, "you did give me a start." she laid her hand on my arm. "let me come into your room with you," she said. i asked her to do so. she came up and spoke to me emphatically. "you are going. when you go she will go too." "she?" "your own mother. she won't stay another minute. the house will belong to the new queen; but hannah won't put up with it. i gave her notice this morning." "hannah, you didn't." "i did, my dear--i did. i said, `you are turning the child out, and the old woman goes too.'" "then you won't stay for the sake of the boys?" "no, i won't; they can manage for themselves, even master charley and even beautiful master alex. i will say, anyhow, she wasn't a bit unkind. she was very nice; i will say that for her. she's a very nice woman, and under other circumstances i'd be inclined to like her. but there! she's the new queen, and my heart is with the old one." poor hannah burst into tears; i had never seen her so overcome before. "you will come back belonging to the house as it will be in the future. you are too young not to grow up in the new house; but i'm too old, child. i'll never forget the old ways." "hannah, fudge!" said a voice behind; and turning round, i was amazed, and i must say rather disgusted, to see my brother charley. "look here," he said, "this is all stuff and nonsense. we are as jolly as we can be, and our step-mother is as good as gold, and why should we make mischief? as to the old times--now i'll tell you what it is, hannah, they were detestable." charley made his bow, winking at me and vanishing. "just like him," said hannah. "there's a good deal of truth in what he says, hannah." "well, i like the old ways best," said hannah. poor old thing, i could not but pet her and comfort her. she gave me her address. she was going to live with a cousin, and if ever i wanted a home, and was disposed to quarrel with my step-mother, she would take me in--that she would. as i had no intention of quarrelling with my step-mother--for it is quite impossible for any one to have a completely one-sided quarrel--i told hannah that all i could hope to do in the future was to visit her a good deal. in the end i told her that i would write her long letters from paris, which quieted her a good bit. she kissed me, and when she went away i did feel, somehow, that the old life was really gone. the old life! it quite went the next morning when i found myself on board the steamer which was to convey me from dover to calais. i stood with hermione on one side and augusta on the other, looking at the fast-receding waves as the gallant boat plied its way through them. our chaperon, a dull, quiet-looking woman, who only spoke broken english, took little or no notice of us. augusta's eyes were fixed on the distant horizon. occasionally i heard her murmuring lines of verse to herself. once she glanced at me, and i saw that her eyes were full of tears. "what is it?" i said. she immediately repeated with great emphasis: "_and where are they_? and where art thou, my country?" "oh," i cried, "don't say any more! we are not in the humour for poetry." "of course we're not," said hermione, glancing at her. "i was quoting," said augusta. "i was thinking, not about what lord byron thought when he spoke of ancient greece, but of all that i was leaving behind in london." "and what are you leaving behind that is so specially valuable, augusta?" i asked. "your father's lectures," she replied. she turned once more and looked at the horizon. "don't worry her," said hermione in a low tone to me. "i wonder if she'll ever get over it," i said. hermione and i began to pace slowly up and down the deck. "i cannot imagine why my step-mother was so anxious that she should come with us," i said. "because she felt that it was absolutely essential that augusta should see another side of life. dear, dear, i do feel excited! i wonder how we shall like the life. don't frown, dumps; you surely needn't worry about augusta. she has made a kind of king of your father. she believes him to be all that is heroic and noble and majestic in life. it is really a most innocent admiration; let her keep it." "yes, of course, if she likes," i said. the air was cold. i wrapped the warm fur cloak which my step-mother had insisted upon giving me for the voyage tightly round me, and sat down on one of the deck-seats. by-and-by augusta tottered forward. "it is strange how difficult it is to use your sea-legs," she said. she sprawled on to the seat by my side. suddenly the vessel gave a lurch, and she found herself lying on the deck. a sailor rushed forward, picked her up, and advised the young lady to sit down; the wind was a little fresher and the vessel would sway a trifle. he brought a tarpaulin and wrapped it round us three. augusta was on one side of me. presently she pressed my hand. "you are the _next_ best," she said, gazing at me with pathetic eyes. "next what?" i said. "you are his daughter." "i will try and be friendly with you, augusta; but i do bar one thing," was my immediate comment. "and what is that?" "nonsense. you must try and talk sense." she smiled very gently, and taking my hand within her own, stroked it. "he also," she said after a pause, "is very determined. in fact, i cannot with truth say that he has ever in his life given me what i could call a civil word. now, you are like him; you are exceedingly blunt. the blunter you are, the more you resemble him." "oh, good gracious! then i suppose i shall have to be civil." "i beseech of you, don't; keep as like him as you can." "if you mean for a single moment that dumps is like her father in appearance, you are much mistaken," said hermione, bending across me to speak to augusta. "she is like him neither in body nor in mind." "but she has a trifle of his moral force," replied augusta, with great majesty; and then, finding that neither hermione nor i was at all in sympathy with her, she satisfied herself with remaining silent and leaning against my shoulder. perhaps she thought i was imparting to her some of my moral force. i really felt a savage desire to push her away. at last we landed, and found ourselves in a first-class compartment in the paris train, and a few minutes afterwards we were on our journey. we arrived there in the evening. then we found ourselves in an omnibus which was sent to meet us from the school, and were on our way to that home of all the virtues just beyond the champs elysees. my heart was beating high. i was full of suppressed anxiety. hermione once or twice touched my hand. she was also very excited; she was wondering what sort of life lay before her. augusta, on the other hand, was utterly irresponsive. she did not make one remark with regard to gay, beautiful, brilliant paris, which looked, as it always does at this hour, full of marvellous witchery, so brilliantly lighted up were the broad streets, so altogether exhilarating was the tone of the bracing air. augusta sat huddled up in one corner of the omnibus, while hermione and i got as close to the door as we could, and gazed out of the window, which was wide-open, exclaiming at each turn as we drove along. the champs elysees flashed into view; we drove on, and presently turned into a very broad street, and pulled up with a jerk before a house which seemed to have a balcony to each window, and which was brilliantly lit from attic to cellar. our companion, the lady who had brought us, now said something in excellent french, and we got out of the omnibus and followed her up a paved path and through an open doorway into a wide hall. here a servant appeared, who was told to take us to our rooms. we followed her up some stairs, which were white marble and were uncarpeted. we passed a wide landing where there were some marble figures in the corners, and large palm-trees standing beside them; then again past folding-doors, and through a landing with more marble figures and more palms, until at last we entered through two doors, which were flung open wide, into a pretty little sitting-room. why do i say little? the room was lofty, and was so simply furnished that it looked much larger than it was. the floor was covered with oak parquetry, and was polished to the most slippery degree. there were a couple of rugs here and there, but no carpet. in the centre of the room was a table covered with a white cloth, and containing knives, forks, glasses, and a bunch of flowers rather carelessly arranged in a vase in the middle. there were heavy chairs in the louis-quinze style, with a great deal of gilt about them, and a huge mirror, also with gilt, let into the wall at one side; and exactly opposite the wall was a door, which led into three small bedrooms, all communicating each with the other. "these are your apartments, young ladies," said the governess who had taken us upstairs. "this is your sitting-room, where to-night you will have your supper. you will not see your companions--or i think not-- until the morning. you will be glad to retire to rest, doubtless, as you must have had a long journey. your supper will come up in a moment or two. if you give your trunks to justine she will unpack them and put your things away. ah! here is the bell; if you will ring it when you want anything, justine, who is the maid whose special duty it is to wait on you, will attend the summons." the governess turned to go away. "but, please," called out hermione as she was closing the door, "what are we to call you?" "mademoiselle wrex." we thanked her, and she vanished. augusta stood in the middle of the room and clasped her hands. "well, now, i call this jolly!" i said. "delightful! and how quaint!" said hermione. "i never thought we should have a sitting-room." "but there isn't a book," remarked augusta. "oh, we don't want books to-night, augusta. now, do lean on my moral strength and forget everything unpleasant," i said. "oh! do look out of the window; here's a balcony," cried hermione. "let us go out on it when we have had supper." she pushed back the curtains, opened the window, and the next minute she was standing on the little balcony looking down into the crowded street. "oh! and that house opposite; we can see right into its rooms. what fun! what fun! i do call this life!" cried the girl. "we had better go and unlock our trunks; remember we are at school," i said. "how unlike you, dumps, to think of anything sensible!" was hermione's remark. we went into our rooms. "i am going to ring the bell for justine," said hermione. she did so, and a very pretty girl dressed in french style appeared. she could not speak english, but our home-made french was sufficient for the occasion. we managed to convey to her what we wanted, and she supplied us with hot water, took our keys, and immediately began to unpack our trunks and to put away our belongings. "you shall have the room next to the sitting-room," i said to hermione. "very well," she answered. "i will take the next," i said; "and, augusta, will you have that one?" "it's all the same to me," said augusta. in less than half-an-hour we felt ourselves more or less established in our new quarters. "now," said justine, becoming much animated, "you will want, you _pauvre petites_, some of the so necessaire refreshment." she rang the bell with energy, and a man appeared bearing chocolate, cakes of different descriptions, and sandwiches. we sat down and made a merry meal. even augusta was pleased. she forgot the absence of books; she even forgot how far she was from the professor. as to her poor mother, i do not think she even gave her a serious thought hermione and i laughed and chatted. finally we went and stood on the balcony, and augusta retired to her own room. "now this is a new era; what will it do for us both?" said hermione. "i don't know," i said. "aren't you happy, dumps?" "yes, i am a little; but i don't suppose i am expected to take things very seriously." "it is a great change for me," said hermione, "from the regularity of the life at home." "i suppose it is," i said; but then i added, "you cannot expect me to feel about it in that way." "why so?" "it seems to me," i continued, "that i have been for the last few months taken off my feet and whirled into all sorts of new conditions. we were so poor, so straitened; we seemed to have none of what you would call the good things of life. then all of a sudden fortune's wheel turned and we were--i suppose--rich. but still--" "don't say you prefer the old life." "no--not really. i know she is so good; but you must admit that it is a great change for me." "i know it is; but you ought to be thankful." "that is it; i don't think i am. and what is more," i continued, "i don't think this is the right school for augusta. there is just a possibility that i may be shaped and moulded and twisted into a sort of fine lady; but nothing will ever make augusta commonplace, nor will anything make you commonplace. oh dear! there is some one knocking at the door." the knock was repeated. we said, "come in!" and a girl with a very curly head of dark hair, bright eyes to match, and a radiant face, first peeped at us, then entered, shut the door with a noisy vehemence, and came towards as with both her hands extended. half-way across the room she deliberately shut her eyes. "now, i wonder which of you i shall feel first. one is dumps and the other hermione. i am expected to adore dumps because she is so jolly and plain and sensible and--and awkward; and i am expected to worship hermione because she is exactly the reverse. now--ah! i know--this is hermione!" she clasped her arms round my somewhat stout waist. "wrong--wrong!" i cried. she opened her eyes and uttered a merry laugh. "i have been introduced to you," she said, "by special letter from my friend lilian st leger. and you _are_ dumps?" "of course," i said. "good! you do look jolly. i am rosalind mayhew. i am a great friend of lilian's. of course, i am younger than she is--i am a year younger-- and i am going to be at school for another year, so i'll see you through, dumps; lilian has asked me to." "sit down and tell us about every thing," i said. "you know we are such strangers." "washed up on this inhospitable shore, we scarcely know what we are to do with ourselves, or what savages we are to meet," said hermione very merrily. "then i'll just tell you everything i can. you know, mademoiselle wrex would be wild if she knew that i had come up to see you this evening. she said i was not to do so, but to leave you in peace. well, i could not help myself. i slipped out to come here, and i told elfreda and riki and fhemie and hortense that i could not resist it any longer." "what queer names!" i said. "oh, riki--she's a german comtesse; and elfreda is a baroness; but we always call them just riki and elfreda. they are very jolly girls. then as to fhemie, she is more english than i am; and hortense is french of the french. there are all sorts of girls at our school. the dutch girls are some of the nicest. i will introduce you to them. then there are swedes, and several americans. the americans are very racy." "how many girls are there altogether at the school?" i asked. "well, between twenty and thirty. you see, the baroness gablestein is exceedingly particular." "who is she?" "my dear dumps! you don't mean to say that you have come to this school without knowing the name of our head-mistress?" "a baroness? gablestein?" i exclaimed. "yes; she really represents a sort of all-round nationality. to begin with, she is an englishwoman herself by birth--that is, on one side. her mother was english, but her father was french. then she married a german baron, whose mother was a dutchwoman, and whose grandmother was italian. her husband died, and she found, poor baroness! that she had not quite enough to live on, and so, as she was exceedingly well educated and had many aristocratic connections, she thought she would start a school. her name in full is baroness von gablestein. she is most charming. she talks excellent english, but she also talks french and german and italian like a native. she has a fair idea of the dutch tongue, and is exceedingly kind to her dutch connections; but i think her most valued pupils hail from the island home. but there! i don't think i ought to stay any longer to-night. i don't want comtesse riki to become curious and to poke her aristocratic little nose in here. she is a very jolly girl, and as nice as ever she can be; still, she is not english, you know. oh, you'll find all sides of character here. i can't tell you how funny it is, particularly with regard to the french and german girls; they are so interested about their _dot_ and their future husbands and all the rest. i tell you it _is_ life in this place! we do have good times; it isn't a bit like a regular school. you see all sorts and conditions--good, bad, and indifferent; but i suppose the good preponderate. now kiss me, dumps. you will be quite a fresh variety. i believe you are blunt and honest--but, oh, don't break the salviati glass!" "how very wrong of lilian to have told you that story!" i said. "my dear good creature, do you think that lilian st leger could keep anything to herself? she is about the maddest young woman i ever came across; but we do miss her at school. her name will be `open sesame' to you to every heart in the place. she is just the nicest and most bewitching of creatures. i only wish she was back." "she is coming out in about a month," i said. "poor thing, how she always did hate the idea!" "she won't when the time comes," said hermione. "once she is plunged into that fun she will enjoy it as well as another." "i never should," i said. rosalind glanced at me and laughed. "oh, perhaps you'll change too," she said. "well, you look awfully nice. your breakfast will be brought to your rooms to-morrow morning sharp at seven o'clock. we have _dejeuner_ at twelve, afternoon tea at four, dinner at seven. the rest of the day is divided up into all sorts of strange and odd patterns, totally different from english life. but, of course, the meals are all-important." "why," i said, "i did not think you were so greedy." "nor are we; but you see, dear, during meals we each speak the language of our native country, and i can tell you there is a babel sometimes when the baroness is not at the head of her table. all the rest of the time the english girls _must_ talk french, german, or italian; and the french ones must talk english, german, or italian; and the german girls must talk french, english, or italian; and so on, and so on." "oh, you confuse me," i said. "how can any one girl talk three languages at once?" "day about, or week about--i forget which," said rosalind. "now, good-night, good-night." she vanished. "i declare i am dead-tired," i said, and i sank down on the sofa. "what a good thing augusta wasn't here!" said hermione. "yes; she wouldn't have understood a bit," i said. i went to augusta's room that night before i lay down to rest. she was sound asleep in the dress she had travelled in. she had not even taken the trouble to put a wrap over her. she looked tired, and was murmuring latin verses in her sleep. "it is not the right place for her; she will never, never get on with these baronesses and comtesses, and all this medley of foreign life," i could not help saying to myself. i covered her up, but did not attempt to awake her; and then i went to my own room, got into bed, and went to sleep with a whirl of emotion and wonder filling my brain. part two, chapter nine. first impressions. it seemed to me that i had hardly closed my eyes in sleep before i was awakened again by seeing justine standing by my bedside with a tray of very appetising food in her hand. "here are your rolls and coffee, mademoiselle," she said. as she spoke she laid the little tray on a small table by the side of my bed, evidently put there for the purpose; and taking a dressing-jacket from the wardrobe, she made me put it on, and admonished me to eat my breakfast quickly, as i must rise and attend prayers in the space of three-quarters of an hour. here was hurry indeed. i munched my delicious rolls, and sipped my coffee, and thought of the new life which was before me, and then i got up with energy and washed and dressed. when i had completed my toilet i went into the sitting-room, for although our rooms opened one into the other, there were other doors on to an adjoining landing. here i found hermione waiting for me. "where's augusta?" i said. "i don't know--surely she is dressed." "i'll go to her room and find out," i said. i went and knocked at the door. a heavy voice said "come in," and i entered. augusta was now lying well wrapped up in the bedclothes. she had not touched either her coffee or her rolls. "aren't you getting up?" i said. "the bell will ring in a moment for prayers. we are expected to go down." "i have a headache," said augusta. "are you really ill, augusta? i am sorry." "i am not ill, but i have a headache. i had bad dreams last night." "and you never got into bed at all." "i fell asleep, and my dreams were troublesome. i can't get up yet. no, i won't have any breakfast. i wish i hadn't come; i don't like this place." i knelt down by the bed and took her hand. "you know that your mother and your uncle wouldn't have made such an effort to send you here if they didn't think it would be for your good," i said. "do try and like it." there was a new tone in my voice. i really felt sorry for her. she raised her head and fixed her dark eyes on my face. "do you think your father would like it?" "i am sure he would, augusta," i said; and an idea flashed through my brain. i would write that very day to my step-mother and beg her to get my father to send augusta a message. the slightest word from him would control her life; she would work hard at her french, her german, hard at manners, refinement--at everything--if only he would give her the clue. surely my step-mother would manage it. i flashed a bright glance at her now. "i know that my father would like it. i'll tell the baroness you are not well and cannot come down this morning." "the baroness? what did you say?" said augusta. "our head-mistress; her name is baroness von gablestein." augusta closed her eyes and shivered. "to this we have sunk," i heard her mutter, and then she turned her face to the wall. a great bell, musical and dear, sounded all over the house. "that is our summons," i said. "mademoiselle wrex will meet us on the next landing, and i will come to you as soon as i can." i left the room. "what's the matter?" said hermione. "she says she has a headache, but i think she is mostly sulking," i replied. "i am going to write to my step-mother; i think i know how to manage her." "dumps, how bright you look--and how happy!" yes, i was happy; i was feeling in my heart of hearts that i really meant to do my very best. on the next landing we met mademoiselle wrex. see looked approvingly at us. i told her about augusta, and she said she would see to the young lady, but in the meantime we must follow her downstairs. we went down and down. how airy and fresh, and i must say how cold also, the house felt! i had always imagined that french houses were warm. when we arrived on the ground _etage_ we turned to our left and entered a very large room. like all the other rooms in the house, it was bare of carpet. on a sort of dais at the top of the room there stood the baroness von gablestein. she was one of the handsomest and most distinguished-looking women i had ever seen. she was not young; she must have been between forty and fifty years of age. her hair was dark by nature, but was now very much mixed with grey. she had dark and very thick eyebrows, and a broad and massive forehead. she wore her hair on a high cushion rolled back from her face. the rest of her features were regular and very clearly cut. her lips were sweet but firm, and her eyes dark and very penetrating. but it was not her mere features, it was the clear, energetic, and yet joyous expression of her face which so captivated me that i, dumps, stood perfectly still when i saw her, and did not move for the space of two or three seconds. i felt some one poke me in the back, and a voice in broken english said, "but stare not so. go right forward." i turned, and saw a girl much shorter than myself, and much more podgy, who glanced at me, smiled, and pointed to a bench where i was to sit. the baroness read a few verses of scripture in the french tongue, and then we all knelt down and a collect for the day was read, also in french, and then we were desired to join our different classes in the schoolroom. i stood still, and so did hermione. the baroness seemed to observe us for the first time, and raised her brows. mademoiselle wrex came up and said something to her. "ah, yes," i heard her say in very sweet, clear english. "the dear children! but certainly i will speak with them." she went down two or three steps and came to meet us. "you are rachel grant," she said. "welcome to our school.--and you are hermione aldyce. welcome to our school." she had a sort of regal manner; she bent and kissed me on the centre of my forehead, and she did the same to hermione. "i trust you will enjoy your life here. i trust you will in all respects be worthy of the reputation of our school; and i trust, also, that we shall do our utmost to make you happy and wise." she paused for a minute. "my dear children," she said then, "this is a very busy hour for me, and i will see you later; in the meantime i leave you in the care of mademoiselle wrex, who will take you to those teachers who will superintend your studies." i felt my cheeks growing very red. hermione was cool and composed. we followed mademoiselle wrex through several rooms into the schoolroom, and there we were examined by a german lady, who put us in a very low form as regarded that language. we were next questioned by a french mademoiselle, who did likewise; but an english lady, with a matter-of-fact and very quiet face, rescued us from the ignominious position in which we found ourselves with regard to german and french by discovering that our attainments in our mother-tongue were by no means contemptible. in the end we found, so to speak, our level, and our school life began right merrily. late that evening i found time to write a few words to my step-mother. "i will tell you all about the school later on," i began. "at present i feel topsy-turvy and whirly-whirly; i don't know where i am, nor what has happened to me. i dare say i shall like it very much, but i will keep my long letter for sunday; we have all the time we want for ourselves on sunday; no one interferes, and we are allowed to talk in our own tongue--that is, if we wish to do so. what i am specially writing to you about now is augusta. she is taking the change in her circumstances very badly, i must say, my dear step-mother; she is not reconciled. she would not get up this morning, nor would she undress last night. she pleads a headache, and will not eat. but, at the same time, mademoiselle wrex, who has the charge of our department, cannot find anything special the matter with her. i think it is a case of homesickness, but not the ordinary sort, for she is certainly not pining for her mother. it really is a case of grieving because she cannot attend my father's lectures. she does think a great deal of him, and seems to have set her whole life by his example. now, if you could get him to send her the tiniest little note, just the merest line, to say he hopes she will do well and like her french and german--oh, anything will do--she will do her duty and will be as happy as the day is long. you are so clever, i know you can manage it. i haven't time for another word.--your affectionate step-daughter, rachel grant." part two, chapter ten. the professor's letter. i cannot give all the particulars with regard to my life at the school, which was called villa bella vista, although i cannot tell why; perhaps because from the upper windows you could catch a glimpse of the champs elysees. be that as it may, it was in some ways a bella vista for me, a very great change from my old life in the dark house near the ancient college, from poverty to luxury, from dullness to sunshine, from the commonplace school to one which was the best that it was possible for a school to be. the baroness von gablestein was a woman of great integrity of mind and great uprightness of bearing, and her strong personality she managed more or less to impress on all the girls. of course, there were black sheep in this fold, as there must be black sheep in every fold; but hermione and i soon found our niche, and made friends with some of the nicest girls. we liked our lessons; we took kindly to french and german; italian would follow presently. french and german were now the order of the day. in short, we were contented. we had not been a fortnight at the school bella vista before we began to feel that we had always lived there. were we not part and parcel of the house? were not its interests ours, the girls who lived there our friends, and the life we lived the only one worth living? we did not acknowledge to ourselves that we felt like this, but nevertheless we did. as to augusta--well, for the first few days she was as grumpy and unsociable as girl could be. then there came a change over her, and i knew quite well what had caused it. the post was delivered in the evening, and there was a letter addressed to augusta. she took it up languidly. she seemed to feel no interest whatever in anything. i watched her without daring to appear to do so. we were in our own little sitting-room at that time, and rosalind mayhew was having supper with us. this treat was always allowed on saturday evenings. the girls could ask one another to have supper, only giving directions downstairs with regard to the transference of the food to the different rooms. rosalind was our guest on this occasion. augusta laid her letter by her plate; she put one hand on the table, and presently took up the letter and glanced at it again. i did not dare to say, "won't you read it?" for had i done so that would have provoked her into putting it into her pocket, and not glancing at it perhaps until the following morning, or goodness knows when. so, glancing at hermione, i proposed that those who had finished supper should go and stand on the balcony for a little. we all went except augusta, who remained behind. i kept one ear listening while i chatted with my companions. it seemed to me that i certainly _did_ hear the rustle of paper--the sort of rustle that somewhat stiff paper would make when it is taken out of its envelope. then there was utter stillness, and afterwards a wild rush and a door slammed. i looked into the sitting-room. it was empty. "she has read it, has she not?" said hermione. "oh, hush, hush!" i whispered. "don't say a word." "are you talking about that queer, half-mad girl?" said rosalind. "oh, i'm sure she will be all right in the future," i said. rosalind changed the conversation to something else. "by the way, dumps, comtesse riki has taken a most violent fancy to you." "what! to me?" i asked. "yes; and the baroness elfreda to hermione." now, comtesse riki was a very delicately made, exquisitely pretty girl, of the fairest german type. elfreda, on the contrary, was short and exceedingly fat, with a perfectly square face, high cheek-bones, and a quantity of hay-coloured hair which she wore in two very tight plaits strained back from her face. hermione shrugged her shoulders. "they're both awfully nice; don't you think so?" said rosalind. "i have scarcely given them a thought," i answered. my mind was still dwelling on the letter which augusta had received. presently rosalind left us, and hermione and i wondered what the result would be. "go to her door and knock, and see if she will come out and tell us; won't you, dumps?" said hermione. i did go and knock. "yes, dear?" said augusta's voice. it was quite bright and absolutely changed. "aren't you coming out to stand on the balcony a little, and to chat? do come, please." "not to-night, dear; i am very busy." still that new, wonderful, exceedingly cheerful voice. "the spell has worked," i said to hermione when i returned to her. we neither of us saw augusta again until the next morning, and then there was a marvellous change in her. she did not tell us what had caused it. to begin with, she was neatly dressed; to follow, she ate an excellent breakfast; and again, wonder of wonders! she applied herself with extreme and passionate diligence to her french and german lessons. she looked up when her mistress spoke; she no longer indulged in silence broken only by rhapsodies of passionate snatches of verse from her favourite authors. she was altogether a changed augusta. i did not say a word to her on the subject, and i cautioned hermione not to breathe what i had done. "if she thinks father has written to her on his own account the spell will work, and she will be saved," i said. it was not until a fortnight later that augusta said to me in a very gentle tone, "i see daylight. how very naughty i was when i first came! how badly i did behave! but now a guiding hand has been stretched out, and i know what i am expected to do." i jumped up and kissed her. "i am glad," i said. "you cannot be as glad as i am," she answered; and she took both my hands in one of hers and looked into my face, while tears rose to her bright, rather sunken eyes. "to think that _he_ should take the trouble to write!" i ran away. i did not want to be unkind, and truly did not mean to; but augusta's manner, notwithstanding the reform in her character, was almost past bearing. "poor, dear old father!" i said afterwards to hermione, "he can little realise what a fearful responsibility he has in life--the whole of augusta's future--and just because he is a clever lecturer. i really cannot understand it." "nor i," said hermione. "i myself think his speeches are rather dull; but i suppose i have a different order of mind." i remember quite well that on that occasion we girls were permitted to go for a delightful walk into the bois de boulogne. we went, of course, with some of the governesses; but when we got there we were allowed a certain amount of freedom--for instance, we could choose our own companions and walk with whom we pleased. we were just leaving the house on this occasion when comtesse riki came up to me and asked if i would walk with her. i acceded at once, although i had hoped for a long walk with hermione, as i had received a budget of home news on that day, and i wanted to talk it over with her; last, but not least, there had come a voluminous letter from lilian st leger. it was a little provoking, but riki's very pretty blue eyes, her pathetic mouth, and sweet smile conquered. at the same instant baroness elfreda flew up to hermione and tucked her podgy hand inside the girl's arm. "i couldn't walk with you, dumps," she said, "for a dumpy girl couldn't walk with another dumpy girl--so i want to be your friend, a sweet, slight, graceful english girl." hermione consented with what patience she could, and we started off on our walk. while we were in the town we had, of course, to walk two by two; but presently, in a special and rather retired part of the gardens, the governesses were less particular, and each couple was allowed to keep a little away from the other. "now, that's a comfort," said riki. "i have so much i want to ask you." "what about?" i said. "about your so delightful english ways. you have much of the freedom, have you not?" "i don't know," i replied. "oh, but you must! think now; no girl here, nor in my country, nor in any other, i think, on the continent, would be allowed to go about unattended--not at least before her marriage." "but," i answered, "we don't think about getting married at all in england--i mean girls of my age." "if you don't think it impertinent, would you tell me what your age may be?" i said i should be sixteen in may. "but surely you will think of your marriage within about a year or two, will you not?" i laughed. "what are you talking about?" i said. "really, comtesse, i cannot understand you." "fray don't call me that; call me riki. i like you so very much; you are different from others." "every one tells me that," i answered, a little bitterness in my tone. "you have the goodness within--you perhaps have not the beauty without; but what does that matter when goodness within is more valuable? it is but to look at you to know that you have got that." "if you were really to see into my heart, riki, you would perceive that i am an exceedingly selfish and very ungrateful girl." "oh dear!" said the comtesse riki, "what is it to be what you call ungrateful?" "not to be thankful for the blessings that are given you," i made answer. she glanced at me in a puzzled way. "some day, perhaps," i said, "you will visit our england and see for yourself what the life is like." "i should like it," she replied--"that is, after my nuptials." "but you are only a child yourself." "not a child--i am sixteen; i shall be seventeen in a year; then i shall leave school and go home, and--and--" "begin your fun," i said. "oh no," she answered--"not exactly. i may go to a few of the dances and take a _tour_ [dance] with the young men--i should, of course, have many partners; but what is that? then i shall become affianced, and my betrothal will be a very great event; and afterwards there will be my trousseau, and the preparing for my home, and then my marriage with the husband whom my parents have chosen for me." "and you look forward to that?" i said. "of course; what else does any girl look forward to?" i could not speak at all for a minute; then i said, "i am truly thankful i am not a german." she smiled. "if we," she said slowly, "have one thing to be more--what you call grateful for--than another, it is that we don't belong to your so strange country of england. your coldness, and your long time of remaining without your _dot_ and your betrothal and your so necessaire husband, is too terrible for any girl in the fatherland even to contemplate the pain." "oh!" i said, feeling quite angry, "we pity _you_. you see, comtesse, you and i can never agree." she smiled and shook her little head. "but what would you do," she said a few minutes afterwards, "if these things were not arranged? you might reach, say, twenty, or even twenty-one or twenty-two, and--" "well, suppose i did reach twenty-one or twenty-two; surely those years are not so awful?" "but to be unbetrothed at twenty-one or twenty-two," she continued. "why, do you not know that at twenty-five a girl--why, she is lost." "lost?" i cried. "well, what we call put aside--of no account. she doesn't go to dances. she stays at home with the old parents. the young sister supersedes her; she goes out all shining and beautiful, and the adored one comes her way, and she is betrothed, and gets presents and the _dot_ and the beautiful wedding, and the home where the house linen is so marvellous and the furniture so good. then for the rest of her days she is a good housewife, and looks after the comforts of the lord of the house." "the lord of the house?" i gasped. "her husband. surely it is her one and only desire to think of his comforts. what is she but second to him? oh! the chosen wife is happy, and fulfils her mission. but the unfortunate maiden who reaches the age of twenty-five, why, there is nothing for her--nothing!" the comtesses pretty checks were flushed with vivid rose; her blue eyes darkened with horror. "poor maiden of twenty-five!" i said. "why, in england you are only supposed to be properly grown-up about then." "but surely," said the comtesse, glancing at me and shrugging her shoulders--"you surely do not mean to say that at that advanced age marriages take place?" "much more than before a girl is twenty-five. but really," i added, "i don't want to talk about marriages and _dots_; i am only a schoolgirl." the comtesse laughed. "why will you so speak? what else has a girl of my great nation to think of and talk of? and the mademoiselles here--what have they to think of and to talk of? oh! it is all the same; we live for it--our _dot_, and our future husbands, and the home where he is lord and we his humble servant." "it doesn't sound at all interesting," i said; and after that my conversation with comtesse riki languished a little. a few days afterwards this same girl came to me when i was preparing a letter for home. i was writing in our sitting-room when she entered. she glanced quickly round her. "it is you who have the sympathy," she said. "i hope so," i answered. "what is the matter, riki?" her eyes were full of tears; she hastily put up her handkerchief and wiped them away. "there is no doubt," she said, "that you english are allowed liberties unheard-of for a german girl like me. i would beg of you to do me a great favour. i have been thinking of what you said the other day about this so great liberty of the english maidens, and the great extension of years which to them is permitted." "yes, yes?" i said, and as i spoke i glanced at the gilt clock on the chiffonier. "you are in so great a hurry, are you not?" asked riki. "i want to finish my letter." "and you will perhaps post it; is it not so?" "yes; i am going out with hermione and mademoiselle wrex." "you are going, perhaps, to shops to buy things?" "yes. do you want me to bring you in some chocolates?" "oh! that would be vare nice; but if you would, with your own letter, put this into the post also?" as she spoke she gave me a letter addressed in the somewhat thin and pointed hand which most german girls use, and which i so cordially detested. "it is to heinrich," she said. "i wouldn't ask you; but your heart is warm, and--he suffers." "but why should i post it? will you not take it downstairs and put it with the other letters in the letter-box?" the delicate colour flew to her cheeks; her eyes were brighter than usual. "heinrich would not then receive it," she answered. "you will post it-- it is necessaire for him that he gets it soon; he is in need of comfort. you will, will you not?" i really hardly thought about the matter. i did not know why, but it did not occur to me that riki was asking me to do anything underhand or outside the rules. she laid the letter on the table and flew away. i had just finished my own; i put it into an envelope and addressed it, and taking riki's letter also, i put on my outdoor things and went downstairs to meet hermione and mademoiselle wrex. it was now a very bitter day in march. we had been at school for two months. the time had flown. i was a healthy and very happy girl. mademoiselle wrex said, "we must walk quickly to keep ourselves warm in this so bitter north-east wind." we all walked quickly, with our hands in our muffs, and as we were passing a pillar-box i dropped the letters in. "now that is off my mind," i thought, with a sigh of relief. "how did you manage to write two letters?" asked hermione. "you were in such a fearful fuss getting through your one!" i made no answer. something the next moment distracted our attention, and we absolutely forgot the circumstance. it was not until about a week afterwards that i observed a change in comtesse riki. she was very pale, and coughed now and then. she no longer took interest in her work, and often sat for a long time pensive and melancholy, her eyes fixed on my face. one bitterly cold day i found her alone in the _salon_, where we seldom sat; for although there was what was called central heating all over the house, it was not often put on to any great extent in the _salon_. riki had flung herself into a chair which was the reverse of comfortable. she started up when she saw me. "oh, you will sympathise with me in my trouble!" "what is the matter?" i asked. "if we might go for a little walk together." "but why so?" i asked. "you are not fit to go out to-day, it is so cold." "but the cold will revive me. feel my hand; my pulse beats so fast." i took her hand; her little pulse was bounding in her slender wrist. "i am sure you ought not to go out; indeed, you can't." she looked up at me imploringly. suddenly she burst out crying. "oh riki," i said, "what is the matter?" "if you don't help me i shall be the most miserable girl in all the world," she said. "and it is all your fault, too." "my fault?" i cried. "why, riki, you must be mad. whatever have i done?" "well, you have told me about your so wonderful english customs, and i have been taking them to my heart; and there is heinrich--" "who is heinrich--your brother?" she stared at me, but made no reply. "he was the person you wrote to, was he not?" "oh, hush, hush! raise not your voice to that point; some one may come in and hear." "and why should not people hear? i must say english girls have secrets, but not that sort," i said, with great indignation. "you are so bitter and so proud," she said; "but you know not the heart-hunger." "oh yes, i do!" i answered. i was thinking of my mother and her miniature, and the fading image of that loved memory in the old home. i also thought of the new step-mother. yes, yes, i knew what heart-hunger was. my tone changed to one of pity. "i have felt it," i said. "oh, then, you have had your beloved one?" "indeed, yes." "did i not say that of all the school it was natural i should select you to be to me a companion?" "can i help you?" i said. "you can. will you, as i am not allowed to go out, take this and put it into a letter-box?" "but i cannot make out why there should be any trouble." "it is so easy, and heinrich--the poor, the sad, the inconsolable--wants to get it at once." again i was a remarkably silly girl; but i took riki's letter and posted it for her. she devoured me with kisses, and immediately recovered her spirits. the next day she was better and able to go out, and when she returned home she presented me with a magnificent box of french bonbons. now, i was exceedingly partial to those sweets. riki often came into our little sitting-room, and all the girls began to remark on our friendship. "it is so unlike the comtesse riki to take up passionately with any one girl!" said rosalind when this sort of thing had been going on for a few weeks and we were all talking of the easter holidays. the great point of whether i was to go home or not had not yet been decided. hermione knew she must remain at the school; augusta would probably do likewise. rosalind went on commenting on my friendship with riki. after a pause she said, "of course, she has been at the school for some time; she leaves in the summer." "oh!" i answered; "she told me that she would be here for another year." "i think it has been changed. she is not contented; the baroness will not keep a pupil in the school who shows discontent." "but surely she is quite a nice girl?" rosalind was silent for a minute; then she said, "perhaps i ought just to warn you, dumps. i wouldn't trouble myself to do so--for i make a point of never interfering between one girl and another--but as you are lilian st leger's friend, and have been specially introduced to me through her, it is but fair to say that you ought to regard the german girl from a different standpoint from the english one." "certainly the german girl is different," i said; and i laughingly repeated some of riki's conversation with me in the bois de boulogne. "think of any girl talking of _dots_, and being betrothed, and getting married at her age!" i said. "oh, that isn't a bit strange," replied rosalind; "they all do it. these german girls get married very young, and the marriages are arranged for them by their parents; they never have anything to say to them themselves." "well, it is horrible," i said, "and i told her so." "did you?" said rosalind very slowly. "well, perhaps that accounts." she looked very grave. after a minute she bent towards me and said in a low tone--too low even for hermione to hear--"whatever you do, don't post letters for her." i started and felt myself turning very white. "you won't, will you?" said rosalind, giving my arm a little squeeze. i made no reply. "it will be madness if you do. you cannot possibly tell what it means, dumps." "why, is there anything very dreadful in it?" "dreadful? why, the baroness has all the letters put into a box in the hall--i mean all the foreigners' letters--and she herself keeps the key. she opens the box to take out the letters both for the post and when they have arrived, and distributes them amongst the girls." "and she doesn't do that for the english girls?" "no--not for a few. with the consent of their parents, they are allowed to have a free correspondence." i sat very still and quiet. one or two things were being made plain to me. after a pause i said, "i can tell you nothing, rosalind, but i thank you very much." on the next day i myself was seized with the first severe cold i had had that winter; it was very bad and kept me in bed. i had been in bed all day, not feeling exactly ill, but glad of the warmth and comfort of my snug little room. towards evening augusta came in and asked me if i would like any friends to visit me. "oh, i don't know," i answered. "of course, hermione or you; but the others--i think not." "there's that stupid girl, that pale-faced comtesse--riki, i think you call her--she is very anxious to come and have a chat with you." now, to tell the truth, i had been feeling uncomfortable enough ever since rosalind had spoken to me about the rule with regard to the foreign girls' letters. the baroness von gablestein had every right to make what rules she liked in her own school, but i could not help thinking that it was hardly wise that such a marked distinction should be made between girls of one nationality and another. i now understood that all foreign girls' letters were pot into the post-box in the hall, and the baroness looked them over before they were posted. but the affair was not mine, and i should have forgotten all about it but for the very uncomfortable feeling that i myself, unwittingly, had twice broken this most solemn rule of the house, and had twice posted a letter for riki von kronenfel. now, it seemed to me that this might be a good opportunity for me to expostulate with her on the whole position, and to tell her that she had done very wrong to allow me innocently to break the rule of the house, and to assure her that under no circumstances should i be guilty of such an indiscretion again. augusta meanwhile seated herself comfortably by my bedside. "horrible," she said--"horrible! but for the prospect of pleasing him--" i did not pretend to misunderstand her. "but you are really getting on splendidly, augusta," i said. "ah, yes! i should be a brute indeed did i do otherwise. and perhaps when i am sufficiently acquainted with the german tongue i may find out some of its beauties--or, rather, the beauties of its literature, for the language itself is all guttural and horrible--worse than french." "but surely french is very dainty?" i said. "dainty!" said augusta, with scorn. "what one wants is a language of thought--a language that will show sentiment, that will reveal the depth of nature; and how, i ask you, can you find it in that frippery the french tongue?" "i do not know," i answered somewhat wearily. "i like moliere and the writings of some of the other great french poets very much indeed." "well," said augusta, "i have got to study a great quantity of german for to-morrow morning. i must go into my room and tackle it. the professor said i was not to write to him, but i keep his treasured letter near my heart; but if you are writing home you might say that augusta is not ungrateful. do you ever have the great privilege of writing direct to your father?" "i could, of course, write to father any day," i said; "but as a matter of fact i don't." "but why not?" "it would worry the poor man." "but you might write just once to give him my message." "i will, augusta, if you will leave me now." "but why do you want to get rid of me? how like you are to him! you have just that same bluntness and the same determination. you interest me at times profoundly." "well," i said, "if i interest you to the extent of getting you to start your german it would be better." "all right; but what am i to say to that silly comtesse?" "tell her that i will see her by-and-by." "you had much better not. she is not worth a grain of salt. a little piece of conceit!" augusta left the room. she had not been gone many minutes before there came a tap at the door, and the comtesse, dressed in the palest blue and looking remarkably pretty, entered. "ah!" she said, "you have caught cold from me, you poor english girl, and i am so disconsolate." she sank down at the foot of the bed and fixed her bright eyes on my face. "you are much better," i said. "ah, yes, that is so. i am what is called more spirited, and it is because of you; but for you i should be indeed disconsolate. i might have chosen the stupid, the so weary life of the good german housewife, instead of--" "what do you mean?" i said. "i cannot say more. there are secrets which can be guessed but which must not be spoken." "riki," i said, "i do wish you would give me a right good lesson in talking german." "oh, but i couldn't--to give you a lesson. but why should i thus discompose myself?" "it would be a good and worthy object for one girl to help another." "i want not to think of objects good and worthy. why should i? that isn't my aim; that is not what is called my _metier_ in life." i sighed. "you have made me so happy that i should be happy to do what i could to please _you_, and to bring that one very slow smile to your so grave face, and to let your eyes open wide and look into my face so that i should see the lurking goodness within, but it is too troublesome." "riki, there is something i must say to you." "why that tone of suffering? i hope it isn't of the so disagreeable nature." "i can't help it if it is. do you know that you have done something very wrong?" she clasped her hands and looked at me with sad pathos. "why speak of that?" she said. "is it to be expected that i should always do what we call right?" "not always; but it is expected of _every_ one to be straight and upright and above anything mean. a girl of honour always expects to be that." "would you mind very much if you were to repeat once more your so difficult remark?" i did repeat it. "but straight," said riki--"straight? that means a line. i make it difficult in my drawing. my line is always what you call wobbly." i could not help laughing. "there, now, you are much more of the agreeable. what would you say to me?" i felt that i must indeed speak very plainly to this girl. "listen," i said. "you know the rules with regard to letter-writing." she understood me well enough now. the colour left her cheeks and fluttered back again like a waving flag; her lips were slightly parted; she looked at me with wide-open eyes. "you know the rules," i said. "no girl--no german girl, or italian girl, or french girl, or dutch girl, or any girl in the school--without the consent of her parents, or the special leave of the baroness, is allowed to post letters except through the post-box in the hall." "oh, that is very nice," she said--"very nice." she waited expectantly. "you know what i mean." "but i don't post letters except in the way that is what is called legitimate." "riki, where is the good of prevaricating?" "i know not what you call pre-vare-cating. i never heard the word." "listen to me," i said. "you had no right to ask me to post the letters for you." "what would poor, poor heinrich do if you had not?" she said. "what do we not owe you, you kind english girl, with the so kind, good face? you have our great gratitude." "i don't want your gratitude," i said. "you did wrong to ask me. i would not do wrong for all the world--i mean wrong like this--quite wrong; and it was wrong of you to tempt me. i did not know; i was unaware of the rule; but even so, i was silly, and you will quite understand that i will not do it any more." she took my hand and stroked it very gently. after a silence of two or three minutes, during which i hoped to get a full explanation from her, she raised her eyes and said very gently: "what about the great prizes on the great day of the break-up, and the beautiful easter lilies that we are each presented with before the easter services? think you not that will be a very beautiful occasion for us all?" "i don't know," i answered. "i may not be here for easter." she looked at me with a startled expression. after a minute's pause she began again in a very inconsequent way to rattle off some news with regard to the school. it was not until her visit was very nearly over that she said: "once is good, twice is better, but the third is best. if your friend, the kind and gracious hermione, goes out, will she not drop this letter into the post-box?" "she will not," i replied. "and why? it is only to poor heinrich. may he not receive this letter, this note of so true feeling from one he regards? may it not be put into the box?" "there is no reason why heinrich, whoever he is, should not hear from you twice every day as far as i am concerned," i said; "but i will not post it, nor will hermione." "i know; but you cannot tell the mind of your friend." "i know she will not do it, riki." riki considered for a minute; then she put the note again into her pocket. "very well," she said. "i little guessed that you would have a heart so hard, instead of soft and overflowing with the love for the german fatherland." part two, chapter eleven. consequences. the next day i did not see comtesse riki at all. my cold was rather worse; but the day after i was able to sit up in my room, and she came to me with two or three other girls in the evening. she was shy, however, and had none of her old warm manner. baroness elfreda made herself more agreeable on that occasion, and a plump little german girl of the name of fraulein schott took my fancy by her blunt, good-humoured, pleasant manner. there were also some dutch girls and a french girl, who all crowded into our sitting-room to congratulate me, to chatter to one another, to flock to the window and gaze longingly at the balcony. "you are what is called of the lucky," said elfreda presently. "but why?" i asked. "i don't think i am specially lucky; i have been two whole days in my room with this horrid cold." "i make no thought for the cold," said elfreda. "i do consider that you are of the lucky type because your room looks upon this so gay street." on further questioning, i found that both she and the comtesse had rooms at the back of the house. after a time hermione came in and chased my visitors away. when they were gone she sat down near me. she looked very grave. "did you," she said, "notice anything special about riki?" "no," i answered; "except, perhaps, that she was more silent than usual." "i do not like what is going on," said hermione after a pause. "i did not want to worry you when you were ill, but riki came to me on that evening and asked me if i was going out; and then she begged me to post a letter for her." "oh yes," i said. i trembled slightly. "and you--what did you do?" "do?" said hermione--"do? i asked her to read the rules in her bedroom." "the rules in her bedroom?" i said. "my dear dumps, wherever are your eyes? there are rules written in four languages in every bedroom in the house. have you never read those in your room?" "i have glanced at them." "well, in the german and french and italian sections the very strictest rule of all is that no letters of any sort whatsoever are to be posted by girls of those nationalities except in the post-box in the hall, and any girl helping another to get letters in any other fashion into the post will be most severely punished." "i did not notice it." "well, notice it the next time you go into your bedroom. but don't look so white; it doesn't matter to us, surely!" "of course not," i said in a faint voice. after a pause i said, "but why are you anxious about her now?" "she is underhand; she is not quite open. now, elfreda is a dull girl; i never could get anything amusing out of her; but she is quite different from riki. riki is supposed to be pretty, and will probably be much admired when she leaves school; but it is her want of openness that i cannot stand." "the whole system is wrong," i said with some vigour. "i cannot imagine how any german girl grows up really nice." "but heaps of them do, and you won't be long at the school before you find that there are as nice german girls as english. you must not take riki von kronenfel as a specimen." i said nothing more, and after a time hermione continued, "now let us turn to something else. i had a letter from my father to-day; i am not to go home for easter." "oh dear! easter will be here in a fortnight now," i said. "i do not suppose for a single moment that i shall have a chance of getting back." "but have you heard definitely?" "no." at this moment there was a tap at our door, and justine entered with some letters. of course, we both fell upon them as girls will all over the world, and the next minute we were eagerly sorting our different letters from a pile which justine, with her most gracious french manner, had laid on the table--two for hermione, one for me, and one for augusta. "from my step-mother," i said, and i sank into a chair and opened it. far away from home mrs grant seemed like a very beneficent and kind presence; her letters were charming, as they told me every single thing i wanted to know; nothing was forgotten, nothing left out. i opened the letter now. to my surprise, i saw that it was quite short. "my dear dumps,--i cannot write as much as i would to-day, for i am sorry to say your father is not quite himself." i started. there seemed to come a little prick at my heart--not a very big prick, just a momentary sense of uneasiness. "he has a severe chill--not an ordinary cold--and he is in bed." the professor in bed! i laid down my letter and looked up at hermione with startled eyes. "what is it?" she said. "father is in bed," i replied. "good gracious, how you made me jump! and why shouldn't he be in bed?" "you don't understand. why, i never remember his staying in bed. he is never ill, except with those fearful headaches." "he hadn't a good, careful woman like grace donnithorne to look after him in the past," replied hermione in an indifferent tone. "for goodness' sake don't be anxious!" just at this moment the door opened and augusta entered. "a letter for you," said hermione. she glanced at me as she spoke, and her eyes evidently implored me to keep my news to myself. but augusta had seen my face. "is anything wrong?" "nothing--nothing," said hermione, with impatience. "for goodness' sake don't worry her, augusta; she has not quite got over her cold. fancy any girl being nervous because her father is in bed for a day or two!" "the professor ill?" said augusta. "oh no," i answered. her tone was like a tonic to me. if she was anxious, surely i needn't be. "that is," i continued, glancing down at my step-mother's letter, "he is not very well, that's all." "i knew he was too good," said augusta. she took up her letter and walked out of the room, slamming the door after her. "it really is provoking," i said, "when your friend feels more about your father than you do yourself." i went on reading my step-mother's letter. she said that if all went well she would like me to return home for one week at easter. "by that time we can move your father down to hedgerow house," she said. "the fresh country air will do him good. he has been working for years far beyond his strength, and this is the result. i should like to have you with the boys and myself to spend our first easter together, dear; so, although few of your companions will be leaving bella vista at that season, i hope to have you. i will write about it later on, and give you particulars with regard to your journey." i do not exactly know why this letter made me feel depressed. to have my father a little ill was not the sort of thing that would put an ordinary girl into a state of keen anxiety; but anxious i was, and depressed. perhaps this was caused by my own state of weakness, for my cold had left me far less strong than i had been. the next day, however, something occurred which put all thoughts of home and home life out of my head. soon after breakfast mademoiselle wrex came upstairs and asked me to follow her to the baroness's private sitting-room. "but why am i to go there?" i said. mademoiselle wrex looked at me kindly. she came up to me and took my hand. "i trust," she said after a pause, "that when questioned you will tell the simple truth. a very painful thing has occurred. fortunately the baroness is able to nip it in the bud. it seems that you are suspected." i guessed what was coming, and i felt a cold chill at my heart. how silly i had been! how worse than silly--how wrong! "i will follow you in a minute, mademoiselle," i said. "put a warm shawl round you, dear, though the house is not cold; for since so many girls have been suffering from this sort of slight form of influenza, all the passages have been heated much more than they were." mademoiselle left the room. i flew immediately to the table of rules which was pinned against my wall. there was no doubt whatever that the rule in question was there. i had broken it; there was no excuse for me. i wrapped a white shawl round my shoulders and ran downstairs. as i passed through the wide hall i peeped into the schoolroom, which opened directly into it. i saw baroness elfreda glancing out at me with an intense and frightened expression on her face. immediately several other girls looked out also, and then a whisper ran round the room. i felt it more than heard it, and my misery and distress grew worse. i had never before been mixed up with a dreadful thing of this sort. but mademoiselle wrex was standing by the baroness's sitting-room door. she said, "vite! vite, mon enfant!" and we found ourselves the next minute at the other side of a thick pair of velvet curtains. the baroness was standing by a bright fire made of logs of wood. this was the only room in the house which had the privilege of a fire. the fire gave it all of a sudden a sort of english look. a smarting pain came at the back of my eyes. "i trust you are better, my child," said the baroness. she came up to me quite kindly, took my hand, and led me to a seat which exactly faced the very bright light which came through two tall windows. she then rang the bell. "request comtesse riki von kronenfel to attend here immediately," was her remark to the servant. the servant withdrew; there was a dead pause in the room. the baroness was turning over some papers, and did not take the slightest notice of me. as soon as riki entered she glanced nervously round her. when she saw me she turned first red, then very white; then, being evidently quite satisfied that i had betrayed her, she went to the extreme end of the room and sat there with her hands folded. "you sent for me, my baroness?" she said in the prettiest tone imaginable, and looking up with pleading blue eyes at the face of her mistress. the baroness returned her glance with one full, dark, swift, and indignant. "riki," she said, "i have had the good fortune to intercept a letter addressed to you." "but how? i understand not," said the girl. "it was addressed to you, and got, doubtless by mistake, into the post-box this morning." as the baroness spoke she laid the letter on the table. riki came forward as though to pounce on it. "permit me," said the baroness. she took it up and held it firmly in her own hand. "but it is open," said riki. "i opened it," said the baroness. riki then stood very still; it seemed to me i could almost hear her heart beat. "i have read the letter," said the baroness; "and now i will read it aloud. i will read it in english, so that both you and this young girl, rachel grant, may hear." the baroness then began: "my own one, angel of love and light,--i have received your two most precious letters quite safely. i pine to get still more news from you. i don't think it possible that i can exist until the summer without seeing you, and i propose, during the easter recess, to get my father to allow me to visit paris. there, i make no doubt, we can arrange a meeting, if the some kind english girl,"--("horrors!" i said to myself)--"will again help us by putting your communications to me into the post-box _outside_ the house where that dragon of propriety, the baroness von gablestein, resides.--your most faithful and devoted lover,-- "heinrich." this letter, read aloud in the smooth tones of the baroness, without a scrap of emotion, just as though she were repeating one of her pupils' daily lessons, fell truly like a bomb-shell into the little room. "i must have other witnesses to this transaction," she said. again she rang the bell. riki darted blue fire of indignation towards me. i did not speak; i believe i looked a greater culprit than she did at this moment. "request mademoiselle wrex and fraulein schumacher to come here immediately," said the baroness, her tone now one of great imperiousness. the servant withdrew, and the french and german governesses made their appearance. the baroness handed the letter in question to each in turn. "do not speak," she said; "i only want you to witness exactly what will immediately take place.--comtesse, will you have the goodness to tell me the name of the individual who calls himself heinrich?" silence on the part of the comtesse. "if there is such reluctance to your making a full confession of your disgraceful conduct, i shall be forced to send a telegram to your father, the count kronenfel, and request him to attend here in order that he may take his daughter away in disgrace from my establishment." this threat had a due effect on riki, and she now, in a very nervous voice, confessed that the name of the youth who called himself heinrich was holgarten. further investigation proved that holgarten was a boy at a large school near riki's native place, that he and she had met two or three times, and that the idea of a correspondence had started between them. she did not wish, she said, to enter into a forced marriage. here she burst into tears. "it is not the english way," she said. "and pray, comtesse, what have you to do with the english way? you are a german girl." "i--i love heinrich," she said. she threw herself down on the sofa, regardless of proprieties, and burst into sobs. "you will have the goodness in a minute or two to leave the room. your punishment, which will be a severe one, will be meted out to you when i have considered all the circumstances. i now wish to ask you the name of the english girl who posted your letters." there was no answer from riki; again she glanced at me. again she lowered her eyes and twisted her hands in distress. "a full confession, comtesse; in no other way will you escape the just anger of your noble father." before she could speak i sprang to my feet. "you need not ask her," i said. "i did very wrong. i posted the letters." "that will do," said the baroness. a relieved look passed over her features. "riki, stop crying. your conduct has been beyond words, but i will not say any more to blame you just now.--fraulein schumacher, conduct the comtesse to her room, and see that she does not leave it; stay with her there, for i cannot trust her alone." the german governess immediately conveyed the weeping girl from the room, and i found myself the one culprit who was now to be dealt with. "i must ask you," said the baroness in her very bitterest tone, "why you, an english girl, brought up without the terribly circumscribed pale of the german girl, dared to help her to convey letters from this house." "i did it without thinking," i said. "the rule on the subject of letters was in your bedroom." "i know." "you had read the rules?" "that is true; but they did not make any impression on me; i did not remember any of them." "you must tell me exactly what occurred; also on what dates you posted the letters." gradually, piece by piece, the baroness got the information from me. my conduct seemed to grow blacker and blacker in my own eyes. the baroness evidently thought very badly of me. after a time she said: "i shall be forced to make a distinction between you and the other girls. it must be known amongst the english girls--and we have six or seven in this establishment--that their letters will still be unread, that their correspondence will still be unmolested, with the exception of the correspondence and letters of one girl--rachel grant. in future you must post every letter in the box in the hall, and each letter you receive must be first of all opened and read by me before it is handed to you. that is your just punishment. i could do much more severe things, but i will to a certain extent overlook your inexperience." i left the room feeling as though the very floor would open to receive me. i went upstairs with my cheeks on fire. how was i to live? how was i to endure this? presently mademoiselle wrex followed me. "oh mademoiselle, i cannot bear this!" i exclaimed. "i must go away." "go away?" she said. "yes; how can i bear to stay at the school when i am disgraced?" "but your punishment is not very great," said the french teacher. "but to let the others know, and to have my freedom as an english girl taken away from me!" "it will be restored again, i am sure, if you bear your punishment with meekness," said mademoiselle; "but if you rebel and make a fuss the baroness will keep up her indignation." "and will she tell my people at home?" "i do not think she will do that if you bear your punishment with all due patience. you did wrong." "i did wrong, but not such a dreadful sin as you give me credit for. i did wrong in ignorance. there is a great, great difference between doing a thing you know is wrong and doing a thing that is wrong without knowing it." a slight smile played round the lips of mademoiselle. she was, as a rule, kindly; but she could not quite understand my nice distinction. "the effect is the same," she said. "do you not know that for a young lady in this school to have a correspondence with a schoolboy, as the comtesse riki has done, is quite scandalous? it would ruin the school. the comtesse must be made an example of." "oh, what are they going to do with her, poor thing?" "she will not be dismissed; that would be too disgraceful; but she is for a whole week to be confined to her own room, and no girl in the school will be allowed to speak to her. at the end of that time she will be restored to a certain amount of liberty; but her actions will be most carefully watched." "and heinrich?" i said. "heinrich?" said mademoiselle, with a start. "you are not interested in him, i hope?" "oh no, no!" "he will receive one short letter from the baroness, and his master at the school will receive another. i do not think anybody in the future need trouble themselves about heinrich." nothing could exceed the contempt which she threw into the word. after a time she left me. the scene of the morning had certainly not made my cold better; but when hermione came up i confided my troubles to her. she said she thought that i was lucky to have got off as cheaply as i had. "rosalind has been telling me of another girl, an english girl, who helped some russians to get their communications into the post, and she was dismissed--sent back to england within twenty-four hours. the only reason you are not treated as harshly is because the baroness really believes that you did what you did unwittingly." "i did," i said. "oh, i hate this school! i was never meant to be a french or german girl. i have lived such a free life, i shall die in this cage." "no, you won't, you silly girl. as to your thinking that we english girls will think any the less of you, you may be certain we won't." but, after all, the punishment which was so severe, which i so dreaded, which seemed to shake my nature to its very depths and to turn me at once from a happy, interested, contented girl into a mass of sulkiness and misery, was, for the time at least, to be averted--averted in a very fearful way--for that evening there came a telegram from my step-mother: "your father very ill; one of the teachers must bring you back immediately." mademoiselle wrex was the lady who had the task of conveying me home. there was a great fuss and bustle and distress in the school when the telegram reached me. i scarcely knew what to do with myself. augusta was speechless with misery. she begged and implored me to take her with me. "but i can't," i said. "and why should i? he is not your father." "no," said the poor thing--"no." i really pitied her. she sank back on the sofa in our little sitting-room with a face like death. "if you see him, can you just tell him how he has helped me?" "i will," i said. i pitied her now. what had seemed silly and unreasonable when the professor was in health assumed quite a different aspect when the dear professor was dangerously ill. my feelings were torn between the misery of the morning and my relief at not being publicly disgraced before the other girls, and the terror and fear of returning to my home to find my father very ill. hermione was a host in herself. she superintended my packing; it was she who saw that i had plenty of sandwiches to eat on the journey, she who brought my fur cloak for me to wear on the steamer. even the baroness was very kind. she came into the hall and saw that i was warmly wrapped up. "we will hope for the best, rachel," she said. i raised my eyes to her face and wondered if i should ever see her again--if this little flash of school life was all i was to be permitted to enjoy. but had i enjoyed it? i did not know. i could scarcely tell what my own sensations were. a minute later i was in the cab. hermione's face was no longer visible from the doorway; augusta, who was standing on the balcony of our sitting-room and waving frantically, was lost to view: the school, with its brightness, its life, its strange spirit of intrigue, its curious un-english customs, seemed to vanish for ever. i flung myself back in the cab and cried as though my heart would break. part two, chapter twelve. the professor's illness. there are two ways of taking a journey. i had come to the school with expectations bright and rosy. i had been there for a little over two months, and i was returning home close on the easter holidays with very different feelings. as i was whirled through the darkness by the night-express which was to convey me to calais i could not help thinking of all that had occurred. i was a totally different girl from what i had been when i started on that journey. i had seen a great deal of fresh life; i had lived in a new atmosphere; i had made new friends; i had found that the world was a larger place than even big london; that there were all sorts of different experiences; and even so, that i myself was only on the threshold of life. could i ever regret the narrow time when my principal friends were the swan girls, when a scolding from old hannah was the worst thing that could occur to me, after what i had lately lived through? but then the occurrence of that very morning came over me with a flash of intolerable shame. i was thinking more of my school than of my father; but, of course, all the time he was in the background. we arrived at calais, and the passage across the channel was without incident of any sort, and we found ourselves at victoria station at an early hour on the following morning. it was a dreary, cold, and foggy day, and i shivered as i stood in my fur cloak on the platform while mademoiselle ran wildly about, collecting the luggage, and trying to find a porter to convey it to the customs. mademoiselle evidently did not appreciate england, and i felt that the air was more bitingly cold than in paris. we got into a cab and were driven as fast as possible through the west end towards that dreary part of the town where the old house stood. yes, the old house was there; i had almost expected to see that it too had slipped away into the past with all the rest, that the shadowy house as well as the shadowy times had vanished into illimitable space. but it stood firm, and there on the steps was charley. he had opened the door as soon as ever he heard the sound of wheels drawing up on the pavement, and now he rushed down to greet me. his face was red as though he had been crying a great deal. he said: "i thought you'd be coming about now. there's coffee in the dining-room. come along at once." "but how is the good gentleman?" said mademoiselle. charley started and turned crimson at the sound of her voice. i introduced him as my brother, and mademoiselle as mademoiselle wrex, a french teacher at our school. charley mumbled something. i think he longed for von marlo's presence, for von marlo never lost his head on any occasion whatever. the next instant i did see his rather uncouth figure and kindly, plain face advancing through the hall to meet me. "now, i said you'd come; i knew you'd come without delaying one minute. how do you do. miss rachel?" mademoiselle looked at him and uttered a little cry. "why, max!" she cried. "max!" then she held out both her hands, and they were both engrossed with one another; they were doubtless old friends. charley dragged me into the dining-room. "how is father?" i said. "oh, he is rather bad; but there are plenty of doctors, and we hope to pull him through." "and my step-mother?" "rachel, she is a brick! she is about the best and dearest woman in all the world. i never knew her like. she has been up with him all the week, and never thinks of herself at all." "but, oh, here comes alex--dear alex!" alex came up to me. in this moment of universal anxiety he was delighted to see me again; he kissed me several times. "why, you have grown," he said, "and you look so--" "she looks awfully nice," said von marlo. he had come in dragging mademoiselle with him. "mademoiselle wrex is my mother's cousin," he said. "i am delighted to see her." mademoiselle was also all enthusiasm. "why, the dear, dear boy," she said, "it is indeed a pleasure to see him in this so desolate country. it is a joy of the inconceivable." her broken english made both charley and alex laugh; but then alex pulled the bell, and our neat parlour-maid brought in our breakfast. i sat down to eat. i felt still as though in a dream. was i in paris, or in the old house, or in altogether new surroundings? i rubbed my eyes. "you're dead-tired," said von marlo. "i am bewildered," i said. "but i must catch the next train back," said mademoiselle. this roused the boys from any present thought of me. they were all bustle and activity, seeing to mademoiselle's wants. she had very little time to spare. she would take the ten o'clock express from victoria, and be back in paris in less than twenty-four hours after she had left it. as i bade her good-bye it seemed to me that i was slipping more and more from the old landmarks. "give my love to hermione and augusta," i said. "and to, perhaps, poor riki?" said mademoiselle. "yes, if she will have it," i answered. "things will go well with you now, and when you return there will be rejoicing," said mademoiselle. but i did not think, somehow, that i should ever return; and mademoiselle got into the cab and was whirled away. it was not until i saw my step-mother that i fully realised what the real threshold of the place where i was standing really meant; for in that house, with its comforts, its proprieties, its almost luxuries-- that house so well furnished, with such good servants, with every comfort that life could give--there was, we knew, a visitor hourly and momentarily expected: that grim and solemn visitor who goes by the name of death. kindly death he is to some, terrible to others; a gentle and beloved friend to those who are worn-out with misery--a rest for the weary. but there are times when death is not longed for, and this was one of those times. we children felt as we sat huddled together in the parlour, now such a comfortable room, that we had never wanted the professor as we did then. he was a man in the prime of life, and great were his attainments. "it is wonderful what he is thought of," alex kept repeating, and he kept on telling me and telling me all about father and what people said of him. but, indeed, i was learning that myself for the first time that day, for the carriages that drew softly up over the straw in the street to look at the bulletin on the door might have told me what the great world thought of him; and the boys who came up each moment to glance at the solemn message might have told me what his scholars thought of him; and many poor people whom he had helped were seen crossing the street to glance at the writing. i stood fascinated behind the window-curtain, where i could see without being seen, and it seemed to me that all these people were repeating in a marvellous fashion the true meaning of my father's life. to me he had hardly ever been a true father in any sense; but these people had regarded him as a great light, as a teacher, as one whom they must ever respect. "he will be a loss to the world," said alex--"a great, great loss to the world!" "there will be his life in all the papers," said charley; and then the two poor boys put their arms round each other and burst into sobs. i sobbed with them, and wished for old hannah. and hardly had the wish come to me before she entered the room very quietly and stood beside us; and when she saw us all crying she said, "oh, you poor dears--you poor dears!" and she sobbed and cried herself. really it was quite dreadful. i hardly knew how to bear my pain. but when mrs grant came down just in the dusk of the evening, and entered the room very quietly and sat down near us, i went up to her. "may i see father?" i asked. she looked at me, and then said: "dumps, if he gets worse, if the doctor on his next visit says there is no hope, then you shall see him. the doctor is coming here at eight o'clock with dr robinson, the very greatest authority in london. if he gives no hope you must all see him to say good-bye; but not otherwise, for any excitement is bad for him now." "i don't think i should excite father," i said. perhaps there was reproach in my tones, but i did not mean it. then my step-mother went away. "she will feel it awfully; she is just devoted to him," said alex. part two, chapter thirteen. waiting to be called. we sat on and on in the dusk. after a time hannah went away. we scarcely noticed her when she got up. she stooped and kissed us, and said, "poor children!" and it seemed to me as she left the room as though she were our old nurse back again, caring for us as she used to do when we were motherless and too young to see after ourselves. but she went, and she had scarcely disappeared through the door before we forgot her, we were so absorbed waiting for the message which might come to us any moment from upstairs. hannah had not been gone ten minutes before we heard a carriage with a pair of horses dash up to the door. it stopped. we heard the muffled thud of the wheels on the thick straw outside, and we heard the door of the carriage being opened, and two men got out. they were not kept waiting an instant at the door. muriel, our parlour-maid, must have been expecting them. we heard them enter, and they went upstairs quite softly, making little sound on the thick carpets. then there was silence. alex clasped my hand and squeezed it very hard; and as to charley, he rumpled up his hair and finally buried his head in my lap and began to sob afresh. i was glad to be with them both; i felt very close to them. all else was forgotten except the two boys who belonged to me, who were my very, very own, and the father who might be dying upstairs. by-and-by the doctors went away; the carriage disappeared, and there was silence again in the house, only the muffled sound of carts and carriages going over the street outside; but nobody came near us. "it looks bad," said alex. he raised his face. the room was quite dark. muriel had not come in to turn on the gas or to build up the fire. we were glad she had not done so. we thought it kind of her. a piece of coal fell into a great chasm of red now, and broke into a flame, and i saw alex's face; it was ghastly white. "it is quite awful, isn't it?" he said. "she certainly said she would come down if there was no hope," i said. "but oughtn't she to let us know, dumps?" "she would certainly come if she could," i answered. after a time my cramped limbs compelled me to rise. i stood up, and the two boys looked at me reflectively. "where are you going, rachel? where are you going?" "i can't stand it any longer," i said. "i am his daughter, and you are his sons, and i think we ought to be there. i do--i do." "no," said alex firmly; "i am not going against _her_. she has managed him all along. it would be frightfully unkind to do anything to risk giving him a start or anything of that sort. she said she'd bring us to him if it were necessary. i am not going to stir." "will you come, charley?" i said. "no; i'll stick to alex," he responded. he went closer to his brother as he spoke, and flung his arm round him with all the abandon of one who was altogether carried out of himself. i did not speak. i felt alone again, outside my brothers and their love; but just because i was so alone i thought more than ever of my father. i had rushed away from paris to be in time; i would see him again. i left the room and crept softly upstairs. all day long i had been wearing my travelling-boots; it did not seem worth while to take them off; nobody had given me a thought. for the first time since my step-mother came i had been neglected in our now comfortable home. when i reached the landing where the great, desolate room which had been made so comfortable by my step-mother was situated, i took off my shoes and stood very quiet. i saw that the door of my father's room was slightly ajar. inside there was the flickering light of a fire--not a very big fire; there was a screen round the bed. i felt more and more a keen and passionate desire to enter the room. i could bear it no longer. i crept inside the door and round by the screen. then i saw that the room had been changed since i had noticed it last. the great four-poster was removed, and a man was lying on a little iron bedstead drawn out almost into the middle of the room. there was a woman seated close to him. she sat very still; she did not seem to move. the man also, who was lying on his back, was motionless. a wild terror seized me. was he dead? oh! i feared death at that moment, but still that impulse, uncontrollable, growing stronger each moment, compelled me forward, and still more forward, and at last i came very near the woman. she roused herself when she saw me. there was no reproach of any sort on her face. it was very white, but her eyes had never looked sweeter. just for an instant i wondered if she would rise and take me by the hand and lead me from the room; but, instead of that, she held out her hand to me and drew me close, and motioned to me to kneel by the bed. i did kneel. i heard the quick breathing, and noticed the cadaverous, worn face, the dark lashes lying on the cheeks, the hair tossed back from the lofty and magnificent brow. something seemed to clutch at my heart; then my step-mother's voice sounded in my ears: "you and i will watch by him together." after that i felt that nothing really mattered; and i knew also that the barrier between my step-mother's heart and mine had vanished. i looked at her; my eyes were full; i took her hand and, stooping, kissed it several times. then she too dropped on her knees, and we remained motionless together. all night long we knelt by the professor's side, and all night long he slept. it was about five in the morning when he opened his eyes. dr robinson was standing by the other side of the bed; he was holding his hand and feeling his pulse. "come," said the doctor in a cheerful tone, "you have had a famous sleep. you are better; and now you must take this;" and he put a strong restorative between my father's white lips. "take me away--_mother_!" i said. i could not contain myself. she led me as far as the door. i do not think she said a word; but she herself returned to the room. i rushed up to my own room, and there i flung myself on my bed and cried as though my very heart would break. oh, shadow, shadow of my own mother, were you really angry with me then? or did you, in the light of god's presence, understand too well what love really meant ever to be angry any more? for everything that was not love, that was not gratitude towards the new mother who had come into my life, had vanished for ever and ever while i knelt that night by my father's bedside. by-and-by, in the course of that day, i kissed her and told her something of what i felt. she understood, as i think she always did understand even my thoughts before they were uttered. and so i turned over a new page in life, and my father was spared to us after all. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the end. leave it to doris [illustration: "i was laughing at you"] leave it to doris by ethel hueston author of prudence of the parsonage, prudence says so, etc. illustrated by w. b. king [illustration: decoration] new york grosset & dunlap publishers made in the united states of america copyright the bobbs-merrill company _printed in the united states of america_ _to_ my brothers and sisters who with me learned the secret of riotously happy living even in parsonage confines contents chapter page i the general ii the problem iii the imp iv the blessing v the will vi the serpent vii discipline viii the bishop ix the runaways x mr. wizard xi the philosopher xii finding the path xiii rosalie's way xiv the doctor xv rising to the manse leave it to doris chapter i the general the reverend mr. artman paced soberly up and down the small living-room of his manse, as every one called the parsonage. his eyes were clouded. the lines at the corners of his kindly lips were sternly set. now and then he glanced toward the bay-window where doris sat, untroubled, serene, her dainty fingers cleverly transforming huge rents in small garments into triumphs of patchery. the wind, coming softly through the peach trees outside the windows, loosened tiny tendrils of hair that curled tenderly about her rosy ears. mr. artman sighed drearily. doris, unperturbed, continued her darning, but bright lights were dancing in her blue eyes. "hay, ho," drawled mr. artman suggestively. "isn't it lovely and cool to-day, father?" queried his daughter sweetly. without answering, he walked abruptly to the kitchen door, peering anxiously into the room beyond, and closed it cautiously. the general puckered her lips earnestly over a too-small scrap of cloth vainly coping with a too-large rent. her father went to the door opening upon the porch, and closed it also. then he walked slowly up toward his daughter, opening his lips as though on the verge of confidence. but he turned once more, and resumed his restless pacing. then doris dropped the darning into the basket beside her and faced her father. "father," and the voice, though soft, was imperious. he started guiltily, and flushed. "come and sit down," she commanded. "if you do not speak up instantly and tell me what is on your mind i shall jump up and down and scream. you make me so nervous when you squirm around that way. what ever in the world is the matter with you?" her father quickly dumped the mending basket and its contents upon the floor, with masculine and ministerial lack of regard for things domestic, and appropriated the chair, drawing it close to his daughter's side. "hurry, hurry," came the gentle authoritative voice. "i have oceans to do. what is it?" "well, it is-- why, nothing special, child, what made you think--" "you haven't gone and proposed to miss carlton, have you?" she gasped. "no, thank heaven," came the fervent answer. "careful, father. you mean it devoutly, i am sure, but providence might mistake it for irreverence. providence does not know miss carlton as we do, you know. don't be afraid to tell me then--nothing else could be so terribly bad." "well, dearest, i was just wondering if--don't you think, perhaps--if i help a lot, and see that the girls do their share--don't you think we could get along without miss carlton this year?" the general considered, her curly head cocked on one side, her brows knitted. "i wanted to take charge right after mother died--but you were not willing." "you were too young then, and still in school." "aren't you satisfied with miss carlton's work?" she asked slyly. "her work has nothing to-- yes, of course i am, dear. and she is a good woman, very good. and has been a great help to us the last three years, at a very reasonable salary." "i have done most of the work myself, but you do not believe it," said doris. "yes, of course you have, dear. and the problem is quite old now, and between the two of you--between the three of us, i mean--" "you mean, between me," said doris frankly. "your intentions are the best in the world, father darling, but if you ever broke into the kitchen you would very likely wipe dishes on sermon manuscripts--very good manuscripts, perhaps, but you can't practise on the dishes the endeavor paid forty dollars for. and the problem! but as you say, between me, i think perhaps i could get along without miss carlton nicely. she is rather hard to evade, isn't she, dearest?" her father flushed boyishly. "i am sure, doris--" "yes, indeed, dear, so am i," she interrupted sweetly. "and i am truly proud that you have withstood so long. stronger men than you have fallen in less persistent sieges. you have done well. but i hope you will remember that i have been praying right along that you might be given strength equal to the conquest, so don't take too much credit yourself." "well, i suppose the poor thing really can't help--" "oh, no, belovedest, of course she can't help it. only i haven't noticed any married women finding you so irresistibly handsome, and fascinating, and all that, have you? at least, they don't come telling you about it to your face." then at his guilty face she laughed, and snuggled on his knee, kissing his chin adoringly. "you are a dear sweet darling love," she said, "and i will do my best to make you comfortable, and keep the manse on four legs, or four wheels, or four--what is it a manse runs on, anyhow?" "four girls," he said, laughing. "mine does, anyhow." "er, father, when will you break it to miss carlton?" he sighed heavily. "why, general, i supposed--i thought--maybe it would be better for you just to tell her you are old enough to take charge yourself now, and--i think she would take it better from you." "oh, father, what a coward you are," she said sadly. "you call me general, and i know i rule you with a rod of iron, but i haven't much backbone in my army, i am sure of that. well, then, i will break it to miss carlton." she looked thoughtfully out at the branches swaying lazily in the warm wind. "i wonder how the problem will take it? she is so likely to object, you know." he cleared his throat anxiously. "oh, you can fix it up with her some way." "i am to do that, too, am i?" laughed the general. "you'd better look up that epistle about the armor, father. you need a breastplate, and a steel helmet, and a sword of faith--and quite a lot of things. run along then, dearest, and don't bother me. miss carlton will be here in a few minutes, and i must prepare my campaign." mr. artman reached hastily for his hat. "i--i think i shall go down-town a while--i need some fresh air-- that mean little headache again, you know--and i must see mr. james. pretty sick man. i may not be home for dinner to-night. don't sit up for me--and don't let anybody else." "a good thing we have a sick member, isn't it?" she teased. "you aren't going to get home until the storm is over, are you?" she shook her curls at him reprovingly. "such a good, sweet, faithful preacher you are--and such an awful coward when it comes to us women." "i tell you, doris," he said sturdily, "i think it would be easier to face a den of lions, or a howling mob of i.w.w.'s, or any number of ordinary sinners, than one christian woman when she wants--she makes up her mind--i mean--" "you mean, when she is getting you ready to propose to her, i suppose. i do not blame you, father.--fly, here she comes. scoot out the back door, and sneak through the barn. it will be over by morning. run, you coward, run," she cried, shooing him gaily out the back door. then she went back to the bay-window, and sat down with the mending, her pretty brows puckered. "miss carlton is wax in my hands," she thought. "but whatever in the world will rosalie say? if one only knew what to expect, it would not be so serious. but nobody ever can predict how our lovely little old problem of a rosalie will take anything." "still mending, dear doris?" came a voice of studied sweetness from the doorway. "yes, still at it. but i did not work all the time. i have been playing with father. he is such a tease." miss carlton looked around the wide room anxiously, hopefully. "he is gone now--to see mr. james, i think--somebody sick, anyhow. i have been having a serious time with him, miss carlton." she dropped the mending and looked at the older, much older woman, with frank, straightforward, innocent eyes. "they call me general, but they never want to do as i say." "and what is our little general after now?" asked miss carlton, smiling. "shall i help you get it? i do not think he will refuse it, if i ask." "oh, you will be like every one else; you will say it is not advisable. but they do not call me general for nothing." doris straightened her slender shoulders, and looked very domineering. "i have made up my mind. i shall have my way." "wouldn't your father give in?" miss carlton's voice was mildly surprised. father artman withstood doris very, very seldom indeed. "oh, yes, he gave in, of course. that is, he says i shall try it. but i know he thinks i shall tire of it soon. he does not know me, does he? i never give up, do i?" "not very often, no," admitted miss carlton rather grimly. "come and sit down, dear, and let me tell you," said doris eagerly. "i think it will make you happy too. i am twenty years old, and very, oh, tremendously mature, don't you think so?" "well, perhaps," was the doubtful admission. "yes, of course. and you know how hard up we preachers always are, and we have to economize just fearfully, especially now the problem is a junior in college--and somehow it takes lots more clothes for her in college than it ever did for me. and you have been so wonderful to us all these three years, and such a help--but now i feel that i am old enough--and that it is my duty and my priceless opportunity to take charge of the family, and then you can go home again and be free to live your own life, and though you have never complained i know how happy it will make you." "no, indeed," came the quick protest. "i like it here. the salary is nothing extra, but you have done quite a lot of the work, you know. oh, no indeed, little girl, you must not think of it. why, it is just time for you to have your play days now your school is over, and we older ones can bear the burdens of life. you must not think of it." "but i have thought of it," said doris sweetly. "and father promised i should try. and i am the general." "you have been planning all these years to go to chicago and study, and become a missionary. you can not give up your life ambitions now." "i have changed them," said doris. "father wants me, and that is enough." "he won't let you change them for him." "father is the most unselfish thing in the world, i know," smiled doris. "but father has forgotten that i ever even thought of such a thing--and since he wants me here, it is settled. i shall never think of it again." "you won't be happy--" "oh, miss carlton," said doris, standing up suddenly, tall and straight. "you think i won't be happy staying where father wants me, and filling father's need?" "but it would be wicked to deny the call to service as--" "i wanted to be a missionary because it appealed to me. but i hear no call but father's voice. if a message came from heaven, the way would be changed for me. right now, the path of service goes right smack into the manse, and i do not see it going out on the other side." doris smiled winsomely. "wait till i talk things over with your father--he will see how absurd it is." "he promised. father may have his faults, though i do not know what they are, but he always keeps a promise." "he should not have promised until he discussed things with me." "but, miss carlton, _we_ are his family, you know. and i am the oldest daughter, and very grown up. you see how it is, don't you? of course, i do not wish to hurry you off, but i know how anxious you must be to get home, and you need not feel you have to linger on my account. i haven't planned anything to do to-morrow, and can help you with your packing the whole day long." "i can do my own packing, thank you. and i shall do it immediately. your father really consented to this arrangement, did he?" "oh, certainly he did. he sees himself that it is the proper thing to do, and will save quite a little money, and goodness knows we need it. and then the responsibility will develop my character, or--or something." miss carlton flounced out of the room and up the stairs. doris listened intently at the door. "she is not exactly happy about it, but i am. and father is. if i only knew what the problem would think of it. i wish miss carlton would go right straight away--she is angry enough to do it. then i could tackle the problem alone, and it would be too late to undo." she shut her eyes very tightly and murmured softly, unintelligibly beneath her breath. "now to make doubly sure, i shall go and concentrate. every one says you get things if you concentrate hard enough." she listened once more at the door that led into the hall. miss carlton was undoubtedly throwing her possessions violently and untenderly into her bags and trunk. "concentration won't hurt, for when she remembers how handsome father is she may change her mind," said the general soberly. so she slipped back to the bay-window, and bent all her energies, and all the force of her strong young will to the task of concentration. a little later she heard miss carlton at the up-stairs branch of the telephone, and though she would not dream of listening to a telephonic conversation, she did saunter carelessly to the hall door and so overheard miss carlton giving a hurried order for an expressman. "providence and concentration together are really irresistible," she smiled to herself. "i suppose, after all, i could have gotten along without the concentration, but in a crisis like this i thought it would not hurt to try everything." she went demurely back to her mending, and after a while the expressman came and took away the trunk and bags, and finally miss carlton came to her. "i am going home right now, doris," she said, "but i do not regard this as final. we shall say i am going for a visit. and when you want me to come back, just telephone. after all, i think it is a good move. your father will soon find out what a difference i made in the home. he will be the first to want me back." she smiled without resentment. "so i quite agree with you, little general. this just suits my purpose, and i shall stay at home until--some one comes after me." "i know we are going to miss you," cried doris sincerely. "you have always been kind to us, and we have never been able to pay you half what you deserved. and if we find we can't get along, and you are willing, we shall have you back in a hurry. but i am going to try, and i never yield until i have to." so doris paid miss carlton the modest sum due her and the two parted with cordiality, miss carlton leaving friendly messages for the other members of the household. as soon as she was quite out of sight, doris flew to the kitchen. "even the problem is amenable to a good meal," she said. "she shall have delicious cream gravy--the little glutton--and pear preserves, and apple dumplings." so eagerly and so passionately did she devote her energies to the task that she did not hear the door open behind her, and never knew her sister was at her elbow until a soft ripply voice said suddenly: "well, mr. general, is mess nearly ready for us?" "oh, rosalie," cried doris, flinging floury arms about the girl at her side. "oh, you dear little darling, i am so glad you came." "why so mushy?" demanded rosalie in a voice so soft and gurgling and throaty it made one think of tinkling waterfalls, and silver moonshine, and irresistible dimples. "don't i _always_ come? why all the exclamations at me?" "because i love you, and because i am happy, and because--you scoot to the phone, will you, and call up mr. james' residence and tell father i want him to come home to dinner to-night without fail, for very extra special reasons--apple dumplings, but you needn't tell him over the phone--and hurry, dear, before he leaves there." the general looked soberly after her sister as she danced lightly out of the kitchen. rosalie was quite too terribly lovely for anything--that was really what made her such a problem. and her eyes were full of dazzling witching lights, and dangerous dark shadows, her lips were rosy, pouty, tempting lips, her skin was a pearly pink and white, and her voice melting melody. "she is problem enough now--what will she be a little later on?" thought the general anxiously as she took a loving look at her dumplings. "where is miss carlton?" asked rosalie, returning promptly. "father says he will come immediately. aren't the girls home yet? i suppose i must set the table then. i think you should speak to them, doris--they are never here when you want them. where is miss carlton? won't she be here for dinner?" "no, not--" "goody!--doris, do you think she--has her eye on father?" "why, rosalie, whatever put such a notion as that into your head?" doris was all wide-eyed astonishment. "well, perhaps it is not nice of me to mention it, but she is always tagging him about, and telling him how clever he is, and she is always saying how much we need a mother-- oh, she's all right, of course--not my type at all, but--i am glad she won't be home for dinner. doris, will you ask father if we may go to the country club da--party next week? they may dance, but we won't have to. i could do it though as easy as not. this is the first time they have asked us to a strictly town affair, and we just have to go. this is the way they dance that new step the girls are raving about. see? three steps this way, one, two, three; one, two, three; hippity hip--" "rosalie!" gasped doris. "wherever did you learn that?" "amy taught me. she takes regular dancing lessons from a man, a dollar a lesson, and then she teaches me. it is just like gym, you know, only at a dance there are men. miss graham says i am very graceful, and with my slender ankles and high insteps i would look lovely in dancing slippers. now, doris, don't be horrified, i am not going to dance. but you tell father we are invited, and-- you sit out the dances, you know, if you are a preacher and can't dance--and you get behind a big fern, and the men tell you how lovely you are, and how much nicer it is to sit out with _you_ than to go stumbling around over other girls' toes, getting their collars all sweated out, and how sweet and cool you look, and--" "rosalie!" "they do not mean it, doris, they just talk that way. and i know they do not mean it, so it does me no harm. and it is lots of fun. they all do it." "they do not talk that way to me," said doris virtuously. "no, you do not give them a chance. if a man says you have beautiful blue eyes, you look him straight in the face and say, 'yes, thank goodness, i need something to make up for my pug nose.' that is no way to talk to a man. you ought to drop your lashes like this, and then look up suddenly, and away again quickly, and laugh a little and say, 'oh, you talk that way to every one--you do not mean it,' and then they say you are the only girl in the world--" "rosalie artman, i think you are perfectly terrible. where in the world do you learn all that silly stuff?" "i do not learn it," laughed rosalie. "i do not have to. it was born in me. i sort of breathe it. tra, la, la, lalala. i can do a toe dance, doris. i will teach you. does father go to the sessions to-night? then we will have a lesson while he is gone. oh, there come--" "rosalie, i want to ask you-- don't you think we ought to get along without miss carlton now? she is so sort of prim, and bossy--and it costs eighteen dollars a month--and if we do you can have nicer clothes, you know." "wouldn't be proper," said rosalie lightly. "beautiful girls must be properly guarded. and besides, i would have to do more work, and i don't like to work." "father is proper enough for anybody," said doris with spirit. "and i do all of the work anyhow." "could i have a regular evening dress, v in the back and no sleeves?" demanded rosalie with glittering eyes. "isn't it funny, the less there is to a dress, the more there is to the cost? all the girls have evening dresses, and i have the nicest shoulders in the whole gym. but miss carlton would never go. you couldn't fire her off." "who is the general?" demanded doris loftily. "if i say go, she goes in a hurry." rosalie looked up quickly. "you bad general, she is gone already, isn't she?" "yes; do you mind?" "are you sure father won't go trotting after her, and marry her on the sly?" doris lifted horrified eyes skyward. "well, i am sure i do not care. i think i am rather glad. whenever i got my dates mixed, and had two or three callers at once, she was always shocked. she said the boys didn't act that way when she was a girl. i rather suppose they didn't. but what miss carlton was and what i am are two remotely different things. why, you would hardly believe we are both feminine, would you?" "no," said doris honestly. "one can't think of any two things more different. you are such a--such--" "problem," laughed rosalie. "don't i know it? well, you can not solve me, doris, so don't try. but i am just like those horrible trigonometry nightmares--you can't figure them out to save your life, but they are quite perfectly all right in spite of you." doris turned to give her sister a warm adoring look. "i know that," she said happily. "only, however in the world you manage to say such wonderful things with your eyes, rosalie--i've tried and tried--alone, of course," she added hastily. "i wouldn't before people for anything. but i can't take people's breath away as you do." rosalie's voice rippled into mellow laughter. "you will learn. no, you never will, doris. you will fall in love, and marry a perfectly adorable man, and have perfectly wonderful babies, and be as happy as the day is long. and i will fritter along and sparkle along, and have a hundred beaus, and miss carlton and i will finish up together. there come those bad girls. now you just scold them, general. don't you stand for this nonsense any more. why, i have had to set the table every night for a week." the younger sisters came into the room together, as they went everywhere together. they were very nearly of the same height, though one was two years older. "are you tired, treasure?" asked doris quickly. "i haven't done anything but laugh all afternoon," came the answer. "why should i be tired?" doris looked tenderly from the face of one little sister to the other. treasure's eyes were clear, serene and limpid. her delicately tinted olive face was fine and spiritual. and right by her side stood zee, the baby of the manse, thirteen years old, dark curls a-tangle, dark eyes a-sparkle, red cheeks aglow. "oh, you little imp!" cried rosalie. "you look just awful." "i do not think so," said treasure quickly. "she looks lovely all blown about like that." zee laughed at them both with charming unconcern. "do i have to brush myself down before dinner?" she demanded, edging toward her corner of the table. "indeed you do; wash down, and brush down, and rub down, and do it quickly, for here comes father." zee obediently skipped up the stairs, and rosalie ran to the hall to greet her father. "and how is the blessing of the manse?" he asked, crossing the room, with rosalie still clinging to his arm, to look tenderly into treasure's soft fine face. "perfectly all right," came the even answer. "but not very healthy," put in zee slyly, coming back in haste. "didn't i do a quick job, general? treasure is all right, but not very healthy. that is why she is a blessing. haven't you noticed, rosalie, that blessings are very, very frail? maybe if i looked sickish you would call me a blessing, too?" "is she gone, general?" came the anxious whisper as the father drew near his oldest daughter. "and how did the problem take it?" "gone, father, and the problem is glad of it--we might have known she would be whatever we did not expect. now i am the general in very truth, and supper is ready--zee, don't rush. just a minute, dear, the pear preserves won't evaporate. you mustn't hurry father into the blessing." when the blessing had been asked on their food the father looked about the little round table, and his face was richly satisfied. "this is something like," he said, smiling into the faces of his four girls. "yes, it is now," said rosalie. "but you just wait till the general gets started. she will never let us slide along and be comfortable as miss carlton did. wait till she has time to think up orders!" chapter ii the problem "general, did you ask father if we may go to the country club da--party?" asked rosalie, in her most irresistibly wheedlesome tone. doris looked very sober. "no, i didn't," she admitted slowly. "i am afraid we--shouldn't, rosalie. we haven't anything to wear, in the first place. it is a regular party, you know." "that is why i want to go. i am so tired of stupid little class affairs, and endeavor socials. i want a regular, honest-to-goodness party. please, doris. lots of our members belong to the country club. it is very respectable." "but they are not preachers, and we are. and we haven't any regular party clothes." "use your eyes, my belovedest, and no one will notice your clothes. at least, the men won't," said rosalie shrewdly. "rosalie, that positively is not nice. you mustn't do it." "all right, general, just as you say. but your graduating dress is very sweet and becoming, and i can wear my pink crêpe. it is a little worn under the arms, but my eyes-- anyhow, as you say, the men won't pay any attention to our clothes." "i did not say any such thing. how _could_ we go, rosalie? it is three miles out, and they go in cars--we haven't one, and we can't have a taxi, and we couldn't go alone anyhow." "i never thought of that." rosalie puzzled over it a moment. "i have it! mr. and mrs. andrieson will go, of course. and they have their grand big car, and they like us very much, indeed." "they aren't members--" "oh, well, there are a few quite nice people that don't belong to us. and they are terribly proper, you know, and go everywhere." "but we can't ask to go with them." "why, certainly not. we won't have to." rosalie got up slowly. "i think i feel like taking a stroll. i am restless to-day. i shall just saunter down lawn street, and maybe mrs. andrieson will be on her front porch. she always stops me, if she is in sight." "you must not ask her--" "oh, doris, i never thought of such a thing. but she is sure to invite us to go with her when she knows we were asked. and so if father comes in while i am gone, you'd better have it out with him. there's a sweet little general." so nicely did rosalie manage her meeting with mrs. andrieson that in less than an hour she was home with everything planned to her perfect satisfaction. mrs. andrieson was positively yearning to take them to the country club--it would be such fun to play chaperon to two pretty young girls. to father artman, one party was just like another--in his innocent eyes there was no difference between an endeavor social and a country club da--er, party--except that he had never been to the latter in person. and so it was entirely settled that they were to go, long before the general herself was at all convinced as to the propriety of it. and when she found rosalie before the long mirror in her room, with the soft bands of lace at the throat of the pink dress tucked carefully underneath and out of sight, permitting a quite generous exposure of soft white throat and shoulder, doris knew for sure that it was a great mistake. "rosalie problematic artman," she said sternly. "we shall not go a step if that is your plan." rosalie looked tenderly at the pink shoulder. "doesn't it look nice, doris?" reluctantly she restored the bands to their proper place. "i look like a silly little grammar-school kid. but that is what we get for being preachers. never mind. i certainly have good shoulders if ever--if ever--" "if ever what?" "if ever i do get a chance at the outside of the ministry," she said blithely. "but, of course, father would faint at the bare idea, though it is not really low even with the bands turned under--nothing at all like the dresses other women wear." even doris had to laugh at the childish fair face and the childish soft voice of little rosalie as she descanted on the matter of "other women." and rosalie smiled good-naturedly. "shall i teach you some of the new steps, doris? of course, you won't dance, but it will be more fun looking on if you know how it is done." doris waved the pretty temptress away, but she laughed. on the night of the "regular party" she stood by with motherly solicitude while rosalie piled her golden curls high on her head and drew little shining rings down low before her ears. "i suppose even we preachers can fix our hair in style," she said in the ripply unruffled voice. for regardless of the clash of circumstances with her personal opinions and wants, rosalie seldom showed real annoyance. but she fingered the bands at the throat of her dress and glanced at doris with speculating, shining eyes. the general, with her soft curls drooping tenderly about her face, with her wide frank eyes, wearing a white dress cut on simple lines, seemed a nice and bashful child beside her younger sister, who stoutly decreed that eyes are a talent, given one for cultivation. when the andriesons sounded their horn at the gate of the manse the girls ran down-stairs together, hand in hand. "how do we look, father?" asked doris, standing before him, straight and slim. "like a fresh white morning-glory," he said, kissing her. "and how do i look?" dimpled rosalie, drooping her warm eyes behind long lashes, and smiling seductively. "like an enchanted poppy tossing in the wind. don't try to practise your blandishments on me, you little siren. run along to your social, and be good girls, and don't you flirt, miss rosalie, or you'll have to go to an extra prayer-meeting next week." catching a hand of each, with zee and treasure shouting in the rear, he ran down the steps with them and out the stone walk to the motor, whirring impatiently. then the car rolled away, and the girls sauntered back to the house, their arms around their father. "rosalie is going to have the time of her life, dadsy," said zee wisely. "you mark my words. she wasn't practising those eyes on you for nothing." "oh, zee, give me a rest," he cried, laughing. "rosalie has naughty eyes, i know, but there is a lot of regular sense behind those curly lashes." "rosalie isn't going to let folks know it, though, unless she has to," said zee, and the subject was closed. but doris soon realized that charming mrs. andrieson was no efficient chaperon for a butterfly like rosalie. for as she led the girls into the dressing-room at the club house, she said lightly: "now toss the manse to the winds, my dears, and frolic like the regular buds you ought to be." "i am going to," chirped rosalie. "i am going to frivol just as hard as ever i can." she asserted her independence without delay. "i can not go down there among all those evening gowns looking like this," she said. "here, mrs. andrieson, can't we tuck these shoulder bands back a little?" "to be sure we can," agreed the chaperon, and laughing excitedly, she folded back the soft lace from rosalie's pretty shoulders. "what a lovely throat you have, rosalie. can't we tuck it under a little more? that shoulder is too beautiful to waste." "that is plenty, thanks," cried rosalie, laughing nervously. "if it is too terribly awful, i won't do it, doris," she said, looking directly at her sister. doris returned the gaze with honest searching eyes. "it isn't too terribly bad, rosalie. and it does look lovely--and lots of our girls wear them much lower even at the socials--but father--" "oh, father would never know the difference. an inch or so of skin is nothing to us preachers, you know." it was a lovely evening, in spite of rosalie's naughtiness. doris was fascinated as she watched the lightly moving figures swaying so rhythmically when the music said sway, and though she so many times had to say, "i am sorry, thank you, i do not dance," she was never left alone, and the hours were delightfully frittered with one and another of the men--not christian endeavor men, who had to talk of church things when they talked with members of the manse--but regular men, who went places, and did things, and had their names in the paper--regular men who talked of things that interested them. and of course that would interest doris, who all her life had been in training for interest in others' lives. rosalie, after two or three painful refusals, clenched her slim white hands and ran to doris. "general," she whispered hurriedly, "you may shoot me at sunrise if you like, but i tell you right now that i am going to dance, dance, dance the very toes off my slippers. yes, sir; i am. and it will be worth a good big punishment. to stand here like a mummy and say, 'i can't'--it is more than flesh and blood can stand--my flesh and blood, anyhow." doris was nothing if not honest, and she had to admit that rosalie did seem almost predestined for that one-two-three-skippity-skip-skip business! but the members-- oh, of course, the members were doing it themselves, and doris could see a deacon drinking something that-- well, doris knew they never served it at the endeavor socials--but things were so different with us preachers, so very different. and it would hurt father, that was the worst of it, and he was such a good dear old thing-- but doris had to sympathize with rosalie a little. was it possible that providence might have erred a tiny bit in putting such loveliness and such naughtiness and such adorable sweetness into the gentle environs of a manse? so intent was doris upon the graceful figure of her winsome problem that she did not see the man who had stopped at her side and was looking down with quizzical laughing eyes into her anxious face. "my, such a lot of trouble," he said at last, and doris looked up astonished. "oh, i beg your pardon--" "no occasion in the world. i was laughing at you, so i must do the apologizing. but i feel justified in laughing at you. this isn't any place to worry. this is a party. is your sweetheart dancing too often and too tenderly with your lovely friend?" "i haven't any sweetheart," she said, laughing gaily at the notion. "it is my sister i am watching. she is such a nice, naughty little thing." she pointed rosalie out to him, not without pride, and flushed with pleasure when he commented warmly on her grace and beauty. "and how beautifully she dances." "yes, she does, the little sinner. and a grand time we'll have in the morning, fixing things up with father." "doesn't he allow you to dance?" "he allows us to do anything," said doris with loyal dignity. "but we do not do it. we are preachers." "what, all of you?" "oh, no, just father, but the rest of us back him up, you know." "well, since the naughty sister has involved the family in disgrace, why don't you support her, and have a good time yourself?" "i am having a perfectly wonderful time, thank you, but i haven't rosalie's feet and eyes. i do not know how to dance, and i do not care to learn. rosalie gets those things by instinct, but i have none. she is the butterfly of the manse, and one is plenty." then looking into his face gravely, she said, "i am different. rosalie is always running into excitement and adventure. i never did in my life. i went clear through college, and was never even thrilled. rosalie has thrills a dozen times a day. of course, i was busy. we had miss carlton, but i did most of the work, and there was the church, and i studied harder than rosalie does--i had to. she gets her lessons by instinct, too, i guess." "then very plainly now is your time for play. if excitement does not come to you, go after it. look for your thrills. if you do, you will find them. if you do not stumble into romance, as your sister does, go and find it for yourself." she laughed brightly at that. "i do not know where to look. and if i ran into it, very likely i should pass it by unrecognized. rosalie says men are the best thrillers, but they do not thrill me. she says i am too sensible--sense and mystery go in opposite directions and never look back." she was studying him curiously. "i beg your pardon, but i do not recall your name. it is very stupid of me--" "not at all. you met so many when you first came in. it is quite natural that you should forget a few." doris thought it was not natural to forget those kind quizzical eyes, and that kind teasing voice, but she did not say so. instead she waited. no information was forthcoming. she laughed at him, wonderingly. "but i still do not know your name." "no? then here is a bit of mystery for you. who am i? whence do i come? why am i here? i am a stranger, but you will see me again." "you must be one of the new school-teachers or a professor in the college," she ventured, quite tingling with the bit of novelty new to her. "yes? well, i am going to run away now and leave you to your chaperoning. but you must not forget me, little morning-glory." "why, my father called me that just before i left the house." "there you see, i am a wizard. i can read your inmost thoughts. i--" "i hope not," said doris quickly. "come and have an ice with me before i go." he led her through a quiet hallway to a corner of the wide porch, and brought ices for her, and cake. and all the time he kept up that boyish teasing chatter, and always she watched him with curiosity and interest. "you are too sensible to be inquisitive. you should say, here is a brand from the burning, i must sow a good seed in his heart. and you should not even ask who, nor what, nor whither." "i know it, but i do. if you were just ordinary, i should not care. but i can't imagine! you haven't been here a long time, that is certain. or i should have seen you before. and if i had, i should remember. you are not a college student, for you are too old--and too clever." "the last is an open insult, and the first is only dimly veiled. now walk with me to the gate, miss morning-glory." and at the gate he said, in a curious, half-sad voice, quite different from the gay bantering tone that had excited her curiosity, "you are a nice little thing," and went away. doris looked after him in astonishment. "well, can you beat that?" she ejaculated. "here i go through high school, and through college, and now when i am a grown-up old woman, and the head of a house, and the general of a mob--i get myself all mixed up in a funny business like this. who in the world can he be? and where in the world did he come from? but he said i should see him again. i wonder what that bad little rosalie is at now?" and though she went immediately back to her sister, she did not forget the kind gray eyes and the kind gay voice. "did you have a nice time, doris?" asked mrs. andrieson as they were driving swiftly homeward. "wonderful," said doris in a voice of ecstatic content. mrs. andrieson looked at her curiously. "i am afraid i neglected you. i had such a hard time keeping the boys from quarreling over rosalie, and i knew you would not get into mischief." now that it was all over, and the excitement and the thrill were gone, rosalie was quivering down to the very tips of her slippers. she had disgraced the manse, she had messed things up for father--and he was such a darling-- oh, doris should not have let her! people would think it was father's fault--she had not thought of that before, now she could think of nothing else. "he is a good man," people would say, "but he can not control his children." and he did work so hard, and was so patient--and so many times his eyes looked tired, and once in a while, but not often, he would admit that his head ached a bit. doris was sympathetic as always, sympathetic in that unvoiced silence that understands everything, and hurts not a single particle. she knew by instinct that rosalie was sick at heart. so they talked of other things, and after they got into bed she said tenderly: "you were lovely, rosalie, and i was so proud of you. and though you were very gay and lively, you were sweet, and had a sort of presbyterian dignity about you that made you different." rosalie kissed her quickly, but did not speak. when the family met again at the breakfast table zee was overwhelming in her interest. "how was the party? did rosalie flirt? did all the men fall down at her feet stone dead?" "no, little goose, they didn't. men don't any more. and rosalie did not flirt--exactly--and the party was glorious." doris did not glance at rosalie, intent on the oatmeal before her. "were you the most beautiful ones there? was anybody dazzled? did the women wear low-necked dresses? alice graves says they don't wear any sleeves at all. did they dance? were there any members there? what did you have to eat?" "oh, you little chatter-box! how can i answer so many questions? rosalie was dazzling--did you ever dream that i could dazzle anything? yes, the ladies did. yes, they danced. yes, there were a lot of members. they had ices, and cakes, and coffee, and things to drink and--" "and father," said rosalie suddenly, "i pinned down the lace in the neck of my dress so it would show my shoulders." he turned to doris for confirmation. "just a little, father," she said loyally. "it did not show much, and rosalie looked beautiful. i did not object to it." "and i danced." this was nothing short of a bomb bursting upon them. even zee was silenced. doris felt all the pain of motherhood over an erring first-born. slowly their father rallied. "did you do it--well? i hope you didn't stumble, or walk on ladies' dresses, or anything." "she did it beautifully," said doris meekly. "father, i ask you frankly, as man to man, is it wrong to dance?" "we have been taught, rosalie," he began slowly, but she interrupted him. "that isn't fair. you tell me what you think. why should we leave it to other men that we don't know? how can they decide? do they know more about it than we do? it doesn't condemn it in the bible. that would be decisive. but why do these other men take the privilege of deciding things for the rest of us?" "they were wise men, and good. we let great statesmen make our laws, and we obey. we let great teachers tell us what and how to study that we may become educated, and we obey them. we let great doctors tell us how to safeguard our health, and we obey them. we let the leaders in all other professions tell us what to do, where to go, what to eat, what to wear--and we obey. we might trust the fathers of the church a little, don't you think?" "but it is such a simple thing. and so natural. just moving to music, that is all. soldiers love to march to the drum, children prance to the music of the band. it is human nature." "my dear, if you want to move to music, let zee here go up and down town beating a drum for you, and you march your little head off." rosalie joined the laughter. "i like the other kind better. then you truly think it is--dangerous, or wrong, or unwise, or something?" "i have never danced myself, dear." "stand up here, and let me show you. now, you go this way. one, two, three; one, two, three; skippity, skip, skip; one, two, three--and that is all there is to it." "simple, isn't it?" "perfectly simple. now is that wrong?" "well, rosalie, i tell you frankly, as man to man, if i were young and had a soft shoulder like yours against my arm, and a pretty face like yours very close to my lips--i should probably be tempted to kiss it." "oh, father," cried rosalie, joining the burst of laughter. "you would not do it, surely." "not in public, no. and i may add, if i had a pretty hand like yours in mine, i should probably squeeze it, and if i had my arm around your waist like this--i'd probably squeeze that, too." merry laughter greeted the admission. then in the silence that followed he said slowly. "there are many things i could do, rosalie, that would do me no harm, and others no harm. but would i get pleasure enough out of the doing to make it worth my while? suppose even one person should say, 'he is a vain and worldly man, i do not wish to go to him in my trouble.' if one person should say that of me, i would consider i had paid too big a price for the little amusement. it may be one of the things we give in return for the badge of the ministry, my dear--i, for one, am willing to give it. it is the one big talent of our profession--the talent of giving up." rosalie looked at him steadily. "and i believe that any one who is not willing to exercise that talent does not fit into a manse." rosalie swallowed hard. "i--i do fit, father--i want to. i--i could never be happy any place in the world--outside the manse." then she added brightly, "so i must never dance any more?" "ask the general," he hedged quickly. "she is the head of the family." "well, general, speak up, how about it?" "what a naughty problem you are," said the general tenderly. "well, then, if it is up to me, i say this: father has put it to you squarely. and i know this, rosalie, that when anything is put squarely on your own shoulders, you straighten up and carry it without flinching. you are old enough to solve your own troubles. this is yours--find the answer for yourself." "oh, you bad general," cried rosalie, laughing. "now i can not blame it on any one but myself, and i did so want to sympathize with myself, and say, 'i can dance wonderfully, but they won't let me.' oh, well, i should worry. and, general, by the way, i may as well confess that i was jealous of you last night. you were so different, and so remote--every one had to go to you, away from the whirl, back into your corner where you stood serene. i kept thinking what a nice manse type you are, always distinct, always different, and sweeter than anything. so i had already decided--i just wanted to find out what you would say." then rosalie was gone in a flash, chasing zee out into the garden for a merry frolic. chapter iii the imp "why, zee, however did you happen to get here ahead of time?" demanded doris, glancing up from the potatoes she was watching so closely, for potatoes have a most annoying way of burning if you leave them a minute. it had taken doris a long time to learn that. "um, yes, i am a little early, i guess," said zee, in a still small voice. she busied herself about the table without reminder from her sister, an unwonted procedure for the imp, but doris was too concerned with the meal to pay much heed. rosalie and treasure came in together a few moments later, and zee was sent to call their father to the table. "and don't dawdle, babe, for things are piping hot, and we must allow three minutes for the blessing, you know." zee's appetite, usually above reproach, was negligible that day, and her gay voice, always so persistent in conversation, was quite subdued. but when the meal was over she lifted modest eyes to her father's face. "i hope you aren't very exceptionally busy to-day, father," she began ingratiatingly. "i am. i have davison's funeral to-morrow--and it is not easy to conduct the funeral services of a bad man in a way that will afford comfort to his mourning relatives." "i knew you would have a hard time of it, father," said doris sympathetically. "i was hoping they would get some one else-- the methodist minister is new here, and doesn't know davison as we did." "one good thing about him, father," said rosalie, "he never killed any one that we know of. you can come down strong on that, and sort of glide over everything else we know about him." "i suppose one should come out flat-footed and hold him up as a model to other people who won't keep to the straight and narrow," said doris thoughtfully. "perhaps. but a kind providence has made it unnecessary for us to judge, you must remember." "we can have our opinions, like other people, but we must not air them in the pulpit," said rosalie. "but whatever will you say, father? he was everything a good presbyterian is not, and--" "doctor burgess used to say that death blots out all evil," said rosalie helpfully. "can't you play that up?" mr. artman smiled at their eagerness to be of help. "i shall just speak of the rest and sweetness of death after a life of turmoil and confusion, and shall emphasize very strongly how blessed it is that the soul goes direct to the presence of god, who knows all the secret motives hidden from human eyes." "that is downright genius," approved doris. "pretty slick, i call it," smiled rosalie. "will you be busy the whole afternoon, father?" asked zee, returning to the original subject. "did you want something?" he turned and looked at her, and from her sober face he caught the underlying need. "i always have time for my girls, you know. what can i do for you?" "i am sorry but i am in bad at school again." "again," repeated rosalie. "don't you mean still?" "miss hodges wants you to come with me--that is, she says i can not come back until you do. she is going to ask you to give a sort of pledge of good behavior for me, and you can't do it, for i am sure to break over once in a while. so there you are. don't you think doris could teach me at home this year?" "but what in the world did you do, dear?" demanded doris. "well, you will be horrified, of course, doris--but it wasn't as bad as it sounds. i did not feel well to begin with, and things went wrong from the first. walter dwight had some candy, and he passed it to me, and i was eating it--" "in school?" "yes. and miss hodges saw me and told me to go to the window and throw it out--a very bad and unsanitary thing, throwing candy all over the play-grounds, but miss hodges makes us do it--and so i went to the window and looked out--and--i stood there a minute or so looking around to see what was going on in the playground, and i saw a robin sitting in the big maple, and i squinted my eye up at him, and aimed with the candy, and shot it at him." zee looked up sadly, and then lowered her eyes again. "everybody laughed, and miss hodges was not at all pleased. she said i was a little nuisance." a vague flickering smile passed from face to face around the table. "what else?" "she sent me into the science room to sit by myself half an hour and think. professor was not there." "what did you do?" "i sat there." "yes?" "well, i kept on sitting there, and it was awfully monotonous. you know we have a skeleton in the physiology department now--i told you, didn't i? it was stuck up on the side of the wall on long hooks. and professor's big amber glasses were on the desk--the girls say he wears them for style--so i put them on the skeleton. it looked awfully funny. and then satan must have tempted me, for i did a terrible thing." a long sigh went up from the table. "the teachers' cloak-room opens from the science room." "i see it all," said doris solemnly. "go on, zee. i don't get you, yet." "the teachers' wraps were in the cloak-room. so i got miss hodges' hat and put it on the skeleton, and it looked so comical you would have laughed." a sad reminiscent smile flashed over the subdued but always impish features. "so i put her coat on too--it almost made me shiver to touch the thing, though professor says it is very scientific, and he disinfected it with something when they got it. and i bent up its arm, and stuck her gloves in its fingers, and put her bag over the arm, and it looked for all the world like miss hodges in a grouch, and she is grouchy most of the time." "yes?" "but i did not hear the recitation bell ring, and the door opened and in came the physical geography class and miss hodges. she was not at all pleased. so she invited father to come and talk me over with her." "all right, i will go," said mr. artman quietly. zee sighed heavily. "i hope you understand, father, that i know it was a perfectly repre--repre--" "--hensible," prompted treasure softly. "yes, reprehensible thing to do, and i am fearfully ashamed of it. and it makes me sick to think i had to bother you when you are busy. but miss hodges need not have been so huffy about it. she's got a little more flesh, but her disposition isn't half as good as a skeleton's." "zee, you must not speak disrespectfully and flippantly of your teachers. it is not right, and it is not kind. if miss hodges has a room full of children as full of mischief as you are, it is no wonder she is sometimes impatient and nervous." zee subsided. mr. artman rose from the table rather wearily and zee brought his hat for him humbly. "i hope you believe that i am sorry, father," she said as they set out together. "i think you are sorry to bother me, but i must admit that i do not think you are sorry you annoyed miss hodges." "i do think it was rather a good joke on her," admitted zee. "miss hodges is doing one good and noble thing. she is working hard, long hours and very wearily to earn money for herself and her mother and that little nephew who lives with them. she has to labor for her very bread, and for theirs also. any one who makes life harder than need be for those who must toil for their existence is--excuse me, dear--but any one who does that is either needlessly cruel or criminally thoughtless. whether she is the type of woman you like, whether she appeals to you personally or not--that is nothing. the fact remains that she is working for her life--and i hate to think it is my little girl making things hard for her." zee marched along beside him sturdily, without speaking for a while. her dark merry eyes were clouded. her rosy lips were a straight scarlet line. two blocks, three blocks, they traversed in silence. then she slipped little clinging fingers into his hand, and said softly: "father, i am sorry now--and i won't ever, any more. i have tried to tease her, and i like to make the other kids laugh. but i never thought of it the way you told me. will you try not to be ashamed of me?" his hand closed over hers companionably. "and, father, you need not believe me to-day--that i am sorry. wait and i will prove it to you. for don't you think i see that we preachers have to make things easier for folks, instead of harder?" "i do believe you, of course, baby," he said, smiling down on the sober face. even he could not repress a smile when miss hodges came in wearing her coat and hat, with the bag in the crook of her arm--for in his mind, schooled to imaginative flights by a long life with merry daughters--he could see the scientific skeleton similarly garbed. miss hodges' face was grave, but not unfriendly. "i think zee can fix this up with you herself, miss hodges," he said, holding her hand warmly in his. "i need not say how much i regret it--but zee and i have been talking together--and i want her to speak for herself." "i am sorry this time, truly--not just for playing pranks, for somehow that never seems really bad to me--it must be the original sin, i suppose. but i am sorry that i have just openly tried to make things mean and hateful for you. i never thought of it that way before. i thought it was sort of your job to put up with the mischief. i can't promise to be an angel like treasure, for i was not born like that. but i am going to try very hard not to annoy you, and i'd like to be friends, if you don't mind." thinking it over afterward, father artman felt that zee had left many loopholes for future escapades, but her voice had been sincere, and her eyes honest, and miss hodges had accepted the apology promptly. and knowing his girls, mr. artman felt confident that zee's loyalty to the manse would keep her from open disgrace again. "something just has to be done about that zee," rosalie said to doris. "and it certainly is up to you, general. why, she gets more scatter-brained and harum-scarum every day. can't you steady her up a little?" "how? it is all right to say it is up to me--but who can take a puff of thistledown like zee and steady it? she does not grow that way." "well, this will hold her down for a week or so, but you'd better think up some way of handling her. something has to be done, and right away, too. why, she is fourteen, and in high school. i was practically a young lady when i was in high school." "you were practically a young lady when you were in kindergarten," said doris gaily. "my, what pretty airs you did put on. you always would carry the finest handkerchiefs, and how you would scheme to get a fresh ribbon oftener than anybody else." it did seem that so severe a lesson as this should be sufficient even for the imp. yet the very next morning doris found herself involved once more. going to the girls' closet on an errand, she was surprised to find zee's school shoes, sensible, comfortable, roomy shoes of enduring calf-skin. the "sunday shoes," of nice shiny patent leather, were not in sight. yet zee had gone to school. "she is almost as problematic as rosalie herself," said doris. she knew zee's passion for the sunday shoes, and that the calf-skin ones were abhorred by her fastidious young soul. but that she would openly revolt and toss all orders to the winds--doris grieved over it heavily. but she would not take this to father, poor soul, he had trouble enough with her yesterday, and davison's funeral to-day was grief enough. when zee came into the dining-room at noon she wore the calf-skin boots. doris could hardly believe her eyes. yet there they were--and a serene smile on zee's merry face. "miss hodges and i got along like cooing doves this morning," she announced triumphantly. "she said i had my lesson perfectly, and i said her new hat was very becoming." when the girls came to the kitchen to say good-by to doris before starting back to school, she left her work and followed them to the front door. zee still wore the heavy shoes, but she hung about impatiently, plainly waiting till doris should return to her work. at last, depressed in attitude, the two girls started away, and doris disappeared. just a moment later came the sound of skipping running steps, and zee slipped in and darted for the stairs. "zee!" zee halted abruptly, one foot poised for the step. "were you going up to change your shoes?" "y--yes." "don't you know you are not allowed to wear your sunday shoes to school?" "y--yes." "then why, please?" "because i hate calf-skin shoes, i hate 'em, i hate 'em. big ugly clumsy clod-hoppery stogies! i think they are abominable. i'll bet they were the thorn in the flesh peter talked about--or was it paul? anyhow, i can't think of any worse kind of a thorn. i think they are downright wicked. and i won't wear them--unless i have to," she added hastily, noting the military firmness in the general's face. "i am sorry, zee, since you hate them so terribly. they are not pretty, i know. but if you wear the sunday ones to school, they wear out so fast, and they are so expensive. and, oh, my dearest, we could never afford it on father's salary, you know that. but i will compromise with you, for i don't like to make you wear things you despise. if you will wear these out, when they are gone, your next pair of school shoes shall be, not patent leather, but much finer and softer than these--oh, much finer." "oh, that is just ducky of you, general," said zee gratefully. "but mayn't i wear the others--just this afternoon?" "no, absolutely not. you were very deceitful and disobedient, slipping in to change them on the sly, that way, and you shall not wear the others by any means." but the next morning, as doris stood at the window watching the girls as they walked away, she noted a curious bulging under the side of zee's sweater. what could it be, she wondered? then like a flash, she ran up the stairs. the sunday shoes were gone--also the calf-skin ones. grimly she waited until zee came home. "zee," she began softly, so father might not overhear, poor father, having so much trouble with bad people who would die and require funeral services, and good people who would live and never go to church--certainly he should not be bothered with zee's shoe situation. "did you wear your calf-skin shoes to school this morning?" "y--yes, i wore them to school," said zee with an almost imperceptible emphasis on the "to." "did you take the sunday ones with you?" "yes. doris, i can't bear those old stogies, and so i just wore them to school, and then i changed them in the cloak-room, and you can see yourself it wouldn't wear them out any--the good ones, i mean--just wearing them inside the school-room and not walking in them." "but you disobeyed." "i know it," said zee cheerfully. "and you tried to deceive me." "i know it." "now i have to punish you." "all right, general, but let me tell you in advance that whenever i can sneak those sunday shoes to school, i am going to. so you'd better make it a good punishment while you are at it, so you won't have to do it over and over." doris looked at her sister soberly, and her heart swelled with pity, for the sentence she was about to pronounce was dire indeed. she took the fine shoes from zee. "this is the punishment. you can not wear the fine shoes again any place for six weeks--not to church, nor any place--just the stogies, everywhere you go. and you shall not have these again at all until you promise on your word of honor that you will not wear them without permission. i know you will not break a solemn promise." zee's face paled with the solemnity of it. "oh, doris!" "you can talk it over with father if you like. i wanted to keep him from worry, but go to him if you wish." "nothing doing," said zee flatly. "he has that way of looking that makes you so ashamed of yourself. i think it is an imposition for fathers to look like that, that's what i think. tell me one thing--does the promise still hold good about the new shoes--that they are to be finer and softer than these when they are worn out?" "yes--when these are worn out." "these will last a year, i know." "oh, baby, you know we preachers can't afford to throw away perfectly good shoes like these." "can't we give 'em to the heathen? they are awfully good shoes for the heathen, doris. why, they would last forever, and keep the snakes off, and-- shoes like that were just intended for heathen." "i am afraid we can't, zee. sometimes i think there is quite a lot in common between the heathens and us preachers--and this is another bond of sympathy. so we will stick to the shoes ourselves." zee looked very sad indeed as the shiny shoes were taken up-stairs and carefully locked in an old trunk. then sudden determination dawned in her dark bright face. she raced into the yard, and began a desperate course of exercise, jumping, running, clambering up and down. gentle treasure, trailing her devotedly, was put to woeful plights. and doris, looking out, could hardly believe her eyes when she saw the violent performance of lazy little zee. then came revelation. "i am sorry for you, treasure," panted zee, pausing a moment. "but i am going to run and jump and climb and jar the life out of these old stogies." for a moment doris hesitated. then she turned resolutely and closed the window. "providence had to overlook quite a little, even in the saints in the bible," she said to herself excusingly. "i guess i can overlook a few things myself. isn't it strange," she said to rosalie, "that somehow the naughtier folks act the sweeter they seem?" "i don't know what you are talking about," laughed rosalie. "but if you mean me, i quite agree with you." chapter iv the blessing oh, day of rest and gladness! there was one hour in the week when doris felt she could lean back and sigh aloud in relief and contentment, with every member of her little family before her and mischief out of the question--the hour of the sabbath morning worship. father was in the pulpit, rosalie was at her side in the choir loft--and rosalie in the choir loft was a changed being, for some inner, inherent sense of fineness restrained the naughty fairies in her witching eyes for that one hour only. and down in the eighth pew to the right sat treasure and zee, very respectable, very reverent, very austere. rosalie never missed one word of her father's discourses, but doris, strangely enough, once in a while went wandering. it was so blissful to see the brood safe sheltered before her eyes. it really was the only time when she could think with any degree of consistency or comfort, without fear of violent and climactic interruption. but one morning, just as she was getting pleasantly relaxed, and father was nicely started in point one--she opened her eyes wide, and leaned forward. there in the ninth pew next to the aisle--deacon fenton's pew, and how annoyed he would be when he arrived in the middle of point two--right there, as sure as you're born, sat that aggravating, infuriating, mysterious mr. wizard that nobody knew. his eyes were upon her, and though his face remained properly grave and in keeping with a presbyterian service, gay greeting flashed from his eyes to her, and doris-- well, it was more than human frailty could stand. she smiled, and then she blushed, and could not keep her eyes away from that serene provoking face, though she did try desperately and was ashamed of herself all the time. father was doing splendidly--she was subconsciously aware of that, and was so proud of him. it had never before been quite so imperatively necessary that he "do well." rosalie looked very sweet and dignified, altogether in keeping with a manse and a church, and not a bit frivolous as she had at the country club da--party--that was a comfort. she was sorry she could not point out treasure and zee to him also, they did look so spiritual and fine in their sunday clothes--it was really once in a lifetime to designate them as manse material. he seemed to be paying close attention to father-- whoever in the world could he be? and there came deacon fenton, sure enough--with his usual prejudice against the first point--and he got very red in the face, but the exasperating thing smiled pleasantly and shoved along in the seat, and settled down where he could see father when he looked at the pulpit, and could see doris when he looked at the choir loft, and--doris openly and deliberately nudged her sister. the exasperating thing lowered his eyes at her reprovingly, but doris could not resist. "who is that in deacon fenton's pew?" she whispered. rosalie looked that way unconcernedly--she did not seem to notice how romantic and curious and compelling he was--and shook her head. doris subsided then, but when she came down from the choir loft and found him waiting for her at the side entrance, she was glad. she held out her hand. "rosalie did not know you either," she said. "i asked her. will you come and meet father?" "sorry, but not to-day. it would spoil the mystery. come along with me, little seeker after thrills, i want to walk home with you. i go your very way." "i usually stay and shake hands with the members, but it will be fun to slip away for once. then they will be gladder to see me to-night." so they hurried away, and doris noticed that while many nodded to her, no one had a word of familiar friendliness for him--so she knew he was a stranger to all. it seemed odd that he could remain unknown in such a little town--he must live very quietly and to himself. he could not be a teacher, she was sure of that, for teachers, like "we preachers," are honor bound to make friends. "has the butterfly of the fold been in any new mischief since the dance?" "call it a party. we preachers do not go to dances. no, indeed, she hasn't. didn't you notice how sensible she looked this morning? she is really very good, if she only takes time to think. she decided of her own accord and free will not to dance any more at all." "then since it was her own free will, i suppose you feel it was predestined, don't you?" "perhaps," said doris politely, for she never could keep that free-will-predestination puzzle quite straight in her mind--though she was very sure father was right about it. "and what have you been doing since that night?" "washing, and ironing, and cooking, and helping the girls with their lessons, and scolding father, and patching. what have you been doing?" "i? oh, i have been haunting." "you have been--what? now you are teasing again. i never knew any one as grown up as you who teased so much. do you live in this part of town?" "you know we haunts just live around in the air, and do our ghosting when the ghosting's good." "oh, let's talk sense. i expected to see you before this." "i have seen you frequently." "you have! i haven't seen you once, and i have been looking for you." "one morning i saw you digging potatoes in the garden of the manse. and your father stuck his head out the window and scolded you." "he doesn't approve of my digging potatoes, but he is so busy all the time he forgets and so if i wake up early enough i sneak out and do it to get ahead of him." "and one morning i saw you flying down the middle of the road in a kimono, yelling at the milk man." "we were going to have company for luncheon, and i forgot to leave a message in the bottle that i wanted cream," explained doris, flushing. "and one morning, very early, i saw you run out-of-doors in a shower, barefooted, and your hair hanging, and you wore your father's old coat and hat, i think, and you were gobbling tablecloths off the line." "they did not dry, and i left them on the line over night. but the shower came up, and i had to rush after them." "and one morning--" "don't you ever sleep? how does it come that you always see me some ghastly hour in the morning? why don't you appear about three in the afternoon, when i am nicely brushed and have on a fresh dress, and look like a preacher?" "morning is my own particular time of day. so beware how you venture out, for you can't escape my eyes." "you must be a milk man." he only laughed. "now tell me the truth, have you thought of me once since the da--party?" "yes, not being a regular sphinx, i have. i have thought of you very often--you are the funniest thing i ever saw. but somehow i did not expect to see you at church." he joined her laughter. "come in and have dinner with us," she said warmly. "please do. i am a wonderful cook. zee says my mashed potatoes taste almost exactly like--plum pudding. would you consider that a compliment?" "by all means. but i can not come for dinner to-day. we wizards do not eat, you know. be kind now, and get into more morning difficulties so i may laugh at you, will you?" doris walked into the manse with a very thoughtful air. "i have always told rosalie it was silly to be constantly finding mystery in every little thing--but i see now that mystery is more fun than anything else. the silly old thing--why he must be nearly as old as father. but how he does laugh! he isn't a minister, that's certain. and he isn't a doctor, for everybody knows doctors, besides they always talk shop. and he doesn't look like a worker--i mean a hard worker-- isn't it ridiculous? what do i care who he is--but it is lots of fun." as they sat at dinner, rosalie said suddenly, "oh, father, you must scold the general. she is getting very worldly. she was flirting with a stranger in the congregation. she picked out a handsome man, and kept looking at him, and he smiled at her, and she asked if i knew him right in the middle of the second point." "could you know him in the second point if you didn't know him anywhere else?" demanded zee. "there wasn't a handsome man in church except father," declared treasure. "general, i am astonished," said their father with smiling eyes and solemn face. "don't you believe her. he wasn't a stranger in the first place, and in the second i only looked at him once--or twice," she finished feebly. "oh, what a story. he was, too, a stranger. didn't you ask if i knew him?" "i can't remember his name. but i met him at the country club da--party. i talked to him there quite a lot, and--" "oh, you dangerous girl! you know, father, these quiet modest ones--look out! they always make trouble. no wonder you had such a glorious time--flirting with a stranger." "rosalie," said doris with intense dignity. "i did not flirt. i just talked, and we talk to everybody, don't we--we preachers?" "but who is he?" this, it seemed, only providence could tell. "why didn't you ask him?" doris hedged quickly. it was all very well to play mystery with that aggravating thing, but she had a strong feeling it would sound ridiculous to the family, and they were such laughers. the day of rest, truly--but always a stormy one for families of parsonage and manse. they had not finished dinner when the superintendent of the sunday-school called mr. artman to the phone. "miss munsing says she will not keep her class any longer," he protested peevishly. "i want you to talk to her. why, she is one of our very best teachers, young and lively, and her girls adore her. she says she is not capable, or some such nonsense--bright clever girl like that. you talk to her, will you? she promised to see you this afternoon." mr. artman shook his head despairingly as he returned to the table. "you women," he said. "you don't know how upsetting you are. i would have sworn that miss munsing was more in harmony with her work than any teacher in the school, and here she throws up her hands." "do you mean she is giving up the class, father?" asked treasure breathlessly. "just that. says she is not capable, or something." "why, treasure, isn't she your teacher? and you all love her, don't you?" "hum, yes," said treasure thoughtfully. "you talk her into it, father. it would break up the class to lose her." "what is the trouble, anyhow? has anything gone wrong? if there has been any mix-up, you ought to know it." "the girls are just crazy about her, and we have the best record for attendance in the whole school. i suppose she is giving up the class on account of me." "on account of you!" this was unanimously exclamatory. rosalie was always problematic, and zee was a living fount of mischief, even doris was given to moods and fancies. but treasure was the serene untarnished blessing of the family, always gentle, always friendly, tranquil and undisturbed. could treasure, the sweet, cause agony to any young shepherdess of the sunday-school flock? the exclamation was followed by silence, long and profound. "d--on't you like her?" asked doris at last, in a weak voice. "i love her with all my heart." "do you cut up in sunday-school, treasure?" asked zee. "i am surprised. miss conroy has to shake her head at me sometimes--but i certainly am ashamed of you. i--i didn't think it." "of course i do not cut up in sunday-school. i am surprised you would even mention such a thing." "well, go on, treasure, and tell us," said rosalie impatiently. "you are the last person in the world one would suspect of disrupting a religious organization." "yes, go on and tell it, pet," said her father gently. "and talk fast, treasure. you are so poky. i could tell six volumes while you get into the introduction." "there isn't any introduction to it," said treasure in her gentle voice. "you know, father, when you go over the lesson with us on saturday night, you bring out a lot of good points that miss munsing does not think of." "yes." "of course, it would not be right for me to speak up and tell things she does not know--it would sound smarty--as if i were trying to show off. so i just ask questions, and sometimes she does not know the answers. then the whole class gets into a discussion, and then i say, 'maybe it is this way,' and i tell what you have said, and she says, 'yes, that is it, of course.' and sometimes i think of questions that nobody has explained, and i ask--and she can't answer. this morning she got rather red, and looked nervous. but she is a dear thing, and i don't expect her to know as much as a preacher, of course. and i hope you will make her keep the class, for we could never get another teacher like her. i am truly sorry, father, and i will promise never to ask another question." doris flushed suddenly. "but--she ought to be free to ask questions, father. miss munsing should study the lessons more, and find the answers." "i suppose it is not just pleasant for a teacher to have her scholars wiser than she," said their father slowly. "i can see how she feels about it." "but she ought to study more," insisted doris. "i shall never ask anything else," declared treasure. "we can't give up miss munsing. i know the rest would rather have her than some one else who could answer the whole bible. i think i prefer her myself." "finish your dinner now, girls; i shall try to think of some way to manage," said mr. artman quietly. when miss munsing came to the door doris greeted her cordially. "father is waiting for you in the study. mr. andrews telephoned that you were coming." "i suppose you think i am just terrible to go back on my job," said miss munsing, lifting troubled eyes to doris' face. "i never think anybody is terrible," said doris, laughing. "i am too well acquainted with my own self to sit in judgment on anybody else. treasure says the girls will never give you up. leave it to father. he will fix you up." so miss munsing went up-stairs, and doris and the others waited impatiently until the front door closed behind her when the interview was over. then they trooped eagerly into the hall, waylaying their father on the stairs. "did you persuade her?" "was i the trouble?" queried treasure. "yes, you were the trouble sure enough," said mr. artman, pinching her cheek gaily. "she felt the class should have a teacher who knew--and she said frankly that she did not know. she had thought it quite a simple matter to teach a class of young girls, using pretty stories to illustrate plain points--but she said our gentle little treasure hurt her conscience to the point of insomnia." "did you tell her i promised--" "yes, but miss munsing is no quitter. she would not hear of such a thing. she said it would be bad for you, and bad for the rest, and worst of all for her. she would not even discuss it." "what did you do, father? of course you thought of something." "i suggested what we have been trying to arrange for the last year--a teachers' study class. we have voted on it a dozen times, but always there was an overwhelming majority against it, because their evenings were so full of other things. and i--although there were a few who wanted it--i guess i was a quitter myself. i said if the teachers did not want or need it, i had no time to waste on it." "no one could expect you to give up a whole evening for people who were not interested," cried doris loyally. "miss munsing and i picked out tuesday night, and she and i are going to have a teachers' study class. the others will be invited and urged to come. but miss munsing will be here, and i will be here--and we are going to have that class if nobody else ever does show up. it was not your fault, treasure, and it was not miss munsing's fault, for she did her best. it was really i to blame, for i should have counted the evening well spent if it helped even one teacher in her work. much obliged, treasure." then he went up-stairs. "what in the world did he mean by 'much obliged'?" puzzled treasure. "it was my fault, too, for now it means another evening of hard work for him, and his evenings were so busy anyhow. and then he says 'much obliged.' preachers are funny, even father." sunday afternoon in the manse was supposed to be comfortably quiet--not prosy. and for the first hour after the dinner work was finished things went smoothly indeed. the girls read their sunday-school papers. then treasure and zee had a game of bible prophets--enlivening it by betting pennies on the outcome--"not gambling at all," insisted zee. "because the pennies go into the mission box on the kitchen shelf, no matter who wins. the only difference is, if you win, you get the credit on the lord's account-book, and if i win, i get it." as long as doris did not find out why that afternoon game of prophets was one of such intense and absorbing interest to the lively girls, all went well enough. the sabbath never failed to bring a problem for rosalie. "oh, general," she cried, dancing away from the telephone. "our little crowd is going for a long auto ride out to miriam's for supper--a nice sunday supper of bread and jelly and milk and pie--and may i go, darling general?" "but christian endeavor--" "oh, bud promised faithfully to bring me back in time for it. the others are going to spend the evening and sing, and roast marshmallows, but out of deference to us preachers he promised to have me home by seven." "ask father," countered doris. "oh, general dearest, you know father ought not to be bothered on sunday afternoon. it wouldn't be right." "rosalie, don't ask me. i want you to do whatever you want to, but-- how many are going?" "twelve, i suppose. three cars full. bud is going to take me in his brother's runabout." "twelve. then it is a regular party." "oh, not really, dearest. it will take an hour to get there, and then it will be nearly suppertime, and we will have to come right straight home afterward. you know miriam's people are terribly religious--not like us preachers, of course, but very particular. one time they were dancing on saturday night, and they sent us right home at midnight--they said there should be no dancing in their house on sunday. i was there, but i did not dance." rosalie laughed a little. "so the next saturday night when we were there, miriam's aunt gertrude turned the clock back an hour, to give us a little more time." "there would not be any dancing then, that is one thing," said doris thoughtfully. "well," admitted rosalie honestly but reluctantly, "miriam's parents are out of town, and aunt gertrude is the chaperon to-day." doris looked at her in exasperation. "you bad girl, you fooled me on purpose. run up and ask father, dear, won't you? it will only take a minute, and he won't mind. i can't settle it for you." "oh, doris, it would be mean," protested rosalie conscientiously. "very well, then, miss rosalie, decide for yourself. i think you get along better on your own responsibility anyhow. puzzle it out for yourself, go or not, just as you think best." "then i shall go," said rosalie positively, and she went into the hall for her hat. "you think it is quite all right for me to go then, doris?" "i do not think one single thing about it." "but you will not object if i go?" "i shall not even mention it." "everybody else goes, and they are just as good as we are--better than zee and i." "perhaps." "oh, you bad general, you make me so cross," cried rosalie, tossing her hat to the floor. "why didn't you just say i couldn't go--i never disobey you, do i? or why didn't you say i could go, then if my conscience hurt me i could say it was your fault. now you have spoiled the whole thing!" rosalie ran to the telephone and called a number in a voice unruffled and sweet. "i can not go, bud. it is really quite a party, you know, and sunday is the sabbath for us preachers. it was just dear of you to bother with me--i should think you must be tired of trying to be nice to a cranky old preachy crowd." then she listened a moment while he voiced fervent denials. "oh, that is nice of you, bud, and i know i should have loved it, but you see how it is, don't you?" a moment later she gave a gleeful little cry, "oh, truly, bud, would you enjoy that? i am sure it will be all right--wait a minute, till i ask doris. oh, doris, he says he does not care to go, and his brother has given him the runabout for the rest of the day, and he wants me to go for a quiet little drive with him, and-- is that all right? oh, you darling general!" "of course it is all right, and ask him to come to supper here, rosalie, and go to endeavor with us." so rosalie gurgled rapturously into the transmitter and received a hearty acceptance, and then flung her arms around her smiling sister. "oh, general, i am so glad we decided it that way. i know they would dance--a little--i would not, of course--but i do love to drive, and i don't get a chance very often, and bud is always so good to me. will you have something a little bit kind of extra nice for supper?" and rosalie danced off up the stairs, singing merrily. doris smiled and sighed in relief. "that settles rosalie for this afternoon. the other girls will be up and going in a minute, i suppose, the game must be nearly over. but it is a whole lot to have rosalie fixed." at that moment treasure picked up the cards and began putting them into the box, and zee walked slowly but proudly to the kitchen. a second later doris heard the tinkling of pennies, and zee came back into the room. "what were you doing, babe?" "putting some pennies in the mission box," came the even answer. "what shall we do now, doris? we don't want to play any more." "haven't you something to read?" "we've read everything in the house a dozen times. may we go over to grahams'?" "oh, not to-day, dear, they are so noisy. wait until to-morrow." "may we make some candy, doris? and pop corn?" "oh, zee, not on sunday. why don't you take a walk?" "too hot," objected treasure. "let's go and make father tell us a story." "you wouldn't bother him to-day, surely. he has to go to waltons' at three for the wedding." "why can't we go to the wedding with him? we are very good at weddings." "not this time, dear. we weren't invited. it is just a quiet wedding on the rush--they start east this afternoon, you know." "i don't believe in weddings on the rush--they ought to take their time and have old shoes and rice and refreshments," insisted zee stubbornly. "what shall we do then, doris? you ought to think of something." doris racked her brain. she had to rack her brain every sunday afternoon, but somehow she could not keep a supply of ideas in storage. "why don't you go to the meadow and pick some goldenrod?" she suggested finally. "bud is coming to tea with rosalie, and think how it will please her." treasure and zee looked at each other, and as neither could think of a plausible objection, they acted upon the plan. when they were gone, doris got up, luxuriously, and lifted her arms high above her head. "oh, day of rest," she breathed fervently, and wandered comfortably through the house and into the yard. sunday was a blissful day, after all. later in the afternoon she arranged the table attractively for tea, and made a pile of dainty sandwiches. and it was in the midst of this occupation that she was interrupted by the jingling of the telephone. "is this miss artman? miss doris-- do you recognize my voice?" "oh, mr. wizard, i wish i didn't. then you would have to tell me." he laughed at that, and his laugh was as pleasantly aggravating by telephone as in person. "however did you come to call me up?" she asked. "sad news, my friend, sad news. two young girls claiming to belong to you are under arrest out here on a charge of trespassing." doris trembled so she nearly dropped the receiver. "arrest?" she faltered. "well, practically. you see there is a big sign up which says, 'no trespassing,' and along came two young girls walking beside the creek, picking flowers, and shooing birds, and chasing rabbits, as natural as life. out jumps a wild and angry game-keeper--so-called. he says, 'didn't you see that sign, "no trespassing"?' the little dark one began to cry, but the other one said, 'we are not trespassing, we are picking flowers.' 'they are my personal flowers,' said the game-keeper. 'nothing of the kind, they are god's, you didn't even plant them, for they are wild.' then i arrive, like mercury on the wings of the wind, and the dark one was still weeping--" "zee doesn't cry," wailed doris. "she does cry. she not only cries, she bellows. but the slender, white one insisted they were not trespassing because they are preachers and preachers do not trespass. what shall i do with them?" "i do not know," faltered doris. "father is at a wedding, and-- who is the cross old bear, anyhow?" "search me," he said blithely. "i think maybe i can bribe him off. at present the girls are seated comfortably on a fallen tree eating apples, the baby has quit bellowing, and the game-keeper is gathering some late roses for them. holding them in sweet confinement until you guarantee that they are yours. i guess i can fix it up with the old man. don't worry then, i shall give it my personal attention, and see that your erring and trespassing--for they were trespassing beyond a doubt, manse to the contrary notwithstanding--sisters are restored to the shelter of the fold. don't worry. aren't you glad you have a mysterious wizard flitting about to shield your--your--your--i can not think of a word to do them justice-- anyhow, to keep your sanctified but erring family out of jail?" then he hung up the receiver before doris could even thank him. how agonizingly she waited--and how calmly and confidently they came at last--the calloused little wretches--zee bearing a bountiful armful of goldenrod and crimson roses, and treasure laden with luscious fruit. "well, for goodness' sake," exclaimed zee when she saw doris, white and trembling. "did you think they could really arrest us--preachers? impossible! of course the old reprobate--i use it scripturally, so don't get excited--of course he scared me right at first, i wept a little, very effectively, and treasure put her arm around me and said she wouldn't let him hurt me. he was very cross. we call him the corduroy crab, for short--and because we don't know anything else to call him." "you might know we would not let them arrest us, doris," said treasure gently. "you should not have worried." "of course, he was simply foaming at the mouth. he was going to march us home in disgrace, to report us. but treasure sat right down, and said we would come and report ourselves, but we would not be marched through town in disgrace. treasure came out like a brick; i was surprised at her." "what were _you_ doing all the time, miss zee?" "well," confessed zee reluctantly, "i was behind treasure most of the time. and then the other fellow--i wonder who in the world he was?" "he made me angrier than the crab did; he thought he was so funny!" "he was going along, and came in to see the excitement. and he laughed at us--the hateful thing. and when we said we belonged to the manse he laughed more than ever. he was not a farmer, i am sure--he wore a silk shirt, did you notice that, treasure? we call him the curious cat--curious because he was so funny, and cat because he laughed. he gave the old crab some money and said he would assume responsibility for us, and he told us to wait until he telephoned to verify us, or something, and he asked the crab to pick us some regular flowers to atone for his irreverence in assaulting a manse, as it were, and the crab really was pretty decent after that. when the cat went to telephone, i asked who he was, and the crab rolled up his eyes and said he never laid eyes on him before. and then the cat came back, and brought us home in his car." "where was it?" asked doris curiously. "it was in the hickory grove, this side of the tumble-down house--i did hear that some one had bought the place, but i did not believe it. every one says it is haunted. but of course haunts do not work in the day-time, and the flowers were gorgeous. we got quite chummy with the corduroy crab before we left, and asked if we might have a picnic there some time, and he said yes." "however did you get away out there, anyhow?" "oh, the maples came along in their car and asked if we wanted a ride, and when we got out there and saw how fine the flowers were we said we would get a ride back easy enough." "here comes father!" the girls raced down the stone walk to meet him, and doris returned to the kitchen. "did you ever hear such a thing in your life?" she thought to herself. "how does he get every place--and how does he know everything-- oh, i think i'll take a walk out there myself some of these fine days--maybe i'll get arrested, too!" chapter v the will "father, are you studying, or are you plain fidgeting?" asked doris suspiciously, pausing in the act of dusting the pile of manuscript on her father's desk. "just plain fidgeting, i am afraid," he admitted. "i am nervous." "nervous!" "i believe that old fellow left me something in his will," came the sober confession. "davison?" "davison." "but why should he leave you anything?" "well, for that matter, why shouldn't he? didn't i have to preach his funeral sermon--hardest job of my whole ministry?" "but what makes you think--" "folsom called me up and asked me to be at his office at eleven o'clock for the reading of the will. folsom is his lawyer." "oh, they just want you for a witness, goosie." "you don't witness wills when they are dead--i mean, you witness the will when the dead person made it--before he is dead, of course." "oh, father, i couldn't have bungled it worse myself," she cried gleefully. "but if he left you anything, i hope it was money. maybe he left you a thousand dollars. father, if he did leave you a thousand dollars, will you buy me a pair of two-tone gray shoes, twelve dollars? somehow the height of my ambition seems to be two-tone gray shoes, twelve dollars." "two-tone gray shoes! do they make shoes to music now?" "absolutely--and very expensive music, too--an orchestra at the very least. a thousand dollars!" "don't set your heart on it. i don't think he had any money." "what did he have?" "a little farm, and some chickens, and some books that were handed down to him from somebody else, and a pianola that he got by a mortgage, and a gold-headed cane--" "that is it, father, of course--the gold-headed cane. i am sure of it. of all things in the world that you can't use, and i don't want, a gold-headed cane comes first. so that is probably what you will get. i feel it in my prophetic soul. cheer up, dear, i believe you can pawn it." "why, general, what a pessimist you are to-day. maybe he left us the chickens." "no such luck," she answered gloomily. "didn't he have a handsome imported italian pipe? maybe he left you that. or an old english drinking tankard--he must have had drinking tankards. or a set of hand-carved poker chips-- he would chuckle in his grave if he could wish something like that on you. don't talk to me of wills any more, father. no wonder you are fidgety. run along now, and if you get a gold-headed cane don't you bring it into the manse. and if you get a sterling beer mug, you give it to the heathens. now scoot." laughing, her father scooted, and doris smiled after him tenderly. "it would be nice if the old sinner did end his bad life well by leaving father something really decent. and goodness knows father deserves it. he had to get him out of jail twice, and pray him through delirium tremens four times." still she would not allow her hopes to rise too buoyantly, for she had learned from a life of well-mixed joy and discomfort not to expect the very greatest and grandest of all good things--and then whatever came was welcome, because it was more than she expected. but when along toward noon she heard the call of the telephone, she leaped excitedly to answer it. "yes, yes, yes, of course it is. what did you say? what--did--you--say? do it again, father, and slowly." and then she repeated after him solemnly, word for word, "the prize jersey cow, or the red auto he was always getting arrested for speeding. and take your choice. mercy me! good-by." doris hung up the receiver and sat down on the floor. of all things in the world! a jersey cow--or a naughty red car! and father was to take his choice. [illustration: a jersey cow--or a naughty red car!] when the girls came clamoring in from school mr. artman had not appeared, so doris served them with hands that trembled, and finally, when she saw that father would not come in time to break his own good news, she said: "mr. davison left a will and father gets a jersey cow or the red car--which?" there was no more dinner after that--for the girls all began talking at once--except treasure, who looked volumes, but never had an opportunity to break into the conversation--and how cross they were at father for not coming home to share the excitement. but maybe he was learning to drive the red car, or-- "milk the cow," faltered rosalie. "you don't suppose father would let them talk him into taking the silly old cow, do you?" "absolutely not," said doris imperturbably. "father knows better than to decide such a thing by himself. he will come straight home--and i choose the car." so the girls reluctantly went off to school again. at one o'clock a neighbor ran in. "well, what do you think of that? did you ever hear of such a thing? would anybody but old davison ever think of leaving a preacher anything in his will?" "mr. davison was very thoughtful in many ways," said doris with dignity. "yes, i suppose so. well, it certainly is wonderful luck for you folks. it is a good cow, one of the best in the county. everybody says so. worth two hundred dollars, and only three years old. and think of the nice milk and cream and butter and--" "you don't mean to say father took the cow," gasped doris. "why, i don't know--i suppose so--i should think he would. whatever would your poor father do with that devilish little red car? of course he will take the cow." "you scared me for a minute. i thought maybe father had a mental aberration and did it! no, he will not take the cow--not by any means. he will take the car, and take it just as fast as ever he can, and--and--and--" of course, the neighbor lady was sure dear doris was quite daft, but doris was tranquilly confident. her faith in her father's wisdom remained unshaken--he would come to her, and she had already chosen the car. it certainly was a general's prerogative--choosing things. at four o'clock he came, smiling, his face flushed, his eyes bright and boyish. "most fun i've had in ten years," he said, mopping his brow. "i think if the parishioners knew how much fun it is, more of them would die, and remember me in their wills." "you mean--" "never mind what i mean. i am not sure i know myself. well, as i told you, davison says it is for my own personal use and pleasure, mine and my family's--not for the church under any consideration--either the cow or the car. probably, he says, in his outspoken way, i shall be fool enough to take the cow, and in that case the car is to go to his great-grand-nephew up in new london. and great-grand-nephew greatly prefers the car, so he took me out to show me the cow, and explain what a bargain she is, and how easy to milk, and how creamy the milk is, and he figured up how many pounds of milk and gallons of-- no, i mean it the other way, gallons of milk and pounds of butter i will get per year, at so much per gallon and per pound, and that will mean a clear profit of--" "father, you poor dear, shall i call a doctor?" "so, after seeing the cow, and she is a beauty--i said, 'how about the car? let's give her the once-over, too, while we are at it.' he says it isn't much of a car, in terrible condition, would take a hundred dollars to put it in shape, and fairly eats gasoline--gas going up, too. and he says it is a bad car to handle, quite dangerous, in fact, has a habit of running into telephone poles and trains and things. but we backed her out of the garage, and great-grand-nephew and folsom and i had a ride. which do you want?" "mercy, father, how abrupt you are. i thought it was settled long ago. we want the car, of course." "all right, my dear, all right, but i have a hunch that great-grand-nephew will not be particularly pleased. lucky he lives in new london instead of here--congregationalist, too, that's good. and when i consider that i got davison out of jail twice for speeding the thing, i think after all it is my just deserts. all right, call folsom up and tell him we take the car." doris ecstatically did, and the lawyer said he would deliver the car at their door in person the next morning at nine o'clock. "can't you make it eight?" pleaded doris. "i think the children ought to be here, and they are in school, you know." very obligingly mr. folsom consented to the change of time, and the entire family sat up until eleven o'clock that night figuring out how to make motor bonnets of left-over coats and planning vacation motor trips for ten years in advance. at five-thirty the next morning treasure and zee made a tour of the house, wakening every member of the family in no idle manner. "going to sleep all day?" zee demanded in a peevish voice when she had shaken rosalie four times. "get up, so you'll be ready for the car." "zee artman, you go right back to bed, and let me sleep," protested rosalie. "do i have to sit up all night just because the car is coming to-morrow?" "you get out, or we'll pull you out. treasure and i are all dressed. we're not going to have things held up at the last minute because somebody isn't down yet. are you going to get up-- have you got the water, treasure?" in the face of such persistence the others were helpless, so they rushed down and had a feverish breakfast, with zee dashing away from the table every three minutes to see if the car had come, and at seven-thirty they were grouped impatiently at the front window. "keep behind the curtains," rosalie urged, "or he will think we never had a car before in our lives." "we must call it the machine," said zee. "machine sounds so unconcerned." "motor, you little goose," said rosalie. "machine is what the business men call it. the highbrows say, 'the motor will be here at six.'" "we must give it a name," said treasure. "let's call it the shooting star." "let's call it the divine spark-- it is the only divine thing old davison ever did." "girls," said doris firmly, "don't you ever let me hear you speak disrespectfully of poor mr. davison again. he certainly had a kind and generous heart and he must have sympathized with dear father, walking all over town in all kinds of weather, and--" "pretty good sort, after all, wasn't he, doris?" laughed mr. artman. "one post-mortem virtue like this will cover a lifetime of delirium tremens, won't it?" "here she comes," shouted zee, and the family forgot its ministerial dignity and rushed pell-mell down the stone walk. it was a pretty car, giddy and gaudy as to color, which fascinated zee, with a softly whirring motor that reminded treasure of a happy little kitten, and with long low lines that rosalie declared were very smart indeed. "get in, folks," said mr. folsom gaily, "we must give her a trial run." so the three older girls stepped loftily into the tonneau, and zee snuggled up between her father and mr. folsom in front--there may have been bigger, more wonderful, more luxurious cars--but the artmans could not be convinced of it, and mr. davison improved steadily with every turn of the motor. mr. folsom, enjoying their passionate delight, volunteered to spend the morning giving the minister his first lesson, and a near panic ensued. "oh, doris!" "do we have to go to school?" "oh, dear, sweet, darling general, it never happened before since we were born." "what do you think, father?" said doris slowly. "you are the general," came the quick response. "then," said doris, in a clear triumphant voice, "step on it! what do we care for school, and work, and mending, and dishes, and-- begin, mr. folsom. we'll see the morning through." it was lovely to see precious old father take that gay young interest in bolts and screws--how readily his laughter sounded--how deep and pleased his voice rang out. poor, dear mr. davison--well, we preachers are only to lead, and not to judge, and doris was very, very sure the angels in heaven must know many good and tender things about the man who did this kindness to her father. some of the people of the fold thought the family had mentally run amuck. whoever heard of an impecunious minister taking an expensive auto in preference to a money-making cow? it was incomprehensible. but even those who wondered, smiled with loving sympathy when the family bundled joyously into the motor "just to have a good time for an hour." "but wherever in the world we are going to scare up money for gas is more than i can figure out," said mr. artman, looking at the girls with sober eyes. "we've got the car--but it won't run itself. it costs twenty-five cents a gallon, and we only get about eighteen miles to the gallon--" "don't do figures, father, it makes my head ache," pleaded doris. "we must concentrate. where is the money for gas? everybody think now." after a painful silence treasure came forward with the first sacrifice. "i will give half of my allowance--but it is only a dollar." zee frowned at her. "that's a poor idea," she said. "now i have to live up to your precedent, and give half of mine. that is another dollar." and then, with a truly herculean effort she added, "and, doris, i will go ahead wearing stogies to school, and you can have the price of the fine shoes for gas, too." "that is just fine for a starter," said doris. "and since you little ones have set the example, i know i can cut down on the expense of cooking--we must use less butter, and less sugar, and other rich things. i am sure i can save a few dollars every month, and you will never notice the difference. it will take a little more planning, and a little more work preparing the food--but i am willing to do that. put me down for at least three dollars." rosalie sighed. "what can i do? i have my winter clothes already, and my allowance--i can't give it up, for if i haven't any money the other girls will pay my share of things, and i can not sponge on my friends, you know." then she added slowly, "but father gave me the money to join the golf club--and i only wanted to join because it is so smart--i get plenty of exercise without it. it is five dollars to join and two-fifty a month. that goes into the gas." "rosalie, that is lovely--and so sweet and unselfish. now we can use the car with clear consciences, and we will enjoy it all the more because we are making a sacrifice to pay for our pleasure." "how can i help?" asked their father suddenly. "i should like to follow your lead. is there anything i can give up, or go without? how do men economize, anyhow? i shave and shine myself already. cigars--i never use. theater tickets--never even saw them. what can i give up?" "oh, father, i never thought of that. you do not have any money for yourself at all, do you? you always turn it right over to me. are--we--as poor as that?" there was tragedy in the young voice, and she broke over the words. "why, doris, i did not mean it that way. i have everything i want, of course. fortunately, a minister's clothes do not go out of style--and it saves me trouble and worry to let you spend the family fund instead of doing it myself." "then you shall be treasurer of the gasoline money. it will make you feel like a millionaire, you poor old soul." she ran to her desk and brought out the box of household funds. "here is my three dollars-- and don't you get reckless and spend it for tires and rugs and things." laughing gaily, the other girls brought out their hoarded dollars and thrust them into his hands. "i have not felt so affluent for lo, these many years," he declared. "let's go out for a spin in the motor, shall we? and we'd better run by the garage and fill her up--the tank is nearly empty." chapter vi the serpent mr. artman looked up from his mail, frowning gently, and doris, always quick to note his changing moods even in the midst of directing treasure about the proper distance from the table for her chair, and admonishing zee to eat her oatmeal from the side of her spoon, was prompt to voice a query. "don't frown, father, it isn't ministerial. has somebody else left you a will?" "no such luck. i was not frowning at the letter--i have a headache." "oh, father," cried zee. "it is because the girls make such a racket. go to bed, won't you, and i myself will stand on guard and keep peace in the family." "zee's spirit is willing to be quiet, but her voice and her heels give it no support," smiled rosalie. "it is not the noise. i like to hear the incessant chatter and chase below stairs when i am working. this fellow--" "fellow, father?" "minister," he amended quickly. "he is a minister, but he is tired of pastoral work and wants to try his skill in evangelism, and insists on coming here to practise on us during his vacation. but we aren't ready for evangelistic meetings--and personally i should prefer another-- anyhow--" he frowned gently at the letter again. "tell him so," advised doris. "i did. but he says he is coming for a visit anyhow, and he insists it is a direct guidance of providence." "direct guidance of his bank-account, probably," said rosalie. "don't let him work you, father." he shook his head at her reprovingly. "if it should really prove a guidance-- anyhow, as he says, he is coming and will be with us a few days to think it over." "then i can not go to the country to-morrow," said doris. "rosalie is no fit person to cook dinner for a visiting minister." "i am sorry, dear." "yes, of course you are. i can see quite plainly that you do not want him any more than i do. but never mind. the country will remain forever, but--" "some visiting ministers do, too, if they get a chance," chimed rosalie. "rosalie! i dare say he is very nice, and we shall all enjoy him immensely. shan't we, father?" "i hope so--i think so. he is--i do not know him very well." "evidently he did not make a special hit with you," said zee shrewdly. "oh, girls, how prying you are. he is very active and enthusiastic. that i was not personally drawn to him is rather my fault than his, no doubt." "we are going to be very nice to him," said doris. "and rosalie can take him in hand, so he won't bother you every minute." "oh, he is married. and i must say his wife is nice enough to make up for--" "father!" "excuse me, dear, i mean his wife is--very nice indeed." so the visiting minister came, the reverend andrew boltman, a nervous energetic man with dark eyes, and hair just tinged with gray, and he settled down for a visit in the manse, trying, meanwhile, to effect arrangements for the services, which mr. artman still insisted were not desirable at the time. on the second day of his visit, when mr. artman announced his intention of going to a lecture at the college, mr. boltman said he preferred to stay quietly at home and read if he might be excused, and his host went away alone, seeming almost relieved to be free to follow his own desires for the afternoon. doris went serenely about her housework, and mr. boltman picked out a comfortable corner in the living-room with his book. but late in the afternoon, when her father returned, he found doris alone at the window, impatiently tapping her foot on the floor. "where is mr. boltman?" "gone down-town. something is wrong with rosalie. she is up-stairs, crying. it must be pretty bad, for she would not tell me about it." so mr. artman went up-stairs to rosalie, slowly but without delay, feeling that vague helplessness that comes to men when there is trouble in the family. she was lying face down on the bed, rigid, her hands clenched tightly, but her shoulders rose and fell with heavy sobs. something in her attitude told him that this was vital, not just a little tempestuous outburst that could be readily brushed aside. he sat down close by her on the bed, and laid his arm across her shoulders tenderly. "rosalie," he whispered, and as she flung herself upon him he caught a glimpse of a white face and stormy eyes, quickly hidden from his searching gaze. very gently he caressed her, asking no question, patting and fondling her as he would have done to a little hurt or frightened child. and then when the sobs came more easily, she stood up away from him suddenly and looked straight into his face, and her eyes were hard. "i do not intend to be a christian any more--not ever any more. it is all over. i hate them. i think they are horrible. christianity is nothing--it is a cheat--and ministers are the worst of all." "rosalie, my little girl, have i--done something?" he cried in a startled voice, for this was new even to him, who had coped with the moods of daughters for many years. "oh, father, not you--how can you think that? listen. it is that wicked, abominable old married boltman. what do you suppose he did? i came in from school, and doris was at the store. he said i was the loveliest thing he had ever seen, and i said, 'thanks,' very curtly, for i thought it was downright impudence, that's what i thought. and before i could even dream of such a thing, he put his arms around me and kissed me twice--kissed me--right on the lips. he did." she had spoken in a low voice, but every word fell so clearly, so distinctly, that it was almost as if she had shouted aloud. "rosalie!" said her father in a hoarse whisper, and rosalie could see that his hands shook. "he did. he kissed me--twice. is that all the ministry stands for? and he is married, and has children of his own--and he is in our home, and i--why, i am only a kid." "and can one--man--kill your faith in the sanctity of the ministry--one man, rosalie?" "there may be some other decent ones besides you--but how can i tell which ones they are? how can anybody tell?" she wailed. "they all come praying, and saying sweet and gentle things--how can you tell which ones are true and which ones--are like boltman?" "we have always had the wolves inside the fold, dear. and of old, you know, they had their false prophets teaching error." rosalie drooped her head against his arm, and did not speak. the gentle, so dearly loved voice, seemed to comfort her. "i had hoped--i have tried--to keep my life so clean before you girls that if ever a time should come, like this, when your faith was put to the test, you could look at me and say, 'but there is father.' i have always felt it was a part of fatherhood, to be a living proof before the children of the home. i must have failed you some time." rosalie clung to him, shaking her head in violent denial. "he ought to be put out of the church," she whispered. "we are human, rosalie, as well as ministers. and human flesh is not invincible. god is very, very reasonable with us. david betrayed his trust, but god forgave him. peter denied his lord, but was restored to favor. i think that god forgives us when we fail him even yet--even we ministers--if we go to him for purging." "but, father, if the ministry can't keep a man good--what can?" "nothing but the spirit of the lord, working in us, nothing else, rosalie. and have you lost all confidence in the ministry?" rosalie squirmed. "not in you, dearest. just in the rest of it." "oh, rosalie, is your faith so small? people on whom i counted have failed me many times, yet i trust the next one just the same." "you have more trust to begin with than i have. and he looked so--ugly, father--in his eyes. i hate to think that women have to sit in the church and look up to him in the pulpit--god's pulpit, that is sacred." "rosalie, i want to talk to you just a minute, and then i shall go down and leave you alone to think it over by yourself. of all the ministers we have had in our home, he is the first to betray our trust. only one, out of the dozens we have had. i put it to your sense of justice, to your belief in fair play. your finger is pricked by the thorn on the stem of the rose, but you do not turn your eyes from all the lovely roses forever after. the dog goes mad and bites the hand that has petted him, but you do not say all dogs must suffer death. one girl who has been your friend is false to the friendship and betrays your confidence, but you do not deny yourself the friendship of other girls on that account. many a woman has been deceived by her lover, but she does not shut her heart to love and truth the rest of her life because of that. and many parents have been cut to the quick by the ingratitude and the disloyalty of a much-loved child, but they do not turn deaf ears to the claims of other children. it may be _consistent_, rosalie, to say that if one of a species betrays you none of that species can be trusted--it may be consistent, but it is not generous, it is not kind, it is not womanly. think it over, dearest, and i shall come to you again after while." then he went down-stairs, and stood grimly at the window waiting until mr. boltman turned in at the gate of the manse, and went out the stone walk to meet him. "have you decided about the meetings yet, brother?" asked mr. boltman eagerly, not noting the white lines on the face of his host. "yes, i have decided. i am going out to the garage--come along, will you?" after a while rosalie came down-stairs looking for her father, and she hovered close to doris as if enjoying the protection of her nearness, but offering no explanations, and doris asked no questions. so the two were together when the kitchen door banged open, and zee and treasure, trembling and pallid, rushed in upon them. "what is it?" cried doris nervously. "what is the matter? did something happen?" "oh, awful," cried zee, quivering. "father and mr. boltman had a fight." "what?" "they came into the barn--we were in the haymow, and father asked if he was going to explain something, and boltman laughed kind of funny and said, 'oh, be reasonable, artman, you know we are all human.' and father said, and his voice sounded very grim and--like an archangel, or something, and he said, 'yes, thank god, we are, but some of us have manhood enough to make us good to children and loyal to our friends.' and father said, 'there is something in the bible about the man who puts a stumbling block in the way of one of his little ones-- and you have put a block in the path of faith for one of the children of the church.' and boltman said, 'won't you pray with me, brother?' and father said, 'yes, in a minute. but first i have to let you know what i think of you.' and father knocked him down-- he did that very thing, we were peeking through the cracks, and boltman's nose bled something awful. then father got a piece of waste out of the car, and wet it at the hydrant and gave it to boltman to wipe the blood off, and then he said, 'now we will pray.' and they knelt down-- what did father say in his prayer, treasure? i was so scared i couldn't hear good." "he said, 'oh, god, wash the heart of this man who professes to be thy minister, and teach him loyalty, teach him tenderness, teach him purity!' or something like that. and he said, 'and, dear god, help me to remove that stumbling block from the path of thy little one.' and then father said, 'now get out. i will pack your bag and send it to the train for you.'" "and father struck out through the meadow as fast as he could go, and boltman wiped the rest of the blood off, and went toward town, and--" "whatever in the world do you suppose--" "we must not ask any questions, girls," said doris quickly, without glancing at rosalie's face. "it is something connected with the ministry, and you know those things are sacred to father. so we must not ask about it, but let it pass." rosalie's eyes were suddenly very bright, and she turned and ran breathlessly up the stairs. she knew that when her father was ready, he would come to her. and after a time, came father, with a little of shame in his eyes, and a flush on his face. "and how is the problem now?" he asked gently. "all solved," she cried. "a fatherly blow from a strong right arm was the answer." "i--you--how--" "the girls were in the haymow, but they do not know what it is all about, and doris said we preachers must not ask questions in a case like that." "rosalie," he said, "some people say that god does not watch over us, and guard us. yet providence certainly kept that man out of the house when you first told me,--i am afraid i could have killed him--there was hate in my heart--not now, dear. and believe this, dear, i did not strike him in anger. i thought it over carefully and decided it would do him good. but i did not hit him furiously, or wildly--it was deliberate." "then you do not always believe in--turning the other cheek?" "i do not believe in carrying it to the point of offering another daughter to the man who offends," he said quickly. "i think," she said thoughtfully--"i believe--a false prophet was probably the serpent in the garden of eden. they are very upsetting, you know--i am sure it was nothing less than a bad minister that overcame eve's scruples." "perhaps." and then he added wistfully, "do you still have that feeling of abhorrence for--us preachers?" "oh, father, nobody could lose confidence in the ministry when you emphasize your argument with your muscle. it is all over. isn't it a good thing i know you? for you could cancel a dozen bad preachers, for me at least. i'm sorry for the way i talked. it was very foolish, and very wicked. why, do you know, for a while, i actually held god responsible for that creature? i thought, 'how can god allow such a monster to go about preaching his gospel?' and then, after you talked to me, i saw that he was only the serpent trying to despoil god's vineyard." "oh, rosalie, how many of us do that very thing. instead of thanking god for the lovely vineyard he has given us, we blame him for the serpent curling at the roots. yet the serpent is not all powerful--even we have strength to drive him away--god saw to that. but no, instead of using our strength as it was intended, we say, 'god should not allow the serpent in the vineyard!' then it is all over, and you are still glad and proud to be one of 'us preachers,' are you?" "gladder and prouder than ever," she said warmly, but her father saw in her eyes a little dark shadow of disillusionment that had never been in rosalie's bright eyes before. chapter vii discipline "oh, we had a perfectly glorious time, doris," cried rosalie, skipping into the manse with her face fairly glowing. "it is such a lovely crowd, and we have such laughing times together--and we got whole sacks full of hickory nuts, and bert gave me his share, too. is supper ready? i am so hungry. we thought we had twice too much lunch, but we ate it all, and were tempted to raid the orchards coming home, we were so ravenous. do hurry along, there's a nice general. do we have to wait for anybody?" "oh, rosalie, how young you are when you are hungry," cried doris affectionately. "it isn't nearly time for dinner, but we'll eat as soon as the girls come. father won't be here to-night, and we only have cream potato soup, but you love it, and i made heaps. aren't the girls in sight? they promised to come early and--" "yes, here they come. you dish up the soup, and i'll carry it in." so with a great deal of chattering and laughter, and endless running back and forth, rosalie pulled up the chairs and carried the plates of soup to the table, waltzing doris to her place just as the younger girls came in. "hurry, hurry," begged rosalie. "father isn't here to-night, so you needn't take time to brush. for once i am glad we don't have to wait for the blessing." so the girls rushed to the table, and when rosalie was happily immersed in her soup, doris said, rather shyly: "i am glad you spoke of the blessing, rosalie, for--i want to say something about that myself, and i haven't had the nerve, though i have been thinking of it for quite a while. i think it is a shame for us preachers to sit down and eat without giving thanks, just because father is not here to do the talking for us." rosalie paused, spoon lifted in mid-air. "mercy, general, are you brave enough to tackle that?" "i agree with you, doris," said zee promptly. "i feel like a heathen when we eat without the blessing. and i think you and rosalie ought to be ashamed of yourselves." "i am willing to take my turn," said treasure, "if you won't be critical." "why, treasure, you dear little thing. then is it all settled that we take turns giving thanks when father is away? for i believe father thinks we do it right along, and i should be ashamed to let him know we don't." "i can't--i am too young," said zee bashfully. "you aren't too young to thank father when he gives you a nickel." "well, i will try it once, but i speak for the last turn. and if rosalie so much as smiles i'll never do it--" "say, do you think i am an infidel?" demanded rosalie indignantly. "of course i shall not smile. go ahead, then, general, begin." she dropped her spoon and shut her eyes. "maybe--shall we--do you think i ought to--" "let's draw cuts to see who takes the first plunge," cried zee. "i'll hold the straws while the rest of you draw." "zee, sit down. i am surprised at you. we must not draw cuts about the blessing. i will begin." doris looked anxiously about the table, scanning her sisters' faces for signs of amusement, but they were preternaturally grave and earnest. so in a meek and lowly voice, in a manner that spoke of anything but a pharisaical blasting of trumpets, doris asked a blessing on their food. and the girls sighed with satisfaction when she said amen, proclaiming their comfort in having conformed to the ministerial proprieties, and kept the sanctity of the manse intact. "we had a perfectly ducky time to-day," said rosalie, while doris was refilling her plate with soup. "we got a half a bushel of nuts apiece, and bert gave me his besides, on condition that i invite him to help eat them once a week." "by the way, who went nutting to-day, anyhow?" asked zee suddenly. "we did--our college bunch." "it was not your sunday-school class, was it?" rosalie flashed a questioning look at her sister. "no, it was not the class--exactly," she said reluctantly. "the girls are in my class, though." "was it the whole class?" persisted zee. "why are you asking so many questions? what difference does it make to you who went? whatever made you think of the sunday-school class anyhow?" "we met little nora gordon on the street to-day, and she asked if you went nutting, and who went along, and i said mabel and frances and gloria and annabelle and sara and the college boys. and she said, 'then it was their sunday-school class, and they didn't invite my sister and she feels awful.'" "oh, mercy," said rosalie, "we tried to keep it from her--that is, we didn't suppose she would find out--anyhow, it was a college crowd, and alicia gordon does not go to college." "did all the rest of the class go except alicia?" asked doris. "well, yes, it isn't a very big class, you know, and we all go to college, except alicia. she works. but is was a regular college crowd--and the boys don't like alicia, she never has a date with anybody. she is kind of poky." "you knew it would hurt her feelings if she found it out, didn't you?" "well, perhaps, but we didn't intend she should find it out. i wonder who told her? it was a nasty little trick, and if you did it, miss zee--" "i didn't. what did i know about your old picnic? and when i saw how nora felt, i told her over and over it was a college affair, didn't i, treasure?" "yes, but their feelings are hurt, anyhow." "now, of course, you are blaming me, doris, but we couldn't take her along. the boys don't care for her, and she can't expect us to make dates for her." "what is the matter with her?" "nothing, but she sits around like a stick and never says boo. boys make her nervous. i like her well enough myself, though she never says much and clams up completely when a man heaves in sight. a pretty enough girl, and dresses well--but what could we do with her on a nutting party?" "i think it was a very un-manse-like thing to do, and i am sorry." "i am sorry she found it out myself. but i hardly know her." "why don't you know her, if she is in your class?" "she never goes where we go, and--you just can't get acquainted with her." "did you ever try?" "um, not very hard, i suppose. she ought to meet one half-way." "some people can't, and you know it. that is why they have us preachers, to go the whole way to meet those who can't, or won't, come a step toward us. i'm afraid--you ought to be disciplined, rosalie." zee leaped up, clapping her hands. "good. whip her, doris. go on, give her a good one, for once, the bad thing." "oh, zee, doris can't whip a big thing like rosalie," protested treasure anxiously. "don't be silly, girls," said rosalie. "i see what you mean, doris, and i am quite willing. pronounce the sentence, general." "well, alicia works on saturday morning, but she is off in the afternoon, isn't she? so the punishment is that you must have her come and spend the afternoon and stay for supper and all night and go to sunday-school with us the next morning. then you will have a good chance to get regularly acquainted with her." rosalie went directly to the telephone. "well, now is the-- oh, doris, not this week. we are going to stay all night at adele's you know, and make taffy." "i am sorry," said doris gently. rosalie soberly searched her sister's face a moment, then without comment, called the number, and asked for alicia. she gave the invitation in a friendly cordial voice, showing no hint of perturbation or coercion, and after a moment's pause, alicia accepted. "but whatever in the world we are going to do with that solemn alicia gordon for eighteen hours, i do not know. you'll have to do most of the talking, doris." "oh, no, indeed; she is your guest. we put her in your hands absolutely and you alone will be responsible for her comfort." "but, general--" "if she is my company, you won't get much punishment out of it, will you?" rosalie sighed heavily. "eighteen hours--she will come right from work--that means luncheon. oh, doris, you do not know what a blow she is. and a nice enough girl, too--but whatever can we talk about for eighteen hours?" doris had no suggestions forthcoming, and to make the affliction greater, on saturday she made unexpected arrangements to drive to the country with her father. "and you can get lunch for yourself and the girls, can't you, rosalie dear?" "but alicia gordon--" "oh, she won't mind. i'll be home in time to have a nice dinner for you. bye, rosalie; good luck." alicia arrived from her work almost as soon as rosalie came in from a business meeting of the literary society, and a heated discussion of menus was immediately in progress. "you must help us, alicia. we are trying to get up a fashionable company luncheon in your honor, and we can't think of anything fashionable that i have brains enough to cook." zee watched closely, but alicia never so much as smiled, though any one might know rosalie had meant to be funny. "let's not be fashionable," she said evenly. "let's figure out what is easiest to prepare, and have it." "wouldn't be proper," insisted rosalie. "doris always wants us to be proper when we have company." "french fried potatoes are fashionable," said zee. "too much work." "corn fritters are nice," said treasure. "i do not like corn," said alicia. they looked at one another soberly. "i tell you what," said rosalie at last. "let's go to the pantry and see what we can find." the four ran pell-mell to the pantry, and looked over the shelves hastily, but with thoroughness. "a custard pie, thank goodness," said rosalie. "that settles the dessert." "i am going to have this apple sauce and bread and butter," said treasure suddenly. "you folks can get what you like." "oh, i'm going to have toast and milk," cried zee. "i'll toast it myself--and--" "i'd like a fried egg sandwich," said alicia, "if you do not mind. and i want to fix it myself. i just love them, and mother never has time to make them for our big family." "i'll have one, too," decided rosalie. "suppose you fix mine when you do yours, and i'll be making hot chocolate for all of us. and we'll have some sweet pickles if zee will bring them from the cellar." in the confusion of getting four separate luncheons on one gas stove at the same minute, one could not find time for much formality. zee stepped on alicia's toes, and alicia splashed hot butter on treasure's hand, and rosalie let the chocolate boil over on the eggs. but finally they were seated companionably about the table, and by that time they were fairly well acquainted. when luncheon was over, zee and treasure set about the dishes, and rosalie and alicia disappeared. but when rosalie came into the kitchen on an errand a little later, zee said: "she seems all right, i think. i bet she needs a beau." "what makes you think that?" "well, you say you need them to keep your soul in--to--to--i forgot just what you do say, but anyhow you always declare you can't be normal without a beau. and i guess all girls are alike, so alicia needs one, too." rosalie went out of the kitchen, thinking hard. "i wonder--" she said. "i believe i can--" she went directly to the telephone, and called bert. "i have a friend spending the night with me," she said. "a town girl. you know i told you i was busy and could not keep our date. but i wonder if you can't get another man and come and help us make candy?" bert was desolated, but since rosalie had said she was busy, he had made other arrangements--he didn't care two cents about the girl they picked out for him--wasn't it beastly luck-- he would break the date, that's what he'd do. rosalie would not hear of it, and she stopped the conversation abruptly and looked at alicia. "men are all alike, aren't they? here he has been telling me for two months that i am the only girl in college--i shall get even with him. i'll just have a senior, and that will make him wild. bob harton is always asking me for dates, but is always just too late. so i can ask him perfectly all right, and we'll have him bring--let me see--i know--arthur gooding, a 'post'--and terribly sensible." so she ran to the telephone again, in spite of alicia's protests, and called the second number. "oh, bob," she began, "this is rosalie artman. i am always taken when you try to make a date with me, so i thought i would try my hand on you. i have a town girl staying all night, and we want you to come and help us celebrate. and can't you ask arthur gooding to come? i do not know him very well myself, but he is so sensible, and this is a very sensible girl, so they ought to get on wonderfully. will you see? oh, that is just lovely." "i do not know how to talk to men, rosalie, i never had a date in my life. i can't think of things to say." "leave it to me," cried rosalie blithely. "i can do most of the talking. and arthur is so sensible you won't have to talk. just sit back and look wise, and he will think you are wonderful. and bob is lots of fun, and--oh, it will be easy." the rest of the afternoon passed comfortably enough getting ready for the evening, and the girls had told the boys good night, and gone up-stairs before rosalie remembered that alicia was a bore. when they went into their room for the night, she turned alicia's face to the light and scrutinized the bright quiet eyes, and the flushed but still placid face. "marvels will never cease," she said solemnly. "i am not sensible, i don't want to be sensible, i don't even believe in sense, and i talk all the time, and the silliest talk i can think of--but that perfectly dignified sober arthur gooding, who is a 'post,' fell for me like a flash, head over heels. and he was invited for you! and you sat back in a corner saying as near nothing as possible, but that irrepressible bob harton could not keep three feet away from you all evening, and never took his eyes off your face once. come now, 'fess up. did he make a date with you?" "three--one for to-morrow, and two for next week," admitted alicia, smiling softly. "isn't he funny and bright?" rosalie turned her back, and stared up at the ceiling. "well," she said at last, "i always have thought you quiet girls were dangerous, if you ever get started." alicia came over to her suddenly, and said, "thank you for getting me started. i had a lovely time. i thought you did not like me, rosalie. you'll forgive me, won't you?" rosalie flung her arms impulsively around alicia's shoulders. "i had a lovely time myself. and i do like you--but i shall try to forgive you, if you never do it again," she said virtuously. but as they were getting into bed, she said suddenly, "isn't that zee the shrewd one, though?" and alicia wondered what zee had to do with the question in hand. chapter viii the bishop doris went to bed very early in the first place, a thing she firmly resolved never to do again under any circumstances. zee and treasure were soundly and sweetly sleeping. father had gone, in the car, to some very formal and dignified affair where there were to be two college presidents and a methodist bishop, and no one ever knows when to expect folks home if there is a bishop in it. rosalie was spending the evening with one of her friends, and just an hour ago had telephoned that she was going to spend the night, and doris should not wait up for her. so in the face of all that, there was nothing for doris to do but go to bed. but she could not sleep. she tossed and tumbled, and finally, after counting both sheep and stars long and persistently, and after repeating to herself all the soothing and sleep-provoking poetry she could think of, she did fall into a troubled slumber. a long time afterward she became conscious of vague unrest. it must be terribly late, yet doris was acutely certain that some one was moving around--doing something--things evidently were not right. she slipped out of bed, and drew her flannel kimono about her. in the next room, her younger sisters were sleeping heavily. her father's door was ajar, and she peered in, noting the humpy outlines of the beautiful blue and white ladies' aid quilt over the tall figure. then a sudden glance from the hall window beside her sent a chill to her very heart. the door of the barn--the "garage" now, by grace of dear mr. davison's red car--was slowly, softly opening. a man stepped out from the shadow and passed inside, the door swinging wide behind him. then came the whirr of the engine, as he stepped on the starter. like a flash doris leaped into her father's room, and clutched his shoulders. "run, run," she shouted lustily. "run for your life. some one is stealing the car. father!" under the exertion of her strong arms, the figure rose quickly in the bed, and a long shaft of moonshine rested across his face--and it was a stranger. doris stared at him in amazement, holding the flannel robe about her throat more tightly, and then she sank back away from him, still staring. "who--are--you?" "i am the bishop, my dear," he answered, too startled to remember he wasn't the only bishop in the world. "your father brought me home with him to spend the night.--isn't he here? why, where is he? he came to bed with me." "good night," said doris, with icy dignity, and she arose and swept haughtily from the room. at the hall window she heard again the spin of the motor, and the low purr as the engine leaped into action, and the car rolled out of the garage. it was father, of course--and bareheaded, too, in the middle of the night--an idiotic thing for a minister to do, going off for a midnight joy-ride leaving a bishop in his bed-- well, doris should worry! if a preacher couldn't take care of himself, who could? she went resolutely back to bed, but not to sleep. where in the world had father gone? why had he brought a bishop into their home, and put him to bed, and then sneaked off and left him there? and by every conceivable stretch of the imagination that fellow in father's bed was too young to do any respectable bishoping, she was sure of that. maybe he had only pretended to be a bishop, and father had discovered the deception, and gone for the sheriff--or--oh, dear! if he was a bishop, doris knew that no one on earth but the methodists would have such a young one. the presbyterians did not approve of bishops in the first place, but if they did, they would have old ones with gray hair and wrinkles. when she heard the car run into the garage again she leaped from her bed and hurried down-stairs. her father and rosalie were coming in together, laughing as unconcernedly as though bishops were every-day occurrences. "oh, doris, father was so excited about the bishop he forgot me," giggled rosalie. "you said you were not coming home," said doris indignantly. "i changed my mind. i have a class at eight in the morning, and i was afraid i might not make it. so i just phoned father to call for me in the car, and he told me to wait until he got there, and i did, but he forgot me." "the bishop came home with me, and--" "don't i know it?" interrupted doris hotly. "and i forgot rosalie, and then when we got to bed i remembered. and the bishop was asleep so i slipped out, and--" "good night," said doris curtly, and stalked up the stairs like an offended lady macbeth. "isn't she dramatic?" laughed rosalie. "would it shock the church if we put her on the stage?" "i wonder what happened? well, let's go to bed, she'll be all right in the morning." "aren't you hungry, 'fath'? let's raid the pantry, shall we? that will be a good joke on doris, to pay her for her airs." after the lunch they crept softly up-stairs to bed, and rosalie kept up a pleasant chattering conversation which doris met with unfriendly silence. what in the world would the bishop think of her? whatever were they going to have for breakfast? of course, father had always been free to bring people whenever he liked--but a bishop! oh, well! the next morning she ran down-stairs very early, and took stock of the stores in the pantry. for the first time she almost wished she had chosen the cow instead of the car--real cream would cover so many breakfast shortages. fortunately there was one can of peaches in the cellar--they were being saved for a special occasion, but nothing could be any more special than a bishop. they could not have oatmeal, for rosalie and father had finished off the milk. there were three eggs--she might cook them for the bishop, and tell him the family was on diet--ridiculous! she might make pancakes--that would be ample excuse for doris to remain in the kitchen, too, and although she was a social soul, she did not yearn to appear before that bishop, in spite of wondering whether he could truly be as young as he had looked in the moonlight in the middle of the night. she stirred up the batter with commendable zeal. "doris," came an imperative call from zee at the head of the stairs. "oh, doris!" and zee's voice was shrill and penetrating. "do--ris! make rosalie give back my blue ribbon--she borrowed it--and she can't!" "ummmmmm," muttered doris grimly. "wouldn't that be sure to happen on a bishop morning?" she ran to the bottom of the stairs. "rosalie, you can't borrow it if zee won't lend it," she said softly, but in a determined voice. "but i am surprised that zee would refuse--" "i didn't refuse," protested zee. "i am always willing to lend things. but she did not ask. she just snitched it." "zee, you must not say snitched." "she may borrow it, if she asks, and says please," said zee. then rosalie flashed into the hall and dropped on her knees, both hands outstretched, and cried, "oh, sweet young sister, for the sake of my immortal beauty, may i--" "rosalie!" "'scuse me, general. please, fair zee, may i borrow this bonny blue ribbon to wear in my golden locks? and you'd better say yes, for i'm going to borrow it anyhow." zee promptly pushed her over backward, and rosalie leaped up and made a whirling rush at zee, who tore into her own room, where doris could hear them bouncing into the middle of the bed with a resounding spring--and then came stifled laughter, and squeals, and-- doris ran breathlessly up the stairs. she looked soberly at the flushed and laughing girls, all tangled up in the bed-clothes on the floor, and then she closed the door. "rosalie, what will the bishop think?" "oh, mercy, i forgot the bishop," cried rosalie. "zee artman, you bad thing, see what you've done. you've shocked a bishop, and now he will say we presbyterians are not orthodox. it was all your fault--" "bishop? what bishop? where's he at? where'd we get him? you don't mean to say father brought a bishop here without a week's notice? isn't that like a preacher?" "oh, girls, please get dressed and come and help me. the house is a sight. treasure left that sticky stuff--" "papier-mâché," said treasure with dignity. "it is very scholastic, we use it to make maps with. i guess it won't shock a bishop. but don't call it sticky stuff--say papier-mâché." "i do not care what it is called, dear, it must not be left all over the chairs in the dining-room--not when there is a bishop in the state." "it is a shame, general, that's what it is," said rosalie penitently. "we'll just fly now, and help like good preachers. you run back to your pancakes, and don't worry." they made so much haste after that to atone for their mischief that almost immediately they were down-stairs. treasure hurriedly straightened the living-room, rosalie set the table most irreproachably, and zee slipped into the back yard and picked some golden glow. "oh, the roots were on the davis side of the fence, but what i picked was on our side," she declared when doris frowned at her. so rosalie arranged the flowers in a big blue bowl on the table, and when the bishop and their father came down-stairs laughing agreeably, everything was lovely, and the girls were spotlessly clean, soft as to voice, and gentle as to manner. and although the bishop's eyes twinkled a little, his face was properly grave. he was not even as old as their father--think of that now--and a bishop--and he had a way of telling stories which was quite attractive in regular preachers but seemed a little out of harmony in a bishop--and in a few minutes they were all good friends. "is this the whole family?" asked the bishop, smiling on the three girls with approval. "my oldest daughter, doris, is getting breakfast. as a special treat, she is giving us pancakes and maple sirup, and she feels they require her constant presence. she will be in presently, however." doris, listening at the door, could have blessed her father for the words. he had spoken of the pancakes as a favor instead of dire necessity--and perhaps the bishop would think that ordinarily they had common things like bacon and eggs, and hot muffins, and strawberry preserves, and grapefruit. more than that, he had offered a half apology for her absence, and doris flatly refused to appear. she would cook for the bishop, she would wash his dishes and make his bed--but look him in the face she could not. presently they went out to the table, and zee carefully carried the platter of cakes to the table, and later took it back to the kitchen for refilling. and rosalie chattered, and smiled into the bishop's eyes--for practise, she said afterward, not because she really hoped to dazzle a bishop, and the breakfast went smoothly on. doris, in the kitchen, flapped the cakes over, and pulled the griddles back and forth with a fury none the less real because it perforce was silent, for in spite of her resentment not one sound would she permit to reach the ears of the bishop in her dining-room. and the heat of the stove made her cheeks crimson, and her bad disposition made her eyes like bright sweet stars. when breakfast was over the bishop seated himself comfortably with a paper in a far corner of the living-room where he was out of the way, and rosalie ran off to college. after doing up the dishes, the younger girls also hurried to school, and mr. artman went out to the garage to look over the motor--not that he knew anything about motors, but because all conscientious owners of autos do it. doris was very much ashamed of her childish temper by this time, but after so long an absence she had not the heart to appear properly and humbly before the bishop to welcome him to the manse, and she stuck resolutely to the kitchen getting things ready for dinner. still the bishop rocked comfortably in the living-room, the door open between him and the dining-room through which doris must pass to reach the other part of the house. and there was so much to be done up-stairs--maybe she could slip out to the barn and make father take the odious bishop for a ride. well, did you ever! there came a sudden light knock on the kitchen door, and before doris had time to slip off the table where she had been swinging her heels in perplexity it opened, and the bishop's friendly face appeared. "good morning. may i come in? how busy you are to-day. i am afraid i have caused you extra work. you are miss doris, aren't you? i shall never forget the hand that is responsible for those delicious pancakes." "can you ever forget the hand that jerked you out of dreamland in the middle of the night?" she asked, laughing, the last trace of her anger vanishing forever. then they were friends, and since any one could see plainly there was nothing in the house that needed her particular attention, she took the bishop into the yard and they walked under the bare branches of the maples, dragging their feet through the crinkly fallen leaves, and then they visited father in the garage, teasing him for his motor madness. and it was lunch time before one could realize that breakfast was entirely a thing of the past. doris could have apologized for her rudeness very easily, for the bishop had a way of helping one to speak. but she knew it was not necessary, for the bishop also had a way of understanding even when words were left unsaid. and doris wondered how he ever came to be a methodist! as rosalie said afterward, "you ought to know better than to feed a man such pancakes if you want to be enemies with him." and as zee pointed out very plainly, "his age has nothing to do with it. he was married once, and you could not expect them to un-bishop him just because his wife died--i suppose bishops' wives can die if they want to, like anybody else." and as treasure insisted, "doris is a lovely thing, in spite of being a general, and why shouldn't the bishop enjoy a manse for a change?" at all events, the bishop tore himself away from the manse with the most utter and apparent reluctance, and kept coming back now and again in a way that was flattering, as well as unprecedented. and mr. artman began to look at his oldest daughter with puzzled wondering eyes, with something of pain in them--and the pancakes got better right along. "isn't it funny how regular bishops are, when you get to know them?" doris said to rosalie. "why, i don't see any objection to them at all--we presbyterians might have a few of our own." then she said, "but between you and me, i think it is lots more fun to talk to people you don't understand, and do not know, and--perfect strangers, you know, who are very friendly. it is so much more thrilling." "but how could one be a perfect stranger and still be very friendly?" laughed rosalie. "why, very easily indeed. you don't know him, who he is, or where he lives, or anything--but when you are together you are great friends." "who are you talking about?" "why, anybody. just any stranger that you do not know, but who has a way of being very intimate." "doris, you are dreaming," cried rosalie. "whoever heard of such a thing? if you are intimate, he can't be a stranger. if you are intimate, you've _got_ to know each other." "oh, not necessarily. not by any means." "well, for my part, i prefer people i know and like--people who sit down in the big chair and read the paper and act human." doris laughed gleefully. "i don't," she said. "for once you are more sensible than i am. i like perfect strangers that i do not know a thing about--but can tell from their eyes that they are good--i like people who just flit around, and come and go--like wizards." chapter ix the runaways treasure and zee were in the garage, studying history in the roomy back seat of the red car. "father is very pettish about some things," said zee, suddenly banging the covers of the history together. "why in the world does he always say we are too young to drive? he taught doris, and she grips the wheel like mad--a very unprofessional thing to do, everybody says so. and he taught rosalie, and she goes tearing along, smiling here and nodding there, and nearly runs over dogs and wagons and-- but he says we are too young, though you are very cautious, and i am smart for my age. i know perfectly well how she goes." they dropped their books on the floor and clambered over into the front seat, zee at the wheel. "first you turn this little business, and then you put this sparker thing here, and bang down with your heel on that, and push out with your left foot, and pull this thing back into low, and give it the gas, and away you go, tralalalala." "that is right," said treasure. "you do know, sure enough. i have watched them hundreds of times." "so have i," said zee in a discontented voice. "but that's all the good it does. they won't let us, though we know how, perfectly well. treasure, don't you think maybe father would let us drive if we could prove to him that we know how? he says we are too young to learn, but if we show him we have learned already he certainly wouldn't have much argument left." "father is rather particular." "but think how useful it would be if we knew how--then if anybody should get sick, or die in a hurry, we could rush after father in the car, and--i am sure he would not object, if we could just show him. let's practise by ourselves a little, and then he won't say a word. think how surprised he will be." "maybe you could not stop it." "why, you just turn the key, that's all. it is perfectly simple. a child could do it. look out and see if there is any one around, will you? i know i can do it." [illustration: "why, you just turn the key, that's all"] treasure dutifully looked, and no one was in sight. "how surprised they will be. won't we have the laugh on them when we come driving up to the door?" so treasure opened the door of the garage and got in beside her sister again. zee sat up very straight, and pursed her lips together. "first, turn the key." "yes." zee turned the key. "now put the sparker business down in the middle." "yes." zee put it down. "step on the starter." "yes." zee stepped on it. this produced a low aimless whirr, quite powerless. "pull up that little flooder thing," said treasure. "father always does that." zee pulled it to the tiptop, and banged her heel on the starter again. this time the enticing tug told her the engine had caught, and was ready for action. "push with the left foot and put her in low," said zee, between her teeth. she found it took quite a vicious pull on the gears to "put her in low." and the instant it clicked into place, the car shot forward out of the garage with a violent pull that dashed them against the seat and took their breath away. and there was a tearing and crashing of wood--the garage door was none too wide-- "father's fault," shouted zee, pulling on the wheel for dear life. "just splintered a little." "slow up," cried treasure. the car was in the main road now, swerving over the corner to the right, which fortunately was a low grassy bank with no curbing. zee, rocking dizzily in her seat, moved the wheel from side to side at such a furious pace that she kept the car almost inside the road, and clear of the ditches on either side. "go slow," begged treasure. "i can't," cried zee. "she must be leaking." after two blocks of riotously dangerous riding, zee remembered that if she shoved with her left foot it did something to stop it--and she shoved, and the engine lifted, and the car slowed down. she turned a white anxious face toward treasure. "that was some speed," she gasped. "watch the road, zee. you had the gas thing in the middle instead of the sparker thing--" "oh, sure enough, wasn't that silly?" zee put the hand feeder in its proper place and prepared to start again. "i know how to drive this car--i know how, and i will do it," she said between her teeth. she put it into low again, and started once more, very slowly. "put it into second now," suggested treasure. zee shoved the gear shift grimly forward--into reverse--and there was a grinding of wheels and a curious sound of stripping gears that would have broken the heart of an older driver. zee discovered her mistake, and remedied it quickly, pulling the gear into low once more, ready for a fresh start. "oh, zee, let me drive," begged treasure. "i am sure i can do it." by rare good fortune, zee succeeded in getting it into second gear, and finally, with a tearing racket, into high, and leaned back in her seat. "this is something like, now," she panted, releasing her scarlet lip from between her teeth. "the fender is all bent," mourned treasure. "oh, father'll fix it. see how well we're going now." treasure said nothing. they were not yet home, and there was a wagon coming toward them. zee swung the car to the right to pass the wagon--too far--she was fairly in the ditch at the side--with a wild turn of the wheel they bumped into the road again, the fender banging the back wheel of the wagon. "hay, you blithering--" shouted the man angrily, and then, seeing their predicament, he pulled off to the side of the road and turned about in his seat staring after them. zee, panic-stricken at the collision, lost her wits completely, and couldn't remember how to stop it--but kept jamming desperately on the gas feeder, harder and harder, swinging along the road, swaying from side to side, while treasure, with one long cry of agony slid into the bottom of the car and clasped her hands over her ears. the car dashed madly on, and between bursts zee pulled everything in sight and pushed everything she could find--but that car was a demon--it went over hills and through ditches like a thing possessed. it swung around wagons, and ran down a flock of chickens, and--oh, kindly providence, which watches over straying preacher bodies--of its own free will, though guided, of course, by a friendly predestination--the car went slower, and slower, with a funny choking powerless sound quite unlike its natural brisk chug, and presently zee's scattered wits returned to her. she turned the key, and the car stopped. treasure, sobbing pitifully, untangled herself from the gears, and stumbled out of the car. "i--drove--it," quivered zee, and she opened the door and stepped out--falling limply on the ground. treasure, forgetting her own plight, ran to zee's assistance. "nothing at all's the matter," stammered zee, smiling pluckily. "just wobbly, that's all--can't stand on myself." so treasure sat down beside her in the road, and they had a heart-restoring cry in each other's tender arms, the dust of the road mingling with their bitter tears and leaving tell-tale tracks upon their sorry faces. zee recovered first. "crazy old thing," she said with a vicious little kick at the bent fender. "i always said doris should have chosen the cow." "what shall we do now?" asked treasure helplessly. "i am going to sit right here until father comes and finds us. oh, treasure, you'd better drive it off to the side of the road--and--" "who--me? not on your life. i won't touch it. it is bewitched." "somebody will run into it then. let's push it." treasure had serious objections even to that form of locomotion, for she felt in her inmost soul that the only way to keep that red demon stopped was never to give it a start. but as zee was insistent, she finally consented to get behind and give a grudging push. due, however, to the fact that it was still in gear, and the brakes were set, they could not budge it. so they went off to the side of the road where it could not fall on them if anybody did run into it and waited. after a time a car came along, passed by, slowed up and stopped. the driver leaned over the door of his car and asked pleasantly: "are you in trouble, girls? can i help you?" "oh, no, thank you, we are waiting for father," said zee primly. the driver regarded them curiously. "don't you think you'd better pull off to the side of the road a little? pretty narrow passing there." the girls looked at the road in surprise. "why, so it is. isn't that too bad?" "can you drive off to the side?" "no, indeed, father does not allow us to drive." "i'll give you a push," he said very obligingly, and came at once to their assistance. he frowned a little when he saw the car in gear, and the brakes set, but he released them without comment, and the girls helping bravely, the disgraced red car was moved out of the main road. "shall i tow you back to town?" the girls winced visibly. be towed home in disgrace--rather would they sit there and freeze and starve and die of hunger and thirst forever. "oh, no, thank you. we'll just wait for father." "where is your father?" "he isn't here just now," said zee faintly. so the man drove slowly away, looking back now and then. the girls, in spite of the dust, did not sit in the car. they would not trust themselves alone in that car under any circumstances. instead they went soberly up the bank and sat down again, side by side. once in a while zee wiped her pale brow wearily. "such a life," she muttered once. "here comes something now," said treasure, looking hopefully down the road toward town. "maybe it is father." "horseback rider." "i hope he does not offer to tow us home." "if he does, i shall tell him to mind his own business." as the rider drew near, the girls leaned forward and studied his features. "he will laugh at us," said treasure sadly. "that is worse than offering to tow us home. it is that horribly sarcastic curious cat that kept the crab from arresting us when we trespassed on his ugly old ditch." zee flipped over on the ground and buried her face in her hands. "i will not look at him. tell him i am dead, tell him-- tell him anything, but i can not let that hateful old thing look at me and grin." "zee," begged treasure, "sit up and be decent. i can't talk to him. sit up, and help me." zee was obdurate. so treasure, determined not to face the curious cat without support, turned her back to the road and gazed off over the landscape. the rider drew up beside the car, and stopped his horse. he looked intently at the two girls, who saw him not--except from the very tip tails of their eyes. then he examined the car, whistling cheerfully--and his whistle was more aggravating than his laughter, if such a thing could be. he got off his horse presently and slipped the bridle over a fence post. then he carefully inspected the bent fenders, and looked at the engine. and then--wasn't he the most infuriating thing you ever saw in your life?--from the pocket of his riding coat he pulled a package of milk chocolate, and sauntered over to the bank where the girls still sat, oblivious of his presence. he flung himself on the ground near them and began nibbling the chocolate. treasure's lips trembled with the shame of it. zee twisted the toes of her shoes into the ground in impotent fury. the curious cat ate deliberately, soulfully, complacently, and tossed his hat to the ground, laying his head comfortably on his arm, his face toward the girls. and to add to the insult of his presence he began humming that idiotic little ditty about "two babes in the woods" in a soft sentimental tone. zee stood it as long as she could. then she sat up, seeming to blink the sleep from her bright eyes. "why, treasure-- why, i _did_ go to sleep, didn't i?" then she saw him, apparently for the first time. "why, how do you do?" she said brightly. "where did you come from? i drove and drove until i was so tired--i couldn't stand it, and so we stopped to rest." she held out a cordial hand, and he took it gravely. then treasure turned upon them, and said, "why, you here? i was--enjoying that--beautiful view." "yes, i noticed that you were wrapped up in it. had you a pleasant ride?" "oh, lovely. but i am not used to driving, and i got so tired. i don't believe i can ever get the thing home." "maybe your sister can--" "oh, treasure will not drive. she is afraid of motors." "maybe i can take you home." "oh, we want to walk. we are so stiff from riding. but won't you please take the car in--we feel like walking ourselves--it will do us good." he looked at them keenly. "do you want some chocolate?" the girls accepted it gratefully. "suppose we go on to the haunted house, and let the old grouch give us some tea? i feel rather weak. don't you?" he suggested finally. "very," they said with sincerity. "but father will find out--i mean--they will worry about us. we have been gone--quite a while," protested treasure. "he will not worry. he knows nobody would hurt nice little preacher girls like you. i am willing--more than willing--to take the car home, but i've got to find a place to leave my horse, and i've got to have some tea. is it a bargain or not? you come with me for tea, i take you home--and i will try to sneak you in the back way so your father will not catch you. but no tea, no sneak." zee stood up. "treasure, you may sit here and be ministerial if you like. i want some tea." "that is something like. now, you drive the car down the road to the rustic gate, and--" "who, me? i am tired of driving. i guess i won't go after all." "well, then you girls must sit in the back seat and lead the horse. i shall drive slowly." "i feel more like walking. i do not want to ride." "it is a mile and a half, and you've got to get home some time. don't be silly. i know how to handle a car." so in quivering fear the girls stepped in and he gave zee the bridle. then he started the car--the treacherous, ungrateful thing!--it went off as smoothly and gently as a perfect lady. how tenderly zee thought at that moment of the jersey they did not choose. down the road they went very slowly, then up a long winding trail among the trees by the creek to the haunted house, an old-fashioned rambling building with vines and flowers running riot in every direction. "maybe he will not like it. he has a terrible disposition, you know." "we shall charm him. he and the house are haunted, but fifty cents will enslave them both." "fifty cents would buy two gallons of gas," whispered zee, shocked at the recklessness, but even her frankness did not extend to the point of protesting at the extravagance of a stranger--especially when she needed tea. the corduroy crab greeted them as unconcernedly as though they came by invitation, and took the bridle from zee's hand. "sir, we had a sad accident," said the curious cat in a respectful voice. "we are thirsty, tired, and--much wiser. may we have a cup of tea on the porch in a hurry?" he slipped a half-dollar into the man's willing hand as he spoke. the corduroy crab seemed not at all surprised. "of course," he said briefly, and led the horse away. "now there's a gentleman," said the curious cat appreciatively. "took my money like a--preacher." "what do you mean--like a preacher?" demanded zee resentfully. but the curious cat did not seem to hear, for he was piling soft cushions into wide porch chairs where the girls might sit in comfort. a little later a black serving man came out and pulled a small table from a corner of the porch, arranging it deftly with doilies, and in less than five minutes the girls were eating chicken sandwiches and drinking tea--to be sure, they were not allowed to drink tea at home, but zee said truly that their nerves required something out of the ordinary. and there was a small silver basket of chocolates on the table-- "isn't that lucky?" said the curious cat, eying the candy greedily. "it is my one and only weakness. apart from chocolate i am free from worldly affectations. but chocolate--i eat it with every meal, and take a piece to bed at night. without it i am become as a ravening wolf and a--a thirsting camel. it does seem rather a refined and ladylike accomplishment for one as rough and rude as i--one of the eccentricities of nature, who played me many pranks." "yes," said treasure politely. "however do you suppose the corduroy crab--" "zee!" "the what?" "oh, excuse me-- he won't tell, treasure. we call him the corduroy crab because he was so disagreeable, you know. i was just--" "pardon the interruption--but do you mind telling me by what particular form of endearment you designate me?" "the--the curious cat," said zee, though treasure kicked her smartly under the table. "because you were so cattish to us, making fun of us, and laughing. very catty thing to do. and we added the curious because you really are awfully--queer, you know." "and what were you wondering about the crab?" "i was just wondering how he comes to have things fixed so lovely? it is wonderful here. it used to be all tumbly and crazy, and things growing everywhere, and little funny animals and bugs shooting around in every direction--it was awful. father brought us once because we had to write a theme in school--and we couldn't sleep for two nights." "it still looks wild," said treasure softly. "but it is such a lovely wildness--all the ugly grime is gone, and the beauty of it is more beautiful than ever. and it doesn't make you shiver now--it only makes you sad." "it does not make me sad," said zee. "i am never sad when there are chicken sandwiches. and this china-- well, i know it is better than ours at the manse, and it was given to us by our last christian endeavor, so you may know it is very nice indeed--but this is better still--and i believe to goodness these are regular silver spoons. and do you suppose the colored man is his servant? and hasn't he any wife? and do you think he bought this place? i wonder where he got the money? and why does he stay out of sight--he ought to come and eat with us, since we are company?" the curious cat waved his arms helplessly. "i am trying to bring a spirit from the air to answer your questions. but it does not work. i am afraid i ate too many sandwiches. i never can do my enchantments when i eat more than six sandwiches at a sitting." "i think we ought to go," said treasure. "i am afraid we are not just welcome. wouldn't it be lovely to lie around here a whole day, zee? but we have to go." "can you truly sneak us in without any one catching us?" "we are going to try." so they drove hurriedly home to the manse again, and the girls said good-by to their curious cat and felt that after all he had his good points. he did not say a word about the shattered door of the barn, and the girls did not wonder until he had lifted his hat and disappeared how he was going to get back to his horse again. they closed the doors of the barn sadly and went into the house. how quiet and cool and beautiful the manse was that afternoon. they walked slowly, appreciatively through every room. doris, sitting in the bay-window with the eternal mending, was like a glorious madonna, and they put their arms around her and kissed her tenderly, as girls returned from a long absence. but she took it very placidly. they saw rosalie lying on her bed up-stairs, reading, and eating an apple. how pretty and dear rosalie was. they stood in the doorway and looked at her almost worshipfully. outside their father's study they stood a long time, thinking, but went at last to their own room and closed the door. a little later they heard their father at the telephone, asking questions--but it was aimless conversation, they could make nothing of it. how strange it was that they had not been missed. such wonderful things had happened, life had been spared to them by less than a fraction of an inch--and here were their loved ones, doris mending, rosalie eating apples, father writing a sermon--as serenely as though two dear young daughters had not just been returned to them from the shadow of the grave. they sat in their room, waiting, talking not at all. after a while doris called them to supper, and they took their places in subdued silence. what a wonderful way father had of asking the blessing--why, every word of it seemed to call down a benediction on every one at the table. and how good the dinner was--they were not hungry, but it was delicious food, unbelievably well cooked. and doris in the big kitchen apron was exquisite. when they reached dessert, zee rose to the height of public confession. "father, treasure and i--and principally i, for i did it--were very naughty. we took the car out of the garage, and smashed the door getting it out, and we drove into the country and nearly killed horses and wagons and autos and ran into ditches and bent the fenders and ran down a lot of chickens, and got stuck, and a man brought us home. we are very sorry." how calmly they took it!--a climactic, criminal thing like that--after all, they were rather a sordid family. father looked at the girls soberly, noted their pale faces, the dark circles under their weary eyes. "i know it," he said at last gravely. "oh, father, you knew it--and you didn't try to find us?" there was pain and reproach in treasure's voice. "i knew all that was happening," he said quickly, with a reassuring smile at treasure. "mr. smelton telephoned that he helped you to the side of the road--that was the first we knew of it. and a little later some one else--i did not just get the name--but he telephoned that he was giving you some tea, and you were quite safe, and he was going to bring you home." "it was that curious cat-- you know, doris, the one who made the corduroy crab be good to us--" "the curious cat? oh, father, what was his name?" cried doris, leaning way over the table in her eagerness. "it sounded like--saunders--something like saunders--" "saunders, nothing," cried zee. "saunders is the corduroy crab--we heard that. oh, it must have been him who phoned--" "he." "yes, he. because the curious cat was not away long enough--he just left a minute--to see about the horse." "and then he told saunders to telephone--" "yes, of course." doris sat back. "the old torment. how can anybody find out about such a curious old--curious cat?" she wondered to herself. in answer to her questions, the girls could tell little. "he does not live at the haunted house, just the corduroy crab--and the--the--" "the courteous coon," cried zee. "let's stick to our harmony." "they live there, and the curious cat lives somewhere very near--and things are lovely at the haunted house, there are flowers on the porch, and pictures, and curtains--did you ever hear of such a thing? soft brown curtains of silk rubbery stuff--and it is lovely. and the vines are all red and gold, and the ground is a mass of fallen leaves." "father, please tell us the punishment. it gives you such an--empty feeling to have--unknown punishments hanging over your head." "oh, the punishment," he said, and started promptly for the door. "that is why we have a general. leave it to her." the girls turned appealing faces toward doris. "tell us, general," they said, in the tone of martyrdom. "you can not ride in the car again for three whole weeks. when the rest of us drive, you two must walk. and that is all--for you have had quite a little punishment already." the girls thanked her warmly, and went out. in the hall they looked at each other lovingly, and smiled. "isn't that ducky?" said zee. "it is not any punishment at all. somehow since this afternoon the smell of the engine makes me seasick." treasure quivered. "ducky? oh, zee, it is delicious. suppose she had made us ride all day to-morrow. i couldn't have stood it." "anyhow, i guess i proved that i can drive the car," said zee stoutly. "only, of course, since father does not wish me to, i shall never think of doing it until i am older." chapter x mr. wizard doris had taken a sudden and unaccountable predilection for morning strolls. the family did not understand it, for she had always been partial to her final morning nap. she did not neglect her work, no indeed, she was getting up early, very ridiculously early--at five o'clock!--and then going around for a jaunt all by herself wherever fancy prompted. to herself doris admitted candidly that she wanted to see that awfully aggravating curious cat, as she called him to herself, though she reproved the twins very seriously for the disrespectfulness of it. but she did not see him. she walked east, west, north and south, but he remained hidden from view. she did not forget that twice he had appeared to the girls in the neighborhood of the erstwhile haunted house. but it was too far--she could not walk there, however much she wished to do so. then came a sudden idea. she would take a morning drive, instead of a stroll--and she might, if necessary, walk along the creek herself in search of wild flowers-- of course, it was too late for wild flowers, far too late--but anyhow one never could tell what one might find. so the very next morning, dimply with the delight of it, she took the car and drove gleefully out to the lovely hickory grove, and ran the car deliberately up beside the road, and waited. no mr. wizard gloomed on the horizon. not even a corduroy crab came crashing through the fallen leaves which blanketed the ground around her. so she got out of the car, climbed through the fence, and sauntered comfortably along by the creek, under the big bare trees. still no angry keeper dashed out upon her. she took small pebbles and tossed them into the trees to see the squirrels go scampering--nobody minded in the least. it was very annoying--like everything else connected with that curious cat. she was very near the haunted house now, so near she could not go any farther. even a wilful and deliberate trespasser could not walk right into the very doors of an irate proprietor. she was quite vexed. why did he claim to be a wizard, and boast of fairy powers, if he could not see there was a damsel out in search of him? she turned and walked briskly back down the creek toward the road. putting her hands on the top rail of the low fence, she vaulted lightly over, and cried out in surprise and fear.--the car was gone. she had left it there, not fifteen minutes ago. she could not be dreaming--there were the broad smooth tracks in the dust. some one had stolen the dear, darling little car. "now every one will say i should have chosen the cow," she thought bitterly. doris was several miles from home, and it was breakfast time. they would know that she was out for her silly morning walk--and when father found the car gone it would be apparent she had gone for a drive instead. oh, dear--it was a long way, and very hot, and dusty--and she was so unhappy. and it was only natural to blame it all on that perfectly disgusting curious cat, who should have been there, and was not. because she was angry, the first mile passed quickly. but neither anger nor grief shortened the second mile, nor the third, nor the fourth. then she got a ride with a friendly farmer, who openly marveled at her being in the country so early in the morning. but doris was not communicative. they were preachers, of course, but if they wanted to be in the country, they could be--and the whole neighborhood did not need to know the wherefore. at eight o'clock she marched grimly into the manse, and found the family at breakfast. "oh, you runaway," laughed rosalie. "i had a terrible time getting breakfast. aren't you a good housekeeper--not a bit of flour in the house and the cream sour." "give me coffee," said doris, sitting down wearily and resting her elbows on the table. "black coffee, strong coffee, lots of it, no sugar and no cream." "why, you poor dear, you are tired," said rosalie in her softest, most gurgly voice. "let me make some fresh toast." "no toast--just coffee--but lots of it." "i always said it was silly, walking around without breakfast. i told you that before. you look positively yellow." "dust." "at the least, you should choose a cool and shady street," said her father. "you look jaded, dear. i am afraid it is too much for you." "i _am_ jaded. father, my poor dear father, be prepared for a bitter blow." "what is it?" "the car, the beautiful red car that dear mr. davison left you, is stolen." "stolen!" "the car?" "oh, doris, i'll bet you had a wreck." "what happened?" "i went for a drive instead of a walk, and i left the car just to walk through the woods a little--and when i came back it was gone." "gone!" "oh, doris! you would not let us ride for three weeks, and now it is gone and we can never ride again--the dear darling precious little car." "never mind, girls, if it is gone, no use to worry." "every one said we were foolish not to take the cow in the first place." "oh, rosalie, please don't throw that up to me," said doris tearfully. "i loved it too much, i was just crazy about it, i thought of it day and night. maybe it is a punishment, i suppose it is. and it is all my fault, for i did adore it." "oh, no, doris. i am sure that had nothing to do with it. you know we preachers do not have many of these physical, sensational joys--and the car has been an ecstasy for every one of us. i am sure an understanding providence has rejoiced in our pleasure, and not begrudged us a second of it." "why should _our_ car be stolen?" wailed zee. "why couldn't it have been a banker's, who could buy another? or a bad man's, who did not deserve one anyhow? or a sick man's, who couldn't enjoy it? why is it always we preachers who get the raw deal?" "oh, zee!" "i had several perfectly lovely things i wanted to do with the car," said rosalie regretfully. "i am sorry i put them off from day to day." treasure slipped away from the table and out of the room. she had uttered no protest. she had made no complaint. but she crept sadly out to the garage--she wanted to sit down in the dust where the dear red car had been of yore, and weep over the spot, as at the passing of a dear companion. she opened the door with hands that trembled--and stopped aghast. her lips parted several times, and she uttered a curious sputtering gasp. the red car was right there where it belonged--it was not stolen at all. doris was out of her mind! she walked slowly, dimly back to the manse, her eyes swimming. poor doris--she had walked too far and too fast. treasure entered the dining-room, pale, with eyes still clouded. "i am so sorry," doris was saying. "i know you are all very angry at me, and i do not blame you." "where did you leave the car?" doris blushed. she could not admit to keen-witted zee that she had deliberately gone to their haunted house in the hickory grove. "oh, out in the country about six miles--along the emery road." treasure threw out both hands, and her lips parted spasmodically. "she is having a nightmare," said zee, staring at her sister. "is the garage gone, too?" demanded rosalie. treasure's lips parted again, but no sound came. "shake her, father. she is having a spell or something." "out of her mind," said treasure, at last, with a violent effort. the family gazed upon her, speechless. "car's in the garage," she stammered. "isn't gone--at all." with one accord they arose from their chairs and made a united dash on the garage. it was quite true, the car was there, shiny and serene, in its accustomed place. they gazed on it silently as treasure had done, and then they turned to doris, wide-eyed and horrified. "you're off," said zee succinctly. "it was a dream, dearest," said rosalie, slipping a tender arm around her sister's shoulders. "you haven't been well lately." "never mind, doris. it must have been a dream." "it was not a dream. i was away out in the country by the hickory grove of the twins' haunted house--i left the car and walked along the creek--" "did you see the corduroy crab?" asked treasure eagerly. "maybe he lammed her on the head," said zee, touching her own curly brow suggestively. "i did not see any one. and i went right back to the road-- you know i couldn't go way out there on foot, father." "you must have been walking in your sleep, dear," said rosalie. "maybe you only dreamed you were there. you are home now, anyhow, and the car is here, and everything is all right." "rosalie, do you think i am out of my head?" demanded doris sharply. "i think it was a bad dream, dearest." "come on back to the house," said their father pleasantly. "be glad the car is here." "i'll bet the old place _is_ haunted, and they've put a spell on doris. maybe it was the curious cat--he says he can put charms," suggested zee. doris smiled at that. as far as she could see, it was the only explanation possible--the curious cat had certainly put his charm upon her. she was very cross at rosalie--for rosalie insisted that doris lie down, and she herself stayed at home from school to do the work, and father sat by the cot all morning--it was perfectly infuriating. they looked at her with tender solicitude, and rosalie made more hot coffee for her, and bathed her brow every few minutes, and doris fumed impotently. for she was helpless. father had said, "i think you'd better, dearest," and when father said things in that quiet settled voice even the general refrained from argument. but to lie there like an invalid--when she had only been on the trail of mystery and-- she had found mystery, though! she could swear by her life's blood that she had driven the car out to the hickory grove. and she had certainly walked home. but how in the world came the car safely back in the manse garage? it was more than doris could understand. when the girls came home to lunch they kissed doris tenderly and spoke to her in a softly soothing way that made her long to shake them. when they were eating their lunch zee was called to the telephone, and she crossed the room on tiptoes, and whispered "yes," very softly, and then she gave a little scream. "you--did?--mercy! well, thank goodness! oh, you horrible thing, won't doris rage?--why, no, mr. curious cat, your charm did not work worth a cent. it was not treasure and i at all. it was doris, and the poor thing had to walk all the way home, and she is in bed, and we thought she was out of her mind, and she said the car was stolen." she hung up the receiver abruptly, and did not hear the sharp exclamations at the other end of the wire. doris rose from the cot, and the family rushed from the table. "tell it, and talk fast," commanded the general. zee flung herself into a big chair and rocked and screamed with laughter. "oh, treasure, we are even with the curious cat at last." then wiping her eyes, and between bursts of laughter, she explained. "he began talking in that sarcastic smart little way he has, and he said, 'say, miss zee, the next time i find that red car of yours stuck in front of my house i am going to take it as a gift from heaven, and keep it. but this time, just to be friendly and keep you out of a scrape, i drove it home for you and left it in your garage. i suppose you were playing hooky, and got stuck. did i save you? i shall never do it again.'" how they all laughed, even doris, and how heartily she ate of the luncheon rosalie had prepared, and what a splendid joke it was-- only doris did wish she had just remained in the car instead of strolling up the creek--he was such a funny curious cat--maybe--oh, then he did own the haunted house, after all! "he was teasing you girls again," she cried. "the crab and the courteous coon must be his servants, for he said you left the car in front of _his_ house." then the girls were freshly indignant--pretending he was getting tea from the crab, when it was his own tea, and he could give it away if he wished! but it was funny anyhow, and now he was a more curious cat than ever. that afternoon, when the girls had gone to school, deciding that doris could safely be left alone now--and when father had gone calling, doris hurried up-stairs and arranged her hair in most enticing little curls around her forehead, and put on her very daintiest, bluest, floweriest dress--because he was in honor bound to call her up and make apology. oh, of course, he would not see the enticing curls, and the dainty blue flowery dress--but it was a great moral support to know that she looked irreproachable, even when none was there to see. and she wanted to be very clever and interesting over the telephone--because--he really had done a very disagreeable thing, and she wanted to make him sorry. and then he did not telephone at all. he came himself--in person--and doris knew some kindly angel had been guiding her actions that day. when she heard the ring she went to the door so lightly, so unconcernedly, sure it was something trivial and some one unimportant. and there he stood, smiling at her, regret in his eyes. "i brought my apology with me. may i come in and deliver it?" "yes, please do. i know where you live, and that is a beginning, isn't it?" "how did you learn that?" "you said the car was in front of your house. and it was the haunted house," she cried gleefully. "did you really have to walk home?" "four miles and a half." somehow it did not seem half so long and weary a way now as it had been seeming all the day. "and i was sure the car was stolen. and when we found it in the garage they thought i was ill and put me to bed, and rosalie stayed home from school to nurse me." "i am sorry. it was terribly stupid of me. i was sure the girls were in another scrape, and when the car stuck on them had got a ride back to school. it was a terrible blunder." "i am glad of it now, because it brought you to visit me." and he seemed in not the least bit of hurry, but settled back and talked, and he had a wonderful basket of fruit, apples and grapes and golden pears, and he hoped doris would accept them in token of forgiveness. "but when you tell your father, will he ask who brought them?" "i shall just say the curious cat brought them to apologize--and father is not a bit inquisitive. he will think it is quite all right--he has the dearest way of thinking things are quite all right." doris did long to know how old he was--of course she could not ask--he surely was not nearly so old as father, yet he did not look young. the college men of rosalie's favor looked like children beside him. and he talked like a man who knew things. but he could not be old--he laughed so readily, and teased so constantly, and his eyes were so friendly and warm. father was forty-three, and forty-three is very terribly old when one is twenty. they had tea together--on the endeavor china. he was much more fun than the bishop. and in spite of the very-close-to-gray-hairs at his temples, he had a dear boyish way of settling back in a chair and getting himself comfortable and happy. and when you see another thoroughly comfortable and happy right at your side, you are bound to feel the same way yourself. and doris did. after she had watched his departure from the shelter of the front window, she came back into the room, and there on the card tray--how in the world it got there she could not imagine--but she knew instantly it was his card--and she pounced upon it eagerly. "mr. daniel amberton maccammon." after all, the name meant nothing. and there was so much she wished to know. his age, and who he was, and why he came there, and what in the world he was doing in the haunted house, and--oh, a thousand things. but doris looked at the card in a friendly companionable way, and said, in her softest and chummiest voice: "honestly, i like you." chapter xi the philosopher "now, doris," began rosalie briskly, "you must help decide my life career. they gave us a fine talk at chapel this morning, urging us to spot our high ambitions for guiding stars to work toward. of course, we can change our minds later on if we like, we are not to be irrevocably bound to what we say, but no student 'can plan most wisely and most surely for the future, without a pole star ever shining in his mind's eye,'" she quoted patly. "now, what are my ambitions?" "mercy, rosalie, you know your ambitions better than i do," said doris, as earnestly as though the same subject had not been discussed regularly ever since rosalie was a freshman. "i think i was born for the stage, barring the one accident of the ministry. but since that avenue of fame is closed, what shall i do? shall i be a teacher--and if so, a teacher of what? i am not particularly clever, you know." "you are very clever, indeed, and i think you would be a wonderful teacher." "thanks, but i have neither patience nor dignity, and all authorities agree that they are prime requisites." "you can be as patient and dignified as anybody if you want to. and you are tactful and pleasant, both good teaching qualities. i suppose you do not feel particularly drawn to any religious work, missionary, or--or pastor's assistant, or anything like that?" "i am interested in gymnasium work," said rosalie. "it seems my only forte. i am very good at all outdoor sports, and i have a fine physique, and adore exercise." "that would be nice." "some places i might have to teach dancing. i could handle it as one form of physical development, and if the naughty things took it into the ballroom it wouldn't be my fault, would it?" "not--exactly--i suppose." "but i ought to have an extra year for special study somewhere after i finish college. do you suppose we could manage it, father?" mr. artman looked up from his mail absently. "yes, dear, what? i am afraid i was not paying attention." his eyes wandered back to the letter in his hand. rosalie promptly deposited herself on his knee, pulling his arms around her. "doris has just decided that i would be a lovely athletic director for girls if i could have a year of special training after college. prospects, please?" "maybe we could arrange it--i hope so. it would be fine. but--things might interfere." "always granted, of course, dearest, but am i justified in saying it is my present plan if things do not interfere?" "yes, to be sure, but--remember--plans have a way of going astray, dear." "why, father, that does not sound like you." "i know, forgive me, but i do not feel like myself to-day. look ahead to it, rosalie, by all means, and count on it, and if it is right for you, it will come." "that is the way for a preacher to talk," said rosalie. "then it is all settled, isn't it?" she ran back to her chair, and her father turned anxious eyes on the letter again. he did not notice that his girls looked at him often, and very wonderingly. presently he went to the telephone and put in a long-distance call to chicago. two years previous he had taken a course of study at the seminary in chicago, and ever since had made frequent appointments with doctor hancock necessitating hurried trips to the city. "some old 'prof' at the seminary, i suppose," doris said lightly. "they won't let us preachers settle down and preach and be comfortable nowadays. they keep us up and coming every minute, studying this and studying that, and then practising what we study on the public. it is no easy matter being a preacher any more." and so, although the chicago trips had grown more and more frequent, doris gave them small heed. but after her father had left the house the next morning, she walked soberly up-stairs to where rosalie was dressing for school and said, "rosalie, i hate to push my worries on to you, but--does--father act funny some way? or do i imagine it? he seems so serious and anxious." "he has been rather quiet lately," said rosalie slowly. "i am sure he is not well. i wish he did not take these chicago trips so often. i think they expect entirely too much of us preachers. he is always tired and worried when he gets home. if we had a bishop, i think i should report it." rosalie said nothing. both girls watched their father closely when he returned home late that night. he was tired indeed, and his eyes were darkly circled. he did not laugh so freely as usual at their merry chatter, and though he was tender with them as always, he seemed distrait and absent-minded, which was not like him. and doris pondered over it anxiously. the next morning he came down-stairs wearing wide amber glasses, "which," he explained apologetically, "i am not wearing for style, i assure you, but the light seems rather too much for me. i think it causes the headaches." the girls had great fun with the amber glasses, shaking their heads sadly over his worldliness, for every one knew that amber glasses were fashionable. but after that, he always wore them except when he went into the pulpit. two days later, when he came in to lunch, his face was as bright and smiling as it had been in the olden days when his laughter had been as spontaneous as rosalie's or zee's. he began talking, boyishly, before he reached his chair at the table, and the girls smiled happily at his cheerfulness. "i met a very clever man down-town to-day, and had quite a talk with him. he is an author--a psychologist and philosopher--he wrote all those books i have been so interested in lately. very entertaining fellow, and so i invited him to dinner to-night." "good night, nurse," gasped doris. "you invited an author and a psychologist and a philosopher to dinner to-night?" "only one, doris," he explained patiently. "father, there is something the matter with you. first you flash a bishop on us in the middle of the night, and now a psychologist-philosopher combination. whatever in the world do you suppose he eats?" "cheer up," said rosalie. "he is a philosopher, remember, so he will be satisfied with what he gets. food, nowadays, is the greatest test of human philosophy." "oh, he is all right. i am sure he eats regular things. he has bought a place out here to do his work--close to his publishers in chicago, and far enough out to be isolated when he is on a book. it will be a great treat for me to have him here." he looked at doris reflectively. "let's have a good dinner, regardless of the cost, and, doris, i hope you--i mean, i hope all of you--will look your very sweetest and act your very dearest." "is he married?" demanded zee. "i believe on my soul you have a scheme to marry one of us off to him. doris, i suppose, for i am too young, and treasure is too good, and rosalie is too frivolous." "does he write fairy stories, or--" "he does not write fairy stories, but i believe he tells them sometimes," laughed their father. "and i have no matrimonial designs on him, i assure you, but i want him to be our friend. it will be a great pleasure to me, and a great help--and i need both." doris and rosalie looked swiftly at each other at that, but neither made any comment. when mr. artman had gone up-stairs, still laughing with satisfaction, the four of them put their heads together. "let's think up a dinner fit for a--fit for a--" "a pope," suggested zee. "zee, i am surprised at you. fit for a president." "since father said spare no expense, i say fried chicken, and i want the wishbone." "a good idea. we'll have fried chicken. now what else?" "let's do it up in style, and have courses. treasure can wait on the table without spilling things, and then come quietly to her place without banging chairs. soup--" "yes." "then chicken, mashed potatoes, and--" "corn fritters--i've been asking for corn fritters for six weeks." "well, corn fritters. salad--" "olives are easy, and--" "no, let's have a salad like regular folks. mrs. andrieson makes lovely thousand island dressing, and i have only one recitation this afternoon so i'll just run down after class and get her to show me how. then we'll have head lettuce with the dressing, and--" "and coffee with whipped cream, and--" "for dessert--" "ice-cream. if i do any baking i'll be too hot to look nice. treasure, you run over to wilcot's and get a quart of milk and a pint of cream and a half pint of whipping cream, and rosalie you call up the ice company and have them leave a dime's worth of ice on the first delivery without fail, and i'll freeze it first thing. and, rosalie, i leave the salad entirely to you." "i will go to benson's after school and get some flowers," said treasure. "mrs. benson is always glad to give me the carnations that are not fresh enough to sell, but too good to throw away. and we can pick out the best ones." "isn't that grand? won't father be pleased?" "and what shall we wear?" this brought forth a prolonged and heated discussion of ribbons and gowns, for father had said to look their sweetest and act their dearest--and being girls, they knew the latter was impossible except when the former had been accomplished. finally all was arranged, and the dresses were laid out nicely on their various beds, and treasure was given a quarter to buy a new blue ribbon because she got oil on the old one sticking her head under the car to see what father was doing. and the girls rushed excitedly to school, to tell their friends carelessly that they had to hurry home to-night and could not stop to study latin en masse, for "father has invited a perfectly enormous author and psychologist and all that to dinner." and although none of them had a very clear idea what kind of a psychologist he was, or what he did, or why he was so perfectly enormous, the very meagerness of their information added luster to his halo. the table that night was a dream of loveliness, and the girls had everything ready and were up-stairs taking a last final reconnoiter of their physical charms when they heard their father greeting the perfectly enormous guest. they filed down breathlessly, eyes bright with anticipation, their hearts palpitating with the unwonted glory of it. and then-- "why, it is only the curious cat," ejaculated zee. "mr. wizard," gasped doris. "father, you knew it all the time." "well, i am glad my girls have been encroaching on your hospitality, mr. maccammon, for otherwise we might not have the privilege of extending ours to you now." mr. maccammon held doris' hand warmly in his. "i hope the charm has not all gone with the mystery," he said. "i was ashamed to conceal my identity any longer, and besides i wished to see more of you, and i wanted to know your father. but if you have lost all interest in me now, i know i shall wish i had not come at all." "i haven't--it isn't--not by any means," stammered doris nervously, and hurried away to the kitchen to look after the dinner. oh, but wasn't she glad father had stipulated they should spare no expense? it was a wonderful, delicious dinner, and when he turned from gay banter with rosalie and zee, to real intense discussion with her father, and always bending warm and friendly eyes on her--really, it was too good to be true. "but i always said i liked him," she told herself, comfortably. after that he came often to the manse, and many times he took them all out to the haunted house, where mr. artman was immediately lost in the depths of huge volumes, and where treasure and zee wandered off to look for baby rabbits with the corduroy crab, who wasn't a bit crabbish any more, and where rosalie flung herself into a big hammock with a plate of fruit and a chatty story--and what could he do, as host, but entertain doris, who was left without other form of amusement? "oh, but you wait till the bishop comes," rosalie whispered to doris, when they were safe in the manse again. "what will he say to these carryings on? your very own bishop--" "he is not my very own bishop. and if he is, i will not have him. and it certainly is nothing to the bishop if father has a friend." "i do not imagine the dear bishop cares two cents how many friends father has. but what your bishop will say to you is more than i can imagine. and who but a serious sensible girl would ever dream of bandying with a bishop? frivolous and all as i am, general, i should never be guilty of trifling with a bishop's affections." "he hasn't any." "oh, yes, he has. he has oceans of them. but what difference does it make to you how many affections he has?" "no difference at all," admitted doris, laughing. and she added, flushing a little, but still laughing, "but i should really like to know whether--father's friend--has any." and then she ran away, before rosalie could catch and shake her. the chicago trips were very frequent now, and in spite of his evident pleasure in the new and brilliant friend, mr. artman grew more preoccupied. sometimes doris could hear him pacing up and down his room at night, when he should have been asleep. and very often he pushed his plate away from him at the table, and could not eat, although doris had patiently and painstakingly prepared the dishes he loved best. and every day he spoke of little headaches, and kept the blinds lowered in his room, working with the amber glasses. and many times, when they thought he was working, he was sitting at his desk with his head in his arms. "oh, rosalie, i can't stand it," doris cried at last. "i know there is something wrong with father. but some way--i can't ask him. i am afraid to. i know he is sick." "no, he is not sick, doris. i know what it is." "rosalie!" "one day i got a chicago city directory--oh, long ago, when he first began making these trips to see doctor hancock--i got a directory, and looked the doctor up. he is not a minister, as you thought. he is an oculist." "father's eyes!" "yes. and last week i wrote to the doctor myself, and told him we were worried about father, and asked him to tell me. he says father's eyes are very bad, and he must have an operation as soon as possible. it should have been done some time ago, but father has been putting it off. and the doctor says by all means he should rest his eyes for several months, a year if possible, without using them one little bit." for a moment all the bright room went swimming before doris. then she cried out, in pain and self-reproach. "oh rosalie, i was happy myself, and i forgot to look after father. it was you who thought of him." "that is nothing. do you remember, doris, away last fall, when you said i must begin to solve my problems for myself? i have been trying to, that is all. and father is one of them. somehow, as long as i could throw my worries off on you and father, i was glad to do it, and did not care what came of it. but when you put things squarely up to me, i found to my surprise that i had a sort of personal pride that kept pulling me up to the mark. you were pretty slick, general. and so i have been sort of looking ahead, and trying to help plan for father." "i am going to have it out with him right now. he shan't bear it alone any longer." she went softly up-stairs, and into her father's room, which was always in shadow now, although doris in her happiness had thought nothing of it, and crept very quietly into her father's arms. "let's talk it over, father. how soon do you plan to have the operation on your eyes? is doctor hancock the very best you can get? tell me what arrangements you have made." [illustration: "let's talk it over, father"] "oh, doris," he cried brokenly, dropping his head on her arm and holding her very close, "do you know? i have tried so hard to tell you--but i hadn't the heart. yes, let's talk it over." and then, in quick broken sentences, without a trace of bitterness, he told her how his eyes had been growing constantly weaker and weaker, and how the doctor had tried in every way to strengthen them and to arrest the trouble, but now the operation was unavoidable and could not be put off long, and it would mean so many months of idleness--and how could he preach without his eyes? and he was too young to be "supered"--how could he step aside for the rest of his life? and how could he rest, with four young girls to keep going? talking it over was a comfort. his voice grew gradually firmer and his face brighter. now that he had the bright eyes of doris beside him, blindness seemed more remote, and more impossible. new strength came to him from her vivid warm vitality. and in trying to buoy her with hope, hope came to him also. two hours they sat there, just talking, saying again and again that there was a way, only they did not see it--not just yet. "i am going to tell the girls, father. they are old enough--and it will hurt them to be shut out of what touches you so closely. and rosalie--father, rosalie is coming out just fine." quickly she told him of rosalie's way of finding out, and of her quiet confident facing of facts--so unlike the problematic butterfly they had worried over so many, many times. "send her up to me, will you? i think she will do me good." and while rosalie was with her father doris told treasure and zee. "just be quiet about it to-night. after a while it will come natural. but we must not talk much, for father feels very badly. just let him see that we are sorry--and we must all be very positive there is a grand way out for us, and we must find it." there had never been such sweet and tender harmony in the manse as on that night--the sorrow falling on each one alike drew them very close together. and when they went to bed at last, each one in characteristic way thanked god that there were five to bear the hurt, for grief divided by five, after all, is only one-fifth a grief. chapter xii finding the path that mr. maccammon had suspected the trouble long before he was told of it did not surprise them at all. somehow they always expected the most unexpected things of him. and he entered into their plans naturally and helpfully, as became one who boasted fairy powers. "i have a grand idea," announced doris. "i thought of it just as mr. maccammon came in. not that he has anything to do with it--but the sight of him inspired me." "yes, and what is the grand idea?" urged her father, who knew from of old that her ideas were always well worth considering. "there is only one month of school before vacation, and then we will be a united family to handle you--and fathers take a lot of handling, you know. now, i think you should ask for your vacation right away--on full pay, you understand--and go to chicago and have the operation at once. then by the time school is out the worst will be over. it will be quite easy to fill the pulpit now, because the town will be full of ministers here for commencement, and the trustees' meeting, and such things, and they will be glad to preach when they find how father is taking his vacation." "a good idea, as you say. and it will be a relief to have it over. maybe i can arrange--" "you needn't arrange anything. leave it to me. i shall go to the president of the college, and put up a scheme with him--when ministers come visiting he will tip me off, and i shall personally invite them to preach. leave it to me." "but suppose you should miss a meeting?" "if she does, i shall give them a lecture on the psychology of religion. i can tell them a few things that are not mentioned in the bible, but can help to make them better christians none the less," offered mr. maccammon. "you should not suppose such things anyhow, father, it isn't ministerial. but since you hesitate to trust me alone, maybe you can let providence and me together assume the responsibility with mr. maccammon to back us up." "that puts it on a firm foundation, at least. in the meantime i shall use my eyes as little as possible--" "not at all! rest them absolutely," said mr. maccammon quickly. "get them in good shape for the operation. wear the biggest, blackest glasses you can get, and do not look at a paper or book. do not even touch your bible." "i know my bible pretty well, and i can _think_ my scripture. but i shall miss the head-lines." "oh, father, let me read the paper to you every morning. i am a good reader," cried rosalie. "i come out strong on the right words, everybody says so." "the problem will be afterward. how can i preach those weeks when i can not study?" "oh, father, we've been scheming," cried doris. "rosalie and i got out the barrel of old sermons you had at delta before we came here, and we sorted over the outlines and picked out a lot of good ones, and--you can preach from those this summer. you tell the rest, rosalie--it is your contribution." "well, father," she said shyly, "when i knew about your eyes i began to get ready to help. for i knew doris would have the family to manage, and that i was the proper one to stand with you. and so i took a lot of special courses in bible study and practical christianity and social service stuff, and i can look up references as quick as a wink, and really i know a lot. so i shall be your pastor's assistant, and furnish the eyes while your own are resting." "why, rosalie, you little--problem," he said brokenly. "i wanted to surprise you, father. and all the time i was talking of my career--i knew that my career would be--right here with you and doris, backing up the manse." he held her hands very closely in his, and did not speak for a while. "every one is taking hold," he said at last. "i have worked all my life--every day crowded full to overflowing-- now everything is going, and-- how shall i fill the days?" "there is where i come in," said mr. maccammon quickly. "i have to begin some very important proof-reading on my newest philosophy, my very best work and the most pretentious. and i was wondering if you wouldn't come out and loaf with me most of the time--and let me proof-read aloud to you--i really need some expert opinion as i go along. maybe it would help you with the time--i know it would help me with the book." mr. artman sat silent again for a while. "girls," he began finally, "i am ashamed to say i was puzzled. i could not see the way. now it is opening up, step after step--and the rest will come in its proper time. i shall never worry again. and to-morrow night i will ask for my vacation at once." "have you got the money, father?" asked zee. "we may have to squeeze a little," he said, smiling. "the board will advance my june salary, i know, and the household bills can run for a while. there is a little in the bank--i do not know just how much--" "forty-two dollars and eighty-six cents," said doris practically. "but the bills for this month are paid--i can see the hand of a tender providence in that. for it is mighty seldom we have the bills paid and forty-two dollars and eighty-six cents besides." "the forty-two dollars will run you here at home, and the june salary will see me through at chicago." "just as i am always trying to show you," said zee. "we preachers have our troubles, but there is always a plain path made for us." "when we get to it, yes. the trouble is that some of us have a habit of wanting to see the path before we get there. i like to use a telescope on it, miles ahead, i am afraid," her father admitted. how simply and naturally things worked out, after all the months of anxious fear. the vacation was arranged without the slightest trouble. the june salary was paid in advance with no dissenting voice. and one elder, the dearest of them all, said gently: "and there are a few of us who wish to make up a little purse--oh, not much--just a little word of appreciation, you know--we'll get it together and put it into the bank for you--it may help a little." mr. artman's conscience kept him awake hours that night, for he had been worrying about money, too--worrying in spite of the fact that every step had been cleared when the time for stepping came--and he had worried about the bills there would be when the operation was over and he was at home again. for his expenses in chicago would be heavy, even though he went to the presbyterian hospital where "they do ministers for nothing." and doctor hancock had arranged with the surgeon that the expense of the operation could wait till a convenient time. the girls' expenses would be much lighter when school was out, and they would not use the car quite so often, only now and then when they could not resist the luring call of it. "i want you to come for a drive with me in my car to-night, doris," mr. maccammon said one evening. "you have taken me in yours several times and you are always so concerned with speedometers and gears that you pay no attention to my conversation. to-night you go joy-riding on my gas." "thank you, i shall be glad to," said doris in her very politest manner, for to go joy-riding on some other person's gas was a great treat, and to go joy-riding on mr. maccammon's gas was the greatest treat of all. so she put on the charming blue motor hat--home-made out of old veils and scraps of velvet, but which, as rosalie said, was just as flirtatious as though it had cost forty-two dollars and eighty-six cents at marshall field's. mr. maccammon helped her into the car very formally, and rosalie from the front porch waved them away. "father," she said to him when the car had disappeared, "i hope your eyes have not affected your mental vision. i suppose you realize that your perfectly wonderfully philosophical psychologist or whatever he is, is quite humanly and commonplacely and every-dayly in love with your darling doris." "oh, rosalie, don't give me anything more to worry about. i do not care how perfectly wonderfully philosophical and psychological he is, he shall not come upsetting my household, that is certain." but mr. artman smiled. after all, doris was a dear girl, and mr. maccammon was--even more than rosalie had said. and it was one opportunity in ten thousand, in his private opinion. and wasn't it just like providence to give that opportunity to one of the sweet simple girls of the manse, rather than to some of the more pretentious, more expectant girls of the little town? "what i particularly wished to say to you is this," mr. maccammon was saying to doris--"if you can get your eyes off the mileage long enough to listen." doris turned around sidewise in the seat and snuggled back among the cushions and looked at him so directly that his mind went wandering on the instant, and they were silent a while. "a penny for them," he offered suddenly. "i was just wondering how old you really are. it has bothered me so long. and you need not give me the penny, i much prefer the information." "i am thirty-six. and i was going to say this--are you planning to go to chicago with your father?" "now i know you are truly a wizard. i have thought of that every minute of the whole day. i am afraid we can't. we wanted to, rosalie and i both, but we just have to save the pennies. so i think we shall hand him over to providence when he gets on the train." "it does not cost a great deal--" "six dollars per round trip--and it costs a fortune to stay in chicago even a few days. we can not afford it." she sighed a little. once in a while it really hurts to be poor. "i think i told you, didn't i, that i have to go to chicago myself this week to arrange for the publishing of the new book? what, didn't i tell you? stupid of me to forget it." "you did not tell me, and i know you are just going to watch over father, and i think you are wonderful." she caught his hand and kissed it with girlish gratitude, while he smiled on her with tender eyes. "of course, you do not care if _my_ car is smashed," he said whimsically. "i notice you keep both hands on the wheel every minute when you have that precious little red thing of yours out. but my car is different." "oh, excuse me," she smiled brightly, winking back the tears. "well, let me finish. i have a small apartment in chicago--not much of a place, but a cozy corner out by the lake where i can sneak off and work when i wish and nobody else can find me. it has a little kitchen and some stuff where bangs can fix me up a meal, or i can do it myself if he is not with me. i keep the apartment all the time, to be ready for a hurry order, but i have a friend in the city, too, and when i just run in for a couple of nights or so, with no special work to do, i bunk with him, to be sociable. so why couldn't you and rosalie go up and take my apartment for a week, and i can stay with johnson? it would be easier for you to stand it there than here--and i think your father would like it." "oh, that is just-- but the fare-- still, it wouldn't be-- oh, dear me, now i don't know what," cried doris desperately. "of course, i will excuse you for interrupting me, since you ask it," he said evenly. "but i was far from through. i am going to drive up to chicago in my car. i have a lot of running around to do, out to evanston and to the university, and all over town. i haven't the time to bother with street-cars, nor the patience to bother with taxis. so i shall take my own locomotion with me. it is a good road all the way, and i can make the run in a few hours. of course, your father could not drive up in the wind, but you and rosalie seem fairly healthy, and i have a back seat. so if you feel any desire to go with me, why, i think--" doris put her head in her arm on the back of the seat and sobbed. then she sat up quickly and patted his arm as warmly as she dared with any degree of safety to the steering, and said: "mr. wizard, please wake me up. you have me under the spell of your charm, and i am dreaming things." "i hope you are under the spell of my charm, and i wouldn't wake you up for a thousand dollars," he said explosively, and although of course it was only a joke, doris blushed and began making plans for the trip very hurriedly. "what shall we do with the little girls?" she asked, confident of his ability to do something. "i had not reached that portion of the family yet. let me see--they can have bangs to take care of them." "wouldn't they love that? no, we'll get miss carlton. she has been hinting to come for a visit for quite a while, and now is just the time. it will shock her to find father gone--but she is fine in an emergency, and this is one. now let's hurry home and tell father." when rosalie heard of this new and wonderful dispensation of providence in the person of the enormous philosopher, she looked at him very steadily and said in her softest voice: "mr. maccammon, you haven't a brother, have you, a younger brother who looks like you--or a son?" "no," he said, staring at her in surprise. "i haven't anybody. why?" "i wanted to put in an application for him, that is all." "why, rosalie." suddenly he laughed aloud, and drew her away to a remote corner of the room. "then i take it that my efforts along this line do not meet with your disapproval?" "quite the contrary." "can you assure me of success?" he asked, still smiling, but rosalie observed that his eyes were very bright and very earnest. "no," she said slowly. "one can not quite do that, you know." he looked suddenly startled. "you don't mean--is there anybody-- there can't be any one--" "has she told you about the bishop?" "no, she hasn't mentioned the bishop--or anybody," he said in a voice quite changed. "why, mr. maccammon, you would not want to win your heart's desire too easily, would you? think what a satisfaction it will be later on to know that you outclassed a bishop!" "yes, but suppose i don't. these--excuse me, these--bishops, you know--something about the cloth--the glamour of the church-- but it helps to have your blessing. i thought you hadn't noticed." "you thought i hadn't noticed? mercy! what ails the man? thought i hadn't noticed-- why, how could i help it?" "i don't know. hang that bishop! oh, shucks, what is a bishop? come on, congratulate me--do it right now, to spur me on and just to prove that we don't care two cents for the bishop." rosalie held out her hand. "i congratulate you with all my heart. you are not good enough for her, but if she is satisfied, i should worry. on behalf of the manse, i welcome you." "thanks. now it is all settled. i feel better." and they laughed together gaily. "what in the world are you two doing, whispering back there in the corner?" asked doris curiously. "mercy, are you holding hands?" "we are sealing a solemn pact," he answered blithely. "rosalie has a way of making me very happy sometimes." doris caught her breath suddenly, and crushed her fingers against her lips. a dark shadow came into her eyes, and she looked searchingly into rosalie's laughing face. then she crossed the room and stood by her father, her fingers gripping his sleeve, and very soon she slipped away up the stairs and went to bed. when rosalie came to find her, she said she was tired and nervous-- wouldn't rosalie say good night for her, and tell him how kind he had been? when rosalie repeated the message to mr. maccammon he looked perturbed. "isn't she coming down at all?" "seems not. but she is nervous, really, and worried about father--and your kindness has upset her." "i'll bet she is thinking of that bishop," he said grimly. "you run up-stairs and talk about me, will you? tell her how nice i am, and how handsome, and what a good husband i will make--put it on pretty thick, you know how it is done. a lovely diamond ring for your pains, young lady, if you play it right. there's a nice little girl." so rosalie obediently ran up and sat beside doris on the bed, stroking the hot hand, and saying over and over how charming and clever and thoughtful dear mr. maccammon was, and how much more attractive than that stupid bishop, and how wonderfully good she was sure he would be to any girl who became his very own. and doris lay on the bed quivering, too loyal to her sister to voice a protest, but lacking the moral courage to speak agreement. and doris did not sleep that night--although she hated herself for being so sorry over such a little thing as-- well, as what? anyhow, she was surprised, that was all--but was ashamed even to think of such a trifle, in the face of father's so much greater grief. and when she wept softly into the pillow she had to tell herself over and over again that every tear was for father, and every sob, and every bit of ache that was in her heart. chapter xiii rosalie's way as the days passed, and the plans for the future matured, rosalie kept shrewd eyes on her sister's face. "she is worried about father, of course, but so are the rest of us, and we don't act like that," she thought soberly. "it can't be mr. maccammon, surely, for he does not try to hide what he thinks. and anybody can see what she feels toward him--anybody but mr. maccammon, for he really is fussed about the bishop." and rosalie laughed gleefully, for she solemnly believed that no lover had any right to win his heart's desire without a few sharp pangs of jealousy. doris was pale and gentle to an unwonted degree, but she shirked no whit of her responsibility. she arranged with the president of the college for filling the pulpit during her father's absence, and he acceded to her request with hearty good will. "if i can't get anybody else, i'll do it myself. so get that off your mind right away. as a matter of fact, i have quite a few things i'd like to tell the people in this town, but i never had the courage to do it with your father's kindly eyes upon me. but with him out of the road, i surely will relieve my feelings." miss carlton promised not only freely, but fulsomely, to come and chaperon the younger girls during the week the others were in chicago. and mr. artman was argued into accepting their friend's kindly offer in a way that was scientific to the highest degree. on the morning he took train for chicago doris and rosalie, with their shabby bags, were tucked into maccammon's car among his portfolios and manuscripts. curiously enough, doris insisted on sitting in the back seat alone. "please," she said, when maccammon and rosalie both protested. "i am so tired and fidgety. when i am in front i sit up straight and watch the road every minute. but in the back i can settle down and rest. let rosalie sit in front, she likes to watch the road and get excited, and squeal when you spin on the corners." rosalie and maccammon eyed each other grimly when doris slipped into her chosen place without waiting for the help of a friendly hand. "the bishop," whispered maccammon ominously. "the bishop your grandmother," thought rosalie, turning around to squint thoughtfully at her sister. the first twenty-five miles were traversed in absolute silence, maccammon driving with grim and rigid energy, rosalie looking through half-closed lids reflectively into space, doris crouching in the corner of the back seat alone. thirty-five miles--and then maccammon laughed suddenly. "hang the bishop," he said in a low voice. rosalie laughed with him. "you can't hang him--it isn't orthodox." "burn him at the stake then. she hasn't-- anyhow, i don't--i am not going to get cold feet yet-- that-- there is no reason--" "faint heart," scoffed rosalie. "all right, i am game. suppose you drive a while." turning to doris, he said, "rosalie is going to drive a while, and i am coming back to help hold down the back seat. don't argue. you know very well the back seat is too bumpy for one little light girl by herself. you need not hurry, rosalie," he said, surrendering the wheel. "doris is cross, and i have to reason with her. it takes time. you need not listen unless you particularly wish." he got into the back seat serenely enough, and looked astonished when doris withdrew to the farthest corner of the roomy seat. "what is the matter? does the seat slope over to that corner? that is a shame, i must have it fixed." and he sat down very comfortably in the middle of the seat, where doris could not possibly keep the hem of her gown from touching him, nor even her rigid elbow, though it plainly was her desire. rosalie drove with a nicety of concentration that was most commendable, but doris was stiffly mute to his overtures. and in spite of his persistent and determined tender chaffing, he was really calling down anathemas on the head of the offending bishop by the time they reached aurora. "let's find a place to eat. i am hungry. i have done a hard day's work. digging ditches has nothing on that," he said to rosalie. she nodded sympathetically. "think well before it is too late," she warned. "women are always like that--they go by spells. sometimes they are and then sometimes they are not." "chiefly they are not, i perceive," he said doggedly. "she liked me well enough while i remained a mystery." "well, of course--" "if you say bishop to me again i'll stone you," he cried, and rosalie only laughed. by this time doris had finished patting her hair before the small mirror in her bag, and joined them quietly. but she was not hungry, she drank two cups of very strong coffee--and mr. maccammon suddenly was not hungry either. rosalie munched comfortably through six courses and when she reached her ice-cream and macaroons she told maccammon he might run along and get the gas if he liked while she was finishing, which he promptly did. as soon as he was gone she looked at her sister slyly. "general--i--may i confide something--in you?" doris stiffened instantly, and turned a frigid face that way. "yes," she said somberly, "go on, let's get it over with. i have been expecting it for some time." a mischievous smile darted to rosalie's eyes, but the shielding lashes hid it. "i--do you think i am too young to fall in love?" "no," said doris desperately, "i do not. i don't think anybody is too young, or too old, or--anything." "age has nothing to do with love, has it?" "no, age hasn't, nor brains, nor sense, nor dignity, nor--sometimes i think even _religion_ hasn't anything to do with love." "of course i may be mistaken--" "no chance." "but he is so dear and nice, and though he has not proposed--still i know he is infatuated with me--and when he finishes school--he is a senior now, you know, and then he can marry if he likes." doris looked up, a sudden shining through the clouds. "he--what?" "he graduates this year. he is a senior. but we are not engaged, not by any means. only sometimes i think maybe i am not too young to fall in love. bob alden, you know." doris leaned weakly back in her chair. "are you joking?" she whispered with dry lips. "oh, doris, i wouldn't do such a thing." "am i just imagining things or--" "yes, i think you are." "oh, rosalie, you bad little girl, what have you done? i really believe mr. maccammon likes you." "likes me! ye gods, aren't some folks blind? i can always tell when men are stuck on me long before they can tell it themselves, but some folks are so slow. you are a stupid girl, doris, i have no patience with you. poor dear mr. maccammon and the bishop, too--both of them--i think it is downright reprehensible, to dangle a bishop and a psychological philosopher at the same time. i wouldn't do such a thing." doris glimmered softly, the old doris struggling weakly but jubilantly back to her own again. "oh, rosalie, don't talk about the bishop," she said. maccammon was waiting for them at the car, with several magazines and boxes of candy on hand to help give the car a professionally touring appearance. and after the chill fog of the last week, doris came to him, gleaming and glowing. "i am all rested now," she said, smiling tremulously. "please, mr. wizard, may i ride in front?" he looked at her in astonishment more utterly blank than ever. then he looked helplessly at rosalie, humming brightly to herself as she picked out the largest box of candy to take with her into the back seat. "can you beat that? they are, and then they aren't. and when you just about get your mind made up that they aren't, and no use to talk about it, all of a sudden they are. and nobody ever knows why, or how it happened." "what are you talking about?" asked doris curiously. "psychology, dear doris. please get in quickly--yes, here in front--oh, this seat slopes toward the middle, does it? fine! well, as i was saying, do you think i'd better tie you in before you decide you aren't? and as for psychology, there is no such thing--not in a world that has women." it did seem rather heartless to be so ecstatically happy when poor dear father was having such trouble, but then, doris thought philosophically, that is what religion is for--to make us happy even in spite of our grief. the rest of the ride was wonderful, through such gloriously beautiful country, and as for the dust--it was nothing, and the car ran like velvet, and almost before they knew it they were settled in their little borrowed apartment, laughing at the tininess of it, and getting ready for maccammon, who had gone to break his presence to his friend. he came for them at six o'clock and took them out to dinner with him, ordering the dishes so carefully and with such sweet regard for their youthful appetites--but after all, they could not eat, for the shadow of the operation was settling upon them. yet how much better it was to be here in the big city within reach of father's kindly hand than to be away off in the manse quivering with the anxiety of what they did not know and could not guess, with only telegraph wires to link them each to each? it seemed maccammon would never be done with that sickening apple pie, but after an endless time they were really tripping softly, breathlessly, along the hall of the hospital in the wake of the "rubber-soled nurse," as rosalie naughtily christened her. and there was father sitting alone in a white room, his eyes bandaged closely. he knew they were there before they spoke, and held out his hands to them, warmly impulsive. and they sat on the arms of his chair and petted the opposite sides of his head, and talked quietly and sensibly, as if the operation were nothing at all. but almost immediately the door opened again, and a man-- yes, a minister-- that blessed bishop, of course--maccammon glared at him-- how long the fellow was holding doris' hand!-- right before her father--and doris was letting him!-- well, couldn't he see that rosalie was there, too--and a stranger? "your father said you would be here, so i stayed to speak to you." "yes, and i came, too, bishop," said rosalie brightly. "you must not overlook me." maccammon blessed her for the words. for the bishop dropped doris' hand hurriedly and turned to her-- what in the world could the church be thinking of, to have bishops as young as that? "i do not believe he's as old as i am, and i am not old at all," thought maccammon resentfully. "and they call him a father in the church. what are we coming to, anyhow?" doris was back at her father's side now, where she belonged, and maccammon was being introduced to the bishop. they sized each other up very frankly. "i'll bet he resents me as much as i do him, that's some satisfaction," maccammon thought with boyish relish. "and i brought her up, too, all that long way--that will cut." they did not stay very long--a gentle movement of the rubber-soled one's eyebrow hurried their departure. the bishop could not accept maccammon's invitation to come with them in the car, because he had his own little runabout. but wouldn't miss doris come with him for a run through the park, and along the lake front? maccammon held his breath. would she? doris put out her hand, quietly but cordially. "i know you will excuse me to-night, bishop. i do not feel like talking, or--anything--just like going home quietly with rosalie to think." never had maccammon loved her as he did at that moment. the bishop walked down with her to the car and opened the back door for the girls. "but it is my turn to sit in front," said doris, smiling faintly. "we think it would be unfair to let mr. maccammon sit alone when he is driving us. and rosalie and i always have each other, you know." so the bishop had to help her into the car--maccammon's car--and into the front seat with maccammon himself, and the bishop had to stand on the curb while they drove off. no wonder maccammon was whistling softly to himself. with doris out of the question, the bishop was a nice enough fellow, clean, clear-cut, straightforward--but with doris in the question he was an eternal nuisance and a bore. and maccammon could never get doris out of his questions any more. "will you come up?" she asked as they drew up beside the apartment. "not to-night," he said softly. "but thank you for asking." she had not asked the bishop. "to-night you girls must run straight to bed and rest, and i will come for you to go with me in the morning. no, you must not try to cook until the operation is over. i will eat with you after that to even up. i know a grand place for hot cakes and sirup--very close. good night, rosalie, you are a good little scout," he called, as she started up the stairs. then he drew doris into a shadowy corner and said, "you must not worry, doris. rosalie is taking this better than you are. hasn't your religion taught you that things work out just right for--men--like your father--who are whole-souled and pure-minded?" "christians, you mean," said doris, smiling at his evident desire to avoid the tone of preaching. "yes, i know. i do believe that things will come right eventually, and i do not worry--much. but father is too good to suffer, and be hurt. it should have been some one else." "oh, doris, don't you know that your father will have more tenderness and more gentleness for all sickness and all suffering, after he himself has suffered? before this, he has _spoken_ kindness. now he will _live_ it. it takes the ultimate caress of pain to give us understanding." doris moved her hands softly in his. "yes, you must go." he put his arms around her, and her face fell against his shoulder. "go, dear doris, and dream of sweet and lovely things--your father strong and well and tenderer than ever--and dream of me, not very good, i know, but--very fond of you. and please forget the bishop." doris laughed at that, quickly, breathlessly. "i will, just for to-night," she promised. "no, for all the nights." he kissed her hair where it curled beneath the blue motor hat, warmly, tenderly--for somehow he felt that this night of her anxious sorrow was not the time to press the kiss of love upon her lips, though he knew in his heart it would not have been denied him. chapter xiv the doctor it seemed very terrible to the two girls to stay there quietly waiting in their father's painfully bright room at the hospital until he was brought back to them on the wheeled table from the operating-room. they could not speak. doris sat with her hands clenched tightly in her lap, with rosalie on the arm of the chair, leaning against her. maccammon stood beside the window, coming to the girls now and then to give them reassuring pats and smiles, and then going back to the window. presently a nurse came in, carefully darkened the room, and put water bottles and flannels in the bed. she smiled encouragingly at the girls, who tried very hard to twist their lips into a semblance of good cheer in return. then the table was wheeled in again, and father was slipped deftly back into the bed, and the doctor was talking to them brightly, and smiling. "just fine. worked like a charm. why, when i think of how that man must have suffered for the last months-- why, it is preposterous-- it is downright-- anyhow, it is over now." the girls did not speak. "come on down-stairs and let's beg some coffee. it does not seem particularly cold to-day, but you folks give me a chilly sensation." "and leave father?" gasped doris. "why not? and why do you whisper? your father, my dear, will have a nice quiet rest for an hour or so, and there is no reason why we should sit here in the dark and hear him breathe. come on, maccammon, don't you need a tonic?" "are you sure he is all right?" asked doris, looking closely at her father's face, showing grim and rigid in the darkened room. "he looks very sick." "he looks sick, my dear, but he is all right. the operation was absolutely successful to the minutest degree. you do not think he is going to die, do you?" "doctors are strange," said rosalie in a hushed voice. "how do you know he will come out from the anesthetic?" "because he is out from the danger of it now. only he does not know it yet. his heart is pumping away, and he is breathing normally, and in a few hours he will be wide awake. come now, don't argue with me. your father has spoiled you, i see that. i would never allow any argument, if i had girls of my own. but i haven't any." "are you married?" asked doris with some interest. "no, i am not married. but i know how i would rear my daughters." "sure you do," laughed maccammon. "so do i. all of us unmarried fellows know all about rearing daughters. come on, girls, we may as well go quietly and try to live at peace with this quarrelsome creature your father has pushed on to us." the girls passed slowly from the room, but their faces brightened a little when one of the nurses said: "don't worry. the doctor is right. the danger is all over. we do not know yet just how fine the eyes will be--but the danger is gone. run along and get your coffee. your father will sleep a long time." "then may we wire the girls now--that he is all right? i know they will be anxious." "yes, indeed, wire them at once. tell them there is no danger, and we are sure the eyes will be infinitely better--certainly there will be no more headaches and pain. and cheer up." after the telegram was safely on its way it seemed quite natural for the four of them to sit at a small table in the nurses' dining-room, sipping the hot coffee, realizing that after all they were alive, and father was nearly all right, and things were going on just the same as before he had kissed them good-by and gone into the grim white room that held so many terrors for them. after their coffee the doctor took them around the hospital with him, introducing them to ministers here and there. they smiled at a few whom the doctor frankly pronounced cases of chronic grouch, and were smiled at by other, very sick ones, who, the doctor declared, were endowed with an abundant and all-pervading christianity that kept their dispositions riotously pleasant in spite of physical pain. and then he invited them to come with him in his car to call on another patient of his down the road a way--"one of the greatest living testimonies to the efficacy of the christian religion, because he has the most pronounced absence of it of any one i have ever seen." the girls hesitated, wanting to get back to their father, but he would brook no opposition. "he will not know you are there. he will be laughing or crying or making love to the nurse, maybe using a little strong language on the side, and it will be no pleasure to him to have a witness, and no pleasure to you--and you will be a pleasure to me, so that settles it. come along, while you have the chance, for i shall not have time to bother with you after to-day." and he crowded them into his small car and carried them off to inspect the "awfully un-christian patient," who looked at them sharply when the doctor presented them. "if he told you i am an infidel, he is a liar," said the old man, looking suspiciously at the doctor's placid face. "i was the treasurer of a church--" "yes, he was," said the doctor, sniffing. "he was treasurer of a church for three years, and now he is a millionaire. draw your own conclusions." "i have been a church-member all my life." "yes, he has," snorted the doctor. "to the everlasting disgrace of the church, i must admit it." "i have contributed--" "you have contributed to the unhappiness of more poor people than anybody else in chicago, and you know it," said the doctor curtly. "if you weren't the best doctor in town i would discharge you." "if i did not intend to bleed you out of half your fortune before you die i would not 'tend to you another day," snapped the doctor. the girls looked on in silent horror. maccammon smiled appreciatively. the patient was lying helpless under the doctor's skilful hands, obeying his orders with child-like confidence, and the doctor was ministering to the physical needs of the old man with tender professional touches. but all the while the patient glared venomously up into the doctor's face and the doctor glowered back. "turn over," said the doctor sharply. "ain't he polite?" sneered the old man. "ain't he a perfect gentleman?" but he did not hesitate to obey the doctor's word. "now turn back. i did not want anything. just wanted to see if it would hurt you to move. there's nothing the matter with you anyhow but an overdose of devil germs. you've bulldozed and browbeaten so many people for so many years that you've got a calloused heart and a calloused soul. it gives you indigestion. that's all that ails you--spiritual indigestion." doris came forward with gentle sympathy and laid a slender hand on the man's shoulder. "he is a bad doctor. this is no time to throw up your weaknesses, is it?" "well," admitted the old man, "he is a fiend, but he is a good doctor. all the rest gave me up to die--and he came, and operated--it was a terrible operation on the brain--and i am nearly well. he is a good doctor--but he is a fiend. but then, if it comes to that, i haven't been an angel myself." doris could not help laughing. "an angel. i am surprised you know the word," scoffed the doctor. "you wouldn't recognize an angel if you ran into one. your eyes are blind to everything but the dollar-mark. if you ever get to heaven, your crown will be made up of dollar bills instead of diamonds." "if you ever get to heaven you won't have any crown at all. just a hypodermic needle to go around sticking into poor angels that trust you, and you'll have crutches to play on 'stead of a harp." "well, come on, girls. you have had enough. don't let him soak into your dispositions." the girls put out soft and timid hands to say good-by, and the old man took them bashfully, blushing beneath their friendly eyes. "if you are still alive, i shall see you wednesday, but i have hopes," said the doctor. "it would be a pleasure to die just to get away from you," shouted the old man after him. "doctor, that was terrible," said doris. "how could you do it? the poor sick old man!" the doctor only laughed. "you may as well make up your mind to sitting with me," he said to rosalie, helping her into the front seat. "you do not seem absolutely essential to their happiness, do you?" "not absolutely, no. but i tell you right now if you begin on me as you talked to the old man, i shall fall right out and get run over. like him, i think death is preferable." "sometimes i feel that i missed my calling," said the doctor in a genial tone. "i believe in my heart i should have been a minister." "oh, mercy!" gasped rosalie. "why, my dear little girl, do you think i was hard on the old bird? not a bit of it. he told you the truth--he would have died except for me. i have simply goaded him into strength. he lives to spite me. and i not only brace him up physically, i am helping his soul." the doctor said this complacently, and was greeted by derisive laughter. "fact, for all you may laugh. twice since i have had him he has extended mortgages. first time he ever did such a thing in his life. his lawyers think he is in his dotage. the trouble with him is that he never caught the connection between religion and business--he practised them both, separately, and consistently. but when it came to religion he never used his brains--he gave to everything the minister advised, whether it was sensible or not, just because the minister advised it--and he sat around and prayed to any old mutt of a preacher, just because he was a reverend. no business sense about it. and then when it came to business, he did not let his religion interfere. i am the connecting link between his religion and his business--and i expect to make a man of him. i think in time i shall work out his soul's salvation. quite seriously, i believe i would have made a cracking good minister." then he took them back to the hospital and up to their father's room. doris stepped quickly to the bedside. "doris? is it my little girl?" "yes, you dear father, doris and rosalie are here." they sat beside the bed, one on either side, and stroked his hands tenderly, glad tears streaming down their faces. after a time, when he thought he could control his voice, he said: "girls, i am sorry--but i am quite blind. i can hear you, but i see nothing." "oh, dearest," cried doris brokenly, "of course you can't. your eyes are bandaged. you are not supposed to see yet. you must wait. the operation was a perfect success." "why, my dear old fellow," said the doctor in an annoyed tone, "do you think i am a miracle man? you are not supposed to step right out of the ether into the broad light. you are a dandy, sure enough. aren't these preachers the limit? growling because he can't see when he is plastered up in ten inches of cotton." the minister laughed, softly, happily. "it was foolish. i see it now, of course. but it gave me a terrible jar. i was sure i was blind." so while the girls sat beside him the doctor and maccammon went away to leave them alone for a while. "the real tug will come when he gets home," said the doctor. "he has no business to use his eyes for at least six months. he ought to play for fully half a year. but he does not know how to play. that is the worst of these preachers--they get so used to the grind, grind, grind, that they can't let up. what we'll do with him for the next six months is more than i can figure out." "the girls will think of something. they are wonderful girls." "yes, very. rosalie in particular," said the doctor. "doris in particular also," supplemented maccammon quickly. "he can preach, can't he? i imagine he will need the money." "yes, he can preach if he's got it in his head. he can't do any reading." "it will not be easy. but we can leave it to doris all right." "that rosalie is a lovely girl--a beautiful girl," said the doctor warmly. "they both are," came quickly. "oh, get out. can't you take anything impersonally? don't come mooning around to me. i have troubles enough of my own. i say that rosalie is lovelier than your doris, has a better figure, finer hair, more attractive features, and infinitely better eyes, and if you don't like it, go to thunder," and the doctor went out quickly, laughing, and slammed the door behind him. chapter xv rising to the manse in answer to intense and persistent pleading on the part of treasure and zee, the girls decided to remain in chicago until their father also returned home. it did not seem at all expensive living in the big city, thanks partly, of course, to the continued hospitality of maccammon and the bishop, and the doctor, and other friends of the presbyterian fold. and since school was practically out anyhow, rosalie knew she was missing nothing except good times, and there never was a time good enough to tempt her away from her father when he so evidently enjoyed her presence. it was very surprising, of course, that those unaccountable little mischiefs at home were so happy in the presence of miss carlton, whom they had never particularly admired. but since they insisted, and since father did say it was sweet to have them with him, and since maccammon had developed a strange partiality for the young girls at home, strongly seconding every suggestion they made, doris and rosalie lingered in chicago. their father's strength returned rapidly, and although he was kept in constant heavy shadow, there were many good and rollicking times for all of them. and in spite of the doctor's open declaration that he would never have time to bother with them after the first day, he did find many, many hours to while away in their gentle but merry presence. "you are sure you have time? you are sure there is nobody clamoring for you to come and cut them to pieces?" rosalie would say sweetly. and the doctor was always comfortably and confidently sure. and when at last the day came for getting ready to return home he hung around the little apartment sitting on things they wished to pack and getting in the way of suit-cases and bags that needed to be moved, seeming quite to forget that he was a famous surgeon and that people were waiting patiently for him to wield his knife. "if anybody urged me particularly i think i'd take a day off and go home with you. your father may need attention when he gets there, and i need a vacation, and i could come back on the night train. but nobody thinks of inviting me, of course." "please come," said doris promptly. "i won't invite you," said maccammon pointedly. "the girls think you are responsible for saving their father's eyes--though anybody else could have done it just as well--and when you are around nobody pays any attention to me at all. so i think you'd better stay in chicago, where you belong." "there you are--isn't that gratitude for you?" "don't mind him," said doris. "i am the general. do as i say." he looked hopefully at rosalie. "they sit in the front seat and entertain themselves," she said, "and never bother about me alone in the rear. i invite you to come and sit with me, and let's not say a word to them all the way home." he accepted that invitation immediately and rushed off to make arrangements to keep his patients alive until his return. zee had insisted most strongly that the whole family should arrive home at the same identical minute, and not come stringing in all day, keeping them upset, and maccammon, with his usual loyalty to her, said flatly it must be done. "it can't be done," protested doris. "the doctor will not let father go in the car, and how can we get there the same minute?" "we shall start early in the morning, and your father will go on the noon train. then we shall plan to get to town just exactly at two-twenty-seven, meet the train, pick your father up bodily, and carry him home in triumph." "it can't be done." "if zee says, 'do it,' it shall be done," said maccammon decidedly. "her confidence in me must not be shattered. we leave this town at eight-thirty to-morrow--allowing time for blowouts and quarrels en route. and if we see we are getting in early, we'll stop beneath a big tree outside of town and point out the scenery to the doctor, who does not know anything about any kind of scenery except bones and skin." "but father--" "oh, the bishop can get him on the train and start him home. that's all bishops are good for," said maccammon imperturbably. and he made the arrangement himself to the intense delight of rosalie, who giggled at his elbow all the time he was discussing the plan with the bishop. then came the long lovely ride home, doris and maccammon blissfully content in the front seat, and the doctor taking a most unprofessional interest in rosalie's softness and girlishness and gurgliness in the tonneau. "oh, rosalie," doris said to her teasingly when they were in the dressing-room at the hotel "smoothening up" for luncheon. "oh, rosalie, dear, do you still--er--wonder if you are too young to fall in love--with a senior?" rosalie laughed brightly. "i have decided, mr. general, that i am not too young to fall in love with--anybody." and then she added, "but i know now that seniors are quite too awfully young to be fallen in love with--bob alden, for instance--why, he is a perfect infant!" surely enough, they had a long wait under the maples just outside of town, and maccammon persisted in pointing out the different grains coming up in the fields around them, and the different birds flitting in the branches, and the different flowers nodding by the roadside--to the intense annoyance of the doctor, who said openly he did not care two cents about grains and birds and flowers, and very much preferred to concentrate on other things that interested him more. then came the last flying rush to the station, where father was met and welcomed as though he had not been seen only a few hours before, and they sped quickly to the manse. "do hurry," doris begged. "i know they have a surprise for us, and i can't wait." the surprise was evident as soon as they entered the door. for all the manse was softly, sweetly shaded, with silky green and rose-colored curtains before every window. every light was covered with dainty shades of the same soft colors. there was no glare, no bright splashes of light, no gleam, from any corner. the doctor himself removed the heavy goggle glasses from their father's eyes. "this can't hurt anybody," he declared. "it is charming. look around, man." "why, you dear little girls," said mr. artman. "did you do this for me?" "for all of us," said treasure. "we knew it would make us all happy if you could be right in the home with us, and comfortable, not shut up by yourself in a dark room alone up-stairs, and so we did it for the whole family." "where is miss carlton?" asked doris. "she left yesterday," said zee. "we wanted to have the house to ourselves." "but wherever did you get the money?" wondered doris. "ladies' aid," they shouted triumphantly. "we were going to do it with cheaper stuff out of our allowance--but when they heard about it they chipped in--and, oh, how we have worked." zee danced about on joyous toes. "and the house cleaning is all done--and come up-stairs and see father's room." there was not even a white coverlet on the bed in his room, only the very palest and softest of colors--and upholstering on the chairs in deep green tones--even the paper on the wall was changed. "whoever in the world--" gasped doris. "bangs and the corduroy crab," exulted zee. "they worked and worked, and made the whole room over. isn't the curious cat a darling not to tell you? he knew it all the time." doris held out her hand to him impulsively, and he took it, and kept it in his. "and that isn't all--sit down, everybody," cried zee nervously. "we haven't half shown you everything. sit down, and-- you tell it, treasure, your part comes next." "you tell it, zee, you talk more--i mean better, than i do." "well," began zee, nothing loath, perching herself on her father's knee and beaming around on them like a fairy godmother, "you see when we first knew about father's eyes, and doris and rosalie were doing everything for father, we felt just terribly badly, because we couldn't do anything, and we felt so useless, we just hated to be alive. and so we talked to our nice old cat--" "zee!" "it is a compliment, mr. maccammon," she said, smiling on him warmly. "and between the three of us we figured and schemed--for we were determined to do our share, and--and--come up to the manse, you know. we wanted to rise to the--the occasion with the rest of you, even if we are young and usually in trouble. and so guess what treasure did." "tell us," begged doris. "nobody can ever tell what either of you ever did," said rosalie. "well, she began going to domestic science classes, hours and hours and hours. and when miss carlton was here, they worked every minute, both of them, like--like dogs--cooking and baking, and learning stuff, and treasure is a perfectly wonderful cook--better than doris herself. she can cook anything in the world, and bake bread, and--she can cook the whole meal, all by herself, and she loves it, and she is going to do it all the time after this, so doris will have more time for father, and to help with the church, and to--entertain mr. maccammon, and so forth." "honestly?" "wait till dinner, and you shall see." "and, father," began treasure gently, "you know i do not care for school much, and now i have finished high school, i thought maybe you would not make me go to college. i can't teach or anything. i am too afraid to get up before folks, and--won't you please let me stay at home and be your cook, and just study music, and a few little things like that?" "why, treasure!" "well, think it over," said zee. "it is open for consideration anyhow." "tell about your part, zee." "oh, mine is not important," said zee, "the cooking is the big job." "it is, too, important," cried treasure indignantly. "poor little zee has been darning and mending every minute for the last month--and her fingers are all pricked up, and she got so tired of it--but she can do it just fine, and she is going to all the rest of the time--and she and i have been making beds and sweeping, and we are awfully smart at it--if we do say so ourselves--and so, miss general, you are out of a job. zee and i take the whole house." "but what am i to do?" asked doris dazedly. maccammon squeezed her fingers suggestively, but doris could not or would not get the message. "you are to play with father, and call on the sick," said zee glibly. "we've got it all figured out. you and father and rosalie are to play all summer, go camping, and fishing and hunting--and go driving around the country to conventions and chautauquas, and--and--everything." "oh, that blessed car," said doris. "oh, dear mr. davison, how good and kind he was." "doris will have mr. davison haloed before long. he has grown constantly better since the day of his death." "it taught me a lesson, rosalie. i never believed there was any good in that man at all--but now i know there must have been a divine spark in him all the time, and maybe if we had not been so sure he was no good, we might have fanned the spark a little before he died. i feel guilty about mr. davison--my conscience hurts." "but, girls, you are so young--" protested mr. artman. "just try us, father, that is all. we've got the goods--you watch us deliver," cried zee, and for once doris did not reprove her for the slang. "there does not seem much need for a minister here, then," he said, laughing. "with rosalie taking my sunday-school class, and doris selecting my sermons, and both of them looking up references--what is the use of having a preacher?" "you must still listen to the troubles, and weep with the sad, and rejoice with the gay--and you must still do the marrying and the burying and the baptizing," said rosalie quickly. treasure and zee nudged each other, and giggled ecstatically. for they knew what the others did not--that in all the loyal little church there was a covenant of joy passing around from one to another. "let's go to him in gladness, rather than in complaint," was the new byword. and the people were storing up bits of happiness to take to him from day to day, little triumphs of business, spicy portions of humor and fun--and the daily annoyances and the petty grievances were being pushed aside and forgotten. for in time of stress and calamity, the heart of the church beats true. of course, when sorrow comes, it is the minister's portion to enter into the innermost recesses of the soul, for that is his inalienable right, as pastor of human hearts, and no physical weakness of his own can weaken his fount of sympathy and tenderness. but because they loved him, all the church was learning to look up, and laugh. and somehow it made worship sweeter when there was joy and gratitude and faith among them and they were lifted out of the narrow circle of self. no wonder, then, that mr. artman, in the soft light of the room that had been his sanctuary for years, with his baby girls in his arms, and with the two strong radiant daughters standing near him, felt that the manse was a place of benediction and of peace. "i used to wonder--if i could rear my girls alone," he said, smiling, though his voice was tremulous. "there were so many problems--and it was hard to see if we were coming out just right--i used to wonder if i knew enough to handle it." zee patted his shoulder reassuringly. "we never doubted it, father," she said, in a most maternal voice. "of course, we had lots of trouble, father, getting grown up," said treasure. "but you might know that when the time came--we would be--" "there with the goods," put in zee impishly. "we just naturally rose to the standard of the manse," said the general grandly. maccammon had not released his hold of doris' hand, and now he drew her outside the room and closed the door. "doris," he said, "i can't wait any longer. i am afraid the bishop might send a telegram, or come flying in by aeroplane. and i want to make sure of belonging to this family right away. you are wonderful--all of you--the whole family." "it is the manse," said doris, smiling. "it keeps us up, and coming. we have to live up to it." "it is the manse, partly, perhaps," he said, "but it is mostly--" "i know--it is mostly father. nobody could doubt that. did you ever see a father like him?" "i never did, and i never saw a doris like you. please excuse me, dearest, for making you think of me, when your heart is full of your father, and your sisters, and your manse--but i love you very much. when your father's eyes are strong and well, and when rosalie has finished college, and when treasure is really ready for promotion to a captaincy--then will you come and make me happy?" doris flushed warmly, and lifted her eyes to his face, looking steadily at him. "do not think it is just selfishness, dearest, my trying to intrude on your sacred hour of coming home, but--" "you could not intrude," she said softly. "for you belong in the home-coming. it would not be coming home at all if you were not here." her lips were quivering, and the tears rushed to her eyes as he put his arms around her. after a time, zee opened the door and whirled out upon them. "mercy!" she said. "i was coming after you. father wants everybody to be right there every minute." "i know now there never was any chance for the bishop," said maccammon, smiling. "oh, the poor bishop! that bad little rosalie was just scaring me." "that bad little rosalie is turning out to be a great and glorious girl," said doris proudly. "isn't she? and to think we used to call her the awful problem of the manse." "that bad little rosalie is turning out a perfectly grand and glorious girl because she had a sweet wise sister to solve the awful problems for her. i know, for she told me herself." zee, leaning patiently against the wall, held up a respectful hand as though to a teacher in school. "may i speak now, please? father wants his general to take charge." "zee, i hope you approve of me for a brother-in-law, for it won't do any good if you do not. it is all settled, and you may as well be pleased." "oh, doris," wailed zee, suddenly tearful. "not really." "why, zee," cried doris, shocked at her intensity of grief. "why, baby! i will be here a long, long time yet--and never far away." "oh, and i haven't a cent to my name. i spent all i had, and all i could borrow, on those curtains in father's room." "oh, cheer up--you won't need to buy a wedding present yet a while. we won't hurry you. your i.o.u. is good with us." "it is not that, goosie," said zee with lofty scorn. "but treasure and i bet a dollar on it--and i picked the bishop--i never dreamed that doris would go back on us preachers--and now i haven't got the dollar." "serves you right," said maccammon grimly. "i am glad you lost. and you can't get a loan out of me. if you had bet on me, i'd give you the dollar and tickled to death." "come on back to father," said zee, struggling heroically to rise to the heights required. "this is father's day. i may be bankrupt, and ruined, and facing degradation, and all that--but i can still scare up a smile for him." the end "_the books you like to read at the price you like to pay_" _there are two sides to everything_-- --including the wrapper which covers every grosset & dunlap book. when you feel in the mood for a good romance, refer to the carefully selected list of modern fiction comprising most of the successes by prominent writers of the day which is printed on the back of every grosset & dunlap book wrapper. you will find more than five hundred titles to choose from--books for every mood and every taste and every pocket-book. _don't forget the other side, but in case the wrapper is lost, write to the publishers for a complete catalog._ _there is a grosset & dunlap book for every mood and for every taste_ ruby m. ayres' novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. _richard chatterton_ a fascinating story in which love and jealousy play strange tricks with women's souls. _a bachelor husband_ can a woman love two men at the same time? in its solving of this particular variety of triangle "a bachelor husband" will particularly interest, and strangely enough, without one shock to the most conventional minded. _the scar_ with fine comprehension and insight the author shows a terrific contrast between the woman whose love was of the flesh and one whose love was of the spirit. _the marriage of barry wicklow_ here is a man and woman who, marrying for love, yet try to build their wedded life upon a gospel of hate for each other and yet win back to a greater love for each other in the end. _the uphill road_ the heroine of this story was a consort of thieves. the man was fine, clean, fresh from the west. it is a story of strength and passion. _winds of the world_ jill, a poor little typist, marries the great henry sturgess and inherits millions, but not happiness. then at last--but we must leave that to ruby m. ayres to tell you as only she can. _the second honeymoon_ in this story the author has produced a book which no one who has loved or hopes to love can afford to miss. the story fairly leaps from climax to climax. _the phantom lover_ have you not often heard of someone being in love with love rather than the person they believed the object of their affections? that was esther! but she passes through the crisis into a deep and profound love. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york peter b. kyne's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. _the pride of palomar_ when two strong men clash and the under-dog has irish blood in his veins--there's a tale that kyne can tell! and "the girl" is also very much in evidence. _kindred of the dust_ donald mckay, son of hector mckay, millionaire lumber king, falls in love with "nan of the sawdust pile," a charming girl who has been ostracized by her townsfolk. _the valley of the giants_ the fight of the cardigans, father and son, to hold the valley of the giants against treachery. the reader finishes with a sense of having lived with big men and women in a big country. _cappy ricks_ the story of old cappy ricks and of matt peasley, the boy he tried to break because he knew the acid test was good for his soul. _webster: man's man_ in a little jim crow republic in central america, a man and a woman, hailing from the "states," met up with a revolution and for a while adventures and excitement came so thick and fast that their love affair had to wait for a lull in the game. _captain scraggs_ this sea yarn recounts the adventures of three rapscallion sea-faring men--a captain scraggs, owner of the green vegetable freighter maggie, gibney the mate and mcguffney the engineer. _the long chance_ a story fresh from the heart of the west, of san pasqual, a sun-baked desert town, of harley p. hennage, the best gambler, the best and worst man of san pasqual and of lovely donna. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york scanned images of public domain material from the google print archive. [illustration: book cover] the magic nuts [illustration] [illustration: the unselfish mermaid. _frontispiece._] the magic nuts by mrs. molesworth author of 'carrots,' 'cuckoo clock,' 'tell me a story,' etc. [illustration] illustrated by rosie m. m. pitman london macmillan and co., limited new york: the macmillan company in childhood, when with eager eyes the season-measured years i viewed, all garbed in fairy guise. cardinal newman. i dedicate this little story to my grand-daughter violet sara molesworth sumner place, s.w., _february_ . contents page chapter i night and morning chapter ii apples and nuts chapter iii it is hildegarde chapter iv on the way chapter v 'what's o'clock?' chapter vi gnomeland chapter vii a collation under difficulties chapter viii tree-top land chapter ix a concert chapter x the blue-silk room chapter xi 'the unselfish mermaid' chapter xii 'the unselfish mermaid' (_continued_) illustrations vignette _on title page_ the unselfish mermaid _frontispiece_ "take these," she said, "for good luck" _to face page_ portrait of hildegarde "i must give you one or two warnings" manufacturing lucky pennies "who sent you to kiss us, you breezes of may" the unselfish mermaid chapter i night and morning the way was long. _lay of the last minstrel._ little leonore pressed her face against the window of the railway carriage and tried hard to see out. but it was no use. it all looked so dark and black, all the darker and blacker for the glimmer of the rain-drops trickling down thickly outside, and reflecting the feeble light of the lamp in the roof of the compartment. leonore sighed deeply. she was very tired, more tired than she knew, for she did not feel sleepy, or as if she would give anything to be undressed and go to bed. on the contrary, she wished with all her heart that it was daylight, and that it would leave off raining, and that she could get out of the stuffy old railway train, and go for a good run. it had been raining for _so_ long, and they had been such a lot of hours shut in and bum-bumming along in this dreary way--it even seemed to her now and then as if she had _always_ been sitting in her corner like this, and that it had _always_ been night and _always_ raining outside. 'i don't believe i'm going to be happy at all at alten,' she said to herself. 'i'm sure it's going to be horrid. it's always the way if people tell you anything's going to be lovely and nice, it's sure to be dull, and--just horrid.' she glanced at the other end of the railway carriage where a lady, comfortably muffled up in the corner, was sleeping peacefully. she was not an old lady, but she was not young. to leonore she seemed past counting her age, for she never appeared to get older, and during the six or seven years she had been the little girl's governess she had not changed at all. 'i wish i could go to sleep like fraulein,' was the next thought that came into her busy brain. 'when she wakes she'll think i have been asleep, for she did tuck me up nicely. and i'm feeling as cross as cross.' then her eyes fell on the little cushion and the railway rug that she had thrown on to the floor--should she try to settle herself again and _perhaps_ manage to go to sleep? it would be so nice to wake up and find they had got there, and _surely_ it could not be very much farther. fraulein had said ten o'clock, had she not? leonore remembered sitting up one night till ten o'clock--more than a year ago--when her father was expected to arrive, and fraulein was sure he would like to find her awake to welcome him. it hadn't seemed half so late that night as it did now--would ten o'clock _never_ come? she stooped down and pulled up the rug, and tried to prop the cushion against the back of the seat for her head. it was not very easy to manage, but leonore was not a selfish child; it never occurred to her to disturb her governess for the sake of her own comfort, though fraulein would not have been the least vexed with her had she done so. just as she had made up her mind that she would try to go to sleep, she felt a slight change in the motion of the train--the bum and rattle, rattle and bum, grew fainter--was it only her fancy, or could it, oh! could it be that they were slackening speed? if so, it could only mean arriving at alten, for her governess had distinctly told her they would not stop again till they had reached their journey's end. 'sleep, my dear,' she had said, 'sleep well till i wake you, and then we shall be _there_. there will be no other stopping anywhere to disturb you.' leonore held her breath in anxiety--yes, it was no fancy--they _were_ moving more and more slowly, and through the darkness lights, which were not the glimmer of the rain-drops, began to appear. then at last there was a pull-up. 'fraulein, fraulein,' cried leonore, in great excitement, 'wake up, quick. we're _there_--do you hear? the train has stopped.' poor fraulein had started up at the first words, but leonore was too eager to leave off talking all at once, and in another moment the governess's head was out of the window, calling to a porter, for there was not too much time to spare, as the train had to start off again, not having finished _its_ journey, though some of its passengers had done so. and almost before our little girl had quite taken in that the dreary rattle and bum in the darkness were over, she found herself on the platform, her own little travelling-bag and warm cloak in her grasp, while fraulein, who insisted on loading herself as much as the porter, was chattering away to him in the cheeriest and liveliest of voices, far too fast for leonore to understand much of what she said, as if she had never been asleep in her life. 'i suppose she's very pleased to be in her own country,' thought leonore. 'i wish it wasn't night, so that i could see what it all looks like,' and she gazed about her eagerly, as she followed fraulein and the porter out of the station. something, after all, _was_ to be seen. the rain was clearing off; overhead it was almost dry, though very wet and puddly underfoot. in front of the station was a wide open space, with trees surrounding it, except where a broad road, at the end of which lamps showed some carriages waiting, led away to somewhere, though no streets or even houses were to be seen. the air felt fresh and pleasant, and leonore's spirits began to rise. 'it feels like the country,' she said to herself; 'i wonder where the town is.' but fraulein was still too busy talking to the porter and to two or three other men who had somehow sprung up, to be asked any questions just yet. one of the men had a band round his cap with some words stamped on it in gilt letters. leonore could only make out one word, 'hotel ----,' and then he turned away, and she could not see the others. by this time her governess was picking up her skirts in preparation for crossing the wet space before them. 'he says we had better step over to where the carriages are standing,' she explained to the little girl; 'it will be quicker'; and when, a moment later, the two found themselves alone, with plenty of room, in the comfortable omnibus, she lent back with a sigh of satisfaction. 'it is so pleasant to be in a land where things are well managed,' she said. 'we do not need to wait for our big luggage. i give the paper to the hotel porter, he sees to it all for us.' 'yes,' said leonore, though without paying much attention; the care of the luggage did not trouble her; 'but do tell me, fraulein, dear, where is the hotel? where are the streets and--and--everything? it seems like the country, and oh, aren't you glad to be out of the train? i thought we should never get here, and it was so dark and raining so hard, and i _couldn't_ go to sleep.' 'poor dear,' said tender-hearted fraulein, 'and i who slept comfortably for so long. had i known you were awake i would have kept awake also.' 'never mind now,' said leonore amiably; 'but tell me where we are going.' 'the station is half a mile or so out of the town,' explained the governess. 'see now, the houses are appearing. we cross the bridge--by daylight it is beautiful, such a view down the river.' but leonore did not care very much about beautiful views--not just now especially. 'i wish it wasn't so far to the town,' she said wearily, though almost as she said the words her tone changed. 'oh now,' she exclaimed brightly, 'we are really getting into the streets. how queer everything looks--do you think the people are all in bed, fraulein?' it was a natural question, for as they drove through the wide dark streets, faintly lighted by an occasional lamp, there was nothing to be seen but closed shutters and barred doors. the houses, for the most part, looked large, particularly as regarded the entrance, for many of these led into courtyards, with great double gates. fraulein nodded her head. 'they are all in their houses,' she said, 'though perhaps not all in bed yet, for it is not really so very late. in alten we keep to the good old ways, you see, my dear--"early to bed and early to rise," as your rhyme says.' 'it's very dull-looking,' said leonore discontentedly. 'it seems like a lot of prisons, and--oh----' she broke off suddenly, for they were stopping at last, or at least preparing to stop, as they turned in through a large doorway standing open to admit them into a courtyard, paved with cobble stones, and dimly lighted like the streets by an old-fashioned lamp or lantern at one side. there was more light at the other side, however, where a short flight of steps led into the hotel, and here they pulled up, to be received by a funny little man in black, with a large expanse of shirt-front, and by what looked to leonore's half-dazzled eyes like a whole troop of waiters, also in black, fluttering about him, though in reality there were only three--all the party bowing in the most polite way, and almost tumbling over each other in their eagerness to help the ladies to alight. this sort of thing was quite to leonore's taste, and for the moment all feeling of dullness or tiredness left her. she bent her head graciously to the little fat man, who was really the landlord, and allowed one of the others to take her cloak and bag. fraulein seemed more than ever in her element. yes; rooms were ready for the ladies--two bedrooms opening into each other--would they have supper upstairs, or (and as he spoke the polite little man threw open a door they were passing) in here? 'here' being the large dining-room. they would be quite undisturbed. 'oh, in here, fraulein, do say in here,' said leonore, 'i don't like eating in bedrooms; it makes me feel as if i had the measles or something. and, i'm not sure, but i think i'm rather hungry, so mayn't we have supper at once?' fraulein was quite willing, and supper, in the shape of chocolate and an omelette, would be ready immediately. so the two settled themselves at one end of the long narrow table, and leonore's eyes set to work to see what they could see by the light of the two not very bright lamps. 'what a funny old man,' she exclaimed. 'look, fraulein, the walls are all dark wood like a church, and the ceiling has white carvings on it, and the floor is red and black squares like the kitchen at aunt isabella's. and it isn't like a hotel, is it? not like the one at paris, where there was such a bustle. i don't believe there's anybody staying here except you and me.' 'oh yes, there are probably other people,' said fraulein, 'but it is long past proper supper-time, you see, my dear. it is very polite of the landlord to have received us himself, and to have all the waiters in attendance.' and by the way fraulein leant back in her chair leonore saw that she was in a state of great satisfaction with everything, and exceedingly delighted to find herself again in her own country. upstairs, where they soon made their way, guided by two, if not three, of the attentive waiters, the house seemed even queerer and older than down below. leonore was now getting too sleepy to notice anything very clearly, but the dark wainscotted walls, the long passages and funny little staircases, struck her as very mysterious and interesting, and she said to herself that she would have a good exploring the next day. the bedrooms prepared for them looked large and imposing, partly perhaps because the candles left the corners in darkness. the beds were small and cosy, with their white eider-down quilts, and very comfortable too, as the tired little girl stretched herself out with a sigh of relief and content, to fall asleep long before fraulein had completed her unpackings and arrangements. if leonore had any dreams that night she did not know it, for the sun had been up some hours before she awoke, though it was already late autumn. she did not feel at all ashamed of her laziness however, and considering everything i do not see that she had any reason to feel so. and she gave a cry of welcome and pleasure as she caught sight of the merry little rays of sunshine creeping over the white bed as if to wish her a kindly good morning. 'oh i _am_ glad it is a fine day,' she thought to herself, 'and i am so glad we are not going in that horrid old train again.' she lay still and looked about her. yes, it was a curiously old-fashioned room; even a child could see at once that the house must be very, very old. 'i wonder if many little girls have slept here and waked up in the morning, and looked at the funny walls and queer-shaped ceiling just like i'm doing,' she thought to herself. 'some of them must be quite old women by now, and perhaps even, lots who have been dead for hundreds of years have lived here. how queer it is to think of! i wonder if fraulein is awake, and i do hope we shall have breakfast soon. i'm so hungry.' the sound of a tap seemed to come as an answer to these questions and hopes, and as fraulein put her head in at one door, a maid carrying a bath and a large can of hot water appeared at the other. she was a pleasant-faced girl with rosy cheeks, and as she passed the bed she wished the young lady good morning with a smile. 'you are awake, my child?' said the governess. 'that is right. you have slept well? call me as soon as you want me to help you to do your hair, and then we shall have our breakfast. you would rather have it downstairs, i suppose?' 'oh yes,' said leonore decidedly. 'i am quite rested, fraulein, and i want dreadfully to go downstairs and see this funny old place by daylight, and i want to look out of the window to see if the streets look nice, and--and----' 'well, get dressed first, my dear,' said her governess, pleased to find the little girl in such a cheerful frame of mind. 'it is just a trifle cold, though it will probably be warmer as the day goes on, thanks to this bright sunshine. you have had rainy weather lately, i suppose?' she went on, turning to the maid-servant. the girl held up her hands. 'rain,' she repeated, 'yes, indeed, i should rather think so--rain, rain, rain, for ever so many days. the ladies have brought us the sunshine.' so it seemed, for when they made their way downstairs, leonore scarcely knew the dining-room again, it looked so bright and cheerful in comparison with the night before. their coffee and rolls had not yet made their appearance, so the little girl flew to the window to see what she could through the muslin blinds. for the window opened straight out on to the pavement, so that any inquisitive passer-by could peep in, which made the blinds quite necessary, as, though it is very pleasant to look out, it is not equally so to feel that strangers can look in when one is sitting at table. leonore pulled a tiny corner of the blind aside. 'oh, fraulein,' she exclaimed, 'it is such a nice street. and there are lots of people passing, and shops a little way off, and i see the top of a big old church quite near, and--and--a sort of open square place up that short street--do you see?' fraulein having joined her by this time. 'that is the market-place,' said her governess, 'and i rather think--yes, i am sure it is market-day to-day.' leonore danced about in excitement. 'oh, _please_ take me to see it,' she said. 'i have never seen a proper market, and perhaps the people would have funny dresses--costumes like what you were telling me about. do you think we should see any of them?' 'i hope so,' said fraulein, 'we must go out as soon as we have had breakfast and see. i have to ask about a carriage to take us to dorf. i almost wish----' 'what?' asked leonore. 'that we could stay till to-morrow, if alten amuses you so--indeed, i do not see why we need hurry. my aunt is not quite certain what day we are coming, and she is _quite_ certain to be ready for us whenever we arrive. indeed, i have no doubt she has had our rooms prepared for weeks past, so good and careful a housewife is she. our beds will have been aired every day, i daresay.' but leonore was scarcely old enough to care whether the beds were aired or not. for the moment her whole thoughts were running on having a good exploring of the quaint town which had so taken her fancy, and while she drank her coffee and munched the nice crisp rolls, which tasted better than any bread she had ever eaten before, she kept urging her governess to stay another day where they were. 'you see,' she said, 'i'm so used to the country, and we shall be there all the winter, and i daresay it _will_ be rather dull.' 'i hope not,' said fraulein, somewhat anxiously. 'i shall do my best, you know, my child, to make you happy, and so will my good aunt, i am sure.' 'oh yes, i know you are always very kind,' said leonore, with a funny little tone of condescension which she sometimes used to her governess. 'but, you see, it _must_ be dull when anybody has no brothers and sisters, and no mamma--and papa so far away.' she gave a little sigh. she rather liked to pity herself now and then, and it made fraulein all the kinder, but in reality she was not in some ways so much to be pitied as might have seemed. for she could not remember her mother, and she had been accustomed all her life to her father's being as a rule away from her, though when he _was_ in england he spent most of his time in planning pleasures for his little daughter. then she had had plenty of kind aunts and uncles, and, above all, the constant care of her devoted fraulein. but fraulein's heart was _very_ tender. she kissed leonore fondly, and as soon as breakfast was over, out they sallied, after settling that they should stay at alten another night, to please the little lady. chapter ii apples and nuts i love old women best, i think; she knows a friend in me.--ashe. it _was_ market-day, to leonore's great delight, and scarcely less to that of her governess. the scene was a busy and amusing one, and added to that was the charm of everything being so new to the little girl. she wanted to buy all sorts of treasures, but when fraulein reminded her that there was no hurry, and that she would probably have plenty of chances of choosing the things that took her fancy at the yearly fair at dorf, or in the little village shops there, she gave in, and contented herself with some delicious tiny pots and jugs, which she declared must _really_ have been made by fairies. 'you are in the country of fairies now,' said fraulein, smiling. 'not fairyland itself, of course, but one of the earth countries which lie nearest its borders.' leonore looked up gravely. some feeling of the kind had already come over her--ever since their arrival the night before at the queer old inn, she had felt herself in a sort of new world, new to her just because of its strange oldness. 'oh, fraulein,' she said, 'i do like you to say that. do you really mean it? and is dorf as near fairyland as this dear old town, do you think?' 'quite, i should say,' replied fraulein, taking up the little girl's fancy. 'even nearer, perhaps. there are wonderful old woods on one side of the village, which look like the very home of gnomes and kobolds and all kinds of funny people. and----' she broke off abruptly, for leonore had given her arm a sudden tug. 'do look, fraulein,' she said in a half whisper. '_isn't_ she like an old fairy? and she's smiling as if she understood what we were saying.' 'she' was a tiny little old woman, seated in a corner of the market-place, with her goods for sale spread out before her. these were but a poor display--a few common vegetables, a trayful of not very inviting-looking apples, small and grayish, and a basket filled with nuts. but the owner of these seemed quite content. she glanced up as leonore stopped to gaze at her and smiled--a bright, half-mischievous sort of smile, which was reflected in her twinkling eyes, and made her old brown wrinkled face seem like that of an indiarubber doll. fraulein looked at her too with interest in her own kindly blue eyes. 'she must be very poor,' she said. fraulein was very practical, though she was fond of fairy stories and such things too. 'oh, do let us buy something from her,' said leonore. 'i've plenty of money, you know--and if you'll lend me a little, you can pay yourself back when you get my english gold pound changed, can't you, dear fraulein? i have spent those funny pretence-silver pennies you gave me yesterday.' fraulein opened her purse and put two small coins into the child's hand. 'buy apples with one of these,' she said; 'that will be enough to please the poor old thing.' 'and nuts with the other?' asked leonore. fraulein shook her head. 'nuts are so indigestible, my little girl,' she replied; 'and though these apples are not pretty, i am not sure but that they may taste better than they look. i have a sort of remembrance of some ugly little gray apples in this neighbourhood which were rather famous.' her 'pretence-silver' penny procured for leonore a good handful, or handkerchief-full--for the fruit-seller had no paper-bags to put them in--of the apples. and when she had got them safe, and was turning away, the old woman stretched out a brown wizened hand again with another of her queer smiles. [illustration: "take these," she said, "for good luck."] 'take these,' she said, 'for good luck.' 'these' were a few of the nuts. if leonore had wished to refuse them, she could hardly have done so, for before she had time to do more than thank the giver politely, the dame was busy talking to some other customer, who had stopped in front of her little table. fraulein had walked on. leonore ran after her. 'see,' she said, holding out her nuts, 'see what the old woman gave me. what shall i do with them, if i mustn't eat them? i don't like to throw them away, when she gave me them as a present.' 'no, of course not,' said fraulein at once. 'put them in your jacket pocket, dear, and perhaps you may eat two or three of them when we go in.' leonore slipped the nuts into her pocket as she was told, and soon after, the clock of the great church striking twelve, she and her governess made their way back to the hotel. 'i do not want you to be tired,' said fraulein, 'for this afternoon i should like to take you to see one or two of the curious old houses here, as well as the interior of the church'; for the market and the shops had taken up leonore's attention so much, that they had had no time for anything else in the way of sight-seeing. dinner was rather a long affair, and tried the little girl's patience. there seemed twice or three times as many dishes as were needed, even though there were several other guests at the long table besides themselves, none of whom, however, were very interesting. 'i hope we shan't have such a lot to eat at your aunt's house, fraulein,' said leonore in a low voice, towards the end of the meal, with a sigh. 'it seems such a pity not to be out-of-doors, when it's so bright and sunny.' 'we shall have plenty of time, dear,' said her governess. 'see, we are at dessert now. and you will probably feel more tired this evening than you expect. no, my aunt lives more simply, though you will like her puddings and cakes, i am sure.' the afternoon passed very pleasantly and quickly, though, as fraulein had expected, leonore did feel more tired when they came in for the second time than she had thought she would be, and quite ready for bed-time when it came--indeed, not sorry to allow that the dustman's summons was there, half an hour or so earlier than usual. 'your eyes are looking quite sleepy, my child,' said fraulein; 'and though we have no more long railway journeys before us, we have a drive of some hours to-morrow, and i should like you to reach dorf feeling quite fresh. it makes such a difference in one's impressions of things if one is tired or not, and i do want your first feelings about our temporary home to be very pleasant ones.' leonore was used to her governess's rather prim, long-winded way of saying things, and had learnt by practice to pick out the kernel--always a kind one--of her speeches very quickly. 'yes,' she said, 'i know how you mean. last night in the railway train, before we got here, i thought everything was perfectly horrid and miserable and would never get nice again. and to-day i've been so happy--even though i _am_ tired and sleepy now,' she added, looking rather puzzled. 'there must be different ways of being tired, i suppose.' 'undoubtedly there are--but we won't talk any more to-night. i am so glad you have been happy to-day.' and sleepy leonore went off to bed, and was soon in dreamland. she had forgotten all about her apples and nuts--the former fraulein found tied up in the handkerchief after the little girl had fallen asleep, and put them into her travelling-bag, thinking they might be nice to eat during the drive the next day, but the nuts did not come into her mind at all. 'we certainly seem very lucky,' she said to leonore the next morning, as they were at breakfast. 'the weather could not be better, especially when we remember that it is already late autumn. my aunt will be so pleased at it; her last letter was full of regrets about the rain and fears of its lasting.' leonore glanced towards the window. the clear gray-blue sky was to be seen above the blinds, and the pale yellow sunshine was straying in as if to wish them good-morning. 'is it a very long drive to dorf?' she asked. 'about three hours,' fraulein replied. 'it is longer through being partly uphill; but at the steepest bit the road is very pretty, so it may be pleasant to get out and walk a little.' 'yes, i should like that,' said leonore. and then fraulein went on to tell her that she had arranged for them to have dinner a little earlier than usual by themselves, so as to start in good time to reach dorf by daylight. and when they started in a comfortable though rather shabby carriage, with their lighter luggage strapped on behind, the horses' collar bells ringing merrily, and the wheels making what leonore called a lovely clatter on the old paved streets, the little girl's spirits rose still higher, and she began to think that fraulein's praises of her own country had not been too great. the first half of the way was fairly level, and not, so it seemed to leonore, very unlike the part of england where she had spent most of her life, except, that is to say, the two or three villages through which they passed. these reminded her of pictures of switzerland which she had seen--the houses having high pointed roofs, with deep eaves, and many of them little staircases outside. some of them too were gaily painted in colours on a white ground, which she admired very much. and after a time the road began gently to ascend, and then indeed, as fraulein said, the likeness to switzerland grew greater. for now it skirted pine woods on one side, and on the other the ground fell away sharply, here and there almost like a precipice; and before very long the driver pulled up, getting down to push a heavy stone behind the wheel, to prevent the carriage slipping back while he gave the horses a rest. 'mayn't we get out here and walk on a little way?' asked leonore, and fraulein said 'yes,' it was just what she had been intending. 'it _is_ pretty here,' said leonore, looking about her with satisfaction; 'the woods are so thick and dark--i love christmas-tree woods--and the road goes winding such a nice funny way. and see, fraulein, there's another little well, all mossy, and the water _so_ clear. doesn't the running and trickling sound pretty? and, oh yes, there are goats down there, goats with bells. i hear them tinkling, and the man with them has some kind of a music-pipe--listen, fraulein.' they stood still for a moment, the better to catch the mingled soft sounds which leonore spoke of. and behind them, some little way off, came the tingling of their horses' louder bells, and the voice of the driver talking to them and cracking his whip encouragingly. 'it _is_ nice,' said leonore. 'i'm getting to be very glad papa settled for me to come here with you, fraulein.' the good lady's eyes sparkled with pleasure. 'and i am glad too, more glad than i can say,' she replied, 'and so will my kind aunt be, if we can make you really happy at dorf.' 'are we half-way there yet?' asked leonore. 'quite that, but the rest of the way is mostly uphill, so it takes longer, you see.' as she spoke, fraulein drew something out of the little bag on her arm which she was seldom without. it was one of the small grayish apples which they had bought from the old woman in the market-place. 'you forgot these,' she said, holding the apple out to leonore. 'i found them last night after you were asleep, and i thought you might like one or two on our way to-day. i believe they will prove very good.' 'how stupid of me to have forgotten them,' said the little girl, as she bit off a piece. 'yes,' she went on, 'it is very good indeed--you would not believe how sweet and juicy it tastes. won't you eat one yourself?' fraulein was quite willing to do so, and soon got out another. 'the rest,' she said, 'are in my travelling-bag in the carriage. i am glad i was not mistaken,' she went on. 'i felt sure they were the same ugly little apples i remember as a child.' 'and oh,' said leonore, suddenly diving into her jacket pocket, 'that reminds me, fraulein--where are the nuts she gave me? they're not in this pocket, and,' feeling in the other, 'oh dear! they must have dropped out; there are only three left, and i am sure she gave me at least twenty.' 'well, never mind, dear,' said the governess, who was contentedly munching her apple. 'they would not have been good for you to eat--you would have had to throw them away, and so long as the poor old dame's feelings were not hurt, it really is of no consequence.' but leonore was still eyeing the three nuts in her hand with a look of regret. 'i don't know,' she said. 'i might have used them for counters, or played with them somehow. it seems unkind to have lost them--do you want me to throw these last three away?' she went on rather plaintively. 'oh no,' said fraulein, 'you may keep them certainly if you like. and even if you eat them, _three_ can't do you much harm.' 'i don't want to eat them,' said leonore, 'but i should like to _keep_ them,' and she stowed them away in her pocket again with a more satisfied look on her face. as she did so, a sound, seemingly quite near, made her start and look round. it was that of a soft yet merry laugh, low and musical and clear, though faint. 'did you hear that, fraulein?' said the little girl. 'what?' asked her governess. 'somebody laughing, close to us--such a pretty laugh, like little silver bells.' 'most likely it was the bells, the goats' little bells. i heard nothing else,' fraulein replied. leonore shook her head. 'no,' she said,' it was different from that, quite different. and the goats are some way off now; listen, you can only just hear them. and the laughing was quite near.' but fraulein only smiled. 'there could not have been any one quite near without my hearing it too,' she replied, 'even if----' but here she stopped. she had said enough, however, to rouse her pupil's curiosity. 'even if what?' repeated leonore; 'do tell me what you were going to say, dear fraulein.' 'i was only joking, or going to joke,' her governess answered. 'it came into my head that the woods about here--as indeed about most parts of this country--are said to be a favourite place for the fairies to visit. _some_ kinds of fairies, you know--gnomes and brownies and such like. the kinds that don't live in fairyland itself make their homes in the woods, by preference to anywhere else.' 'and do you think it _might_ have been one of them i heard laughing?' asked leonore eagerly. 'oh, how lovely! but then, why didn't you hear it too, fraulein, and what was it laughing at, do you think? i wasn't saying anything funny. i was only----' 'dear child,' said fraulein, 'do not take me up so seriously. i am afraid your papa and your aunts would not think me at all a sensible governess if they heard me chattering away like this to you. of course i was only joking.' leonore looked rather disappointed. 'i wish you _weren't_ joking,' she said. 'i can't see that people need be counted silly who believe in fairies and nice queer things like that. _i_ think the people who don't are the stupid silly ones. and you will never make me think i _didn't_ hear some one laugh, fraulein--i just know i did.' then after a little pause she added, 'would your old aunt think me very silly for believing about fairies? if she has lived so near fairyland all her life i shouldn't think she would.' this was rather a poser for poor fraulein. 'she would not think you _silly_!' she replied; 'that is to say, she loves fairy stories herself. life would indeed be very dull if we had no pretty fancies to brighten it with.' 'oh, but,' said leonore, 'that's just what i don't want. i mean i don't want to count fairy stories _only_ stories--not real. i like to think there _are_ fairies and brownies and gnomes, and all sorts of good people like that, though it isn't very often that mortals'--she said the last word with great satisfaction--'see them. i am always hoping that some day _i_ shall. and if this country of yours, fraulein dear, is on the borders of fairyland, i don't see why i don't run a very good chance of coming across some of them while we are here. they are much more likely to show themselves to any one who does believe in them, i should say. don't you think so?' fraulein laughed. 'i remember feeling just as you do, my child, when i was a little girl,' she said. 'but time has gone on, and i am no longer young, and i am obliged to confess that i have never seen a fairy.' 'perhaps you didn't believe _enough_ in them,' said leonore sagely; and to herself she added, 'i have a sort of idea that fraulein's aunt knows more about them than fraulein does. i shall soon find out, though i won't say anything for a day or two till i see. but nothing will ever make me believe that i didn't hear somebody laughing just now.' her hand had strayed again to her jacket pocket as she said this to herself, and her fingers were feeling the nuts. 'it is funny that just three are left,' she thought, 'for so often in fairy stories you read about three nuts, or three kernels. i won't crack _my_ nuts in a hurry, however.' a few minutes more brought them to the summit of the steep incline, and soon the driver's voice and the cracking of his whip as he cheered up his horses sounded close behind them. he halted for a short time to give his animals a little rest, and then fraulein and leonore got back into the carriage. 'the rest of the way is almost level,' said the former; 'quite so as we enter dorf. you will see, leonore, how fast we shall go at the end. the drivers love to make a clatter and jingle to announce their arrival. no doubt my aunt will hear it, and be at the gate some minutes before she can possibly see us.' [illustration: portrait of hildegarde.] chapter iii it is hildegarde a pair of friends.--wordsworth. fraulein was right. both driver and horses woke up wonderfully as the first straggling houses of the village came in sight; it would be impossible to describe the extraordinary sounds and ejaculations which friedrich, as he was called, addressed to his steeds, but which they evidently quite understood. 'how nice it is to go so fast, and to hear the bells jingling so,' said leonore. 'i wish we had farther to go.' 'if that were the case we should soon sober down again,' said fraulein with a smile, adding the next moment, 'and here we are. see the good aunt, my child, as i told you--standing at the gate, just as i last saw her, when i left her five years ago! but then it was parting and tears--now it is meeting and joy.' tears nevertheless were not wanting in the eyes of both the good ladies--tears of happiness, however, which were quickly wiped away. 'how well you are looking--not a day older,' said the niece. 'and you, my elsa--how well _you_ look. a trifle stouter perhaps, but that is an improvement. you have always been too thin, my child,' said the aunt, fondly patting fraulein's shoulders, though she had to reach up to do so. then she moved quickly to leonore with a little exclamation of apology. 'and i have not yet welcomed our guest. welcome to dorf, my fraulein--a thousand times welcome, and may you be as happy here as the old aunt will wish to make you.' leonore had been standing by eyeing the aunt and niece with the greatest interest. it amused her much to hear her governess spoken to as 'my child,' for to _her_ fraulein seemed quite old, long past the age of thinking _how_ old she was. indeed, the white-haired little lady did not seem to her much older! 'thank you,' she said in reply to the aunt's kind words. 'i hope i shall be very happy here, but please don't call me anything but leonore.' 'as you please,' her new friend replied, while fraulein smiled beamingly. she was most anxious that her aunt and her pupil should make friends, and she knew that, though leonore was a polite and well-mannered little girl, she had likes and dislikes of her own, and not always quite reasonable ones. perhaps, to put it shortly, she felt anxious that her charge was just a trifle spoilt, and that she herself had had a hand in the spoiling. 'a motherless child,' she had said to herself many and many a time in excuse during the five years she had had the care of leonore, for fraulein had gone to her when the little girl was only four years old, 'and her papa so far away! who could be severe with her?' not tender-hearted fraulein elsa, most certainly! so she felt especially delighted when leonore replied so prettily to her aunt, and still more so when the child lifted up her face for the kiss of welcome which aunt anna was only too ready to bestow, though she would have been rather surprised had she known the thoughts that were in leonore's head at the moment. 'i believe she _does_ know something about fairies,' the little girl was saying to herself. 'she has nice twinkly eyes, and--oh, i don't know what makes me think so, but i believe she _does_ understand about them. any way, she won't be like my aunts in england who always want me to read improving books and say i am getting too big for fairy stories.' that first evening in the quaint old village was full of interest for leonore. aunt anna's house in itself was charming to her, for though really small as to the size and number of its rooms, it did not seem so. there were such nice 'twisty' passages, and funny short flights of steps, each leading perhaps to only one room, or even to nothing more than a landing with a window. and, standing at one of these, the little girl made a grand discovery, which took her flying off to the room where fraulein was busily unpacking the boxes which the carrier had already brought. 'fraulein, fraulein,' she cried; 'i've been looking out at the back of the house, and just across the yard there's a lovely sort of big courtyard and buildings round it, and i saw a man all white and powdery carrying sacks. is there a mill here?' 'yes, my dear,' fraulein replied. 'did i not tell you? it is a very old mill, and the same people have had it for nearly a hundred years--such nice people too. i will take you all over it in a day or two--it will amuse you to see the different kinds of grain and flour, all so neatly arranged.' 'and the same people have been there for nearly a hundred years!' exclaimed leonore. 'how _very_ old they must be.' fraulein laughed. though leonore was so fond of wonders and fancies, she was sometimes very matter-of-fact. aunt anna, who just then joined them, smiled kindly. 'elsa did not mean the same _persons_,' she explained, 'but the same family--the same name. those there now--the miller himself--is the great-grandson of the man who was there first when the mill was built, which was, i think, fully _more_ than a hundred years ago,' she added, turning to her niece. leonore looked rather disappointed. 'oh,' she said, 'i thought it would be so nice to see people who were a hundred. then, i suppose, the people here aren't any older than anywhere else.' 'i can scarcely say that,' aunt anna replied. 'there are some very old, and--there are odd stories about a few of the aged folk. i know one or two who do not seem to have grown any older since _i_ can remember, and my memory goes back a good way now. but, my dears, i came to tell you that supper is ready--we must not let it get cold.' she held out her hand to leonore as she spoke. the little girl took it, and went off with her very happily, fraulein calling after them that she would follow immediately. 'please tell me, aunt anna,' said leonore--it had been decided that she should thus address the old lady--'please tell me, do you mean that some of these very old people who don't grow any older are a kind of _fairy_?' she spoke almost in a whisper, but she was quite in earnest. 'well,' said aunt anna, 'this country is on the borders of fairyland, so who can say? when we were children--i and my brothers and sisters and the little barons and baronesses up at the castle--when we all played together long ago, we used often to try to find the way there--and fairies, of course, are much cleverer than we are. i don't see why some of them may not stray into our world sometimes.' 'and pretend to be _not_ fairies,' said leonore eagerly. 'p'raps they go back to fairyland every night, and are here every day; fairies don't need to go to sleep ever, do they?' but aunt anna had not time to reply just then, for supper was on the table, and all her attention was given to seeing that the dishes were what they should be, and in helping her little guest to leonore's liking. when fraulein joined them, however, the conversation took a more general turn. 'i was speaking just now to leonore,' aunt anna began, 'of my childhood--when your dear father, elsie, and the others, and i used to play with the castle children. and that reminds me that i have a piece of news for you--things repeat themselves it is said. it will be strange if a second generation----' she said no more, and for a moment or two seemed lost in thought--the thought of the past! fraulein was used to her aunt's ways; the old lady was a curious mixture of practical commonsense and dreamy fancifulness. but after a little pause the niece recalled her to the present. 'a piece of news, you said, aunt? good news, i hope?' she inquired. 'i think so,' said the aunt. 'it is about the family at the castle. little baroness hildegarde is probably, almost certainly, coming here to spend the winter with her grandparents. she may arrive any day.' 'oh i _am_ pleased to hear it,' said fraulein. 'it was just what i was hoping might happen, but i dared scarcely think of it. it would be so nice for our dear leonore to have a companion.' leonore pricked up her ears at this. 'yes, my dear,' fraulein went on, in answer to the question in her eyes, 'i have not spoken of it to you before, for there seemed so little chance of its coming to pass. it is about the little hildegarde who would be such a delightful companion for you. she is just about your age, an only child as you are, and such a dear little girl by all accounts. i have not seen her since she was six, but aunt anna knows her well, and the family at the castle have been our most kind friends for so long.' leonore looked full of interest but rather perplexed. 'i don't quite understand,' she said. 'do you mean that the little girl is perhaps coming to live here in this house with us?' 'oh no, my dear. her own home is a good way off, but her grandpapa and grandmamma live at the castle--a large old gray house half way up the hill above the village. i will show it to you to-morrow. it is a wonderfully quaint old place. and the little baroness comes sometimes on long visits to her grandparents, who love to have her.' 'only they fear it is lonely for her, as she is accustomed to the life of a great capital,' said aunt anna. 'they were delighted to hear i was expecting a little guest, when i saw them the other day, and they told me of the probability of hildegarde's coming.' fraulein almost clapped her hands at this. 'nothing could be more fortunate,' she said. 'there will be no fear now of your finding dorf dull, my dearest leonore.' leonore smiled back in return. it was impossible not to be touched by her kind governess's anxiety for her happiness, but she herself had had no fears about being dull or lonely at dorf. she was not much accustomed to companions of her own age, and just a little shy of them, so the news of hildegarde's coming was not quite as welcome to her as to her friends. 'i should have been quite happy without anybody else,' she said to herself. 'i love old aunt anna, and i am sure she knows plenty of fairy stories whether she has ever seen any fairies herself or not.' still she felt, of course, a good deal of curiosity to see the grandchild of the castle, and could not help letting her thoughts run on her. would she be taller or smaller than herself--dark or fair, merry or quiet? above all, would she care for the same things--would she love fairies, and be always hoping to see one some day? there was plenty for leonore to think about, and dream about, that first night in the quaint little house, was there not? and dream she did. when she woke in the morning it seemed to her that she had been busy at it all night, though only one bit of her dreams remained in her memory. this bit was about hildegarde, and, strange as it seemed, about a person she had only given a passing moment's attention to--the old dame in the market-place at alt. she dreamt that she was walking along the village street, when she heard a voice calling. she was alone, and she looked back expecting to see fraulein. but no--a queer little figure was trotting after her, and as it came nearer she heard that the name that reached her ears was not 'leonore,' but 'hildegarde,' and with that, some queer feeling made her slip inside the shade of a gateway she was passing to watch what happened. and as the figure came quite close she saw that it was that of the old apple-woman--then to her surprise there came flying down the hill, for the village street lay closely below the rising ground at one side, a child all dressed in white, with fair hair blowing about her face as she ran. 'here i am,' she said, 'what is it?' and now glancing at the dame, leonore saw that she was quite changed--at first indeed she thought she was no longer there, till some unuttered voice seemed to tell her that the figure now before her was still the same person. she had grown tall and wavy-looking--her wrinkled face was smooth and fair--only the bright dark eyes remained, and as she held out her hand as if to welcome the pretty child, leonore saw that in it lay three nuts small and dry and brown--just like the three still stored in her own jacket pocket. 'take these,' said a sweet low voice, 'they will match hers. you will know what to do with them, and by their means you will bring her to me. we must make her happy--she has travelled far, and she has longed to cross the borderland. and hildegarde, for the same inner voice seemed to tell leonore that hildegarde it was, took the nuts and nodded, as if to say 'i understand,' and with that, to her great disappointment, leonore awoke! awoke, however, to what goes far to take away disappointment of such a kind. for the sun was shining brightly, her simple but cosy little room seemed painted in white and pale gold, and a soft green by the window told her that the creepers had not yet faded into their winter bareness. 'i wonder what o'clock it is,' thought the little girl, as she gazed about her in great content. 'how glad i am that it is such a fine day! i do want to go all about the village, and especially to see the castle. i _wonder_ if hildegarde is like the little girl in my dream. i do hope she is. and how funny that i should have dreamt about the nut-woman turning into a fairy--it does seem as if hildegarde must care for fairies just as i do--and as if she knew a good deal about them, too. by the bye i do hope my nuts are safe. i never remembered to take them out of my jacket pocket!' she was on the point of jumping up to see if they were still there when the door opened softly and fraulein peeped in. she was already dressed, and her face was beaming; it seemed to reflect the sunshine coming in at the window. 'oh, fraulein, dear,' said leonore, 'how lazy i am! you are dressed, and i only woke up a few minutes ago.' 'all the better, my child,' was fraulein's kind reply. 'it means, i hope, that you have slept well and soundly. my native air brings back old habits to me, you see. i was always accustomed to getting up very early here. and see, what a lovely day it is! as soon as we have had breakfast i must take you out to see the village and----' 'the castle,' interrupted leonore. 'can't we go to the castle? i do so want to know if hildegarde has come. i have been--' 'dreaming about her,' she was going to say, but something, she knew not what, made her hesitate and change the words into 'thinking of her--' 'so much.' which was of course quite true. and something of the same feeling prevented her looking for the nuts till fraulein left the room. 'it is not likely that the little baroness has already arrived,' her governess replied. 'we shall be sure to hear as soon as she comes. but we can see something of the castle _outside_ at any rate. for the next few days i think it must be all holiday-time,' she went on, smiling. 'aunt anna begs for it, and we have been working pretty steadily these last months.' leonore had no objection to this proposal, though she was fond of lessons, never having been over-dosed with them, and she jumped out of bed and bathed and dressed in the best of spirits. the nuts were quite safe in her jacket pocket. she wrapped them in a piece of paper for better security and put them back again. 'i should not like to lose them,' she thought. 'my dream has given me a feeling that there is something out of the common about them, and i should like to take them with me wherever i go. just _supposing_ i ever met any fairy sort of person, perhaps the nuts might turn out to be of use in some queer way.' after breakfast, and when fraulein had helped leonore to arrange her books and work and other little things in the room that was to serve as her schoolroom during the winter, they set off on their first ramble through and round the village. it was a pretty village--lying as it did at the foot of the hills, which were beautifully wooded, it could scarcely have been ugly. but besides these natural advantages, it was bright and clean; many of the houses, too, were pretty in themselves, with deep roofs and carved balconies, and in some cases many coloured designs painted on the outside walls. leonore was delighted; it was so different from any place she had ever seen before. 'oh, fraulein,' she exclaimed, 'it's like a toy-town. it doesn't look as if real people had built it.' 'but it looks as if very real people had built _that_, does it not?' said fraulein, stopping short and drawing leonore a little backward. '_that_' was the grim old castle, of which they now had the first view, standing lonely and gray up on the heights overlooking the village, like a stern guardian keeping watch on the doings of playful children at his feet. the little girl gazed at it with all her eyes. 'it's a real castle,' she exclaimed; 'i _am_ so pleased. it looks as if it had dungeons and--and--forti-- what is the word, fraulein?' 'fortifications,' said her governess. 'you mean that it is fortified. yes; at least it used to be in the old days. there are the holes in the walls which the defenders used to shoot through in time of siege, and there are battlements still quite perfect round the front. it is so pleasant to saunter on them, and think of the strange scenes the old place must have witnessed. we can walk up the hill towards the gates if you like, and you will see a little more.' leonore, of course, _did_ like, and the nearer they got to the castle the more was she fascinated by the view of the ancient building. just outside the entrance they stood still, and fraulein began pointing out to her its different parts and giving her a little historical account of it, to which she listened with interest. suddenly--for all was very silent just then--they heard steps approaching and a clear young voice singing softly. and--fraulein stopped talking and stood gazing before her, as did leonore, till--from among the trees which bordered the short approach to the inner gateway, there appeared a childish figure, running towards them, singing as she came. a young girl, dressed all in white, with fair floating hair---- 'it is hildegarde,' said leonore, growing pale with excitement. for the figure was exactly like the little girl in her dream! chapter iv on the way oh, what is that country, and where can it be?--rossetti. if fraulein heard what leonore said, she did not seem surprised, for though she did not, of course, know about the little girl's curious dream, she knew that hildegarde's coming had been freely talked about the evening before. but she _was_ very astonished a moment later when hildegarde, looking up quietly, said with a smile-- 'i have come to meet you. i was sure i should.' 'my dear child!' exclaimed fraulein. 'how could you know? the fairies must have told you!' the little stranger smiled again. 'this is leonore,' she said, taking the other child's hand. 'grandmamma told me her name, but grandmamma did not know i should meet you'; and she shook her head with a funny little air of mystery. 'it is wonderful,' said fraulein; 'it is even wonderful that you should know _me_ again. it is five years--_five years_--since you saw me last--half your life.' 'yes,' said hildegarde, 'but i can remember longer ago than that.' she was still holding leonore's hand, and though the little english girl felt rather shy, and had not yet spoken to her new friend, yet she liked the touch of the gentle fingers and pressed them in return, while she looked at hildegarde's pretty fair face in admiration. 'i am coming soon to see aunt anna,' hildegarde went on. 'will you give her my love, fraulein elsa, and tell her so? may i come this afternoon?' 'certainly, certainly,' said fraulein; 'the sooner you and leonore make friends, the better pleased we shall all be.' at this leonore took courage. 'yes,' she said, looking earnestly at hildegarde with her serious dark eyes. 'i want _very much_ to be friends.' 'it will not take long,' said hildegarde, and then, for the first time, leonore noticed that the little girl's eyes were not like any she had ever seen before. they were not blue, as one would have expected from her light, almost flaxen hair and fair complexion, but a kind of bright hazel-brown--with lovely flashes, almost, as it were, of sunshine, coming and going. 'they are _golden_ eyes,' thought leonore; and when she repeated this to fraulein afterwards, her governess agreed with her that she was right. 'i remember noticing their colour when she was a very tiny child,' said fraulein, thinking to herself that the two little girls made a pretty contrast, for leonore's hair was dark, as well as her eyes. hildegarde held up her face for fraulein to kiss, and then she ran off again, saying as she did so-- 'do not forget to tell aunt anna i am coming, and perhaps she will make some of those dear little round cakes i love so--she knows which they are. leonore will like them too, i am sure.' the day was getting on by this time; it was past noon. 'we will just stroll to the other end of the village,' said fraulein; 'from there we shall have the side view of the castle--there is a short cut down to the street at that end, by some steps, but they are rough and in need of repair, so we generally prefer the longer way. the old baron has spoken of shutting off the side entrance; he says it is only fit for goats to scramble up.' leonore thought, though she did not say so, that it would be very amusing for little girls all the same, and determined to ask hildegarde about it. she thought the castle even more interesting seen sideways than in front; it looked so very close to the thick dark trees behind, almost as if it touched them. 'i shall have lots of things to talk to hildegarde about,' she said to herself. 'these woods are _very_ fairy-looking. and i think i must tell her my strange dream about her and the nuts. i don't _think_ she would laugh at it. i hope i have them quite safe.' yes, they lay snugly in her pocket, wrapped up in the piece of paper--a nice piece of pink paper that she had found among her things. 'i will leave them where they are,' she thought, 'and then i shall be sure to remember to tell hildegarde my dream.' it was nearly dinner-time when they got back to aunt anna's, for in that part of the world big people as well as little dine in the middle of the day. aunt anna was most interested in hearing of hildegarde's arrival, and quite as delighted as fraulein had been. 'and was it not strange that she should have come to meet us?' said fraulein. 'she must have had a presentiment about it.' 'what is a presentiment?' asked leonore. 'a sort of knowing beforehand about something that is going to happen,' answered fraulein. 'many people have the feeling, but very often it does not come true, and then it is not a real presentiment. it is not everybody that has real presentiments.' aunt anna smiled. leonore was learning to love her smiles. they reminded her of some other smile--whose was it? hildegarde's?--yes, a little, perhaps, but no, she had seen hildegarde for the first time that morning, and this feeling about aunt anna's smile had come to her already yesterday. whose smile could it be? 'hildegarde is a dear child,' said aunt anna, 'and perhaps she is one of the few who know more than the everyday people. and she was born at the castle and spent her babyhood there. how well i remember the day she was christened!' 'oh, do tell me,' exclaimed leonore impulsively. 'did they have a grand feast, and did they invite any fairies? perhaps she had a fairy godmother.' 'leonore!' said fraulein, beginning to laugh. 'you are getting too fanciful--you really----' 'nay, elsa,' interrupted aunt anna. 'let the child say out what is in her mind, and remember, we are here in our dear country, close on the borders of fairyland----' 'yes, fraulein,' leonore interrupted in her turn. 'you said so yourself.' 'and assuredly,' aunt anna went on, 'if hildegarde has a fairy godmother, she has given her none but good gifts.' 'you speak as if such things were possible, my dear aunt,' said fraulein. 'we must not let leonore grow too fanciful. i shall have you and her taking flight in an airy chariot drawn by white swans or something of that kind some fine day, if i don't take care.' 'well, you and hildegarde can come after us in another chariot if we do,' said aunt anna, laughing. but leonore remained serious. 'please tell me, aunt anna,' she said, 'as you were at hildegarde's christening, was there any one there who _might_ have been a fairy?' aunt anna hesitated. 'there was an odd story,' she replied, 'about a beautiful lady who was met coming away from the nursery, when the baby had been left alone in her cot for a moment or two. and when the nurse went back she found her smiling and crowing and chuckling to herself as if she were six months instead of only a few days old, and in her little hand she was tightly clasping----' 'what?' asked leonore breathlessly. 'three nuts,' replied aunt anna impressively. 'three common little brown hazel-nuts. that part of the story is true, for hildegarde has the nuts to this day, i believe--at least she had them the last time she was here.' 'she must have picked them up somehow,' said fraulein. aunt anna shook her head. 'a baby of a few days old cannot pick things up,' she said. 'no, it has never been explained. none of the servants had put them into her hand--indeed they would not have been so foolish, and they could scarcely have had the chance of doing so. and it was said by the one or two who declared they had met her, that the beautiful lady was carrying a basket on her arm filled with common hazel-nuts, and some days afterwards one of the foresters said that late that same evening a little old woman whom he had never seen before stopped him up in the high woods to ask the way to some strange place of which he had never heard, and she--the little old woman--was carrying a basket of nuts. she offered him some, but he thought she was a witch and would not have any.' 'dear me, aunt anna,' exclaimed her niece, 'i did not know all these wonderful tales. surely they grew out of finding the nuts in the baby's hands. i do remember hearing _that_, though i had forgotten it.' 'perhaps that was the origin of it all,' said her aunt quietly. 'still, hildegarde is an uncommon child. it certainly seems as if she had received some fairy gifts, however they came to her.' leonore did not speak, but she listened intently. she would probably have not contented herself with listening but for knowing that she was so soon to see hildegarde herself again. '_she_ will be the best person to ask,' thought leonore. 'i will tell her about _my_ nuts and the little old woman who gave me them, and about the pretty laugh i heard in the wood, and then, i feel sure, she will tell me all _she_ knows.' she could scarcely finish her dinner, so eager and excited did she feel. and she was more than delighted when, at the close of the meal, kind fraulein proposed to her that, as hildegarde had come to meet _them_ that morning, leonore should show her new little friend the same attention. 'you can scarcely miss her,' she said. 'she is sure to come the same way that i took you this morning. if you get ready now, and start in a quarter of an hour or so, you will be about right, i should say. they dine early at the castle. but i should like you to change your dress in case you should be presented to the baroness--hildegarde's grandmamma.' leonore ran off to get ready. she was not long about it, but all the same her new little friend must have been even quicker, for leonore met her a very few steps only from aunt anna's gate. hildegarde's face lighted up with a smile when she caught sight of the other little girl. 'so you have come to meet me,' she said; 'that is very nice of you. i hope i have not come too soon. shall i go in now to see aunt anna?' leonore looked a little disappointed, which hildegarde seemed at once to understand. 'i don't mean to _stay_ with aunt anna,' she added quickly; 'what i want is for you and me to go out somewhere together. it is a lovely day, and i have leave to stay out till dusk. my grandmamma is going to pay some visits, so she hopes to see you some other day--perhaps to-morrow. i think we shall get to know each other far the best by being alone by ourselves--don't you think so?' 'yes, certainly,' said leonore, her face clearing. 'i am so glad you understand. i have such a lot of things to talk to you about.' hildegarde nodded her head. it was a little habit of hers to do so without speaking sometimes. 'then we must not lose any of our time,' she said, after a moment's pause. 'but first i will run in to give aunt anna a kiss, and then we can go off somewhere together.' aunt anna's face was full of pleasure at the sight of her little friend--the two were evidently old acquaintances. 'how well you are looking, my child,' she said, 'and how much you have grown! let me see, which is the taller, you or our little leonore,' and she drew the two children together. 'there is not a quarter of an inch between you,' she exclaimed. 'if you were ponies you would be a perfect match--one dark and one fair,' she added musingly. 'yes, my dears, you are evidently intended to be friends.' 'and that is just what we mean to be,' said hildegarde. 'may we go now, aunt anna? you will not be anxious even if leonore does not come home till dark?' 'oh no,' said the old lady tranquilly, 'i know you are as safe as you can be--you are going to the woods, i suppose?' 'i think so,' hildegarde replied. as soon as they found themselves out of doors again, she took leonore's hand. 'let us run quickly through the village,' she said, 'and then when we get inside the castle grounds we can go slowly and talk as we go. or perhaps we can sit down--it is so mild, and there are lots of cosy places among the trees.' leonore was quite pleased to do as hildegarde proposed; indeed she had a curious feeling that whatever her new little friend wished she would like. she did not speak much, for it seemed to her as if she were meant in the first place to listen. the woods were very lovely that afternoon. hildegarde led the way round the castle without approaching it quite closely, till they stood in a little clearing, from which they looked upwards into the rows of pine-trees, through which here and there the afternoon sunshine made streaks of light and brightness. 'isn't it pretty here?' said hildegarde. 'hush--there's a squirrel--there are lots about here; they are so tame they like to be near the house, i think. shall we sit down? it is quite dry.' leonore was not troubled with any fears of catching cold--and indeed the day was as mild as summer. 'yes,' she said, 'it is a very pretty place. i have never seen such big woods before.' 'they go on for miles and miles--up ever so far,' said hildegarde, 'though here and there the ground is quite flat for a bit. and over there,' she pointed to the left, 'they are not pine woods, but all sorts of other trees. i don't know which i like best.' 'pine woods _i_ should say,' leonore replied. 'perhaps because i have never seen such beautiful high fir-trees before. and the way the sun peeps through them is so pretty.' as she spoke, half unconsciously her hand strayed to her jacket pocket. there lay safely the little packet containing the three nuts. 'hildegarde,' she said, 'i heard the story about you when you were a baby, and what they found in your hand. and--it is very odd--do you know--no, of course you couldn't--but just fancy, _i_ have three nuts too!' hildegarde nodded her head. 'i _did_ know,' she said, smiling. 'and--look here.' from the front of her frock she drew out a little green silk bag drawn in at the top with tiny white ribbon. she opened it carefully, and took out something which she held towards leonore--on her pretty pink palm lay three nuts, common little brown nuts, just like leonore's. and leonore unwrapped her own packet and in the same way held out its contents. 'yes,' said hildegarde, 'it is all right. i knew you had them.' leonore stared at her in astonishment. 'how could you know?' she exclaimed. 'i suppose people would say i dreamt it,' hildegarde replied, 'but i don't call it dreaming. i have always known things like that since i was a baby. and i knew that some day i should have a friend like you, and that together we should have lovely adventures, and now it is going to come true.' leonore grew rosy red with excitement. 'do you mean,' she began, 'hildegarde, _can_ you mean that perhaps we are going to find the way to fairyland? _i_ have been thinking about it ever since i can remember anything.' hildegarde nodded. 'yes,' she said, 'i am sure you have. but i don't quite know about fairyland itself. i am not sure if any one ever gets _quite_ there--into the very insidest part, you know. i almost think we should have to be turned into fairies for that, and then we never could be little girls again, you see. but i am sure we are going to see some wonderful things--there are the outside parts of fairyland, you know.' 'fraulein says all this country is on the borders of fairyland,' said leonore. 'well, so it is, i daresay, for fairies _do_ come about here sometimes. you've heard the story of the one that came to my christening feast?' 'yes,' said leonore, 'and i am beginning to think that i have seen her too,' and she went on to tell hildegarde about the little old dame in the market-place at alt who had given her the nuts, and about the mischievous laugh she had heard in the wood on the way to dorf, and all her own thoughts and fancies, including her dream of hildegarde herself. hildegarde listened attentively. 'i feel sure you are right,' she said, 'and that the dame _was_ my own fairy, as i call her. and i believe the laugh you heard in the wood was when you were hoping you hadn't lost the last three nuts. i don't believe you could have lost them; if you had thrown them away they would have come back to you. just think how my three have always been kept safe, even though i was only a tiny baby when they were put into my hand.' both little girls sat silent for a moment or two, gazing at the six brown nuts. 'and what do you think we are meant to do now?' asked leonore at last. 'to do,' repeated hildegarde in some surprise; 'why, of course it's quite plain--to crack the nuts! not all of them at once--one, or perhaps two--one of yours and one of mine, i daresay.' 'oh,' exclaimed leonore, 'do you really think we should? _how_ i wonder what we shall find! just supposing there is nothing but a kernel inside.' 'there's no good in supposing it,' said hildegarde; 'we shall soon see. as i have had the nuts the longest perhaps it's meant for me to crack one first--so----' she put the nut between her teeth. of course if it _had_ been a common nut this would not have been a sensible thing to do, as she would probably have broken her teeth and not cracked the nut, but hildegarde knew what she was about. the nut gave way with a touch, and in another moment the little girl had broken off enough of the shell to see what was inside, leonore bending over her in breathless eagerness. chapter v 'what's o'clock?' 'you had best come with me,' says he. .... and so they did.--_the brown bear._ the first exclamation came from leonore. it was one of disappointment. 'oh, hildegarde,' she cried, 'it _is_ only a common kernel,' for nothing was to be seen but what looked just like the browny-gray skin of the inside of a nut. 'no,' hildegarde replied, 'it isn't that at all'; and with her clever little fingers she carefully drew out what was in reality a small sheet of thin brown paper or tissue of some curious kind, rolled into a ball, and which, when she had carefully unfolded it, was shown to have a few lines of words stamped or impressed upon it in gilt letters. these were the lines. i have translated them to give the exact meaning, though as rhymes they were prettier in the original language:-- right behind the castle is hid a tiny door; this let thy comrade open-- nuts you still have four. hildegarde smoothed it out and held it for leonore to see. 'what can it mean?' leonore asked breathlessly. 'first,' said hildegarde, 'it means that you are to crack one of your nuts too. don't you see--it says "_thy_ comrade," and then "nuts _you_ still have four." that shows that the "you" means us both together--four nuts between us. so please crack your one.' leonore did so between her teeth, as her friend had done, and quite as easily. this time there was no exclamation of disappointment, for the first glimpse of the contents showed something glittering, and with trembling eagerness the little girl, breaking away still more of the shell, drew out a little ball of very fine but firm gilt thread. this, by hildegarde's advice, she gently untwined, till she came to something hard in the middle. it was a small, very small, gold key, hanging on the long gilt thread, which proved to be in a ring, with no knot or join to be seen. leonore, without speaking, glanced up at hildegarde, who was earnestly examining their new discovery. '"right behind the castle,"' hildegarde murmured to herself. 'let me see--yes, i think i know what it means. see, leonore, "right behind" must be from the centre of the wall of the castle yard down below us, i should say. it is easy to find, as there is a door just in the middle. look, you can see it from here. well, now, if one of us stands as near the middle as we can guess, holding the thread, and the other goes straight on, holding the thread too, as far as it will reach, and running the key on as she goes, then she would get to the place that i fancy is meant. the thread must be meant to be double, or it would not be in a ring.' leonore looked at hildegarde admiringly. 'yes,' she said, 'i'm sure that's the best thing to do; anyway, we can try. but, hildegarde, the key is _so_ small.' hildegarde examined it closely; suddenly leonore heard a tiny click. 'it is not so very small now,' said hildegarde; 'see, it pulls out,' and so it did. it was now a long-stemmed, very delicately-made key, small still in the actual words, but quite easy to hold firmly. hildegarde moved a few paces to one side. 'i think we are about even with the centre of the castle here,' she said, stopping short. 'now, it is for you to look for the door, while i stand here holding the thread, for my rhyme says, "thy comrade," i shall stand quite still, and you walk on as straight as you can go.' 'i am so afraid of the thread breaking,' said leonore, taking it and the key from hildegarde. 'i don't think there is any fear of that, if you handle it gently,' said hildegarde. 'remember, it must be some kind of a fairy thread.' leonore set off, her heart beating with excitement. as she went on she felt the thread sliding gently through her fingers, so she allowed her hold of it to slacken, while she grasped the tiny key more firmly. it seemed to her that she had walked a good way, and she was marvelling at the length of the thread, when she felt it tighten, and, slender as a hair though it was, pull her up with a little jerk. she stopped at once--yes, it was at its full stretch now, and she looked around her eagerly. the trees were growing thicker and closer here; in front the wood seemed almost dark, though here and there a streak of sunshine broke the gloom. but of a _door_ of any kind she could see no trace! she gazed downwards, for she had a vague idea that it might be a trap-door in the ground--a great stone with a ring in it, such as one reads of in old stories of enchantment and magic; but no, there was nothing of the kind to be seen, and she was on the point of calling back to hildegarde that she could find no trace of a door, when, lifting her eyes suddenly, she caught sight of a gleam--a tiny spot of light--on the trunk of a tree in front of her. it was an old tree; the trunk was much thicker than those around it, the bark was rugged. leonore hastened close up to it, the thread seeming to become elastic to allow of her doing so. to her delight, as she peered in at the spot, she descried the outline of a very small keyhole in bright gold. she almost screamed with pleasure, and had to conquer her first impulse, which was to try to unlock it at once, for this would have been contrary to what she and hildegarde had planned. so she did as she had promised, giving a soft jerk to the thread, the signal agreed upon. and in a minute hildegarde was beside her, her blue eyes sparkling, her fair hair flying behind her. 'you have found it?' she cried; and leonore, too excited to speak, pointed to the golden rim. 'the key,' exclaimed hildegarde, and with careful though trembling fingers leonore fitted it into the lock. it turned without the slightest difficulty, and there before them stood open a narrow entrance into what looked like a dark hole, about as high as the children themselves. leonore was darting forwards when her friend stopped her. 'take out the key,' she said, 'it must not be left in the lock'; but when leonore turned to obey her, lo and behold, the key was no longer there, and the thread had slipped from the hold of both! only a very tiny shiny ball, like a gold bead, was lying among the fir-needles at their feet, and as hildegarde stooped to pick it up, it seemed to sink into the ground, and disappeared! she stood up again, laughing. 'all right,' she said, 'it has done its work.' then hand-in-hand they crept through the doorway sideways, for it was only wide enough to admit one at a time. but no sooner were they well within, the door closing of itself behind them, than they were able to stand abreast, for they found themselves in a wide passage. but before looking about them, hildegarde stopped short for a moment. 'what has become of the little brown paper?' she said. 'perhaps there was something else on it.' leonore shook her head. 'i don't think so,' she said. 'i looked at it well. is it not in your pocket?' no, it was not there. it had evidently disappeared, like the contents of leonore's own nut. 'then we are meant to find our own way now,' said hildegarde cheerfully. 'at present there is not much difficulty, for there is plainly only one way to go,' and that was straight before them. the passage was dimly lighted, though how or from where they could not tell, but by degrees, as their eyes grew accustomed to the dusk, they saw that the way sloped downwards, and was a sort of path between rows of curiously twisted pillars or columns at each side. leonore squeezed hildegarde's arm. 'what are these things?' she said. 'i don't like them--they look like snakes.' her little friend laughed. 'you silly girl,' she replied. 'don't you see--they are the roots of the trees. we have got right down underneath.' leonore stared in wonder. 'i thought their roots were in the _earth_,' she said. 'perhaps the earth doesn't go down so far as we thought,' said hildegarde, 'or perhaps it has been cleared away here to make a path. yes, i should think that's how it is. but you see, leonore, if we're getting into fairyland we must expect to see a good many queer things, not like what we are accustomed to.' 'of course,' leonore agreed, her eyes sparkling at the idea. 'i don't think i should really feel _surprised_ at anything. but do let us hurry on, hildegarde.' they took hands again and ran on. it was quite easy to do so, as there was light enough to see where they were going, and the way still sloped gently downwards. suddenly hildegarde stopped. 'hark!' she exclaimed; 'do you hear that sound, leonore? what can it be?' for a very soft monotonous sort of whirr was plainly to be distinguished. 'can it be water?' leonore was beginning, when hildegarde interrupted her. 'it is a spinning-wheel,' she whispered eagerly. 'now, leonore, our adventures are really beginning.' almost as she spoke, they became aware that just in front of them the passage made a turn; and another minute brought them within sight of a kind of niche at one side, within which sat a not altogether unfamiliar figure. it was that of the old dame of the market-place at alt. she was spinning busily. the children stopped. they felt her bright eyes fixed upon them, but neither liked to speak. they waited in respectful silence. 'welcome,' she said at last, while a smile broke over her face. 'i have been expecting you.' they drew a little nearer. 'then you _are_ a fairy,' leonore burst out, 'and it was you i heard laugh on our way here--wasn't it?' 'never mind about that,' said the dame. 'tell me what you want.' 'oh,' said hildegarde softly, 'you know that better than we do. you know all about us. we want to get to fairyland, and you can show us the way, can you not?' to their disappointment and surprise, the dame shook her head. but her words softened the disappointment a little. 'no--not quite that,' she replied. 'into actual fairyland itself i cannot take or lead you. no one but yourselves can do that--and,' with a little sigh, 'there are but few who ever really penetrate there. it cannot be otherwise. but i can help you and show you a good deal, so do not look sad about it. there are many, many wonderful things to see between this and actual fairyland.' at this the little girls brightened up. 'please tell us,' said leonore timidly, 'do you always sit here, except when you come up to where we live? and are you always spinning?' the dame shook her head and smiled again. 'no,' she replied. 'this is only one of my posts. i am here to-day because i expected you. and i spin when i have no other special work to do. we do not love idleness.' hildegarde had moved quite close up to her. 'what are you spinning now?' she said softly. oh, i see--it is cobwebs, is it not?' 'you have good eyes, my child,' said the dame; and so indeed she had, for, but for a certain glistening as the light caught the almost invisible ball of threads, nothing could have been perceived. 'yes, our fairy looms use a good deal of cobweb yarn--there is nothing like it for our gossamer tissue, nothing that takes such shades of colour.' leonore listened with wide-open eyes. 'oh,' she said beneath her breath, 'i wish i could see it--i----' 'so you shall,' said the dame; 'that is a wish it is easy to grant'; and as she spoke she rose from her seat, giving a touch to the spinning-wheel which made it revolve with double speed, and changed the soft whirr into a louder sound, almost like a note of music. the children stared at the wheel, and in that moment of their attention being distracted the old dame had vanished, and in her stead stood a lovely figure, smiling down upon them. 'oh,' exclaimed hildegarde, 'you are my own fairy lady. i remember you now--it was you that gave me the nuts when i was a baby.' 'and i have dreamt of you,' added leonore eagerly. 'and this is the gossamer--may i touch it?' she went on, softly stroking the gleaming garment which floated round the fairy. 'i can _scarcely_ feel it.' 'it says much for you if you feel it at all,' said the lady. 'but now, my children, if you want to see some of the things open to you to visit, you must be on your way. go straight on till you come to a barred gate--that is one of the doors into gnomeland. knock and say that the fairy of the spinning-wheel sent you, and asks for you courtesy and kindness. leonore looked a very little frightened. 'is there any fear?' she began. 'could the gnomes be vexed at our coming?' hildegarde turned to her with a little impatience. 'of course not,' she said, 'if our fairy lady sends us.' [illustration: "i must give you one or two warnings."] 'but still,' said the lady, though she smiled, 'i must give you one or two warnings. gnomes are gnomes, remember--not angels, not even fairies. they are queer-tempered folk. in speaking to them you must be very respectful and never interrupt them. and you must never seem to pity them in the very least; they think their underground country is far more wonderful and delightful than any other, and you must not disagree with this opinion.' 'no,' said hildegarde, 'we shall be very careful. come along, leonore.' 'shall we find you here when we come back, please, dear fairy lady?' asked leonore. 'you will not return this way,' their friend answered. 'but you will see me again before long--never fear.' she pointed towards the passage, and as she did so it seemed to the children that the light increased, as if her white hand had touched some unseen spring in the air. nor did it grow dimmer again--though not very bright, it was now twice as bright as when they first entered, only the colour had grown reddish; and as they walked on, they noticed this more and more. 'it looks like the light of a fire, of a great fire,' said leonore. 'or of a great many fires,' said hildegarde. 'i daresay it is that, for i have heard stories of the gnomes working at metals, and to do that they must have big fires like blacksmiths, you know.' 'i hope it won't be very hot in their country,' said leonore, who was more timid than hildegarde. 'it will be all right whatever it is,' replied her friend, 'otherwise you may be sure our fairy would not have let us come. gnomeland is the nearest to our world of all the fairy countries--or the border countries, as they are, i suppose--so it is right to begin with it. but you needn't be frightened, leonore. i hope we shall have lots of adventures, now we have really got started.' 'you are so brave,' said leonore admiringly, 'and you seem to know so much about fairy things. what are all the other countries, do you think?' hildegarde smiled. 'oh, more, far more, than we have any idea of,' she said. 'just think how many kinds of fairies we have _names_ for even. gnomes, and pixies, and brownies, and wood-sprites, and water-sprites, and mermaids, and----' 'i think i should like most of all to go to the sea-fairies,' said leonore. 'i do so love stories of mermaids, though they are nearly always rather sad. but oh, hildegarde, that must be the gate into gnomeland--i am so glad it does not feel any hotter; it is quite nice and cool, isn't it?' just before them stood a wrought-iron gate or door; it had bars across and was beautifully worked in all sorts of curious patterns and designs. on the top of each gate-post sat a bird--one was like an owl, and at first the little girls thought it must be really alive, for its eyes seemed to blink and its feathers to move softly. and opposite it was an eagle, whose keen eyes gleamed redly, while its wings sparkled like burnished gold. but neither was a living bird, and soon the children discovered that it was only the reflection of the light on the polished metal that gave the look of life to the eyes and plumage. the birds were placed sideways as if to see both inside the gate and outwards along the passage, and from the claw of the eagle hung a chain, ending in a fawn's foot also in bronze, or some such metal. 'that must be the gnomes' front-door bell,' said hildegarde. 'shall i ring it, or will you?' leonore was creeping behind hildegarde a little. 'oh you, please,' she replied, and hildegarde took the fawn's foot in her hand and pulled it--gently and carefully, for she remembered the fairy's warning--and a good thing it was that she did so, for softly though she had touched it, the result was rather startling. it rang out at once with a deep clang, which, strange to say, went sounding on and on, very loudly at first, then by degrees more faintly, till it was lost in the distance--it was as if hundreds of bells or echoes of bells had been pulled instead of one. even hildegarde looked a little alarmed. 'i hope they won't think us rude,' she said, 'i really scarcely----' but before she had time to say more, a face appeared behind the bars of the gate. it was a gnome--a regular, proper sort of gnome--about half the height of the children, with a pointed cap and a mantle tossed over one shoulder, a queer wrinkled-up face, a big nose, and black bead-like eyes. he did not look particularly good-natured; he was evidently not one of the laughing order of gnomes, not at any rate at the present moment. but neither did he seem exactly surly; his expression was rather as if he were waiting to see what kind of beings were these audacious visitors! but his first words were a great surprise, for instead of asking what they wanted, or any natural question of that kind, he tilted back his head, so that if his peaked cap had not been firmly fitted it would certainly have fallen off, and peering up into hildegarde's face--leonore by this time had crept well behind her companion--said sharply-- 'what's o'clock?' chapter vi gnomeland he appeared, sniffed, and sneered, in a fairy pet.--_child nature._ for a moment or two hildegarde stared down at the little man without speaking. then her face lighted up again, and she replied-- 'i am very sorry, sir, that i can't tell you, for i have no watch and i don't know.' something like a smile broke over the gnome's countenance. 'all right,' he said, 'you don't know, and you don't pretend you do. and _i_ don't want to know. here in our country,' and he waved his hand in a lordly fashion, 'we have nothing to do with clocks and watches, and time and hours, and all such fiddle-faddle. we leave that to the poor folk who can't settle things for themselves, but have to be ruled by the sun and the moon, and the stars too, for all i know. some people up there, where you come from, fancy we make the cuckoo-clocks down here, but that's all nonsense--we wouldn't waste our time over such rubbish.' 'i thought you said----' began leonore impulsively. she was getting over her alarm a little by now--'i thought you said you didn't trouble about time,' she was _going_ to have added, but a touch from hildegarde came, luckily, quickly enough to stop her, and to remind her of the fairy's warning. the gnome did not seem to have heard her; he was unfastening the gates. when he had got them ajar, he stood right in the middle, his head cocked on one side and his feet well apart, and surveyed the children coolly. 'and who sent you?' he said at last. 'the fairy of the spinning-wheel,' hildegarde replied. 'humph--i thought as much,' he remarked. 'and what for, if you please?' 'to pay you and your wonderful country a visit, if you will kindly allow us to do so,' hildegarde answered. 'that means that i am to----' he cleared his throat and hesitated for a moment, then went on again, 'to tire myself out doing showman; i suppose?' he said rather grumpily. 'i hope not to tire yourself out, sir,' hildegarde returned in her politest tone. 'we shall give you as little trouble as possible, but we are of course very anxious to see all you will kindly show us.' 'all right,' the gnome replied. 'enter, children of the upper world, and be welcome,' and he flung open the gates with a flourish, while hildegarde and leonore passed through. it had seemed to them as they stood waiting that within the entrance was much the same as outside, but no sooner had they stepped across the boundary, the doors clanging behind them as they did so, than they found everything quite different. they were no longer in a rather narrow passage, but on a broad road, bordered on each side by magnificent rocks which stretched up so high that they could not see their summit or the roof. the ground was covered with very fine gravel or white silvery sand, firm and pleasant to walk upon, and which glistened like pale pink tinsel in the light. for everywhere was flooded with the soft red or rosy brilliance they had noticed before they entered, though whence it came they could not see. 'why is the light so red?' asked leonore, gaining some courage again, though since her last attempt she had not dared to speak. 'we noticed it outside, and we thought perhaps it came from big fires--furnaces you know, or forges--like what blacksmiths have.' the gnome was walking a little in front--at this he turned round. 'and why should we have "big fires," or furnaces, or whatever you call the clumsy things?' he said, fixing his small bright eyes, which gleamed redly themselves, on leonore. 'oh,' said leonore, dreadfully afraid that he thought her rude, 'because--because--everybody says you make things like--like blacksmiths do--with iron and metal stuffs like that.' 'indeed,' said the gnome, 'and what then? do you think we denizens of the under-world are as stupid as your clumsy workmen up above? wait a bit; you shall soon see for yourselves.' 'you mustn't think leonore meant to be rude,' said hildegarde. 'you see we are only children, and we don't understand about wonderfully clever things.' 'humph,' said the gnome, but he seemed pleased. they had walked some little way by now, and once or twice their guide had stopped at what looked like a narrow passage between the rocks, as if uncertain if he should turn down it or not. just then they came to another of these passages, and he looked back at the children. 'follow me,' he said, 'and you shall see how we work. i am going to show you the manufacturing of the lucky pennies and horse-shoes.' 'what are lucky pennies?' whispered leonore to hildegarde. 'i think i have heard of them, but i'm not sure.' 'never mind,' hildegarde replied in the same tone. 'the gnomes won't be vexed with us for not knowing things if we are polite and admire their cleverness, and i am sure they _are_ very clever.' then they followed their guide in silence, which soon, however, came to be broken by the sound of tapping, light sharp tapping, and in another moment or two, there was added to this a whizzing sound, and now and then short clear whistles. but the little girls asked no questions and made no remarks, till suddenly, the passage along which they were walking coming to an end, they found themselves in a very large rock-chamber--the sides of which towered up so high that their tops could not be seen, though everywhere the same clear rose-coloured light penetrated. the air was fresh and pleasant, though not cold. the gnomes evidently possessed the secret of warming their habitation as well as lighting it! and now were explained the several sounds the children had heard as they approached the 'manufactory' as their guide had called it. [illustration: manufacturing lucky pennies.] for the great room--one would have called it a cave perhaps, except that no cave ever was so lofty--was filled with a crowd of busy workers. gnomes of course, some smaller, some a little bigger than the one who was guiding the children, but all as like each other as a lot of chinese seem to us--and all apparently of the same age. a few were standing, but most were sitting, and in front of each was a small rock-table, on which lay tools of glistening silver. there were tiny hammers which explained the tapping, and little wheels revolving so rapidly that when in motion they could not be seen. and every now and then a gnome lifted a kind of tube or pipe to his mouth, through which he blew with a whistling sound, on to the piece of metal he was working at. none of them spoke; they all seemed absorbed in what they were doing. the guide-gnome signed to the children to come close up to one little earth-man and watch what he was doing. he was beating a round piece of copper with his fairy-like hammer, and blowing upon it between times through his whistling tube. 'there now,' said the first gnome, speaking at last. 'is not that better than your scorching furnaces? that tube is a heat-tube--every time he blows through it, it melts, or at least softens the metal, without any fuss or trouble.' 'really!' exclaimed hildegarde, 'what a good plan! i wish we had heat-tubes to warm our fingers with in winter.' 'better not wish for anything of the kind,' replied their guide. 'you up-above people are a long way from such things yet. you'd only burn your fingers off.' 'thank you,' said hildegarde respectfully. 'i daresay we should. but will you kindly explain about lucky pennies. is that one he is making?' 'yes,' replied the gnome. 'you good, near-sighted people,' and he jerked his thumb upwards, 'don't see the difference. you don't know when you get hold of a lucky penny or not--but a great many are sent up to your world, all the same, and that is why some folk seem to succeed with you and some not. _partly_ the reason, that is to say, for the holders of lucky pennies must be honest, otherwise our coins do them more harm than good.' 'how wonderful!' said leonore. 'but if you make such a great many, where do you send the others to? _all_ our pennies are not lucky pennies.' the gnome screwed up his eyes and looked at her. 'that's all i am at liberty to tell you,' he said. 'there are other worlds besides yours that _we_ know about though you don't,' and leonore saw that she was not to question him further. 'perhaps,' she thought to herself, 'there are people in the moon after all, and some of the lucky pennies go there.' the gnome seemed pleased by her respectful manner. he said something in a low voice to the little man they had been watching, who thereupon handed him two bright copper pieces. 'here,' he said, 'here is a souvenir for each of you--a real lucky penny. never part with them except in direst need, which with them in your possession is not likely ever to befall you.' the children were very pleased, and thanked him most politely. 'and now,' he said, 'as we pass on, you may glance at the other side of the manufactory, where we are employed on horse-shoes,' and he crossed between the rows of little men, each at his table, to where several were seated together at a larger one. hildegarde gave an exclamation of disappointment. 'what are they doing?' she cried. 'mending _old_ horse-shoes? what ugly things!' 'you foolish child,' said the gnome. 'how little you appreciate our skill! of course the work they are doing is much more difficult than making pretty things. they are copying old horse-shoes after the clumsy earth fashion. who would use a _new_ one for luck, i should like to know, and how little do you people up there think when you pick up an old cast-off horse-shoe, as you think, what it really is, and where it has come from.' hildegarde felt rather snubbed. it was the first time she had forgotten the fairy's warning. 'how _very_ clever!' she said. 'yes, indeed,' leonore agreed. 'i shall always pick up horse-shoes when i see them now. and if you please, mr. gnome----' but her sentence was never finished, for just as she had got so far, their guide suddenly clapped his hands. there came a rush of cold air in the children's faces, so sharply, that without knowing it, they both shut their eyes. and when they opened them again, the big chamber and the busy workers had disappeared--they found themselves--still in the under-world, but in quite a different part of it. here the light was no longer red, but a pale pretty green--a green which did not make things or people look pale and sickly, but only cast a soft radiance, such as one sees in the woods in the early spring. and to add to this impression there was a faint sound of running or trickling water near at hand. hildegarde and leonore rubbed their eyes and looked at each other; they almost felt as if they were dreaming. 'where have we got to?' said leonore; but as she looked about her a little she saw that they were still surrounded by the high rocks which seemed to be the walls and boundaries of the under-world. 'and how did we get here?' added hildegarde laughing. 'it felt as if we were _blown_ here.' 'and so you were,' said a voice beside them, and turning, they caught sight of their old friend the gnome again. 'there was no object in tiring you with walking all through our domains--what brought you was one of our little inventions--the simplest in the world--for those who understand such things,' he added with condescension. 'and if you please where are we, and what are you going to show us now?' they inquired. 'you are at the entrance to our gardens, where i am going to show you our flower designs. you have doubtless never been told how many of your upper-world plants and flowers owe their existence to _us_.' 'really!' exclaimed hildegarde; and then, as a sudden thought struck her, 'oh, i _wonder_,' she cried, 'if those very, very queer flowers that we see in hot-houses and sometimes in gardens too--what do they call them--or--or--? i wonder if _they_ are invented by your gardeners.' the gnome smiled condescendingly. 'you mean orchids,' he said. 'ah well, you will soon see for yourselves. and now,' he went on, 'i must bid you farewell, for the present at any rate, though who knows but that some day you may again visit the under-world. you will meet with no difficulties now. on leaving the gardens you may, if you like, pass through toy-land, and there you will see some of _our_ children. that, i think, must be the limit of your sight-seeing--any more would be too much for you to take in. i have the honour to bid you adieu.' he took off his cap with a flourish, bowing like a master of ceremonies. 'goodbye, sir, and thank you very much,' said the little girls, but as they said the words, lo and behold the gnome had disappeared! 'that must be another of their inventions,' said hildegarde, at which they both laughed. all the same, in their hearts they were not quite sure if they were glad or sorry to be left to themselves, though neither liked to say so to the other. they gazed about them. behind were the rock passages they had grown accustomed to, but looking longer and dimmer, perhaps in contrast with the pale green light which had something more natural and more like the upper world about it. and just in front of them was a curious sort of palisade--or paling--with openings at regular intervals, though too narrow to see anything through, unless one placed one's eyes quite close. and this it was not worth while to do, for another glance showed them a door in the paling, and a bell, of the same pattern as the one at the first entrance, only in silver instead of in bronze or copper. hildegarde rung it. the door opened almost at once, but no one was to be seen. so they walked in. the change of scene was complete. it was a garden, but a very queer one. instead of lawns of grass, there were wide spaces covered with fine glittering sand of different shades of green; the paths between were brown, and stooping closer to examine them the children found that they consisted of very small round pebbles, something like toffee drops, so smooth and yet elastic that they did not hurt the feet at all. but the flower-beds were the oddest of all. they were filled with plants and flowers of the strangest shapes and colours you can--or rather 'can_not_'--imagine. and when leonore put out her hand to touch one, she started in surprise; they were made of fine metal. so far, they had seen no one, but just as they were beginning to wonder which way they should go, and if they were to meet no more of the inhabitants of gnomeland, they saw toddling towards them the very queerest little figure they had ever seen out of a picture-book! it was that of a very _very_ old gnome--'the great-grandfather of all the gnomes surely,' whispered hildegarde to leonore. and it was with difficulty they restrained their laughter. nor was it easier to do so when the little man came closer to them. he was so _very_ comical-looking. but mindful of the fairy's advice, both children kept perfectly grave and greeted the newcomer with a low courtesy. 'well,' was all he said, and then stood wrinkling up his face, though you would have thought he could not screw it any higher than it was, and blinking up at them with his funny little eyes. somehow they did not feel much in awe of him after all. 'well?' he said again, this time in a more questioning tone of voice. 'if you please,' hildegarde replied. 'may we walk through your--garden?' she could not help hesitating a little at the last word, for somehow the more she looked at the queer place they were in, the less like a garden it seemed. 'we won't pick any of the flowers.' 'you couldn't if you tried,' said the old gnome. 'why not?' asked hildegarde. 'i don't see any gardeners about.' 'they are all at their supper,' he replied. 'supper,' replied hildegarde. 'how early they must have it.' 'we don't know anything about late and early,' he said. 'but young things like them need plenty of food. why, i don't believe the eldest of them is more than three hundred years old, counting the way you do up in your country.' it was all the children could do not to call out in astonishment; they did not do so, however, fearing it might sound rude. 'do you count gardening easy work, then, if you put such young gnomes to do it?' leonore inquired. the gnome nodded--a sort of nod that took in things in general---- 'this kind of gardening--yes,' he replied. 'it's only dusting the plants, and straightening the stems if they are bent, and raking the beds and paths. designing's a different thing--_that_ takes experience. but you can stroll through if you like, and see for yourselves,' and with another nod, he toddled off again. 'how old must _he_ be,' exclaimed leonore in an awe-struck tone, 'if he counts hundreds of years nothing! i wonder what he meant by saying we could not pick flowers if we tried.' hildegarde walked on to where a border of strange blossoms, brilliant in colour and most grotesque in shape, stood in perfect motionlessness. she touched two or three of them gently before she spoke. then---- 'leonore,' cried she, 'they're _not_ flowers. they're made of metal.' leonore sprang forward. 'oh that's what he meant by saying they needed "dusting" and "straightening,"' she exclaimed. 'oh, hildegarde, how queer everything is down here--don't you think we had better go home?' 'not till we have seen a little more,' said hildegarde. 'there's nothing to be afraid of. my fairy wouldn't have let us come if there could be anything to hurt us.' 'no--not exactly that,' said leonore, 'but it's all so _queer_.' 'come along quickly then,' hildegarde replied. 'i don't care for this garden, if there's nothing really alive and growing in it. but i daresay we will soon get to somewhere else.' and so, before very long, they did. they passed quantities of flower-beds and rows, so dazzling in colour and extraordinary in shape that they felt as if they were looking through some fantastic kaleidoscope. suddenly a rushing noise made them glance round in the direction whence it came. it was soon explained--a crowd of gnomes were racing towards them; on they came, running, jumping, chattering, and shouting at the top of their voices. 'it's the gardeners,' said leonore. 'oh, hildegarde, i am rather frightened--they might play tricks on us. do let us get out of their way,' and hildegarde, to confess the truth, was not unwilling to do so. 'let us run down here,' she said, turning as she spoke, for they were just then passing a side row of high plants which could hide them from view of the approaching crowd. no sooner said than done. they set off running at full speed, scarcely glancing where they were going, the noise behind them lessening as they ran, till it ceased altogether; and breathless, but glad to have escaped the bevy of gnomes, they at last stood still. 'now,' said hildegarde, 'let's look about and see where we've got to.' chapter vii a collation under difficulties d'une façon fort civile. _le rat de ville et le rat des champs._ they were at the opposite side of the garden from that by which they had entered it, and just before them was a large white tent. a faint sound reached them--a rustle and murmur, as of people moving about busily, but not of voices. the tent appeared closed, but as they went nearer they saw that there were doors or flaps in the stuff it was made of, which could be opened either from within or without. hildegarde turned to leonore. 'we may as well go in,' she said. 'we weren't told not to, and we want to see all we can.' leonore was looking a little frightened again. 'we can't knock,' she said; 'there's nothing to knock on. and we can't ring; there's no bell.' 'so the only thing is to walk in,' said hildegarde. she drew aside the first flap they came to, and both entered. it was a busy scene. there was a table right round the tent, and at it gnomes were working actively. a moment's glance sufficed to show that they were packing, for queer-shaped boxes and baskets stood about, and quantities of moss. for a minute or so no one seemed to notice the visitors. these gnomes were evidently not of the young and giddy class; they did not seem to be speaking to each other at all. the children drew still closer to the table. the gnome nearest to them was laying a bright scarlet flower, in shape like a large pitcher with half a dozen small jugs hanging round it, in a basket well filled with moss. he glanced at the newcomers. 'if you please,' said hildegarde, 'are you packing flowers?' 'you can see that for yourself,' was the reply. 'yes,' she agreed, 'but we would like to know why you are doing it--i mean where are all the packages to be sent to, and what for?' 'who sent you down here?' asked the gnome. 'the spinning-wheel fairy,' hildegarde replied. the gnome's manner became more cordial. 'ah well, then,' he said, 'i don't mind explaining things a little. she would not send idle folk to tease us; she is always busy herself. we are packing pattern-flowers. our artists design them, and our most skilful metal-workers make them, and then we send them up to be copied again.' 'up to our world, do you mean?' asked leonore. 'i didn't know we had so many new patterns of flowers.' the gnome shook his head. 'you don't,' he said; 'only a very few find their way to the place you come from. we send them first to the flower-fairies, and they copy them in common stuff--stuff like what all your flowers up there are made of,' with a tone of contempt, 'and then they send them off again--seeds or roots--whichever they think best, and that's how new flowers start.' 'but where do they send them to?' asked hildegarde curiously. 'you say not many come to our world.' 'that's not my business,' he replied. 'your world isn't the only one. you can ask the flower-fairies if ever you pass their way. now i must get on with my work. if you cross the tent you will see the toy-packers at the other side.' the children's eyes sparkled. 'toys,' they repeated. 'do you make toys down here?' the gnome nodded. 'that's our principal dealing with your world,' he said. 'you don't mean to say you thought all the toys your shops are full of are made by clumsy human fingers! you should see our toy factory about christmas-time. santa claus has a time of it, choosing and settling, i can tell you.' hildegarde and leonore were breathless with eagerness. 'oh, how interesting!' they exclaimed. 'mayn't we see the toy factory? do tell us which way to go to get to it.' but to their disappointment the little packer shook his head. 'can't be done,' he said. 'doors are closed to all visitors for six months before christmas. that's the arrangement with santa claus. it would never do for it to leak out about the new inventions before the time. you can see some of the regular toys over there where they're packing, for even on them we're always improving.' the children saw that it was no use persisting, for there was something very decided about the gnomes' manner even when they were the most amiable. and the small man was busily at work again. so they made their way quietly to the other side of the tent. there they saw displayed, waiting to be packed, a good many toys they had often seen before, and some not so familiar. there were queer little doll gnomes, or groups of them for ornaments--not very like those the children had seen alive in one way, for as a rule the living gnomes were grave and pompous, and the figures were represented as laughing and rollicking. 'they must be taken from the young gnomes, the ones who are only two or three hundred years old,' said leonore, smiling. 'but, oh, hildegarde, do look at that doll-house furniture half packed over there. isn't it too lovely? i've often wondered--haven't you?--how people's fingers _could_ make such tiny things, but now i understand. oh, i do wish we could have seen the toy manufactory!' but it was no use wishing. none of the packers took much notice of them, so they thought it as well to pass out of the tent, trusting that somehow or other they would find their way home, for they were sure that the spinning-wheel fairy would not forget them. and in this they were right. a straight path between the rocks was before them as they came out of the tent, so there was no question of which way to go. they ran on fearlessly for some distance, till the passage they were following suddenly emerged into a large square, or 'round' rather, on all sides of which stood tiny little houses, each exactly like its neighbours, with a door in the middle, and a window at both sides. and at every doorway appeared a little gnome woman, with a gnome baby in her arms. you never saw anything so funny. hildegarde and leonore stopped short in astonishment; they could scarcely help bursting out laughing, the whole scene was so comical. 'this must be the gnome village,' said hildegarde in a low voice. 'i wonder how old these "babies" are--fifty or sixty, perhaps!' before leonore had time to reply, one of the little women stepped forward. she curtsied very politely, and when she spoke her voice, though rather squeaky, was meek and gentle. it was evident that the mrs. gnomes were kept in good order by their lords and masters. 'we have received a message to tell us you would be honouring us with a visit,' she said, 'and we have prepared a little collation for you. may i ask you to step inside?' she pointed as she spoke to the door of her own little house, and the children turned to follow her. but, alack and alas, with all the goodwill in the world, they could not have availed themselves of the good lady's invitation! the door of the cottage was not as high as their waists, and even if they had crept in, they could not possibly have stood or even crouched inside. it would have been a tighter fit than in a fair-sized dog's kennel! 'i am very sorry,' began hildegarde, but she was interrupted by a burst of wailing. all the little women had rushed forward, each clutching her baby, and all the babies roared too, rubbing their fists in their eyes, and looking more grotesquely gnome-like--as indeed they had a good right to do--than ever. 'oh dear, oh dear,' sobbed the little women, 'what _shall_ we do? we never thought of our houses being too small for the gracious ladies, and our masters will be so angry if they find the collation has not been partaken of, for they sent strict orders by an electric bird.' 'an electric bird,' repeated the children, very much interested. 'do let us see it,' but the gnome lady nearest them shook her head. 'it's gone back again,' she said, 'and it flies so fast you couldn't see it. it just whistles a message. oh, it's quite a common thing; but, oh dear, dear, what _shall_ we do about the collation?' and at her words all the other little women started wringing their hands again, while the babies screamed. hildegarde looked as if she did not know whether to laugh or to pity them, but leonore felt very sorry for them; then a brilliant thought struck her. 'supposing you carry it out here,' she said, 'to the middle of the square--the collation, i mean. we could sit down on the ground and eat it quite comfortably.' and indeed so far as the _quantity_ was concerned, there was not likely to be any difficulty. 'if they've planned it according to their own size,' leonore whispered to hildegarde, 'we could eat it all up like a dolls' feast in half a minute.' 'yes,' hildegarde replied in the same tone. 'i only hope it is something we _can_ eat. not roasted flies, or anything like that.' the little women had seized leonore's suggestion with delight, and were now busily employed in carrying out the feast. they first placed a table--a huge table they evidently thought it, though it was only about two feet long--in the middle of the square, and then carried out the dishes, of which, the little girls were glad to see, there were not, after all, above half a dozen. then the gnome lady who had first spoken to them seated herself at one end, and hildegarde and leonore took their places on the ground at each side, the crowd of little women, rushing about to wait upon them, tucking their babies under one arm in an original fashion of their own. 'what may i have the pleasure of helping you to first?' said the small hostess. she had now quite recovered her spirits, and spoke in a very elegant manner, moving her hands airily over the dishes, having plumped down _her_ baby on the ground beside her, where it lay quite contentedly sucking its thumbs. 'thank you,' said hildegarde, 'please give us anything you like.' 'it is a little difficult to choose, you see,' said leonore, who felt quite at ease with the gnome ladies, 'as we do not know what the things are--though,' she added quickly, 'they look very nice.' the small woman looked rather disappointed. 'they should not be strange to you,' she said. 'they are all--or nearly all--made of our upper-world supplies, as we thought you would prefer them. the dish before you contains blackberries, with just a touch of pine-cone flavouring; the one opposite is wild honey--we deal regularly with the bees through the flower-fairies, who understand their language. then these are cakes of acorn flour, and the jelly at the other side is a special recipe of our own made from the moss which grows thickly where the streamlets trickle down from the upper world.' 'thank you,' said hildegarde again, 'may i have some blackberries? it is very late for them, isn't it?' their hostess shook her head. 'they are not freshly gathered,' she said, 'but they are just as good--nothing ever gets stale in our rock larders.' 'how very convenient,' said hildegarde, as she tasted the blackberries. they were not bad, though they had a curious aromatic flavour. but after all, it did not much matter, as one good-sized teaspoon would have held all her helping! leonore had chosen a tiny cake and honey, and then their hospitable friend insisted on both children tasting every other dish on the table, which they had to do, though in one or two cases they tried to hide how very little they took. the moss jelly was decidedly peculiar! 'aren't you going to eat anything yourselves?' leonore inquired. the gnome ladies gave a wail of disapproval--such a thing was quite contrary to their ideas of good manners. 'never, never would we be so rude,' they said. and the children, remembering the fairy's warning, said no more on this point, for fear of offending even these meek little women. but they felt very curious to hear more of the ways and customs of their underground friends. 'do you have all you eat sent down from our country, or from fairyland?' asked leonore in a very polite tone. 'oh dear, no,' was the reply. 'just occasionally. we have plenty of supplies of our own.' 'do tell us what,' said hildegarde. their hostess hesitated a little. 'you might not appreciate our national dishes,' she said. 'we are very fond of stewed frogs, and find them most nourishing, and a good fat toad makes an excellent dish.' even politeness could not keep back an exclamation of horror from the visitors, though they tried to smother it. 'ugh!' said hildegarde with a shiver. 'ugh!' said leonore. but hildegarde went on speaking so quickly, that it is to be hoped the gnome ladies did not hear the 'ughs.' 'i think,' she said, getting up from the ground as she spoke, 'i think we must be going--don't you, leonore?' 'yes,' said leonore eagerly, 'i am sure we must.' and when they were alone together, each owned to the other that she felt as if there must be toads and frogs all about! 'we thank you very much for your kindness,' they went on, 'and please tell the--the gentlemen that the collation was excellent. and we should like to know the nearest way home, if you will kindly show it us.' the little lady gnome got up from her seat and curtsied graciously. so did all the others, though the effect in their case was a little spoilt by the tucked-in baby gnome under each arm. apparently the lady who had done the honours of the feast was the only one to whom it was permitted to deposit _her_ baby on the floor! she waved her hand towards the opposite side of the square, or circle of houses. 'you will have no difficulty in finding your way,' she said. 'all arrangements have been made.' she did not press them to stay longer, so they bowed in return, most politely of course, and went off in the direction pointed out. 'perhaps,' said leonore, 'they are afraid of the gnome gentlemen coming home to supper and scolding them for having the collation outside. i should not like to be a gnome lady.' 'nor should i,' hildegarde agreed. 'certainly the collation could not have been _indoors_. but i should have liked to peep into the houses--wouldn't you, leonore? and i _almost_ think i should have liked to pick up one of the gnome babies, though they _are_ rather froggy.' leonore shuddered. 'don't speak of frogs or toads,' she said, and she hastened on more rapidly. 'do let us get away quickly,' she added. 'i have got such a feeling that we shall be treading on some.' hildegarde laughed at her. 'nonsense,' she said, 'they couldn't live on this dry gravel or sand, or whatever it is. i expect the gnomes find them where the little streams trickle down. oh, leonore, i do hope we shall find our way! this path looks just exactly like the one we came in by.' and so it did. but they had not far to go before all misgivings were set at rest by the unexpected appearance of a very fine gray donkey standing on the path before them. he was handsomely caparisoned, and a pannier hung at each side, large enough for a child of our little girls' size to sit in comfortably; and if any doubt remained in their minds as to what they were meant to do, it was soon put to flight, for as they came close up to the donkey, they saw that one pannier was labelled 'hildegarde,' and the other 'leonore.' 'oh, what fun!' they exclaimed. 'what nice arrangements the gnomes make! this time they have not forgotten how big we are. what a beautiful donkey!' a very quiet donkey too, apparently. he stood perfectly still while the little girls mounted into their places, which was all very well, but he showed no signs of moving after they were settled either, though they shook the reins and begged him to gee-up! suddenly hildegarde turned to leonore. 'leonore,' she said, 'i don't believe he's a live donkey! feel him--he's quite cold--he's like the magic horse in the _arabian nights_, who moved by a spring. how can we find out how to make him go?' they had no need to do so after all. almost before hildegarde finished speaking, a short shrill whistle was heard, and off the same instant started the donkey! 'up,' i should say--rather than 'off.' for, greatly to the children's astonishment, they felt themselves rising from the ground. up, up, up they went, the light growing gradually dimmer and dimmer, till but for a round spot which gradually appeared white, high above them, they would have been in total darkness. 'hildegarde,' whispered leonore, 'are you frightened? it's a nice feeling, going up so fast, isn't it, but i wonder where we are going to?' the star of white light overhead grew larger; they became able to distinguish that they were in a kind of shaft; it was not cold or uncomfortable in any way, and the panniers in which they sat were easily cushioned. 'i believe,' began hildegarde, but she did not finish her sentence. there came another whistle, softer and longer than the first, and something--was it a gentle hand, or the touch of a bird's feathered wing?--they could not tell--made both little girls close their eyes for a moment. and when they opened them again--where were they? [illustration: "who sent you to kiss us, you breezes of may?"] chapter viii tree-top land where were you taught your song, little bird? who sent you to kiss us, you breezes of may? there are secrets, yes secrets you never have heard, whispered breezes and bird as they fluttered away. _spring song._ where were they? why, sitting on the short thymy grass just behind the castle, not a stone's throw from the old tree trunk where they had found the little door, which the golden key had opened. they gazed at each other, then rubbed their eyes and gazed again. 'how did we get out of the panniers?' said hildegarde. 'i never felt anything, did you, leonore?' leonore's reply was another question. 'have we been dreaming?' she said. 'no, of course it couldn't be that, people can't dream the same dream together; it is too funny and queer.' 'it's just what it is,' said hildegarde laughing. 'we've been to gnomeland, and now we've come back again. and after all, leonore, we haven't been two hours away. look at the sun, it is not near setting yet, but of course in gnomeland, as they told us, they don't count time as we do.' she got up as she spoke and gave herself a little shake. 'i want to be sure i have not been dreaming,' she went on. 'even though i _know_ i haven't. pinch me, leonore, just a nice little gentle pinch to make me feel real, and i'll pinch you in return.' the pinching made them both laugh, which took away the dreamy feeling better than anything else. 'and now,' said hildegarde, 'i suppose we had best make our way home--to your home i mean, leonore, as fast as we can. grandmamma gave me leave to stay out till sunset, and aunt anna will be expecting us back in time for coffee.' 'yes,' said leonore. 'she hoped you would come back with me after our walk; but, hildegarde, what shall we say if they ask where we have been?' 'say?' repeated hildegarde, 'why, that we have been up in the woods behind the castle. we mayn't tell anything more, and i don't believe we could if we tried. that is always the way with people who have been to fairyland, or at least part of the way there--besides----' but she hesitated. 'besides what?' asked leonore curiously. 'oh,' said hildegarde, 'i was only going to say that i am not sure but what aunt anna understands a great deal more than she says. there is something very fairyish about her sometimes. i don't think she'll question us much.' 'perhaps,' said leonore, in her funny rather prim matter-of-fact little way, 'she has been there herself when she was a little girl.' 'i shouldn't much wonder,' hildegarde replied, and then they turned to descend the hill towards the village street. 'hildegarde,' said leonore as they were walking on, 'how shall we know when we are meant to crack the next two nuts?' 'i can't tell you just now,' her little friend replied, 'for i don't know myself. but i am quite sure we shall know in good time. my fairy won't forget about us, and she will tell us somehow.' fraulein elsa was looking out for them at the gate. she welcomed them with a cheerful smile. 'you are just in good time for coffee,' she said. 'aunt anna sent me out to look for you. have you had a pleasant afternoon?' 'very pleasant indeed,' hildegarde replied. the governess asked no more, nor did aunt anna, who was seated at the table, where there was a tempting display of the cakes which she knew to be hildegarde's favourites. 'i thought you would be punctual,' she said to the children; 'you have been up in the woods behind the castle, i suspect, and i hope you have brought back a good appetite?' 'very good indeed,' they replied together, and at the same moment a funny thought struck them both. the 'collation' had not been of a kind to prevent their feeling hungry now! and aunt anna was quite satisfied with the way the cakes disappeared. 'i think i must be going home,' said hildegarde a little later on. 'grandmamma will like to find me there when she returns from her drive. may leonore come to the foot of the castle hill with me?' 'certainly,' said fraulein, 'and to-morrow i hope you may meet again, indeed every day, unless the weather should be very bad.' 'oh in that case,' said hildegarde eagerly, 'i hope leonore will wrap herself up well and come to spend the day with me. of course i could come here--i am not the least afraid of rain, or wind, or snow, or anything like that--but the castle is so big and such a splendid place for playing in, when there is any one to play with, though it is rather dull all alone. and about to-morrow,' she went on, 'may leonore come up immediately after dinner? grandmamma would like to see her.' to this request too, fraulein willingly consented, and the two children set off. 'you have your nuts quite safe?' said leonore, as they kissed each other in saying goodbye. hildegarde nodded reassuringly. 'you needn't be afraid,' she said, 'after keeping them all these years, since i was a little baby; it isn't likely that i should lose them now, just when they've come to be of use. i should be more afraid of yours, leonore, except that, to tell you the truth, i don't believe either of us could lose them if we tried.' 'mine are quite safe,' said leonore, slipping her hand into her jacket pocket to feel them, 'and i certainly won't risk trying whether they would find their way back or not.' and so saying she ran off. nothing came to interfere with their plans. the weather continued lovely, and the children spent every afternoon together. for the old baroness, hildegarde's grandmother, to whom leonore was introduced the next day, was just as pleased on her side, as were fraulein and aunt anna on theirs, that each, otherwise lonely little girl, should have a companion. and for two or three weeks nothing special happened. they searched in vain among the trees behind the castle for the old trunk in which was the little door. no trace of it was to be seen. but this scarcely disappointed them. 'it wouldn't be a magic door,' said hildegarde, 'if it was always there, or at least, always to be found. no, leonore, we must just wait till the spinning-wheel fairy sends us some message or tells us somehow what we are to do.' to which leonore agreed. nevertheless, on many an afternoon they lay down with their ears to the ground near the spot where they believed the entrance to gnomeland to be, listening if no murmur of the queer underground life, which they had had a glimpse of, could reach them. but it never did. at last one day hildegarde appeared with a look on her face which told leonore that she had something to tell, and as soon as they were by themselves she began eagerly. 'leonore,' she said, 'i believe i have got a message at last from our fairy. i am not sure if it was a dream or if she was really there. it was quite early this morning before i was up, i thought i saw her standing beside my bed--her real self, you know, not the little old market-woman--she smiled and said, "you have been very patient children, and now you shall be rewarded. crack two more of your nuts this afternoon when you are up in the woods. throw high and throw together, and you will see." and then, when i was going to speak to her and thank her, and ask her to explain a little more, she was gone.' 'of course it was a message,' said leonore; 'let us hurry off as fast as we can,' for it was already afternoon. 'i should think the best place would be just where we cracked the first ones.' 'no,' said hildegarde, '_i_ think, as near as we can guess to the magic door, would be the best. further up in the woods i mean, than where we cracked the nuts.' so thither they hastened, full of eagerness and excitement. 'you crack first this time,' said hildegarde, 'as i did the last.' leonore obeyed her, and both little girls peered anxiously into the nutshell. their first idea was that it would contain some paper of directions, as had been the case before, but it was not so. on the contrary, the only thing they saw was a little mass of very, very fine colourless thread or silk, so fine indeed as to seem almost like cobweb. with the utmost care leonore drew it out--it was stronger than it looked, for at one end was attached to it a small, delicately-fashioned silver hook, like the finest fairy fish-hook. the children stared at each other. 'what can it mean?' they said. leonore gave the threads a little shake, one end dropped to the ground and, in doing so, unravelled itself. 'i see what it is,' exclaimed hildegarde. 'it is a rope ladder, a fairy's rope ladder of course, for nothing stronger than a spider could possibly climb up it. perhaps my nut will explain.' so saying, she hastened to crack it, but to their surprise and momentary disappointment its contents were precisely the same as those of leonore's nut. 'well,' said hildegarde, after a moment or two's reflection, 'we're evidently meant to find out for ourselves what to do with these queer things.' 'but the fairy did say something to you,' leonore reminded her, '"throw high," wasn't that what she said?' 'yes,' said hildegarde, 'how stupid of me to have forgotten, we must be meant to throw these little hooks which are at one end up into the air, like the indian jugglers i have heard about, and, as they are fairy hooks, i suppose they will find something to catch on to. "throw high and throw together," was what she said, so here goes. hold your hook carefully leonore, as i do. i will count, and when i get to three we must throw--one, two----' and at 'three' both children flung up the tiny missiles into the air. up, up, they flew, or seemed to fly, as straight as a rocket, till nothing was to be seen but the quivering thread gleaming brightly in the sunshine, which at that moment broke through the branches. and then, so quickly that they could not watch the change, the fairy ladders grew and swelled, till the threads of which they were made were as firm and strong as tightly twisted fine rope. they grew taut too, the lower end disappearing into the ground, as if held there by invisible hands. hildegarde's eyes shone with delight. ''tis plain what we are meant to do,' she said; 'we are to climb up.' leonore, on the contrary, looked a little frightened. 'up to where?' she said timidly. 'oh,' said hildegarde, 'that remains to be seen, of course. don't be silly, leonore. i think it was far more frightening to go down underground than to climb up into the beautiful sky. come along.' and they set off on their strange journey. it was not difficult after all. the rope felt firm and substantial, even though soft to the touch, so that it in no way rasped their hands. and when they got a little higher, they began to see that the hooks had attached themselves to the very top of an immensely tall tree, which somehow gave leonore more confidence. 'i am not in the least giddy; are you?' said hildegarde. 'i am beginning to feel like a bird.' and leonore agreed that she too felt perfectly at ease. 'that's what comes of having to do with fairies,' said hildegarde with satisfaction; 'with a fairy like ours, at least. you see she plans everything so nicely for us.' a few moments more and their heads were on a level with the topmost branches. just as they were wondering what was coming next, they heard a voice a little above them. 'jump,' it said. 'first hildegarde, then leonore; don't be frightened, i will catch you.' up they sprang fearlessly, for something in the voice made fear impossible, though instinctively they closed their eyes, and----. when they opened them again, there stood the spinning-wheel fairy, smiling at them, as they lay together on a couch of something soft and blue, soft yet firm. 'are we on the other side of the sky?' asked hildegarde. the fairy nodded. 'you are in tree-top land,' she said, 'the country of the air-fairies. when you have rested after your ascent, i will show you the way on, and before long you will meet some old friends. in the meantime i will draw up your ladders, for they may serve again, and we don't like wasting anything. i spun them for you myself long ago. i have a spinning-wheel up here as well as down below.' she moved away, seeming to melt into the lovely blue which was all around them. but in a moment or two she returned again and held out a hand to each child, and, springing to their feet, hildegarde and leonore gladly took hold of her. then just before them, to their surprise, if they had still been able to feel surprise, they saw a little silver gate, which opened of itself as they approached it, and passing through with the fairy, they found themselves at the edge, of what they at first thought was a lovely lake of water, sparkling blue in the sunshine. but there were no boats upon it. 'how are we to cross it,' asked hildegarde. 'surely this is fairyland itself at last?' but their guide shook her head. 'no, not fairyland itself,' she replied, 'though on the way to it. real fairyland is still far away. i can only do as i promised you--show you some of the countries that lie between your land and it. boats are not needed here. what you see is not water but air, and with these you will easily make your way across the lake.' so saying, she drew from under her mantle something white and fluffy, which proved to be two little pairs of wings, one pair for each child, which she slipped over their heads. they fitted as if they had always grown there, and, light as they had felt themselves before, hildegarde and leonore now seemed to themselves to be made of air itself. 'off with you,' said the fairy laughing, with a little toss of her hand towards the children as if they had been two balls of thistle-down. 'when you have seen enough and want to go home you will easily find me; you have only to listen for the whirr of my spinning-wheel.' and she was no longer there. flying or swimming, which was it? they could scarcely have told. for though their wings kept them up as lightly as any bird, their feet too seemed to move in time with their wings. 'isn't it lovely?' said hildegarde, and leonore, who at first felt a little breathless, laughed back in agreement. but this journey through the blue soon came to an end. the wings seemed to be their guides, for they suddenly dropped on their shoulders, and the children found themselves standing in front of another silver gate, higher and more imposing than the former one. it glittered so that for a moment or two they were dazzled, but as their eyes grew accustomed to the brilliance, looking up, they saw worked in, among the silvery trellis, some letters, which with a little difficulty they spelt out. 'singing-school,' were the words they read. 'singing-school,' repeated hildegarde, 'what can that mean?' 'and the fairy said we should soon meet some old friends,' added leonore. 'oh, hildegarde,' and she held up her hand, 'i think i understand, listen.' they stood perfectly still and gradually sweet sounds reached their ears--a soft warbling as of many little voices in harmony. then came a moment's silence, followed by the notes of a single singer, then warbling again--and again another voice alone, trilling high, high, till it seemed to melt away in the distance. 'that was a lark,' said leonore, 'the last one, and the one before a blackbird, i think.' 'or a thrush,' said hildegarde, 'yes, i rather think it was a thrush.' but in the eagerness with which they had been listening, they had not noticed that the high gates had opened gently inwards, and in the centre between them stood two charming figures smiling at the children. 'come in,' said one of them, 'we have been expecting you for some time.' 'are you the air-fairies?' asked hildegarde. she spoke with more confidence than to the gnomes; there was something so sweet and gracious about these pretty creatures that no one could feel afraid of them. 'yes,' was the reply, 'and we are also the birds' singing-teachers. here you will see many of your old friends--nightingales, larks, blackbirds, robins, all of them, even down to the poor little sparrows, whom we teach to chirp and twitter.' 'how wonderful!' exclaimed the children. 'are they all the little young birds?' asked leonore; 'no, of course not,' she added, 'they can't be, for this is autumn.' 'we have classes all the year round,' said one of the fairies, 'except in the very middle of your summer, when we give them a holiday, that you may all enjoy the bird concerts to perfection.' they had been walking slowly onwards till now, through a wide passage, the walls of which were like the whitest marble, though without its hard coldness. and now the fairy opening a door signed to them to pass in, and as they did so, the music they had heard grew clearer and louder. for they were in the central hall of the great bird singing-school. there they were, rows and rows of them, each family by itself, the smaller birds higher up, the bigger ones nearer the ground, and at the end of each row, perched a little apart from the others, was the head bird of his tribe--these, as the fairies afterwards explained, being the monitors of each class. but the queerest thing was, that every kind of bird was there, even such as we never think of as musical in any way, for down the central passage were strolling some magnificent peacocks, long red-legged storks; and in a large basin of water at the farther end, graceful swans, snowy ducks, and even homely gray-plumaged geese were contentedly enjoying themselves. hildegarde and leonore gazed in surprise. 'peacocks,' they exclaimed, 'peacocks and ducks and geese--why, none of them can sing!' the fairy smiled. 'ah,' she said, 'the ears that hear have something to do with true music; down below in your world it is not like here with us. much that is true music sounds to you harsh and unlovely. wait a little and you shall hear for yourselves.' chapter ix a concert a kiss on each forehead and she was gone! _the fairy's visit._ greatly wondering, hildegarde and leonore followed the fairy to the end of the large hall, where there hung by silver cords from the roof two little seats, cushioned with the softest down. 'rest yourselves in there,' she said; and though the little swinging chairs were a few feet from the ground, they sprang into them without the least difficulty, as their wings at once unfolded to waft them upwards. 'you may swing yourselves in time to the music, if it amuses you,' said the fairy; 'and now i must meet my sisters to get all ready for our concert.' the children were well content to stay where they were, watching and listening with the greatest eagerness. a door at the farther end from that by which they had entered opened, admitting the sound of soft music, and in a few moments a procession of air-fairies appeared, marching two and two, each with some instrument on which she was playing. they ranged themselves in the very centre of the hall, the two fairies who had received the children standing at each end of the group to command and direct. the music stopped; there was a flutter of excitement among the birds. then the accompaniment of the instruments began again--softly at first, then louder, then sinking once more to gentler tones. but now--words fail to describe the wonderful sounds which filled the air in one great harmony, though to those learned in such things, and with ears endowed with the magic gift of perfect hearing, every little voice could be distinguished. in such company the peacock's harsh cry sounded like a distant but musical call, the duck's quacking like the pleasant clatter of castanettes; all was lovely, for all told of happiness and harmony, and the children felt as if they could sit there listening for ever. and when, almost suddenly, the music stopped in one great triumphant outburst, it seemed to them as if, for the first time in their lives, they had known what it was truly to _hear_. then came a loud, merry flapping of wings; the birds flew off their perches and soared about the hall, then ranged themselves again, and passed in rows before the fairies, with twitters of farewell before they flew, or hopped, or waddled out of the doors and windows of the great hall, many more of which had opened of themselves as the music ceased. the fairies who had taken part in the concert glided out, two and two, as they had entered, playing a soft, low march, and then the great hall was empty again, save for the two children and their two fairy hostesses. at a sign from their friends, hildegarde and leonore sprang to the ground. 'have you enjoyed the concert?' asked one of the fairies. 'oh,' exclaimed the children together, it was too wonderful, too beautiful.' 'we can never hear anything like it again,' added leonore half-sadly; 'down where we live the air is too thick and heavy, i suppose, to hear anything so perfectly.' 'yes,' said the fairy, 'that is so; but those who have once heard can never again be as if they had not done so. you will always remember and be able to catch the echoes, though far away, of perfect harmony, even in common sounds.' for a moment or two the children were silent; perhaps they did not quite understand, but they remembered, which was as good, or better. 'is it time for us to go home now?' asked hildegarde. 'the spinning-wheel fairy said we should easily find her, and she will show us how to get back.' 'there is no hurry,' said one of their friends. 'would you not like to see a little more of our country? we are always busy, for we have much to do, but to those sent by the spinning-wheel fairy we have time to give.' she held out a hand to each child, the second fairy smiling in token of farewell. 'i will go now, sister,' she said. 'i must see to some of the fledglings who are just beginning to chirp. for the birds come to us from all parts of your world,' she added, turning to the children, 'and it is not autumn everywhere, you know!' 'may we ask you questions?' said hildegarde. 'you won't think it rude, will you? we were so afraid of offending the gnomes that we scarcely dared to speak when we were with them.' 'ask what you like,' was the reply, 'and what i may i will answer. but we needn't stay here any longer. outside you will see more of our country.' outside the great hall it was still brighter and more sunshiny than within, though over everything was the lovely faint blue haze which had met them when they passed through the first silver gate. it was like, and yet not like, a garden--for there was nothing distinct in the shape of plants or flowers, though everywhere beautiful tree-like forms, quivering amidst waves of opal colour, were to be seen. 'it must be something like the bottom of the sea,' said hildegarde, 'where the mermaids live.' 'no,' said leonore, 'i think it is just like the sky at sunset. i have often wished i could get up on one of the clouds and see over to the other side.' 'and now that is what you are seeing,' said the fairy. 'but please,' began hildegarde again, 'if i may ask you questions, do tell me what you are all busy about, besides teaching the birds to sing?' 'i will tell you a few things,' said the fairy, 'though you would not understand if i tried to tell you all. we have charge of the zephyrs and the breezes. we send them out on their errands, and we have to see that each does its appointed task.' 'oh,' interrupted leonore, 'is this the home of the four winds?--is this the place where they start from, and meet again and make all their plans?' the fairy shook her head. 'no,' she replied, 'the four winds are not fairies, they are spirits, and above us all; it is only the little winds, so to say--which are to the great ones like the little brooks compared to the great ocean--over whom we have authority. and,' she added more lightly, 'they are troublesome enough sometimes, i assure you--mischievous little imps--though they can be very sweet too, and seldom do real harm, and indeed, as a rule, a great deal of good. but for them your world would be dull and dreary.' 'yes,' said leonore, 'i should not like to live where everything was always quite still. and the little breezes are kind, aren't they? when it is very hot, it is lovely to feel one of them softly blowing round your face.' 'they are kind and tender too,' said the fairy; 'some of the gentlest among them are specially employed in refreshing poor sick people in their hot stifling rooms. they wait outside the windows patiently till they get a chance of entering. then some of them spend most of their time in playing with little children, filling the sails of their tiny boats, or flying their kites and shuttlecocks for them.' while talking thus, the fairy had led them onwards. but now she stopped in front again of another silver gate. 'inside here,' she said, 'is one of the nurseries of the little clouds; we let them out every now and then for a race. would you like to see them? it is prettiest perhaps by moonlight, but i must not keep you here till night.' she opened the gate, and out flew a crowd of feathery forms, dancing, leaping, tumbling over each other in their hurry to escape; then at a sign from the fairy, off they flew, upwards, a dozen or more together, in a whirl and flutter. you can scarcely imagine anything prettier than it was. they flew so high that for a minute or two they were out of sight, then back they came again, some much in advance of the others, till the first one who had gained the race floated down to the fairy's feet, taking shape as it did so till it grew into the shadowy form of a little cherub, smiling up with its sky-blue eyes for its reward. 'well done,' said the fairy. 'now off you can go, all of you, for an hour or two; some little streams are very thirsty to-day, i hear, and will be glad to see you.' and at once the whole feathery troop disappeared. the children turned to the fairy with smiling delight. 'how pretty and good they are,' said hildegarde. 'i shall always think of you when i see the little clouds scudding across the sky--i have often thought they looked so alive. do you never come down to our world yourself, fairy?' 'oh yes,' she replied, 'we have to keep all the wind instruments in order. some we bring back with us here to repair, in the middle of the night, so that nobody misses them; but some we work at down where they are, and people say the weather has changed, and that somehow their instruments have got right again of themselves. that is one of our secrets, you see.' 'i wish you would let us know when you come,' said hildegarde. 'we wouldn't tell anybody, and i am sure we would gladly sit up all night.' but the fairy shook her head. 'that cannot be,' she said, 'you would not be able to see me down there. still, i can send you messages sometimes; the little breezes will always be glad to carry you my love or to kiss you for me.' suddenly she stopped speaking and held up her hand. 'hush,' she said; 'yes, i thought i heard it. it is the spinning-wheel fairy--don't you hear the whirr? it means, i fear, that you must be going. yes, there she is, though your eyes can't see her; she is almost straight above us. she has caught two of the little clouds on their way down, and is sailing on them.' 'how shall we get to her?' exclaimed the children. 'you forget,' laughed the fairy, 'you forget what wings are for,' and with the words she blew softly on their shoulders, the wings stretched themselves, and off flew the children. the quickness of their flight made them close their eyes, and for a moment or two they could hear nothing but the rush of the air as they met it. soon, however, came the sound of a now well-known voice. 'so i had to come to fetch you,' it said, 'instead of your looking for me. that shows, i hope, that the air-fairies entertained you well?' 'yes, indeed,' said both the children. 'it was all so pretty, and they were so kind that we didn't feel the least frightened of offending them. it was quite different from gnomeland,' hildegarde went on, 'and yet you say that both these countries are on the way to real fairyland?' 'yes,' replied their friend, 'so they are, and so are many, many others.' 'i wish we could see them all,' said leonore. 'that would not do,' said the fairy. 'it would take you too much out of your own country, which is not good for any one. but now, dears, i want you to rest a little; even if you go to sleep it won't matter, while i am taking you home.' she held out her arms, and both little girls nestled down beside her. 'are you going to take us all the way home yourself?' asked leonore. 'that will be very nice.' the fairy did not reply, but she began spinning again, which certainly no one but a fairy could do seated on a cloud, and with a little girl tucked under each arm. the soft whirr was very soothing and pleasant to hear; soon both pairs of eyes closed drowsily, and it seemed to their little owners that quite a long time had passed when they awoke, roused by the touch of a feathery kiss on their foreheads, and a softly whispered 'goodbye, my dears, goodbye for the present.' and again they found themselves among the trees a little to the rear of the castle. it was quite daylight, though the afternoons were drawing in now. they felt perfectly bright and rested, and looked at each other with happy faces. 'it was all too lovely, wasn't it?' said leonore, 'and this time i don't feel as if we had been dreaming, do you, hildegarde?' hildegarde was on the point of replying, when from far above their heads came the note of some bird as it flew by. 'to think that we know where you were taught to sing, you little dear,' she said, gazing upwards. 'there will be lots of things to remind us always of the air-fairies--every time we feel the little breezes on our cheeks, or see the clouds chasing each other across the sky!' 'and we have still two nuts left,' said leonore. 'i wonder what will happen when we crack _them_, hildegarde?' 'we must be patient,' was the reply; 'perhaps we may have to wait a good while before the time comes for that. but we must hurry home now, i think, or grandmamma may be getting anxious.' for this day was one which leonore was spending with hildegarde at the castle, as happened now and then for a change, especially when the weather was unsettled. and these were happy days; for the castle, as hildegarde had said, was a splendid place for playing in when there were two to play, though rather too large and lonely for one little girl by herself. their coffee and cakes were waiting for them in the little turret-room, which was hildegarde's own when on a visit to her grandparents. and when they had thoroughly enjoyed these, for travels through the air naturally make little flesh-and-blood girls hungry and thirsty, hildegarde took her friend to the drawing-room, where the old baroness usually sat. she was a tall, fine-looking old lady, a little bit 'frightening' at first, till one got to know her, for her dark eyes were still bright and piercing, not like aunt anna's gentle, dreamy, blue ones. she spent a great deal of her time in working at beautiful embroidery, as her sight was still good, though in the cold weather, which was now coming on, she was not strong enough to go out of doors except on very fine days. she looked up with a smile as they entered the room. 'well, my dear children,' she said, 'i hope you have had some good hot coffee, for you have stayed out rather late, and the evenings are getting very cold. soon you will scarcely be able to go out after dinner, especially as every one is prophesying that we are to have an early winter and a severe one.' 'we have not been at all cold, thank you, grandmamma,' said hildegarde. 'i hope it won't be a very severe winter, at least not before christmas--for do you know, leonore,' and she turned to her little friend, 'that sometimes when it snows heavily here, we cannot even get from the castle to aunt anna's house?' 'oh dear,' said leonore, rather startled, 'i shouldn't like that at all; it would be dreadfully dull if we couldn't be together at christmas.' 'dull for us too,' said the baroness, 'for many, many years my dear friend, fraulein anna, has spent christmas with us. but if there is any sign of snowstorms before then, the best plan will be for you three to come and stay at the castle for a week or two.' the children's faces lighted up with pleasure at the idea. 'in that case,' said hildegarde, 'i shall almost hope for signs of a snowstorm. you have no idea how nice and warm the castle can be made. grandpapa loves huge fires, and the walls are so thick that once the rooms get well heated they don't get cold again quickly.' 'not in your turret, i am afraid, hildegarde,' said her grandmother. 'you will have to move out of it, i expect. indeed, this very day i have been talking to old maria about preparing a room for you on the south side. the turret-rooms cannot but be cold, as they have so much outer wall.' hildegarde looked a little distressed. 'i do so love my turret-room,' she murmured, 'unless,' and she hesitated, 'oh grandmamma,' she went on after a moment's pause, 'if i might have the blue-silk room. i should be so careful to keep it very nice, and in the alcove two little beds could stand, so that if leonore comes to stay here we might be together all night as well as all day.' her grandmother smiled. 'we shall see,' she said, but even this seemed to satisfy the little girl. she jumped up and threw her arms round the baroness. 'most big people when they say "we shall see" mean "no," she said, but you are not like that, grandmamma. _generally_, your "we shall sees" mean "yes, you shall have what you want if it is possible."' 'i should like to see the blue-silk room,' said leonore, half timidly, 'it is such a pretty name. are the chairs all covered with blue silk?' 'better than that,' said hildegarde, 'the walls are hung with blue silk, and there are wreaths of roses worked at the top of the curtains and on the sofas and everywhere. who was it that worked them, grandmamma? my great-great-great-grandmother, wasn't it?' 'no; two "greats" are enough,' said the baroness, 'the embroidery was done by my grandmother; it is really wonderfully beautiful, and it is difficult to believe that one pair of hands did it all. so it is scarcely surprising that there should be an old story telling that the fairies helped my grandmother to do it.' the children glanced at each other. 'i daresay it's quite true,' said hildegarde, but her grandmother only laughed. 'come now, my dear,' she said, 'you must not be too fanciful. the fairies who helped our ancestors were probably those of industry and perseverance--very good fairies too.' 'but now, my child,' she went on, turning to leonore, 'i do not, of course, want to hurry you away, but i am afraid aunt anna and elsa will be wondering what has become of you, besides which, i do not want you to catch cold through coming to visit my hildegarde.' leonore started up. 'yes, i must go,' she said. hildegarde accompanied her as usual to the foot of the hill. 'ask fraulein elsa,' said hildegarde, as they parted, 'to let you come to-morrow morning instead of my going to you, and i will get grandmamma's leave to show you the blue-silk room by full daylight. then in the afternoon, i daresay, grandmamma will let me run down to you.' 'yes,' leonore replied, 'i should like that very much; i have a feeling, hildegarde, that there must be something "fairy" about that room.' and so saying she ran off. chapter x the blue-silk room for this let each remember--life cannot all be play. _the new year's answer._ but the children's plans for the next day did not come to pass. unluckily, leonore had caught cold. it was nothing very bad, but she was subject to sore throats sometimes, which made fraulein doubly careful, if ever she saw any symptoms of her having had a chill. and for some days to come the little girl was not allowed to go out. at first she felt rather dull and depressed, but as her friends were soon satisfied that there was not much the matter with her, hildegarde was allowed to come to see her. 'how did you catch cold?' were her visitor's first words; 'it couldn't surely have been from----' and she stopped short with a smile, for curiously enough the children did not talk very much when they were together, in an ordinary way, of their fairy adventures. leonore gave a little laugh. 'from riding on a cloud,' she said softly. 'no, i am quite sure it was not from that, though certainly if we told anybody about it, they would think it a sure way of catching cold.' 'they wouldn't believe it,' said hildegarde, 'or at least they would think we had been dreaming, but do you know, leonore,' she went on eagerly, 'i shouldn't wonder if some good came of your cold; it's only a fortnight to christmas now, and what grandmamma said that last day you were at the castle seems coming true. there are all the signs of a hard winter, they say, and though grandmamma hasn't told me so, i have a great idea that they are planning for you all to come and stay at the castle with us.' leonore's eyes danced with pleasure. 'how lovely that would be,' she said, 'do tell me what makes you think so, hildegarde?' 'two or three things,' was the reply. 'i heard grandpapa talking about this house, "aunt anna's little house," he called it. he said the roof should have something done to it, in case of heavy snow, and that the bailiff should have told him of this before, for it scarcely could be done while the ladies were living in it. then grandmamma smiled, and said that she thought the difficulty might be got over. and once or twice lately i have met old maria on her way to the blue-silk room. one day, she and another maid were carrying mattresses and things in there, and when i asked her what it was for, she looked funny, and said something about airing things, and evidently didn't want me to go into the room, or ask her any more questions about it. so i shouldn't wonder at all if they are preparing for your all coming. you see grandmamma is like that; she doesn't do things by halves, and if you are to come, she would like to add to our pleasure by giving us the blue-silk room together.' leonore felt so excited that she could scarcely speak. 'i wonder how soon we shall know?' she said at last. 'it wouldn't do to ask aunt anna, or fraulein, i suppose?' hildegarde shook her wise little head very decidedly. 'oh no,' she said, 'if they wanted us to know they would have told us. if it is to be at all, it is to be a surprise; we must just be patient for a few days.' their patience, as it proved, was not very sorely tried. the very first day that leonore was well enough to go out again without fear of fresh cold, she was met by hildegarde at the foot of the hill, and hildegarde's beaming face told its own tale. 'may i, oh may i tell leonore?' she said to fraulein elsa, 'grandmamma has given me leave provided you and aunt anna have no objection.' fraulein could not help smiling. 'my dear child,' she said, 'there would not be much use in stopping you now; leonore cannot but guess that there is a surprise in store; the very way you came dancing down the hill was enough to show it. but we must not keep leonore standing. come home with us and chatter as much as you like.' and in another moment the secret, which of course leonore had already guessed, was told. 'you are all coming to stay at the castle for christmas,' she exclaimed, 'that is to say if your cold doesn't get worse, or----' here fraulein positively laughed. 'and that was to be decided by testing, if it did her no harm to come out to-day,' she said. 'you should have waited till to-morrow, hildegarde.' the little girl looked rather penitent, but leonore soon reassured her-- 'of course it won't get worse,' she said, 'i haven't the least, tiniest bit of a scrap of sore throat now; the only thing is,' she went on, 'that it doesn't seem as if any snowstorms were coming,' and she looked up doubtfully into her governess's face. 'but why should you want snowstorms?' asked fraulein, 'one can be very happy at christmas time, even if the weather is mild and the fields still green.' 'oh,' said leonore, a little confused, for she did not want to take away the pleasure of the 'surprise,' 'it was only that i thought----' and she hesitated. hildegarde came to the rescue. 'oh,' she said, 'it was only that grandmamma had already mentioned something to us about your perhaps coming to stay at the castle for christmas, if the weather got very bad; and there was something about aunt anna's house needing repair. but all that doesn't matter now in the least. it is fixed, quite fixed, do you hear, leonore?--that you are all coming next monday, whether it snows, or hails, or thunders, or whatever it does.' so far as the present was concerned, there was not much sign of any great weather disturbance, for the day was mild and bright, and leonore was by no means the worse, but decidedly the better, for her little expedition. both children, as children always do, whenever there is any pleasure in prospect, thought that the days would never pass till 'next monday.' but pass they did, and it would have been difficult to find two happier little maidens than hildegarde and her guest, when the rather lumbering old carriage, which had been sent to fetch the three visitors, drew up in front of the castle door. 'come, come, quick,' were hildegarde's first words to leonore, 'i am in such a hurry to take you to our room,' and scarcely allowing her little friend time to receive the greetings of the baron and baroness, and their two younger sons, hildegarde's uncles, who had arrived the night before to spend christmas at home, she seized her little friend's hand, and hurried her off to a part of the castle, which leonore had not yet seen. 'leonore,' she said, stopping to take breath, for though the steps of the staircase which they were mounting were shallow, she had raced up them at a tremendous rate. 'leonore, it is as i thought, we are to have the blue-silk room.' up one other little flight they went, across a small landing and along a corridor, at the end of which a door stood partly open. a pleasant sparkle of firelight met them, and in another moment they were in the most fascinating room that leonore had ever seen or even dreamt of. as hildegarde had described, it was all hung with blue silk, round which were worked lovely wreaths of rosebuds. and the remarkable thing was that the colours both of the silk and the embroidery were as fresh as if they had only just been made, though, as the baroness had told her, leonore knew that certainly more than a century and a half had passed since the room had first been furnished. she stood still, gazing round her. 'oh what a lovely room!' she exclaimed. 'i had no idea any room could have been so beautiful, though you told me about it. but where are our beds, hildegarde?' hildegarde laughed. 'that's the beauty of it,' she said, drawing back, as she spoke, the blue hangings at one end, thus disclosing to view a recess in which stood two little beds side by side. 'it is like several rooms instead of one, there are two or three alcoves that you don't see when the curtains are drawn at night; one of them has a great big window to the south, where it is beautifully warm. i think we shall call that alcove our boudoir.' it was a delightful room, and the two children were very happy, till summoned downstairs to supper, in arranging the newcomer's possessions, and planning how they should spend their time during leonore's stay at the castle. 'we are sure to have a good deal of fun,' said hildegarde, 'for the next week or so while my uncles stay; it is rather a pity that the hard winter that was talked so much about hasn't begun yet, for they would have skated with us.' 'i have never learnt to skate,' said leonore, 'but your uncles look very kind, and perhaps they would have taught me.' 'yes,' hildegarde replied, 'i am sure they would; they are very nice, though not to be compared with papa. if only he and mamma were here, and your father, leonore, we should have everything we could want in the world, wouldn't we?' 'even to knowing that we have still two nuts to crack,' said leonore in a low voice. hildegarde's grandfather looked round the well-filled table with pleasure, when all had taken their places. 'this is much better,' he said heartily, 'than being alone, as we were last christmas, not even our little hildegarde was here. if only your father and mother and our little friend's father too,' he added kindly, turning to leonore, 'were here, i should feel quite satisfied.' 'that is just what we were saying on our way downstairs,' said hildegarde, 'i do believe grandpapa, you have something of a fairy about you too, to guess one's thoughts as you often do. grandmamma is certainly a kind of fairy godmother, as well as being grandmamma. she plans such lovely surprises. leonore and i are _so_ happy in the blue-silk room.' 'oh that is where you have taken up your quarters, is it?' said her grandfather. 'well, you could not be anywhere better; it has the name of being the luckiest room in the castle under fairy guardianship, not that i quite believe in such things, though i do think the castle has some fairy visitors,' he went on more gravely; 'the fairies of love and kindness are with us i hope; indeed, when i look back through a long life, mostly spent here, i think we have been a specially favoured family. my own parents and grandparents were good and kind to everybody.' 'and so, i am sure, are you and grandmamma,' said hildegarde eagerly. leonore looked up half timidly. 'there are other fairies too, the fairies of industry and perseverance, that your grandmother told us about,' she said to hildegarde. the baroness overheard her. 'yes,' she said, with a smile, 'they must have had a hand in the adornment of the blue-silk room.' it was a charming nest in which to fall asleep, with the firelight dancing on the lovely colours of the sheeny silk, and it was a charming room to wake up in the next morning, when the first rays of the pale wintry sunshine began to creep in through the one window, which the little girls had left uncurtained the night before. they were later than usual of getting up, for they had been later than usual of going to bed. rules were to be relaxed somewhat during the christmas holidays. 'are you awake, hildegarde?' said leonore. 'oh yes,' was the reply. 'doesn't the room look pretty?' leonore raised herself on her elbow. 'yes,' she said, 'and so beautifully neat. did you tidy it at all after i got into bed last night, hildegarde?' 'no indeed,' laughed her friend, 'i was too sleepy. i wonder if amalia has been in already this morning without waking us.' 'i could almost fancy she had,' said leonore, for i have a dreamy feeling of having heard some one moving about softly, as if they were putting things straight or dusting.' just then came the maid's tap at the door; but on being questioned as to whether she had been in before, she laughingly shook her head, owning that she herself had slept later than usual that morning--if the young ladies had heard any one arranging the room, it must have been a 'brownie.' the children were not unwilling to think so. 'i daresay it was,' said hildegarde in a whisper, 'it is only to be expected in a fairy room like this.' and certainly the next few days passed happily enough to justify the pleasant belief that the blue-silk room brought joy to those who inhabited it. though frost and snow kept off, and there was no chance of skating, there were plenty of other amusements out of doors, as well as indoors; for hildegarde's uncles proved quite as kind as leonore thought they looked, and planned pleasant walks and drives and games for the two little girls. then came christmas itself, the happiest that leonore had ever known, for her father had never been with her, that she could remember, at that season, and she had often, at home in england, felt it a little lonely. they had a christmas-tree of course, a great beauty, provided with exactly the right presents for everybody, servants and humble friends connected with the castle, as well as for the family itself and their visitors. and in the midst of all this enjoyment and excitement, the little girls almost forgot that they had still two magic nuts to crack, when the right time should come. two days after christmas the scene changed. in the first place, the uncles had to leave to rejoin their regiments--greatly to the little girls' regret, and then began the fulfilment of the weather prophet's predictions. there came sudden and severe cold, soon followed by a heavy fall of snow, accompanied by gales, such as were seldom known in that inland part of the country; weather indeed, almost approaching what is nowadays called a 'blizzard.' at first the children found it rather amusing, though the baron looked grave, as news was brought in of the destruction among his trees, and after a day or two, the wind fell, but the snow continued. and even when it ceased to fall, leaving the house was completely out of the question, so deep did it lie, and to such a height had it, in many parts, drifted. after some days of this enforced imprisonment, hildegarde and leonore began to think a snowstorm by no means a laughing matter. they had played all their games so often, that they were growing tired of them; they had read and re-read their books, of which there was no great number suitable for children in the castle, and one afternoon, when they were by themselves, in their own room, they looked at each other rather disconsolately, the same question rising to the lips of both. 'what shall we do with ourselves?' fraulein had done her utmost to amuse them, but she too, by this time, was almost at the end of her resources, and they knew it was no use to apply to her again, unless they wished to begin lessons, in earnest before the holidays were over! so they sat down together on the floor, in front of the fire, half laughing at their own dullness. suddenly, in one corner of the room, they heard a little tapping; had it been summer, and had the windows been open, they could have fancied it the tap of a wood-pecker, so clear and dainty did it sound. 'what can that be?' exclaimed hildegarde; 'listen, leonore,' and again came the tapping. the children held their breath to listen. then---- [illustration: the unselfish mermaid.] chapter xi 'the unselfish mermaid' the stranger viewed the shore around. _the lady of the lake._ leonore sprang to her feet, and as she did so something fell on the floor; it was her last remaining nut! she gazed at hildegarde. 'look,' she exclaimed, 'it dropped out of my pocket of itself; it means a message, i am sure it does. where is your nut, hildegarde?' 'here,' was the reply, as she held it out. 'the time has come for cracking them,' said leonore, and as she uttered the words the tapping in the corner of the room was repeated more loudly and rapidly, as if to say, 'quite right, quite right.' then it suddenly stopped. 'here goes,' said hildegarde, cracking her nut as she spoke, and the two pair of eyes peered eagerly into the shell. there lay a neat little roll of tiny blue ribbon. hildegarde drew it out. it was only an inch or two in length, but on it were clearly printed six words:-- tap, tiny hammer, till you find. but where was the tiny hammer? this question did not trouble the children for long. without speaking, leonore cracked _her_ nut, disclosing to view, as they expected, a 'tiny hammer' indeed--so tiny that even the little girls' small fingers had difficulty in holding it firmly. 'how can i tap with it?', she was on the point of saying to hildegarde, when, as she gazed, she saw the little hammer stretch itself out till it grew to an inch or two in length, the silver head increasing also in proportion, so that it was now much easier to grasp it. 'how convenient it would be,' said hildegarde, 'if we could pack up luggage in the way things are packed into our nuts; but let us be quick, leonore. i wonder where we should begin tapping.' 'in the corner where we heard the other tapping, of course,' said leonore. but this did not prove to be the right spot. there was no reply to their summons, and some patience and perseverance were required to prevent their yielding to disappointment. they had no reason, however, for distrusting their fairy friend, and a new idea struck hildegarde. 'leonore,' she exclaimed, 'perhaps we are meant to tap on the wall itself, behind the silk hangings. see, if i hold them back carefully, you can creep in and tap right into the corner.' no sooner said than done, and this time not in vain. with almost the first blow of the little hammer, a small door in the wall opened inwards, and before them the children saw the first steps of a narrow spiral staircase winding upwards. they fearlessly entered, the little door closing behind them, and began to ascend the steps. it was not dark, for slits in the wall let in from time to time tiny shafts of light; nor was it cold, though where the warmth came from they could not tell. 'to think,' said hildegarde, 'of there being a secret staircase that nobody knows of, for i am sure no one does know of it. but oh, leonore, how very high we seem to be going'; for though they had been mounting for some minutes, there was no sign of the staircase coming to an end. this time it was leonore who encouraged her friend. 'hush!' she said, 'i hear something; it is the sound of the spinning-wheel, hildegarde; i believe we shall see our fairy in a second now.' she was right. they found themselves on a little landing, the entrance to which was screened by blue silk hangings, just like those in their room below, and as they stood, uncertain what to do next, the curtains were drawn apart, revealing the prettiest picture they had ever seen; for there sat the spinning-wheel fairy, busy at work as usual, but the thread she was spinning was neither flax nor wool, nor even silk. what it was the children could not tell, unless, as they said afterwards to themselves, it was made of rainbows. fine as it was, it glittered and shone, seeming of every colour in turn, sparkling against the pure white robe of the fairy spinner. for a moment or two she did not speak to them, and they stood silent in admiration. then she stopped and greeted them with a smile. 'i had not forgotten you, you see,' were her first words. 'i have been spinning for you all to-day.' 'are you going to take us somewhere?' asked hildegarde; 'is the thread to make ladders of again?' and she touched it gently as she spoke. the fairy shook her head. 'no,' she replied, 'guess once more.' 'i had thought,' said leonore, 'that our next treat would perhaps have to do with the sea. we have been down in the ground with the gnomes, and up in the sky with the air-fairies, and we don't want to go into fire-land, but we _should_ like to hear about mermaids and sea-fairies.' 'i could not show you the secrets of the ocean,' said the fairy gravely; 'that is not in my power. it has its own voice, and only those who live on it, or by it, for generations can understand its mystery. true, it is one of the border countries between your world and fairyland, but your little feet are not prepared for travelling there.' the two children listened in silence, with a look of disappointment on their faces. 'we have read such lovely stories,' said hildegarde, 'about the palaces down in the sea.' 'stories,' repeated the fairy. 'ah, well, how would you like to hear a story, instead of paying another visit?' 'we should like it very much indeed,' they said together. 'it is so cold and snowy outside, we would rather stay with you, if you will tell us stories, dear fairy,' 'but first,' continued hildegarde, 'would you mind telling us where we are?' and she glanced round at the pretty little room in which they found themselves. it was like a tent, all draped in blue silk, of the same shade as the hangings of their room below, but the wreaths embroidered upon it were of white lilies instead of rosebuds. 'are we up on the roof of the castle, or where?' 'never mind where you are,' the fairy replied; 'is it not enough for you to know that you are with me? but something i _will_ explain to you. this thread,' and she touched it as she spoke, 'is spun from gossamer which has come from a long way off. i fetched it myself for you from fairy-tale-land. sit down beside me while i pass it through your fingers. hold it very gently, for a rough touch would destroy it, and while i tell you my story close your eyes. the thread has the power of causing pictures to pass before you of all that i relate.' 'that will be beautiful,' exclaimed the children. 'quite as nice as travelling there ourselves, and much cosier,' and they both settled themselves on a soft white fleecy rug at the fairy's feet, while she carefully caused the rainbow thread to pass through their hands. and in a moment or two she began her tale. 'you have asked for a story of the sea,' she said. 'there are many such--many, many--but some too sad for my little girls to hear--sad, that is to say, for those who are not yet able to understand the whole of the mystery of the great ocean. so i have chosen one which, though partly sad, is happy too.' 'thank you,' murmured the children dreamily, for their eyes were already shut, and with these first words of the fairy there began to steal over them the feeling of the sea, though scarcely yet a picture. but they felt or saw the gleaming of the water, the rippling of the little waves on the shore, the far-off boom of the greater ones as they dashed against some rocky cliffs; nay, more, the very fragrance of the sea seemed to steal upon them as the magic thread passed slowly through their little fingers. 'long, long ago,' continued the fairy, 'down below in one of the most beautiful parts of the ocean world, there lived a race of sea folk. their lives are much longer, as i daresay you have heard, than those of dwellers in your earth-country, so that the youngest of those i am telling you of counted her age by scores of years, where you count by one, and yet, compared to many of her companions, she seemed still quite a child. until now, childish things had been enough for her. day after day brought its own delights; playing about among the sea-caves; swimming races with her brothers and sisters; adorning their home with rare sea-flowers and wonderful shells, to get which they thought nothing of journeying hundreds of miles; these and such-like pastimes were enough for the little sea-maiden. she had even, so far, no wish to rise to the surface and look out beyond the ocean borders; it would frighten her she said, or maybe she would see something sad, and she had no mind to be frightened or saddened, she would say laughingly, as she swam off, on some new game of play, heedless of her elders' reminders that it was time, even for a mermaid, to begin to take life more seriously. but at last a time came, even to this thoughtless little sea-maiden, when she began to think. it was partly the doing of one of the most aged of her race, one to whom all looked for counsel and advice, one who knew much more than even her own people suspected, and whose heart was full of love for all living things. '"my child," she said one day to emerald, for such was the name of that little sea-maiden; "my child, does it never strike you that you cannot always be young? a day will come when you will be old like me, and dull and dreary would my life be now if i had no stores of the past to look back upon; if i had learnt nothing but to amuse myself, without thought for the future." 'emerald looked up at her with a smile. '"but that time is still far off," she said, "and i am so content with the present. it is all so bright and happy. i want nothing else. when i feel myself beginning to get tired of fun and play, i will come to you kind grand-dame, and you shall teach me some of your knowledge, of the worlds outside ours, and of the beings that live in them." '"when that day comes," said the ancient sea-lady, "i shall be no longer here, and, after all, knowledge is not the greatest thing. i would fain see your heart enlarged by wider sympathy, my little one; even if some sadness and sorrow come with it," but the last few words she murmured so low that emerald did not hear them. '"what are the memories of the past that make you happy to remember now?" said emerald, suddenly, for something in her old friend's words had touched her, in a way she had never felt before. '"they are many," was the reply, "some you could not understand; others you might already learn for yourself. i love to think of the services to others i have, in my time, been allowed to render. more than once it has been my happiness to save the lives of dwellers on the land, human beings, as they are called. i have saved them when they were drowning and carried them in safety to their own shores, little as they knew that it was my doing, or that the friendly wave which floated them out of danger was in reality the arm of a mermaid. i have sung sweet songs and lullabies to the suffering and weary in the great ships that pass above us, or even, sometimes, to the fishermen's children in their humble homes on our borders, soothing them into life-giving sleep, though they thought my song was but the gentle wailing of the wind. such services as these, emerald, you might soon take your share of; for like all our race you have a lovely voice, and our gift of song should ever be used for good, if our hearts are true, and not to lure human beings to destruction. for after all they are our brothers and sisters." 'emerald thanked her gently as she swam away, and the words she had heard took root in her merry little heart. especially did she like the idea of using her beautiful voice to please or benefit others--those strange dwellers on the land, whom she had often heard about, though not till now with any wish to see or know them for herself. they were to be pitied, she had been told, for life was hard upon them; toil and pain and weariness, such as her race knew nought of, seemed to be their common lot. and among the best of her own people she knew, too, that it was accounted a good deed to minister to them. so from that time emerald began to pay more attention when she heard her friends or companions talking together, as often happened, of their excursions to the upper world and of what they saw there. '"some day," she said to one of her older sisters, "some day i should like to go with you when you swim up to the surface, or when you sit among the rocks and caves on the shore, watching the ships pass, and hearing the talk of these human beings in the little boats, which you say they love to sail in when the weather is calm." 'her companions looked at her in surprise. '"why, emerald," said one of them, "you have always been content, and more than content, to frolic and play in our own beautiful world. i think you would do better to stay there; the weather is not always bright and calm up above, and there are sad sights and sounds, such as you have no idea of." 'but the little mermaid persisted. '"all the same," she replied, "i should like to see and hear for myself. i am growing older now, and new thoughts come when one ceases to be a child." 'some time passed, however, before she had any opportunity of following the counsel of her aged friend. there were great doings just then in the sea-country, for the daughter of the king was to wed with the son of another great ocean sovereign far away on the other side of the world, and the only talk that went on was of festivity and rejoicing, and in this emerald was ready enough to take her share. one day, however, when she was amusing herself as usual, she came upon a group of her friends who were consulting together earnestly about some matter of importance. '"what are you all talking about?" she asked. '"nothing that you can help in," was the reply, "for you know nought of such matters. our princess has expressed a wish that among her wedding gifts should be something from the upper world. she is tired of all our ocean treasures, and would fain have something rarer and more uncommon." '"what sort of thing?" asked emerald curiously. '"nay," they answered, "that remains to be seen. there are not many things within our power to get, as we dare not linger long on dry land, nor many things that would preserve their earthly beauty, if brought down here to our sea home. the flowers, for instance, are such poor frail things; they would wither into nothing at once. it is a serious matter, and we are arranging that the cleverest and most experienced of us should be entrusted with the matter." 'emerald clasped her hands in appeal. "oh, i pray you," she said, "let me be one of those whom you send. true, i have never been up to the surface before, but i am quick and agile, as you know, and young like the princess herself. i am sure i could find something that would please her, if you will but let me go too." 'the elder ones smiled at her, but she was a sort of spoilt child among them, and any request of hers was rarely refused. so almost to her surprise her wish was granted, and the very next day the little party set forth on their voyage upwards. 'it was somewhat toilsome work for emerald, unaccustomed as she was to ascending to any distance, and when at last they reached the surface, she was half exhausted, and thankful to rest a little with her companions on a small islet, not far from the shore. 'after a short while, when they felt refreshed, the little party of mermaids separated, agreeing to meet again at the same place, before the sun should set. '"but we cannot tarry here long," said the eldest, "so do not let us wait for each other more than a short time"; for it was scarcely safe to show themselves much so near the shore, for among the human beings on the land there were, as the sea-folk well knew, cruel and mischievous ones, as well as kind and gentle. 'the eldest sister wished to take emerald with her, as the child was so unaccustomed to the strange land, but emerald begged to be allowed to stay by herself. '"i shall be very cautious," she said, "and if you do not find me here on your return, you may be pretty sure that i shall have gone home already. i have a strong belief that, if you trust me, i shall find something that will delight the princess as our wedding gift." 'so the others swam away, leaving emerald alone. she remained on the rocks for a little while gazing around her, then taking courage, she dived into the water again, and swam straight to the shore. 'the coast at this part was very pretty, green lawns, bordered by graceful trees, sloped down almost close to the water's edge, and on rising ground, a little inland, emerald perceived the white walls of a beautiful house. "a palace"--she called it to herself, for in the sea country their king and his court lived in a shining dwelling, adorned with shells and coral, and other ocean treasures; while the rest of his people made their homes in the deep sea caves. 'she nestled into a shady corner, sheltered by some drooping trees and flowering shrubs, finding pleasure and amusement enough in gazing at the pretty scene around her,--"though i wish," she said to herself, "i could see some of these wonderful human beings that the others talk so much about." and after a time, she began to ask herself how and where she was to seek for the treasure she had felt so confident of finding for the princess? 'she was too timid to venture ashore altogether, so she sat there, idly dabbling in the clear water, waiting for something, she knew not what, which would put her in the way of redeeming her pledge. suddenly, the sound of voices reached her ears. down a sloping path, through the pleasure grounds, two children came running--one some yards in advance of the other, the second one being rather taller and bigger than the little creature in front whom he was playfully pretending to chase. on ran the tiny girl, shouting in glee at the idea of winning the race. she was scarcely more than a baby, and the boy behind her was also very young. as they drew yet nearer to emerald, she saw that the first comer held in her hand something which sparkled in the sun--it was a necklet of finely wrought gold, which she had run off with in a frolic. 'with a cry of triumph she ran to the water's edge, at a spot where the bank dropped suddenly, and flung the ornament into the sea, close to where emerald was concealed; then turning to call back to her brother, in defiance, her little foot slipped, and she herself in another moment disappeared from sight. 'with a cry of terror the elder child was about to throw himself after her, when the nurse in charge of them, whom the mermaid had not before noticed, darted forward and caught him by the arm, herself uttering shrieks of dismay and calls for help. her cries almost immediately brought down two or three gardeners, one of whom, on hearing what had happened, pulled off his coat and flung himself into the water. he struck out bravely, for he was a good swimmer, and felt no doubt of rescuing the child, knowing the exact spot where she had fallen in; but to his surprise, clear and almost shallow though the water was, the little creature was nowhere to be seen. she had utterly disappeared!' chapter xii 'the unselfish mermaid' (_continued_) what then?--the saddest things are sweet. _the boy musician._ the spinning-wheel fairy stopped for a moment. 'oh, go on, go on, please,' said the two little girls. 'it is so interesting, and it has been just as you said; we have seen the pictures of it all gliding before us, as the thread passed through our fingers. do go on, dear fairy; it must be that emerald had caught the little girl.' 'yes,' the fairy continued, 'so it was. small wonder that her rescuer could not find the child. she was lying safe, though as yet unconscious, in the mermaid's arms, the golden chain thrown round emerald's own neck, for she had found it when she stooped to take up the baby. as yet the sea-maiden scarcely realised what she had done, in yielding to the impulse of hiding the child from her friends. and it was not till they had left the spot, in the vain hope that the little creature might have drifted farther down the coast, that emerald dared to breathe freely, and think over what had happened. by this time her little "treasure-trove" had half opened her eyes, and murmured some baby words, for, after all, she had been but momentarily under the water. emerald had no difficulty in soothing her, and in a minute or two the little girl sank into a sweet and natural slumber. then, without giving herself time to think, her new nurse, drawing out a tiny phial, without which no mermaid is allowed to swim to the surface, poured out of it a few drops of a precious liquid, with which she anointed the baby's face and lips. this liquid has the magic power of enabling a human being to live under water without injury, and of restoring to life those on whose behalf all the science of the landsmen would be exerted in vain. '"now, my darling," she whispered to herself, "you are safe, and you belong to me. i can carry you down to our beautiful home, for it must be that you are meant for me, and the jewel, which your little hands flung before you, is the gift that i was to seek for our princess." 'and so saying, though casting cautious glances on all sides, she swam rapidly away till she reached the rocky islet where she had parted from her sisters. there, being well out of sight of the shore, she rested for a time. no one as yet but herself had reached the meeting-place, which emerald by no means regretted. she wished to have the pride and pleasure of exhibiting her treasures down below to all the mermaids who were joining in the gift to the princess, when they assembled together to hear the result of the expedition. possibly, too, at the very bottom of her heart there may have been hidden some little misgiving as to her right to carry away the child, and she may have dreaded her elder sisters' opinion as to this. as regarded the golden necklet, her conscience was quite at rest, for before leaving the shore she had placed there some of the rare shells and pearls which the sea-folk knew to be so highly valued on land, that they were ample payment for anything they might carry off with them from the upper country. 'now, rapidly, she made her way homewards, seeking her own little bower at once, and there, on her couch, she laid the still sleeping child; then drawing from her own neck the beautiful chain, she sought about for the prettiest shell she could find, in which to lay it ready for the princess's acceptance. 'before very long she heard the voices of her sisters and friends returning; she hastened out to meet them. her eldest sister gave an exclamation of pleasure as soon as she caught sight of her. '"oh, emerald," she cried, "i am so glad to see you. we couldn't help feeling a little anxious at not finding you on the rock; it seems you did not enjoy your visit to the surface, as you hastened back so soon." '"that was not my reason for returning so quickly," said emerald, with a smile. "i found what i sought"--"and more too," she added to herself in a low voice--"so there was no reason for delay. see, sisters, and all of you, what i have found. could anything be prettier or rarer as a gift to our princess?" 'her companions crowded round her eagerly, and all united in admiring and approving of the beautiful gold ornament. '"and you shall have the full credit of having found it, little emerald," they said; "but for you we should have been sadly discouraged." 'for they had returned either empty-handed, or at best bringing trifles, scarcely worth offering to the princess. 'the chain was carefully put away till the next day, when it was to be presented, and then the little crowd dispersed, which emerald was glad of, as she was anxious to confide to her most trusted sister the secret of the _living_ treasure which she had hidden in her bower. 'the elder mermaid looked at the sleeping child with startled eyes. '"emerald," she exclaimed, "you did not steal her surely?" '"no, no," the little mermaid replied, "she fell almost into my arms--but for me she would have lost her life; she is mine, my very own, and i do not pity her people for losing her; they should have taken more care of the little darling." 'just then the baby awoke and gazed about her in surprise. then her little face puckered up for a cry at the strangeness of everything she saw, but before she had time to utter it emerald caught her in her arms. '"my sweet," she said, and the child looked up at once at the sound of the lovely voice, "my sweet, you must not cry, i have so many pretty things to show you. you shall be quite safe and happy here with us in the beautiful sea." 'the little girl looked up at her, and a smile gradually broke over her face. '"show me the pretty things," she said, "and then, then you will take me home, kind lady, won't you? home to brother and nurse and mamma--they will cry if baby doesn't come soon." 'her sister glanced at emerald as she heard these words, but the younger mermaid would not see the glance. '"baby shall see all the beautiful things now at once," she replied; "she shall catch the little fishes in her hands as they swim past, and gather the pretty sea-flowers and pick up shells, such as you have never seen. and i will sing songs to baby, such pretty ones." the little creature smiled again. '"baby would like that," she whispered. "baby will take the pretty flowers and shells home to show brother and nurse." '"yes, yes," said emerald hastily, "baby is going to be such a happy little girl," and then, taking her hand, she led her away to the sea-gardens round the palace, amusing her so well, and singing to her when she grew tired, that at first it seemed as if all thought of her home and former life would soon fade from her infant memory. 'and thus things went on for some little time. while the child was happy and merry, she seldom spoke of returning to the upper world; but if anything crossed her baby wishes, or at night when she grew sleepy, her cry was sure to be again, "oh please, kind lady, take me home." 'then emerald would rock her in her arms, and sing to her the wonderful songs of the mermaidens, so strange and lovely that the child seemed bewitched by them, and her little face would lose all look of distress. and when this happened, emerald's spirits rose again and she would murmur to herself, "my darling is growing quite happy and contented. i shall never need to part with her. the upper world would seem coarse and clumsy to her now." 'the young mermaid's own character seemed quite changed by the charge of the tiny foundling. instead of being the first to propose new games of play, or even mischief, she now grudged every moment that separated her from the little human girl, and her companions often rallied her about her devotion to her "new toy," as they called it. '"you will get tired of her after a while," they said, laughing. "you are too young to make yourself into such a mother-slave to her. why, no one would know you for the same maiden!" 'but emerald only smiled in return. '"i shall never get tired of her," she said; "she is my own treasure-trove." 'nevertheless, during all this time some misgiving, low down in her heart or conscience, made her keep away from the aged sea-lady, who had often in time past reproved her for her thoughtlessness. why she did so she excused to herself by saying she had no leisure now for anything but care for the little girl. "and the great-grandmother could not but be pleased if she knew how my time is spent," she would say to herself; "she was always the one to tell me to be of use to others and to be more sedate, and i am certainly now following her counsel." yet notwithstanding these assurances to herself, she took care that in their playing and gambolling she and the baby should keep away from the cave where dwelt the aged grand-dame. 'so time went on. it passes perhaps more quickly, or its passing is less noticed, down in the under-world of the ocean, than with the dwellers on the land. it seemed to emerald but a few days since the coming of her little pet, when her happy belief that all was right received a sudden blow. baby was growing big now, for nearly as much of her life had by this time been spent in the sea as on land, and emerald had fondly hoped that all remembrance of her own home had faded from the child's mind. the princess arrived one day on a visit to her parents. emerald had always been a favourite of hers, and meeting her playing in the palace gardens with her little charge, she stopped to speak to them. '"ah, emerald," she said, "so this is the pretty child you saved? i have heard of her. how well you have treasured her, and i, too, have been careful of _my_ treasure." she touched the long golden chain hanging round her neck as she spoke, and playfully tossed it towards the little girl, who caught it, laughing. but as she looked more closely at the golden links in her fingers, a change came over her little face; it grew troubled, and emerald, fearful lest she should begin to cry, made some excuse to the princess and carried her away, talking merrily as they went. but the child's face did not clear. '"emerald," she said, for by this time she could talk quite perfectly, "something has come back to me. i remember that pretty chain. i threw it into the water, when brother was running after me. oh, emerald, i want to go home to him and the others. you may come too, dear emerald, but i must go home." 'her words sent a thrill of fear through the heart of her young sea-mother. '"oh, baby darling," she said, "what has put such fancies in your little head? are you not happy with emerald and all your pretty toys and games? emerald cannot go away from her own country, and she would be too miserable without you. and you--you would cry sadly at night, if she was not there to sing you to sleep." 'and the trouble on the mermaiden's face, as she spoke thus, grieved the little girl, for she had a tender heart. she gently stroked emerald's cheeks, and said no more for the time. but from that moment, ever and anon, there crept into her soft blue eyes the strange, sad, far-away look which told that the charm was broken. she was pining for her own race and her own land. 'emerald tried not to see it, tried to persuade herself that the child would be miserable away from the sea country, that it would be cruel to the little creature herself to restore her to her friends. gradually, however, it became impossible to go on deceiving herself. baby grew thin and pale--every one noticed it. though gentle and tender as ever to her mermaid nurse, it was rarely now that her voice was heard in laughter or glee; and her smiles were even sadder than the wistfulness in her face. 'but all this time, though emerald knew it not, her aged friend had kept watch over her and her new experience; and one day there came a message, bidding her go to the grand-dame's cave, as she had something to say to her. this was a summons no young mermaid would have dared to disobey, and so, holding the little girl as usual by the hand, she made her way thither. 'her old friend looked at her earnestly. '"it is long since you have been to see me, my child," she said, "and this is your little charge." 'she drew the little girl towards her as she spoke, and kissed her. '"are you happy with emerald?" she asked her gently. the child's pale face flushed deeply. '"emerald is very good to me," she replied, "and sometimes i am very happy, but i have a pain here," and she touched her heart. "i want to go home, i want to see brother and mamma and nurse again; until i do, the pain won't go away." '"it will get better soon, i think," said the sea lady, and then she drew the child's attention to a charming rockery in one corner of her cave, so that she could speak to emerald without being heard. '"you have known this, i fear," she began. "you are not doing right, my child, and your own heart must tell you so." 'emerald hung her head. '"you told me," she said, "you told me not to live for myself, but for the service of others--have i not been doing so?" '"you did well," was the reply, "in saving the child's life, and since then you might have had other chances of the same kind, but you have never returned to the upper world to seek for them. you have yielded to the pleasure to yourself, of giving all your time to her, forgetting or refusing to believe that you have no right to her. she is neither of our race nor blood--think of the bitter tears that must have been shed for her by her own people. see now--now that she is growing older and nature is speaking to her--the suffering that is beginning for herself. no child's face should look as hers does." 'it was enough. emerald threw herself at her old friend's feet in deepest repentance. '"it is all true," she cried; "i see it now, and indeed i knew it before, but i would not let myself think of it. i will take baby back to her home--now, at once, before my courage fails me." 'and the little girl, hearing the distress in her dear emerald's voice, ran forward. '"what is it," she said; "is the lady angry with you?" '"no, no," was the reply, "i am very pleased with emerald; and now, my little girl, the pain at your heart will go. emerald is going to take you home, home to your mother and your brother, and you will be very happy." '"but emerald will come too?" asked the little girl; for though her face grew rosy with delight, her heart misgave her for her mermaid friend. 'emerald drew her towards her and kissed her fondly. '"my darling," she whispered, "i will carry you home myself, but i could not stay in your country." '"and shall i never see you again, then?" asked the little girl sadly. '"i cannot say," emerald replied; "but sometimes, if i may, i will come to the edge of the beautiful garden where is your home, and sing softly, so that you will know i am there. but this must be a secret between you and me. and now," she went on, "there is no time to lose; clasp your arms tightly round my neck, my little one, for we have a long way to go." 'their old friend smiled in approval. '"sing to her, my child," she murmured, "it will lull her to sleep and save her the pain of parting from you. the sun is still high in the heavens, it will be still full daylight when you reach the upper world. lay her on the grass near the spot where you found her and kiss her on the brow. but do not linger yourself; she will wake to full remembrance of her life before she came to you, and all will be well."' * * * * * with these words the spinning-wheel fairy's voice ceased, but hildegarde and leonore did not move or speak for some moments. then they raised their heads and gazed at their kind friend. 'oh, thank you, thank you,' they said, 'for the story and the pictures; we couldn't look up at first, for we saw something more than you had told us. almost the loveliest pictures of all came at the end.' 'there was one,' said hildegarde, 'of the baby running to her mother in the garden, and the little brother came too, and they knew her again in a moment, though she had been so long away--oh, it was beautiful!' 'and,' added leonore, 'the last of all nearly made me cry. the baby had grown quite big and was standing near the water's edge. emerald had been singing to her, and just for one moment we saw her face--so sad, but so sweet. oh, how i should love to have a mermaid friend.' but even as she spoke, her voice grew drowsy. she knew the spinning-wheel fairy was smiling at her and hildegarde, and they both felt her gently releasing the rainbow thread from their fingers, but after that they knew no more, till a sound of tapping woke them up. it was amalia, knocking at the door of the blue-silk room; and when they opened their eyes, there they were, lying on the soft fleecy rug in front of the fire, as if they had never moved the whole afternoon. 'what a nice little sleep you have had, young ladies,' said the maid; 'and now coffee is waiting in the drawing-room, and the baroness has sent me to fetch you. there is good news for you, too; the snow has ceased falling and the wind has gone down. old rudolph says we shall probably have nice clear frost now, and he is talking of getting the pond ready for you to skate.' 'it will be nice to be able to go out again,' said hildegarde to leonore with a smile, 'especially as we have no more nuts to crack.' 'yes,' said leonore with a sigh; 'but some day, hildegarde, surely _some_ day, the dear fairy will send for us again. don't you think so?' the end macmillan and co.'s books for the young. _by mrs. molesworth._ miss mouse and her boys. by mrs. molesworth. with illustrations by leslie brooke. crown vo, cloth elegant. s. d. _also illustrated by leslie brooke. globe vo. s. d. each._ the oriel window. sheila's mystery. the carved lions. mary. my new home. nurse heatherdale's story. the girls and i. _illustrated by walter crane. globe vo. s. d. each._ a christmas posy. "carrots," just a little boy. a christmas child. christmas-tree land. the cuckoo clock. four winds farm. grandmother dear. herr baby. little miss peggy. the rectory children. rosy. the tapestry room. tell me a story. two little waifs. "us": an old-fashioned story. children of the castle. * * * * * _new boys' book by the hon. j. w. fortescue._ the story of a red deer. by the hon. j. w. fortescue. pott to, cloth extra. s. d. _athen�um._--"an admirable book of its kind." _standard._--"all who love nature and her creatures will read the story with delight." * * * * * _new boys' book by john bennett._ master skylark. a story of shakespere's time. by john bennett. with illustrations by reginald r. birch. extra crown vo. s. _daily chronicle._--"a delightful story." _athen�um._--"is full of pathos and of charm, and is told in brave style." * * * * * _by the rev. w. j. foxell, m.a._ in a plain path. addresses to boys. by the rev. w. j. foxell, m.a. (lond.), minor canon of canterbury cathedral. globe vo. s. d. _rock._--"does, indeed, supply a want that has been long felt." * * * * * by mrs. craik. the fairy book. the best popular fairy stories selected and rendered anew. pott vo. s. d. net. the little lame prince and his travelling cloak. a parable for young and old. with twenty-four illustrations by j. m'l. ralston. new edition. globe vo. s. d. little sunshine's holiday: a picture from life. new edition. globe vo. s. d. our year: a child's book, in prose and verse. illustrated by clarence dobell. super royal mo. s. d. children's poetry. extra fcap. vo. s. d. songs of our youth. set to music. to. s. the adventures of a brownie, as told to my child. illustrated by mrs. allingham. new edition. globe vo. s. d. alice learmont: a fairy tale. with illustrations by james godwin. new edition revised by the author. globe vo. s. d. * * * * * the white rat, and some other stories. by lady barker. with illustrations by w. j. hennessy. globe vo. s. d. anyhow stories for children. by mrs. w. k. clifford, with illustrations by dorothy tennant. crown vo. s. d. sewed, s. the end of elfintown. by jane barlow, author of "irish idylls." with illustrations and decorations by laurence housman. s. madame tabby's establishment. by kari. illustrated by l. wain. crown vo. s. d. household stories, from the collection of the bros. grimm. translated from the german by lucy crane, and done into pictures by walter crane. crown vo. s. also with uncut edges, paper label. s. when i was a little girl, by the author of "st. olave's." globe vo. s. d. nine years old. by the author of "when i was a little girl," etc. globe vo. s. d. a storehouse of stories. edited by c. m. yonge. two vols. globe vo. s. d. each vol. agnes hopetoun's schools and holidays. by mrs. oliphant. globe vo. s. d. the story of a fellow-soldier. by frances awdry. 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